Without moving from behind Foley, Andre Bertone inspected the two-shot patterns in the targets.
“Very nice,” Bertone said.
“I got a little loose on the long shots.” No longer shooting, Foley held his specially balanced and ported Model 1911A Colt pistol with the muzzle in the air. “It’s amazing how much a muzzle can wobble in the span between two bullets.”
“It wobbles even more if the target has the chance to shoot back,” Bertone said. “Or even if the target is merely alive. You’ve never fired at a living human, have you?”
“That’s why I burn two hundred rounds a week. If it all becomes automatic, there’s less chance of clutching when it counts.”
Foley checked the chamber of the pistol in his hand to make sure it was clear before he closed the slide. The smooth metallic action snapped shut with authority. He put the gun into its nest in an aluminum Halliburton case and snapped the catches on the lid.
Bertone watched with an amusement he didn’t bother to conceal. Practice was one thing.
War was quite another.
Foley was dressed in a black special-ops coverall, black boots with soft rubber soles, a black baseball cap without insignia, and sport-shooters amber-colored glasses. He looked more like a member of a police weapons team than a fast-rising banker.
Quickly Foley opened a second metal case and lifted out a bulkier weapon, a German-made nine-millimeter submachine gun with a folding stock and a heavy, cylindrical sound suppressor threaded into its short, matte black barrel. This was Foley’s personal favorite weapon, a highly modified and militarized H amp;K MP5A.
“Sweet, huh?” Foley said, admiring the muted play of light over the weapon.
Bertone didn’t answer. He used guns, but he didn’t love them any more than he loved toilet paper.
Tools were made to be used.
Men were made to use them.
Smiling, Foley hefted the gun lightly. Because he was a civilian, it was illegal for him to own the silenced submachine gun. For that reason he seldom used it, not even in the shooting house of the most sophisticated firearms club in the gun-proud state of Arizona. Though he was both a member of the Arizona Territorial Gun Club and on its board of directors, normally the club wouldn’t have winked at the presence of a weapon whose possession would cost its owner twenty years in federal prison.
But the club was officially closed now, empty but for Foley and Bertone. Foley wasn’t going to turn himself in, and neither was Bertone.
“At least you got away from Elena’s party in time to shoot,” Foley said. “Silver lining and all that.”
“I always make time to shoot.”
Bertone watched as Foley slid under the spell of the deadly weapon. Some men got off on after-hours strip clubs or motorcycles, extreme boxing or illegal gambling. Foley got off on the shooting house, with its targets and its mock-up hostage rooms. Bertone, a behind-the-scenes owner of the Arizona Territorial Gun Club, was more than happy to ignore violations of federal firearms law by members of the club who could be useful to him.
Like Foley.
The banker pulled the bolt on the weapon, checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded, then snapped a twenty-shot magazine into place. The gun suddenly acquired the lethal weight that he loved. Nothing felt as good as holding a loaded weapon.
“May I?” Bertone asked politely, holding out his hands for the weapon.
Reluctantly Foley handed the gun over.
“Thank you,” Bertone said when the weapon was finally presented to him.
He knew how unhappy Foley was to part with the gun. That was why Bertone had asked for it. He hefted the gun, slapped the bolt forward skillfully, and lifted the gun to his shoulder, keeping the muzzle pointed downrange and in the clear.
He tested the gun’s balance, lowering it and then fitting it back into the firing position. A silencer usually made a weapon awkward, but this one was carefully designed. Much better than the planeloads of Cold War-era Kalashnikovs and Dragunovs that he’d sold over the years.
“How did she get away?” Foley asked, frowning as he watched Bertone handle his weapon with eerie skill.
Without benefit of sights, Bertone aimed at a standard silhouette target fifteen yards away and pulled the trigger.
The loudest sound was the working of the bolt as he fired three separate three-round bursts in quick succession. The soft fluorescent light of the range appeared magically through three tight groupings in the body mass of the target. He pointed the muzzle into the air and stepped back from the firing line.
“One of my security guards was too alert,” Bertone said. “He saw her heading into the garden alone, saw the lights go out, and was worried. He interrupted Gabriel before he could secure his target.”
“Well, that sucks. We need deniability and Kayla is it. Get her back.”
“Gabriel will reaquire her.”
Foley moved uneasily. He’d only met Gabriel once. It had been enough. The man’s eyes were empty.
Bertone smiled. “Gabriel is adept with many weapons. You would have liked the weapon he was carrying-a silenced Chinese pistol, absolutely untraceable. It’s so rare that even the FBI’s firearms library collection doesn’t have one.”
“Why didn’t he use it?”
“He didn’t have time. When the security guard charged in with a flashlight and a gun, Gabriel went over the fence and worked his way back around to the house.”
“Does this guard know where she went?”
“I assume so. He went with her.”
“Are you saying that she ran off with this guy?”
Bertone shrugged slightly. “It’s possible. Other members of the guard detail say that the two have flirted in the past.”
Foley thought of all the times Kayla had brushed him off when he tried to flirt. “I can’t believe she’d go for some meaty rent-a-cop. Are you sure that’s all there was going on?”
“Jimmy works for a private company that supplies our security under contract. The background check on him was quite thorough. He’s just a good-looking ten-dollar-an-hour punk. She’s probably screwing him or some other blue-collar stud while we speak.”
“Well, hell.”
Disgusted by Kayla’s lack of taste, Foley threw the MP5A to his shoulder and emptied the rest of the twenty-round magazine into the target. Eleven rounds ripped the paper and disappeared into the downrange berm. Gaping holes opened in and around the silhouette’s head.
Bertone watched without real interest. Then he tripped a switch and retrieved the paper target. He inspected the pattern from Foley’s angry burst and shook his head.
“You’re scattering your shot,” Bertone said.
Foley tapped the three holes in the silhouetted head. “That’s why machine guns were invented. It may not be real efficient, but it sure as hell gets the job done.”
“I’ve sold tens of millions of bullets,” Bertone said, his tone as jaded as his eyes. “I’ve sold tens of thousands of machine guns to fire them. I can assure you that one well-placed shot is worth a hundred badly aimed bullets.”
“Tell it to your pet, Gabriel.”
“He already knows.”
“But he let her get away. Some hit man he is.”
“He was told to acquire, not to kill.”
“Why bother with grabbing her and hiding her?” Foley objected. “All it takes is one shot. I mean, Phoenix has plenty of drive-bys. Nobody would pay much attention to a random hit on the street. It would look like an accident. Hell, I could do it myself.”
“You don’t have what it takes to pull the trigger on a live target.”
Behind his amber shooting glasses, Foley’s narrowed eyes glared at Bertone.
“Somebody has to do it,” Foley said. “If Kayla’s still floating around out there, she could bring you down, and me with you.”
“You, yes. Not me. I am a citizen of the world. In less than an hour I can be on a plane out of the United States, leaving a dozen lawyers to cle
an up behind me. Can you?”
Foley still had the gun in his hands, muzzle pointed toward the ceiling. He brought the barrel down slowly, letting the black eye of the muzzle slide past Bertone’s mouth. The insult might or might not have been deliberate.
“I thought not,” Bertone said, letting his contempt show.
“One way or another, you’re vulnerable,” Foley said, keeping the muzzle just barely away from Bertone’s face.
Bertone pulled back his jacket, exposing the butt of a heavy black pistol that was stuffed into his belt without a holster. With smooth, easy motions he pulled the gun, pointed it at the spot between Foley’s eyes, and slipped the safety.
Foley acted out of reflex, bringing the silenced muzzle of the MP5A to bear on Bertone’s midsection. His finger curled around the trigger.
Too late Foley remembered the open bolt, the empty magazine.
Bertone smiled thinly. “Tell me again how equally vulnerable we are.”
The silenced muzzle wavered, then sagged. Foley tried to focus on something other than the open eye of death staring at him.
“Fine,” Foley said angrily. “As usual you have the upper hand. What’s your plan?”
Bertone lowered the pistol, engaged the safety, and slipped the weapon back into his belt.
“We must find Kayla,” Bertone said matter-of-factly. “I sent a man to the apartment she rented. No one was there. He went to the ranch she just sold. No one was there.”
“Beautiful,” Foley said sarcastically.
“She’s a young woman of limited means and less imagination. She’s probably still somewhere in Phoenix. Call in any markers you may have with the personnel department or whatever it’s called nowadays.”
“Human Resources,” Foley said. “It’s the weekend, but I can get to her files. I have remote access to the corporate computer.”
“Find out whatever you can, her extracurricular activities, friends, boyfriends. We will find her.”
“And then what?”
“Give her to Gabriel, of course.”
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Foley said. “At least, none has ever picked her up at work or taken her out to lunch. She has some friends in the private bank division. I can get you a list of names.”
“Call them yourself,” Bertone said.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to be too closely-”
“You’re already in over your head,” Bertone cut in. “Unless you want to take the responsibility for my correspondent account, find Kayla Shaw.”
32
Royal Palms
Saturday
9:35 P.M. MST
Then Steve Foley,” Kayla said to Grace, “told me to open a correspondent account with the transmitting overseas bank and deposit Bertone’s check while Steve went to the CEO for advice on the Bertone account.”
“Did you?” Grace asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
“What did the bank’s CEO say?” Faroe asked.
“I haven’t heard from Foley. Not one damn word.” The look on Kayla’s face said she was scared.
And angry.
“How long does it usually take for Mr. Foley to reach the CEO?” Grace asked.
“A phone call. At most, maybe an hour or two of phone tag. Foley is a golden boy at the bank.”
Grace nodded, sipped lemonade, and said, “Tell me more about this correspondent account. How is it different from an ordinary account?”
Rand chewed a mouthful of cold cuts and listened. Grace had been a federal judge. She knew how to cut to the heart of the matter, but she could do it without pain if she liked the person.
So far, she’d been kid-gentle with Kayla.
He didn’t know if that was good or bad. All he knew was that he’d warned Kayla. After that, the choices she made were hers. She was a woman fully grown.
And his palms itched for the feel of her skin.
“I’m no expert on correspondent accounts,” Kayla said slowly. “My expertise is domestic rather than international banking.”
Grace waited.
“Usually,” Kayla said, “correspondent accounts are arranged on a bank-to-bank basis. Someone on the sixth floor had to walk me through the process.”
“Why did your boss ask you to do something out of your usual area?” Faroe asked.
“Steve said that using a correspondent account would subject our bank to slightly different rules. In effect, it would shift responsibility for knowing about the customer’s background from us to the transmitting institution. We could cash Bertone’s check and still…” Kayla’s mouth flattened.
“Have a defensible position if the feds came calling?” Grace suggested.
“That’s my take,” Kayla agreed. “But I’m small change in the banking world. What I see might not be what I think I see.”
“I think you have excellent vision,” Grace said.
“Whatever. The account worked. Too well, if you ask me.”
“Meaning?” Faroe said.
Kayla’s slender hand became a fist around the silver dollar. “When I checked the account yesterday afternoon, it had almost doubled since I deposited the first check.”
Grace and Faroe looked at each other.
“How much money are we talking about?” Grace asked.
Kayla hesitated, then opened her palm. The silver dollar gleamed. “I’m not sure our ‘prenup’ covers information that specific.”
Grace laughed.
“How about if we tell you?” Faroe said.
“Excuse me?” Kayla said.
Faroe went to the table that held the scrambled fax machine. He flipped through papers until he found what he wanted. “According to our figures, Bertone has transferred two separate sums to your bank. The transmitting bank was the Bank of Aruba on the island of Aruba. Total deposits were slightly less than forty-two million bucks, U.S.”
Kayla swallowed hard, then nodded. “I guess you wasted your silver dollar. You don’t need me.”
All Grace said was, “Is that money still on deposit at your bank?”
“Last time I checked.”
“Do you expect more deposits in the future?”
Kayla hesitated, then sighed. “Yes. Bertone said he’d make more, and quickly.”
“When did that conversation take place?” Grace asked.
“Earlier this evening, just before-” Her voice broke at the memory of the shadow man, the garden, the knife.
“Just before he tried to have you removed from the scene,” Grace said.
“Just before he tried to have her killed,” Rand muttered.
“I like her version better,” Kayla said.
“Putting lipstick on a pig doesn’t change the oink factor,” Faroe said.
Kayla made a tight sound that could have been laughter.
Faroe lowered himself to the couch next to Grace and asked, “On the paperwork that went into creating that new correspondent account, who is the responsible bank employee?”
Kayla closed her eyes. When she opened them, Faroe was watching her with something close to compassion.
“Me,” she said bleakly. “My name is on the account. Everything will come back on me. God, I’m so screwed.”
Faroe glanced at Grace. Both of them looked at the corner of the room, where a very discreet security camera recorded everything that happened.
The fax whined and spit out sheets of paper.
Faroe got up and retrieved them. He nodded to Grace. Then he turned to Kayla.
“If you’d disappeared tonight, like you were supposed to,” Faroe said, “you’d have gone down for money laundering when that bank account was flagged by an auditor.”
“But you didn’t disappear,” Grace said. “You didn’t hop a plane for Ecuador or Uruguay. You’re still here, still alive. If you let us, we’ll make sure your side of the story gets told.”
“I could get on a soapbox and sing arias for
a grand jury,” Kayla said bitterly, “but that wouldn’t change the fact that it’s my word against my golden-boy boss. Guess who comes out on the losing end of that scenario?”
“You’re right, Rand,” Faroe said. “She isn’t as innocent as she looks. And thank God for it.”
“Does that mean she’s off your short list of suspects?” Rand asked.
“His what?” Kayla asked.
“My shit list,” Faroe said. “We had to decide if you were a sacrificial lamb or a crooked banker taking bribes to launder millions of dollars in dirty money.”
Kayla looked from Faroe to Rand.
“I disagreed all along,” Rand said. “I knew the Siberian-Bertone. No one like you would have willingly gotten in bed with him.”
“What you’ve told us meshes perfectly with what we already knew,” Grace said.
“And your mental attitude is solid,” said Faroe. “There aren’t many young women-or men, for that matter-who could keep level with what’s happened in the last forty-eight hours.”
Kayla lifted her eyebrows.
And waited.
Grace smiled.
Faroe said something under his breath. Then he met Kayla’s cool eyes. “We need you to get inside this mess and shut Bertone down.”
Kayla flipped the silver dollar. “I thought this covered it.”
“That’s a bikini. You need a Mustang survival suit.”
“What does a survival suit cost?”
“Sign on with St. Kilda Consulting.”
“Told you,” Rand said.
Faroe ignored him. “We’ll give you cover, employment, and pay that equals the risk. It’s the same agreement we sign with all our operators.”
“If you sign on with St. Kilda,” Grace said, “I doubt that American Southwest Bank would ever employ you again.”
Kayla laughed abruptly. “Ya think?”
“But part of the deal is that St. Kilda would make sure you had legal coverage for any trouble the bank might want to make,” Grace finished. “Your choice, Kayla.”
“The bank is the least of my worries,” Kayla said. “Andre Bertone isn’t. What about him?”
Faroe gave an odd, elegant, exaggerated shrug, the kind Kayla had seen Mexican businessmen make in the middle of negotiations. It was sign language for Que sera, sera.
Innocent as Sin sk-3 Page 14
