Final Target

by Steven Gore

  “They sure can.”

  “But I’ll need some help.”

  Gage leaned forward, resting his forearms on the cloth-covered table. “What do you want to happen with it? You want to pay taxes on it and make it legit?”

  Matson nodded.

  “I’ll give you an example of something you could do yourself,” Gage said. “Thousand-dollar slots.”

  Matson jerked back. “No way I’m doing that. I could lose everything.”

  Gage shook his head. “Hear me out. You ever play slot machines in Las Vegas?”

  “Sure. I put in a little money now and then, but I never really win anything.”

  “But you’ve seen the billboards, right? They promise you’ll win ninety-four percent of the time. And they have to be telling the truth because they’ve got the Nevada Gaming Commission watching everything they do.”

  Matson nodded. “I guess so.”

  “That means that if you put in a million, you get back nine hundred and forty thousand dollars. You just got to have somebody set things up for you.”

  “But that would take weeks.”

  “Nope. You’d get it done in a day. A slot machine cycle is five seconds. Two thousand times. Ten thousand seconds. Two-point-eight hours, max. You feed in cash, they pay you in checks. Spread it out over a couple of days, even a couple of weeks. Give the IRS its cut and the money’s clean.”

  “That’s fucking amazing.”

  “Let me know if you want to do it. I’ve got a guy in Vegas who has a special machine in one of the small casinos. No big wins and no big losses. It just eats six percent of your money and gives you back the rest.”

  “Man, I wish I’d met you last year.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Nothing.” Matson’s voice fell. “Just another business thing. I’ve got money stashed somewhere.”

  “If you’ve got to move it, let me know. I can take care of it. Move it anywhere.”

  Matson’s eyes widened. “Where’s anywhere?”

  “All the way around.”

  “All the way around where?”

  Gage leaned back in his chair. “The way I figure it, halfway around is about Abu Dhabi. So all the way around is right where we’re sitting.”

  “What the devil happened in the bathroom?” Blanchard asked, after turning off the transmitter as they drove from the parking lot onto a long commercial boulevard toward the highway north.

  Gage smiled. “It turns out that Mr. Green has a real mean streak.”

  “What about Mr. Gage?”

  “He’s a sweetheart who’s very convincing in the role of Mr. Green.”

  “And Matson?”

  “A lonely guy. A greedy, lonely guy.”

  Gage looked into his mirror to check for surveillance and then reached for his cell phone. “Anybody follow us?” he asked Viz.

  “You’re clean.” Viz laughed. “The guy I’ve got behind Matson says it looks like the idiot is driving side streets all the way from the restaurant to his house. It’ll take him two hours to get home.”

  “Go ahead and break off from us, but stay on Matson, just in case.”

  Gage disconnected and looked over at Blanchard. “You ever go to Cal basketball games?”

  “Season tickets.”

  “Ever see a kid play above his head?”

  “Sure. The stars in the heavens are aligned and he scores a career-high twenty points, fifteen above his average. For the first time in his life he can keep up with the big boys.”

  “What does he think right after the game is over?”

  “That he can do it anytime. The coach just needs to give him enough minutes on the floor.”

  “And what does he realize the next time he steps on the court?”

  “That he was playing above his head.”

  “Exactly. And that’s what Matson’s been doing. And now he’s all alone. Granger and Fitzhugh, the guys he relied on, are dead. Gravilov scares him. And the season’s not over.”

  “I think you scared him.”

  “Sure, I scared him. He’s the ideal hostage. He’s the kind of guy who’d volunteer to make tea for his kidnappers.”

  “And he’s double-crossing the government.”

  “Right. So who can he trust now? Nobody.”

  “You said he had a girlfriend in London, Alla something.”

  “That’s a rowboat he’s paddling through rough waters. He’s cheating on his wife, just like he’s cheating on the government. His relationship with Alla is filled with uncertainty. He’ll always be on the edge with her. Suppose she starts to see through him? What if his wife finds out? What if Alla bails on him? Even worse, blackmails him?”

  “Maybe that’s why he’s worried about the money he’s got stashed.”

  “I think it’s more than that. My guess is that he’s told the government where some of his overseas money is, but the rest is hidden. Stuck somewhere. Fitzhugh was Matson’s offshore link to banks and money managers. Now those folks are terrified. They don’t want anything to do with Fitzhugh’s old clients. Cutting a deal is a whole lot different than cutting up the dealmaker. They want to wash their hands of Matson and his money as soon as possible.”

  Blanchard pointed at an HSBC branch as they passed by. “Then he should transfer the money to some other bank.”

  “Without the insulation that Fitzhugh provided, he’d have to put his own name on the account opening form. The bank would perform its standard due diligence, the class action suit would pop up, and they’d show him the door. And he’s probably got a more pressing problem. He’s adjusted his lifestyle to his income and the inflow of money is drying up. Notice that matching Mercedes and sports jacket? All that takes cash.”

  Gage pulled to a curb just before the on-ramp to the bridge heading to the East Bay so he could confirm that Viz was correct about the absence of surveillance.

  “What’s next?” Blanchard asked.

  “Now that I’ve scared him…” Gage watched cars pass them by, then smiled. “I need to make him love me.”

  “How do you go about doing that?”

  “Pretty soon he’ll start wondering if he’s being set up. After all, it was a whirlwind day. So he’ll call me, but I won’t pick up. Then he’ll try you on the cell I gave you. Wait a day, then call and tell him I’m in Switzerland and everything is on schedule.”

  “But shouldn’t you stay around to close the deal?”

  Gage flashed a grin at Blanchard. “I’m not going to Switzerland. Mr. Green is.”

  “Oh, I see. Why is Mr. Green going?”

  “Because for Matson, Switzerland means only one thing—and it ain’t clocks and chocolate. And equally important, distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “Where should Mr. Black go?”

  “To help Professor Blanchard fix the microwave.” Gage glanced over his shoulder, then accelerated toward the bridge. “I hear his wife is a little ticked off.”

  CHAPTER 58

  Gage rolled out of bed at 6 A.M. and called Milsberg.

  “I’m really sorry about not doing what you told me,” Milsberg said, right after he recognized Gage’s voice. “My curiosity got the better of me.”

  “You only have one job, Robert, and that’s helping me keep you out of federal prison.” Gage wasn’t interested in hearing another apology, so he pushed on to the subject of his call. “Did you actually check to see whether all of the components you listed on the inventory were actually there?”

  “They have to be,” Milsberg insisted. “It’s right out of our resource management computer system. It shows what we ordered, what we received, what we used, and what’s left.”

  “That wasn’t my question—and don’t apologize. Just go look.”

  Gage’s cell phone rang as he pulled into a parking place behind his building an hour later.

  “I’m in the secure storage area,” Milsberg whispered. “Empty boxes. Lots of tiny empty boxes. We must be missing a thousand MMIC chips. A q
uarter-million dollars’ worth.”

  “What’s MMIC stand for?”

  “Monolithic microwave integrated circuits. Cutting edge. We keep them in secure storage because they’re dual use. On the military side, they amplify signals in radar systems. Any of our competitors would grab them up in a heartbeat.”

  “Any left?”

  “Six hundred. Grouped into batches, like someone is getting ready to ship them out.”

  Gage thought for a moment, then said, “Remember Viz, the guy that appeared out of nowhere?”

  “I’ll never forget.”

  “He’ll call you on your cell in a few minutes. Do what he says.”

  “Will it get me into trouble?”

  “Robert, you already are.”

  Viz materialized next to Gage’s desk twenty-four hours later.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Gage said.

  “Do what?”

  “You should knock or shuffle your feet or clear your throat next time. Faith will be really annoyed if you give me a heart attack.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find it very upsetting, too,” Viz said, grinning. “You need an aspirin or something?”

  “Not at the moment, but keep one handy.” Gage pointed at the DVD in Viz’s hand. “What have you got?”

  Viz handed it to Gage, then dropped into a chair across from his desk. Gage slipped it into his computer and the viewing software activated, beginning with an image of the secure storage room at SatTek.

  “Good color.”

  “I got a couple of new microvideo cameras. Well, you did. I’m not sure I mentioned it before.”

  “How much did I spend?”

  “Less than you imagine.” Viz pointed at the monitor. “Guess who?”

  Matson was loading the batches of plastic-encased MMIC chips into a file storage box.

  “He came in around 2 A.M.,” Viz said. “It looks like he took about five hundred.”

  After Matson disappeared from view, Gage reached to eject the DVD.

  Viz held up his palm toward Gage. “Wait, boss.”

  The video cut to an empty office with a large hardwood desk and matching credenza. There was a flat-screen monitor on the desk and a tiny basketball hoop above the corner wastebasket.

  “Since I was there,” Viz said. “I thought I’d…”

  “Good thinking.”

  Matson came into view. He set down the storage box on the desk and left the office. He returned a minute later carrying three rectangular FedEx parcel boxes and air bills. He distributed the chips among the boxes, then filled out and attached the air bills.

  “You want me to enhance the image to try to read the air bill numbers?”

  “No, I can get them.”

  Gage reached for his phone.

  “How’s our project?” he asked Milsberg.

  “Almost done. I’ll e-mail you a final list of missing components by the end of the day.”

  “Good work. Matson sent off three FedEx boxes yesterday. Check the SatTek account and find out where they went.”

  Gage turned back to Viz after he hung up.

  “You want me to retrieve the video equipment?” Viz asked.

  “No. Leave it there until we get the rest of the inventory. Matson may dip in again.”

  At noon, Gage took a walk along the Embarcadero to the Ferry Building at the end of Market Street, where he bought Faith chocolate-covered ginger before sitting on a bench facing the bay to eat his lunch. The blustery wind chopped at the water. Small sailboats broncoed their way back toward the South Beach Marina while Leviathan-sized container ships ground toward the Port of Oakland. Gage watched their radars spinning, sweeping the bay, as if the radar would spot something the crewmembers’ home-yearning eyes missed.

  The ring of his cell phone was nearly drowned out by the wind beating against his face and ears.

  “Mr. Green, this is Mr. Black.”

  “Good afternoon. What’s new in the Berkeley hills?”

  “Our friend Mr. Scooby called, just like you said he would. Quite desperate when you didn’t return his calls, and grateful when I did. Now he wants to speak to you.”

  “Of course he does. What did you tell him?”

  “That you would call when you returned from Switzerland and got to a secure phone.” Blanchard chuckled. “He just loved that phrase.”

  “Sounds like he’s getting into the cloak-and-dagger.”

  “Not just him. Is there anything else Mr. Black can help you with?”

  “No. I’m afraid it’s time for Mr. Black to retire.”

  “Shoot. I was beginning to like the guy.”

  “But Professor Blanchard could be useful in the next couple of days. I’ll e-mail a list of components that Matson stole from SatTek. Maybe it’ll tell you something.”

  “Glad to do it.” Blanchard chuckled again. “By the way, I have some very good news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I fixed the microwave.”

  CHAPTER 59

  Mr. Green returned Matson’s calls when he arrived back from Switzerland.

  “I’d like to talk to you about something,” Matson said. “In person. It’s kinda urgent.”

  “I’m tied up in LA for the next couple of days. Meet me this afternoon at the Beverly Wilshire.”

  Gage hung up, then booked himself a flight from SFO to Burbank.

  Gage was sitting on a couch in the lobby lounge of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel when Matson entered at 4 P.M. He scanned the room until he spotted Gage and walked over. Gage directed him to sit to his right.

  “I appreciate you making time for me,” Matson said. “Especially on short notice. Mr. Black told me you were…” Matson glanced around, then lowered his voice. “In Switzerland. So I’m sure you’re really busy.”

  Gage adopted the tone of Mr. Green. “So let’s get to it. What do you need?”

  Matson glanced around again, his eyes pausing momentarily on a swarthy man sitting fifteen feet away whose black double-breasted suit stretched tight against a mammoth chest and massive biceps. Matson leaned over toward Gage and whispered, “I need a bank account.”

  “Where?”

  “Offshore.”

  “Everything outside of the U.S. is offshore.”

  “I don’t know where.”

  “Why do you need it?”

  “I need to move some money.” Matson swallowed hard. “A lot of money.”

  The glint in Matson’s eyes told Gage that he was thinking about more than just a couple of hundred thousand dollars of microchip money.

  “So open an account,” Gage said. “What’s stopping you?”

  “I’m a little hot at the moment.” Matson’s eyes darted around the lobby as if fearing he’d be recognized. “The class action suit against SatTek is getting a lot of press.” He then bumped the side of Gage’s knee with his knuckle and tilted his head toward where the man was sitting. “I think that man is watching us.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gage said, reaching for his coffee cup on the low table. “So what you’re looking for is a bank account on an island somewhere.”

  “What do you mean don’t worry about it?”

  “He’s mine.” Gage took a sip and set down his cup.

  “Oh, okay.” Matson took a moment to digest Gage’s idea. “Yes, that’s what I want, on an island someplace.”

  “How about Nauru?”

  “What’s Nauru?”

  “An island out in the Pacific.”

  Matson’s eyes widened, as if imagining stacks of cash in a faraway vault. “How far out?”

  “You know where Samoa is?”

  Matson shook his head.

  “How about the Marshall Islands?”

  “No.”

  “New Guinea?”

  Matson shrugged.

  “Didn’t you study geography in school?” Gage looked at him like a disappointed teacher. “How about Australia?”

  “Sure. I know where that is.”

/>   “Nauru is a couple of thousand miles northeast of Australia.”

  Matson squinted into the distance as if studying a map on a classroom wall. “You mean near Hawaii?”

  Gage shook his head. “I can see geography is just not your thing.” He then looked up at a passing waiter. He didn’t ask Matson if he wanted coffee, but merely pointed at his own cup and held up two fingers. When he looked back, Matson was again staring at the imaginary map.

  “You mean I’ll have to travel way out into the middle of the fucking ocean to put my money into the account?”

  Gage drew back a little, adopting an incredulous expression. “You don’t get how this works, do you?”

  Matson shrugged. “Somebody else used to take care of all this for me, but he, uh, retired.”

  “It’s like this.” Gage settled back. “People put money in these offshore banks by…” He cast Matson a questioning look. “You know how correspondent accounts work?”

  Matson shook his head.

  “Say I’ve got money in Deutsche Bank in Munich and I want to put it into Credit Suisse in Geneva. Do I hand carry the money? Of course not. Each of those banks owns an account at an intermediary bank. If it’s for dollars, it’ll be in, say, the Bank of New York. Deutsche Bank and Credit Suisse have correspondent accounts there. So the money goes from Germany to Switzerland by way of these correspondent accounts.”

  Matson brightened. “I get it. The Nauru bank has a correspondent account somewhere. I just need to put the money into that account.”

  Gage nodded, smiling like a proud teacher. “You just earned yourself an A.”

  “And once it’s in Nauru’s jurisdiction—”

  “Nobody can touch it except you.”

  The waiter appeared with Matson’s coffee and re-filled Gage’s. Gage stirred in sugar, waiting for Matson to work himself to the next step.

  “Where’ll the Nauru bank have its correspondent accounts?” Matson finally asked.

  “In the ones I just named, and lots of others. They set them up wherever they expect to receive money.”

  “How much will it cost?”

  “I don’t think cost is an issue.”

  Matson smiled weakly. “I guess you’re right. It’s just habit.”

  “But I’ll do you a favor.” Gage took a sip from his cup, then set it back down. “Usually I charge a hundred for this kind of thing. But since we’ve got the other deal, I’ll make it fifty thousand.” He turned toward Matson. “On one condition.”