by P. Dangelico
“We sure did,” Shay said with pride in her voice.
“By placing yourself at undue risk,” Gideon chimed in, his tone sharpened by irritation. Shay’s large, dark eyes narrowed. Sifting her long tapered fingers through her hair, she scratched with her short red nails…and ratted it up. I was getting a clear picture of why it looked like that now.
“It wasn’t unnecessary. As a matter of fact, it was extremely necessary. And I wasn’t at risk––why the hell am I even trying to reason with you when I know it’s easier to turn water into wine!”
“Playing strip poker with the bank manager is no way to gather intel,” Gideon fired back.
“I got the malware in his laptop didn’t I!”
“Can we stay on point?” Sebastian bit out, a confused frown on his face.
Taking a deep breath, Shay continued. “We weren’t having any luck going the conventional route. And tracing the money wire proved fruitless. Whoever’s doing this is using Russian proxy servers. In other words, we can’t follow the signal to the point of origin. We have no way to trace where the money originated. Obviously, it wasn’t clean––no one goes through this much trouble to hide clean money.”
“What does that even mean?” I mumbled.
Shay tried to smooth her hair with no success. “That they purposely sent the money from an untraceable location. The Panamanian bank account it was wired into is assigned to a shell company, adding another bag of dicks to this clusterf––”
“Shay,” Sebastian interrupted.
“Sorry,” she grumbled. Taking a deep breath she continued. “We have no idea who owns the account. Panama is notorious for this. And here’s the kicker––they’ve wired over 325 million dollars in the last ten years into an account undersigned by Charles Hightower.” The room went dead silent. I didn’t know what to say. And I didn’t have to understand all the intricate ins and outs of this deal to know that something highly unethical was happening.
I found Sebastian leaning against the pool table with his hands planted on the burgundy felt, his head hanging low. More than anything I wanted to comfort him. However, this was not the time, nor the place.
“Is there any way that this can end well for Charles?” I asked, still holding onto a sliver of hope. I knew how much Sebastian cared for the man, and it killed me to even consider what he must’ve been feeling. What would one more betrayal do to him?
“We thought he was providing tax shelter for another party. That might still be the case…or it could be far worse,” Sebastian admitted, his eyes bleak. “He made trades with that money, held onto it for six months, then wired half the amount he initially received to a non-profit organization based in Beirut.”
“You’ve lost me again.”
“He’s washing money. Could be drugs, could be any number of illegal enterprises. And then he’s sending it to a nonprofit, a charity we know nothing about.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting in discomfort.
“Ten years…” The thought slipped out of my mouth. “Did your father know?”
Sebastian’s eyes met mine, his face a beautiful ruse of tranquility. And yet, the turmoil beneath the surface was plain to me. “I don’t know,” he answered softly, his expression indicating that he’d already formed an opinion. “But I’m gonna find out.
Chapter Eight
The following day, Fedpol, the federal department of police, the Swiss agency that handles money laundering cases, agreed to meet with Sebastian at Horn & Cie. I refused to be left behind. The man I loved was in danger––whoever was responsible had already come dangerously close to succeeding––and I wanted to know exactly what we were dealing with. Needless to say, I pestered him until he agreed to let me sit in on the meeting.
Two agents from the American FBI, who were apparently taking the lead in the case, accompanied the Fedpol and Interpol agents also present. I hid behind Sebastian, out of the way of everyone’s curious glances. Leaning up against the bookcase in his office, I stood with my arms wrapped around my middle while Sebastian half sat on the corner of his massive desk. He raked his fingers through his hair in a gesture I knew meant he was stressed.
“We’ve intercepted a number of calls between an Iranian national living in Beirut, and Mr. Charles Hightower––one of your clients,” said one of the American agents, a heavy-set woman in her mid fifties. She introduced herself by last name only, Vasquez. Her partner, a much younger woman, a tall blonde that seemed to take her fitness training very seriously, introduced herself as Lewis. Agent Vasquez’s astute, green eyes contradicted the bored expression she wore. Sebastian offered them a seat but neither of them took one. Lewis stood by the door while Vasquez paced.
“This is not about tax evasion, is it?” asked Sebastian, a resigned note in his voice.
Agent Lewis answered, “Afraid not.”
Sebastian’s barrister, David Bernard, turned away from the wall of windows he’d been gazing out of. There was a cool, confident air about him that reassured me, as if he’d popped out of the womb wearing the impeccably sharp navy suit he had on and a briefcase in hand.
“Mr. Horn wishes to help in any way he can of course––however, as you already know the bank thrives on discretion.” The implication hung in the pause. He locked his arms behind his back and waited.
Placing her hands on her hips, Agent Vasquez’s expression hardened. “This isn’t a simple case of money laundering.” Another pause. Mr. Bernard was a sphinx. Vasquez’s eyes met his squarely. “We have reason to believe the money is being funneled to multiple terror organization.”
The silence in the room was suddenly as dense as mud, the gravity of the situation descending heavily upon the three of us that weren’t privy to what the FBI and Interpol had uncovered.
David didn’t miss a beat, countering with, “If word gets out that we let you rummage through the books there will be hell to pay, a mass exodus of every high net worth client the bank services.”
Agent Vasquez barreled full steam ahead. “We can do this the hard way.”
“Agent Vasquez, is it?” At her brief nod, David continued, “I relish the opportunity to flex my legal muscles in court, in which case precious time will be wasted, and in the process your investigation severely compromised.” Agent Vasquez was about to interrupt when David continued, speaking over her. “However, this is not what my client wishes to do. He has gone to great lengths to investigate this matter, and is prepared to hand over all the evidence he has obtained with only a few minor stipulations.”
“Which are?” Lewis chimed in.
“We expect you to freeze and confiscate only Mr. Hightower’s accounts and any associates directly involved in the case. All else will fall under an immunity deal. Any evidence naming the bank remains sealed. And in the event that it becomes public, a statement will be issued clarifying that Horn & Cie was instrumental in alerting the authorities.”
Vasquez’s glare turned languid, held steady for a beat. “I’d have to check with Washington, but I don’t anticipate it being a problem.”
“As soon as I we have that in writing, we will be happy to hand over all of Mr. Hightower’s transactions with the bank, along with other material Mr. Horn’s private security team has uncovered. There’s also the small matter of the repeated attempts on Mr. Horn’s life.”
Lewis and Vasquez exchanged knowing glances. “Yes. We’ve picked up the driver of the truck. He’s in our custody.”
“My wife was killed,” Sebastian served this up quietly. That got everyone’s attention. Although his tone was vacant, his eyes weren’t. Aimed at a spot on the floor, they were haunted, the ghosts of his past resurrecting all the guilt we’d worked hard to burry.
The helplessness I felt at the moment nearly brought me to my knees. Because there was nothing I could do to comfort him, nothing I could say that wouldn’t ring false. India had been killed because someone wanted Sebastian dead. In his mind, he might as well have held a gun to her head.
�
��When you took over stewardship of the bank, you made someone very nervous.”
His eyes climbed back up. I could see his mind working backwards, chasing leads down dead ends and pivoting in another direction. Until he finally hit on something. A deep v carved itself in his brow as the memory came rushing back. His eyes slamming shut for a brief moment, he said, “I requested an audit by an independent accounting firm shortly after I took over the bank.”
“Add probable murder, and conspiracy to commit murder to a long list of potential charges then,” Vasquez said to no one in particular. At this, Sebastian nodded absently. “We suggest you keep your security team in place until this case is closed, Mr. Horn.”
“What next?” David said, pushing the conversation onto less sensitive territory.
“All trades placed through Charles Hightower’s account are to proceed as usual,” Vasquez ordered. “We’ll be in touch once we question the truck driver.”
All the pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together. The crime, according to the American authorities, was much more nefarious than we had initially thought, the stakes exponentially higher. Every time Sebastian tried to take inventory of all the accounts at the bank, his life had been in danger. If what the agents were speculating about was true, there was no doubt that whoever was responsible wouldn’t stop until he achieved his goal.
Shortly after the meeting with the FBI––and with a lot of legal arm twisting from David Bernard––the Swiss agreed to stay my deportation and extend my visa until my case with the Albanian’s was resolved.
I may have been momentarily free from the law, however, the choke collar around my neck only grew tighter and tighter in Sebastian’s hand. I couldn’t even make a trip to the toilet with him asking where I was headed. I did my best to be patient with him considering the circumstances. Essentially, I had traded one prison for another. Because although Sebastian’s propensity to be overprotective and controlling was at times irrational and uncalled for, the very threat on our lives did exist.
I was overwhelmed. I needed time, time to process everything that had happened, time to get my bearings. But time ran out quicker than I’d hoped. Just when things seemed to settle down a bit, the ‘unexpected’ once again paid us a visit.
Everyone had fallen eerily silent over breakfast when I walked into the kitchen and announced that I wanted Gideon to drive me to church. Sebastian arched an eyebrow––although to give him credit, he didn’t argue. I didn’t know if it meant he was beginning to trust me again, or he was certain that under no circumstance, not even death, would Gideon allow me out of his sight ever again––probably the latter. Though that was hardly an issue when we now had not only one SUV full of armed men trailing, but another leading.
Surprisingly, Gideon was the only one that treated me no differently. A few times I caught him studying me, gathering his thoughts as if to say something, but he never did. Other than that, his demeanor was the same one he’d always adopted around me. One of careful casualness.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked as I examined him in the rear view mirror.
Sitting in the backseat of the bulletproof Mercedes 550, one of the additions to the new security measures, I waited patiently for his answer, uncertain whether I would get one.
“No…I’m mad at myself. I should’ve been paying closer attention.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Gideon. Ever hear the expression ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’?” Regret was thick in my voice. I turned to look out the window. As far as the eye could see flowering thyme was in full bloom. Every square inch of hillside was covered with it. On its own, the tiny purple flower isn’t much to look at. In abundance, however, it was breathtaking.
“Had I done my job, you wouldn’t have lost the baby. I’m sorry about that.”
His words pulled me out of my silent admiration of the flowers. The baby. It was a relief to hear it said out loud.
“Thank you for being frank. I’m so tired of everyone walking on eggshells around me.” His quick nod reached inside of me, unlocking some of the stiffness, some of the frigid cold near my heart that had set up permanent residence. “What happened to you, Gideon?”
His black as pitch eyes, with those spiky lashes accenting them, grew even more piercing. “What do you mean?” he asked softly, his words in direct contrast with his expression.
“You know what I mean. You weren’t born a cynic.”
A challenge hung in the air, loaded and charged. His eyes narrowed and left mine. His lips moved, forming words as if he was testing them. No sound came out.
“My mother was killed in an open air market two blocks from my house in Tel Aviv. It was a suicide bombing.”
I felt the impact of his words instantly, his pain as acutely as my own. “I’m so sorry. I know what it feels like––to lose a parent unexpectedly.”
My mind drifted from the man driving, to the man who raised me. For so long, thoughts of my father had been tainted by a combination of shame and scorn. Time and distance had finally softened those feelings. His betrayal had taken a back seat to all the memories of the good times we shared. Now it was those I remembered first…and how much I missed him.
“My six year old daughter was with her.”
His words were razorblades. The wound in my soul that had been slowly knitting back together split open again. My eyes snapped to his in the reflection of the mirror, but his had already moved away, returning to the road ahead. The tremor started in my jaw, and traveled to my bottom lip until my teeth were chattering as if an arctic chill had invaded the space inside the car.
In an effort to get a handle on it, I bit my lip hard enough to break skin. The smack of metal and salt hit my tongue. A lifetime of swallowing wouldn’t erase the taste of it––nor the sorrow.
“I don’t know what to say,” I mumbled and quickly licked away the tears coating my lips, tears I hadn’t even noticed leaking from my eyes.
“There’s nothing to say,” he replied in a tired voice. “This is just a bus stop. Some waiting to get on, some to get off. We attribute meaning to it because the truth is too frightening to contemplate.”
“And what truth is that?” My anger boiled up at the apathy I heard in his voice. Was this what losing everything sounded like? Was this what hopelessness looked like?
“That it’s all meaningless. There’s nothing other than what we see.”
We pulled up to the little church as the doors were closing. Gideon took a good hard look at it. “You still hang onto this––illusion? After everything you’ve been through?” His troubled eyes held mine. Pleading? Looking for answers? Or was I ascribing meaning where there was none?
I didn’t have to consider my answer. “With both hands.”
As I opened the car door, he turned and pinned me in place with his dark, hypnotic eyes. “Do I have to come inside with you, or can I trust you to come out in an hour?”
I had quite a bit of wrongs to account for. Sheepishly, I answered, “You can trust me. I’ll give you my promise, but I’d rather prove it to you.”
He gave me a quick nod in agreement, and just as quickly I was out the door and into the church, seeking peace and absolution. I thought about Gideon and all he’d suffered. Only later would I come to realize that sometimes, if we’re lucky, as the deepest wounds begin to heal, the scar tissue binds us together.
Chapter Nine
Once I was inside the church, my first order of business was to find the dear priest whom I had shamefully lied to in my escape and explain everything. After relaying the story from nuts to bolts, I pleaded, “Can you forgive me, Father?”
The priest smiled warmly, mischief lurking in his pale blue eyes. “You are in luck, madame. We specialize in forgiveness here.” Then he held up his hands, indicating our surroundings. The wide smile that spread across his face sent relief and gratitude sweeping through me.
The service started shortly afterwards. Even though the church was mostly empty, I sa
t in the back pew, an old, hard-to-break habit from all those years of being on the run. I also learned never to go to the same church too often or people would start to recognize my face and get nosy. The sound of the priest’s voice speaking in French lulled me into deep contemplation, my eyelids floating shut.
“Praying won’t help, you filthy bitch––neither will the man you’re fucking for protection.” There was profound hate in that quiet voice. Not even the lilt of a French accent could soften the vileness of those words. My eyes slammed open.
Sitting to my left, I looked into the cold, hard face of inspector Tribolet. A hand wrapped around my upper arm, meaty fingers digging into my flesh. Tightening his powerful grip, he yanked me closer to him.
“I knew you’d be back––eventually. You people are like cockroaches.”
Calling me shocked would be putting it mildly. While my mind threw up question after question, my voice was lost somewhere between disbelief and naked fear.
He made absolutely no attempt to hide the intense passion with which he hated me. That fact alone made my pulse gallop. The contempt on his face was only slightly offset by the lust lurking there as well––I didn’t know which was worse. “It’s almost impossible to get rid of you. But I will––I will send each and every one of you back to the shithole countries you come from one by one.”
Was this a nightmare? Was I still in the hospital trapped between reality and hell? He jerked me painfully to the end of the pew until I had no choice but to get up.
The service continued. Nobody noticed anything out of the ordinary. He tugged me to the side door. The priest, in the middle of the service, caught the scene and frowned at us. In total bewilderment, I stared back at him with my mouth gapping open, and still nothing came out.
