“No.”
“Very good. No. Pure as the driven snow. You’re offended they’ve even raised the issue. They ask a few more times. And that’s it. By close of business today, Raul Moreno will be the beneficiary of an account at Royal Cayman Bank held by the Leverdeep Trust Company of Bridgetown, Barbados. The wire will hit overnight. A balance of five million six hundred eighty thousand two hundred five dollars.”
Wells wondered why she hadn’t gone with an even five million, realized she was right. A round number would look odd.
“That’s good enough for Banamex? They know they can take it and move it to the U.S.?”
“My understanding is, the money will still be too hot to cross the border without raising flags. Maybe Banamex routes it through another bank. Chops it into a bunch of smaller accounts, trades Mexican stocks with it. Pork bellies. Piñata imports. My guy didn’t really explain, since it doesn’t matter, the money’s just an excuse to get you in, right? If you must know, ask Mendoz when you talk to her. The paperwork will hit during the day tomorrow, but if all you need is an account number for a screen grab, you’ll have that by the morning.”
“I need to sign anything promising I’ll give it back?”
“The big boss laughed when I asked. So I guess not.”
The room phone rang. Wells hung up as Coyle answered.
Royal Cayman Bank, Wells wrote. $5.7 million. Trust in Barbados. Account details in morning. Coyle would have to handle the rest. Coyle’s end of the conversation seemed to consist mostly of Sí and No. Then, “Frietas. Hector Frietas. Sí, Quito.” He listened for a while. “Sí, sí . . . Mañana.”
He hung up. “They’ll call us in the morning to set a time.”
“Why’d you mention Frietas?”
“They weren’t going to bite. Said they had to have a name. I figured, he’s dead, his phone’s in the jungle somewhere, not like he can tell them anything. If we’re wrong, Mendoz doesn’t know him, we find out now. If we’re right, she’s his contact, his name should get us in. Sure enough, I said it, you heard. A minute later, she told me to come in tomorrow with a statement and we’d talk.”
Wells realized Coyle was right. “Nice play.”
“This job’s not bad.”
Wells flashed to Bogotá, Tony bleeding to death in the back of the cab. Until it bites you, he almost said. But Coyle would learn soon enough, if he hadn’t already.
Tuesday morning, 6:30 a.m. Wells was stepping out of the shower when the room door rattled. He opened up, found Coyle.
“You ever sleep?”
“Turn on the TV.”
CNN again, an overhead shot, SWAT trucks clustered around a stately house. Then at ground level, an epilepsy-inducing number of red-and-blue lights flashing, white sedans with CHICAGO POLICE painted in red. Behind them, a black wrought-iron fence and snow-dusted lawn.
The crawl told the story:
CARDINAL OF CHICAGO KILLED IN PREDAWN SNIPER ATTACK . . . JAMES MCDONNELL, 59, FOUND DEAD IN HIS HOME ON CITY’S NORTH SIDE . . . SHOOTING OCCURRED AROUND 5 A.M., POLICE SAY . . .
MCDONNELL HEADED CHICAGO ARCHDIOCESE, SERVING 2.5 MILLION CATHOLICS . . . IN STATEMENT, POPE “DEPLORES” VIOLENCE, CALLS FOR CALM . . . POLICE AND FBI SAY SHOOTING “BEARS RESEMBLANCE” TO SUNDAY KILLING OF MEGACHURCH PREACHER LUKE HURLEY IN ST. PETERS, MISSOURI . . .
“Guess you were right about Missouri.” Coyle hesitated. “You think this connects to Dallas somehow? The Russians killing clergy now? Stirring us up even more?”
Wells watched the CNN crawl: MCDONNELL KNOWN FOR HARD-LINE STANCE ON INTERFAITH RELATIONS: “HARD TO FIND COMMON GROUND WITH PEOPLE WHO WANT TO BLOW THEMSELVES UP,” HE SAID AFTER DALLAS ATTACK . . .
“Assuming it’s not a copycat. I guess so. The timing is so close.” And these killings felt professional to Wells the same way the Dallas attack had. Not that his old friends couldn’t do damage, but they left loose ends. They were rarely so slick.
“Shouldn’t the Russians be putting out some fake claim of responsibility, then? Leaving a Quran at the hide?”
“They’ve got time, if that’s the game. Plus, if we’re right about Dallas, Shakir didn’t know how they were using him. This guy, if it’s the same, they want to keep it that way.”
“So this sniper, he doesn’t see any religious connection to what he’s doing, killing priests?”
The theory sounded ridiculous when Coyle phrased it that way. “I don’t know. Maybe they’ve twisted him up somehow. Shafer said last night we’re not seeing some big part of this, and he’s right.”
“What if they’re working up to their real target? Like the Pope.”
“Not bad. He coming to the United States anytime soon?”
Coyle pulled his phone, tapped away. “Three months, he’ll be in California and Texas.”
But that theory didn’t work either. The sniper or whoever was using him had to know he’d just dramatically increased the odds he’d be caught. A second shooting in less than forty-eight hours would inevitably leave clues. And the killing of a cardinal was deeply provocative, to say the least. The FBI would make this case equal to the Dallas investigation as a priority.
Under those circumstances, three months on the run was an eternity. Besides, if the sniper’s ultimate target was the Pope, he was making his job harder by killing high-profile religious leaders. Even under normal circumstances, only the President had more protection than the Pope. If the shooter was still on the loose when the Pope was set to arrive, the security would be off the charts. The Vatican’s own security team might even try to postpone the trip.
“I think it’s something closer to home,” Wells said.
“The President?”
“Nah, he’s practically untouchable even when he travels. And they’ll find excuses to lock him down until they get a handle on this.”
Wells’s phone buzzed. He knew without looking: Tarnes.
“Anything from Mendoz?” Her voice tense.
“Meeting her today. Good morning, sunshine.”
“You think this is funny, John?”
“Hilarious.”
“A hundred ten threats to mosques already this morning. Only a matter of time before some idiot firebombs one.”
Or worse. “Have they confirmed the shootings are related?”
“Ballistics will come back in a couple hours, but the betting is yes. FBI puts the shot at seven hundred yards. And he was gone fast. They think he’s got a rolling nest like the Beltway guys. You think this is related to Dallas, John?”
Wells wasn’t ready yet to tell Tarnes what he and Shafer had figured out. Not until after he talked to Mendoz. “I have to guess, I’d say probably.”
“That case you sure you don’t want to go at Mendoz officially? Bring in the FBI? Might be faster—”
“Faster? Say the FBI jumps on this today. Which they won’t be happy about, they hate this kind of lead out of left field, but Duto can make them. First, she isn’t American, they don’t even have jurisdiction, they have to ask the Mexican government to interview her. The Bureau is the Bureau. It wants to be sure it can make cases. Rules are rules, even when people are getting shot. Fine, the Mexicans aren’t happy, they say yes, but it takes two days. Second, we ask Mendoz to talk. She says, What for? We tell her. If she has any sense, she tells us to get lost.”
“But the bank can make her. Or just open the records itself.”
“Sure, but they’ll need a warrant, or whatever the equivalent is down here, I’m no expert. But even with a friendly judge, I’m not sure we can get a warrant in Mexico based on hearsay from the wife of a dead man in Ecuador. Not to mention that Graciela didn’t even know Mendoz’s name. That’s another couple days gone, into next week. Then we go up the chain, tell Citi it’s in trouble. Someone in New York realizes the stakes, flies here, makes Banamex lift its skirts, warrant or no
t. But that’s, what, next Wednesday, Thursday? A week, for sure.”
“In other words, you’re in control, and you like it that way.”
“Let’s see what Mendoz says today. If Coyle and I can’t get to her, we’ll do it your way.”
Tarnes hung up.
“You done flirting so we can get to the Four Seasons?” Coyle said.
Mendoz called at 10:30. Coyle was smiling when he hung up. “Meeting’s at three.”
The high-net-worth offices were in an oversized town house in the southern part of Polanco, near Chapultepec Park. Wells and Coyle passed through a metal detector into a waiting room, with lesser Impressionists on its pastel walls, hidden speakers playing string music. The style suggested Banamex’s clients were of a certain age. Wells and Coyle were the only people waiting. Wells realized they weren’t really inside the bank. Two armed guards watched the steel door between the lobby and the rest of the building. Wells suspected there was a separate entrance, maybe through the garage, for known clients.
He wondered if the security was for show. This bank probably handled very little cash. But the tension on the faces of the guards suggested otherwise. The clients themselves were the targets. A forty-something woman wearing a diamond that should have been measured in ounces rather than carats emerged from the inner sanctum. Her bodyguards gave Coyle hard looks as they passed. Maybe Tarnes had done too good a job dressing him like a narco.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again to reveal a man in a gray suit. He could have been running for Congress. He gave Wells and Coyle the pained smile of a man who’d walked into a meeting an hour late, extended a hand to Wells. “Buenas tardes. Yo soy Manuel Lagares—”
“Buenas tardes, but I think my client is the one you want.”
Lagares had a conversation in Spanish with Coyle that ended with Coyle handing over their passports and a statement from Royal Cayman Bank they’d printed at the Four Seasons. Lagares looked over the numbers like they were written in crayon. He’d be in for a surprise when he called the bank.
Ten minutes after that, Lagares reappeared. This time, his smile looked at least half real. Royal Cayman had done its part. Wells and Coyle would meet Mendoz with her guard down. Downish, anyway.
Lagares led them through the security door, up a single flight of stairs. The floors were wood, and none of the doors were marked. The classical music continued. Banamex seemed to intend the offices to have the feel of an exclusive club. Wells hoped the atmosphere would work to their advantage, lulling Mendoz a little.
Lagares led them to a conference room that overlooked the town house’s garden, lush and wide and deep. Three jacaranda trees stood at the back, their flowers almost hiding the barbed wire atop the back wall. Wells and Coyle turned down Lagares’s offer of a drink. He walked out and Mendoz entered.
In person, she had the smooth, shiny glow that came from expensive chemical peels and a little too much Botox. She wore a dark blue suit and skirt with subtle pink piping. She looked the part, a stylish middle-aged woman whom clients could trust. Charming, not glib. Rich, not too rich. She held brochures in one hand, what looked like a contract in the other. No passports. Wells suspected their disappearance wasn’t an accident and would be mentioned if they misbehaved.
“Mr. Moreno. Mr. Walsh. I apologize in advance, my English is not perfect.” In fact, it was smooth, lightly accented. As well groomed as everything else about her. Her brown eyes shifted between them, a frank effort to understand who they were, why they’d come here. “Mr. Frietas sent you.”
Wells had planned to approach her cautiously, see what she might give up about how she and Frietas had operated. But now that they were here, waiting felt wrong. Although she’d agreed to meet, she was suspicious. Better to hit her hard and fast, try to shake her. Anyway, they needed records from her, not a primer on Banamex’s skills at moving money.
“Is this room wired, Ms. Mendoz?”
“Wired?”
“You know what I mean.”
“That’s not how we treat our clients.”
“We’re not clients yet.” Wells leaned over the table. “I’m asking for your protection. Not mine.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Walsh.”
“I’d like us to be friends. That’ll be easier if we can talk honestly.”
If Mendoz could have knitted her brow through the Botox, she would have. She looked at the door as if she was considering calling for help. Then she seemed to decide she’d better hear what Wells had to say.
“It’s a fine day. May I show you our back garden?”
Up close, the garden was slightly tatty, a space meant to be seen through windows rather than in person. An apartment building loomed over it from the north, ruining its privacy. Broken paving stones were tucked in a corner where they couldn’t be seen from the house.
Mendoz arranged three chairs in a triangle close to the jacaranda trees by the back wall.
“Beautiful,” Coyle said. “I didn’t realize the jacaranda bloomed so early.”
Wells read Mendoz’s mind: Enough small talk. This isn’t going to be fun, let’s get to it.
“I don’t know what Hector told you,” she said.
“Hector didn’t tell us anything, Alina. He’s dead. His wife killed him and dumped him in the jungle.”
“You’re lying.”
“Guess again. I saw a piece of his skull.”
“I remind you I have your passports—”
“Keep ’em. We’ll get more.”
She stood. “You need to leave.”
“Sit down.”
She didn’t sit, but she didn’t walk away.
“We’re not looking for you to clean money. And we’re not looking to arrest you. We’re not DEA. We came here to talk to you face-to-face.”
Now she sat.
“Before she killed him, Hector told his wife he sent some Russians to you. This was about a year ago. They needed clean accounts that they could use inside the United States. You set those up.”
She smiled. Wells could read her mind. That all you got? “I don’t know any Russians.”
“They came in with twenty million dollars. Say, eighteen, if they paid Hector two. What’s your cut? Ten percent? Fifteen? Three million dollars. Not bad for a few hours’ work, printing out contracts. You could even use the fancy paper, the heavy stock.”
“Do you have the names of these people? Their passport numbers? Anything at all?”
“Hector knew one of them as Anatoly Vanin.”
“I’ve never heard that name.”
“They were behind the attack in Dallas.”
A glimmer of surprise flitted across her smooth face, a breeze ruffling a sun-dappled lake. “That was crazy Arabs. The usual.”
“Those Russians tricked them into carrying out the attack.”
“You have proof?”
“Yes, but I can’t show you.”
She hesitated, and Wells thought he caught a flash of uncertainty in her eyes.
“Do you think we showed up here to ruin your day because we care about narcos buying apartments in L.A.?”
“Mr. Walsh, Mr. Romero—whatever your names are—I can’t help you. Even if I wanted to.”
“Because you have to protect your customers’ privacy?” Coyle said. “We’ll come back. And when we do, we’ll have warrants. And this will be ten times worse.”
“When that happens—if that happens—fine.”
“Why not now?” Wells said.
“You want to know? Really?”
“Sí.”
“Suppose I am what you say. And I help you. If my clients ever find out what I’ve done . . .” She trailed off.
“But they must know that you’re a bank, sometimes the authorities have questions—”
“If it comes through the courts,
officially, fine, I can’t stop it. They may not like it, but they won’t blame me. But if I personally do this, it’s different.”
“We understand,” Coyle said. “It’s okay.”
Coyle was trying to do the right thing. Unfortunately, at this moment, they needed the wrong thing.
“Sergeant, give us a moment.”
The anger in Coyle’s eyes suggested he might argue. Then his Marine chain-of-command training kicked in, and he walked away.
Wells leaned toward Mendoz. “No one will ever know that you talked.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“We’re not going to tell. You sure aren’t. Hector’s dead. The Russians will have other problems when we find them. They’ve got nothing to do with narcos, anyway. And guess what? Next week, the week after, we’ll come back with warrants and lock this all down.”
“Then why do you need me?”
“Next week, too long. The shooting this morning in Chicago, it might be connected, too.”
She shook her head.
“Listen. Give us what we need, I’ll give you a pass for Dallas. I believe you didn’t know what they had planned.”
“Big promise from a man who won’t even tell me his real name.”
“But if you don’t agree, forget whatever the lawyers tell you about how Mexico won’t extradite for financial crimes. Just hope the Russians don’t kill anyone else.”
Wells waited, and finally she cracked.
“Why?” A frightened edge in her voice.
Wells leaned in close enough to smell her lilac scent. He had to make her fear him more than she feared the traffickers, his only chance. He stroked the back of her right hand with his left middle finger. Crude and unwanted intimacy.
The Deceivers Page 27
