“Account numbers?” Jack asked.
He shook his head. “The money was moved again and the initial accounts closed. No trace of where it went. Maybe in the same tax havens. Your mystery lady? She might be clever, but she couldn’t have done it alone. The money trail proves it. You said she tagged you a couple months ago, right? I’m betting she lifted your wallet and slipped it back without you knowing. Identity gone in sixty seconds flat. A few weeks later, she bats her eyelashes and you take the bait.”
“I think I will have that beer.”
“Your call, man.” After Rupert returned with the beers, he said, “You’re right about Sintex. It’s a shell. Ever hear of Kansas City Federalist Bank? Ah, you have. Smart man. Then you know the fifty million wound up there after leaving Grand Cayman. Bet you didn’t know it’s a branch of Winthrop Liberty Holdings, one of the Big Five banks on Wall Street. Once the money reached the offshore tax havens of choice, their trust departments set up IBCs … international business corporations … filed under made-up handles, something like Plastic Widgets, Inc. with one stockholder and a single bearer share. Attached to each IBC is a trust. A trustee is appointed to manage the trust. The trustee’s name is public, usually a bank officer. The beneficiary’s name remains secret. A password gives the account holder immediate access. Add a debit card and global ATM privileges, and the beneficiary can live anywhere in the world. An offshore mail drop receives all letters, packages, bills, and bank statements. An agent places everything inside a discreet envelope and privately forwards it to the account holder’s address of choice. Layer upon layer upon layer of security, false identities, and secrecy. No latent fingerprints, no legit street addresses, no legal monikers. My guess, each operative in your conspiracy ring is living high off the hog in his country of choice.”
“Why Kansas City?” Jack asked. “Why not London? Or Azerbaijan?”
“To make everything look legit. The Feds don’t look for trouble in their own backyard. They look for it down the road apiece. One more factoid. Ever hear of Nauru?”
“Nauru,” Jack repeated, shaking his head.
“An island in the South Pacific. Known for money laundering. Money trails went through it, almost like ghosts, and disappeared.” He crossed his arms and gave Jack an intense look. “So what the fuck are you going to do about it, my man?”
Jack had been struggling to align the pieces of the plot committed against him into a coherent pattern of innocence. The scheme had been put together so craftily, no one of sound mind would ever see the underlying lies for what they were. He forced himself to bring Rupert into focus. “Do?”
“Otherwise, why nose around?”
“Just wanted to track down the money,” he said, shrugging. “That’s all.”
“Like shit.”
Jack smiled. He liked this guy. Liked him when they first met, each suspiciously looking the other over, both seeing the other orange-suited prisoner as a reflection of what they themselves had become: men outside the law.
“I ask again. In all seriousness. What the fuck are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do?”
“Follow the money and nail the bastards.” Rupert tossed the stack of printouts at Jack. “There’s the trail, man. The guys who did this to you? They’ve already claimed their dough. Probably set up new households close by to keep an eye on it, but not that close, if you follow my meaning. Or am I just blowing smoke?”
“You’re not blowing smoke.” To prove his innocence, Jack had to take the meaner path. He had to maim or be maimed, kill or be killed. He had to leave himself behind and become a different man, most likely a much worse man, a man he wouldn’t want to get into bed with every night. “I have a score to settle.”
Rupert nodded, well pleased. “Where are you staying? You can always bunk here with me. Plenty of room.”
This would be the first and last time they would meet. Jack knew it. Rupert knew it, too. They stood in ceremonial silence. Before parting, Jack gave him a phone number. Rupert reciprocated. They parted … handshake, fist bump, high five, and man hug.
Jack left the way he had come, on foot to the end of the block and around the corner. Rupert had been more than up to the task. He uncovered everything Jack had tracked down, except for one extra breadcrumb. Nauru.
17
Ladyville, Belize
Saturday, July 26
GREG WYNTON AKA Diavolo Bianco was sitting at an outdoor café In Ladyville, a coastal town north of the capital of Belize. This morning’s mission was to enjoy the fine weather, the coffee, and the blue waters of the Caribbean.
After crossing the border into Mexico, he was tempted to hug the coastal towns from Matamoros through Tampico and Veracruz before drifting down to Guatemala, the gateway to Belize. Instead, he followed the roads through the center of the country, first drifting down to Mexico City, where he spent a few nights with a fetching señorita of his acquaintance, and then moving on to Flores, the capital city of Guatemala. He drove another hundred kilometers along mostly paved roads toward Belize and stayed the night at a decent enough lodge situated a mere fifty meters from the border crossing. Its lush tropical setting, filled with jungle sounds and squawking birds, was a pleasant distraction, as was the woman he met in the bar. Next morning, he entered Belize through Melchor de Mencos, where he spent several days at a luxurious seaside resort, giving himself a chance to unwind before setting out on a leisurely itinerary.
While taking his second cup of coffee, people passed back and forth, jabbering like jungle parrots in a cage. Since Belize was a former British colony, the official language was English, but Spanish, Belizean Creole, Mayan, Caribbean dialects, and even German were widely spoken. They were generally a happy people, the Belizeans, and anxious to please, making his stay an enjoyable one in which he didn’t have to look over his shoulder very often. Perhaps he would linger here for a time, scuba diving in the cool waters by day and making love to hot women by night. He might purchase a yacht and sail around the world. He had done it before in a small way, sharing quarters with his schoolteacher dad on a twenty-seven-foot catamaran during summer break of his sophomore year in high school. They sailed around the Bahamas and the Keys, docking at various marinas along the way, lazing the days away, spending the nights at island clubs and gambling casinos, and sleeping until noon. It was a profitless life with priceless memories. By senior year, his dad was gone. Since his mom died three years earlier in a head-on collision, Greg became an orphan child at seventeen. On his eighteenth birthday, he signed up with the Marines. From that point forward, his future was set in stone.
At this stage of his life, he wanted to settle down and breed a passel of kids to carry on the family name and take care of their old man in his dotage. But what would he do with his days? Take up painting? Start a perfumery using the sweet-smelling tropical flowers he might grow himself? Start a mercenary operation where he collected the largest percentage and his contractors, though handsomely paid, did the hard work? Or do nothing but fritter away the hours, swinging in a hammock and drinking fruity drinks mixed with his favorite poison of choice while colorful birds serenaded him from the treetops and suntanned ladies waited on him hand and foot.
They were far-fetched fantasies, ones that would never materialize. He had a target on his back, marked with the day and hour of his death, which would arrive sooner rather than later, hopefully in split second of surprise along with minimal pain. He had picked this path over the many others he could have chosen. After following the crooked way for several years, he had regrets, surprising in a way, but not so surprising from where he started.
A beggar boy across the street—wearing cutoffs, tennies without laces, and the black hair and tawny face of his Aztec ancestors—vied for the unwanted attentions of gay-clothed tourists. Again and again, he swung out his begging bowl, imploring this kind lady or that benign fellow. Most ignored him, though a few coins could be heard dropping into his bowl. Whether he was as destitu
te as he appeared or just one pickpocket in a gang of thieves, it didn’t really matter. While Greg and the other Norte Americanos enjoyed the benefits of their easy toils, millions of unlucky boys and girls were subsisting day to day on a single slice of bread. An astonishing number of well-fed people—if not all—were ignorant of this fact. Or if not ignorant, put the blame on those poor souls for their barely sustainable existences. It is easier to ignore the starving than to live with guilt. Had Greg suffered what these beggarly kids were suffering, if only for a single day, he might be a better man today, but he doubted it. When you walk past the hungry and helplessly throw up your hands, you diminish yourself since the only thing separating you from them is the luck of the draw.
The most important maxim he ever heard came from the lips of an old geezer breathing his last breaths. “A man who finds his worth as a human being does not keep searching.”
Greg had not found his worth, and probably never would. Following an honorable discharge from the Marines after eight years of dedicated service, he worked as an independent contractor, with the emphasis on independent. Almost twenty years of protecting his backside flashed before him in a series of one-shot kills. Along the way, he misplaced his soul, if ever he had a soul to begin with. Over those twenty years, he aged about two-hundred. Though still a handsome son of a bitch, as his father often jibed him, age was creeping up on his face. The fading of his youth could be felt in his bones and joints, a disturbing fact since the survivalist instincts of a mercenary relied on split-second decisions followed by quicker actions. It was time to give up the life. He had the means. He only needed the way.
He was cleverer than most of the jarheads out there, and always had been. He had already collected his payoff at the Belizean bank, where it had been diligently deposited by the paymasters of his last job. He made special arrangements for the five million dollars, knowing better than to leave it where it was. He was going to retire in style and never be forced to take another job. The end of the mercenary road was here, and it was now.
When Greg took the Coyote assignment, he never considered the reason behind it. Assassination games were played in the smallest villages and the largest nations. Men of power don’t take lightly to having their authority threatened or usurped, and those set up for elimination usually deserved what they got, having said something stupid or done something unpardonable. Who was gunning for Coyote was of no concern of his. He did the job he was paid for. No more. No less. His targets had put crosshairs on their own backs and were almost always surprised when death arrived. Whether run down in the street, beaten by a gang of thugs, shot between the shoulder blades, exposed to a lethal dose of polonium-210, poisoned by their soup, electrocuted in the bathtub, smothered by a gas leak, or suffocated by a pillow in their sleep, the result was always the same. Dead was dead.
Trouble was, he had gotten wind of Coyote’s release. At first, it seemed like a curious detail, a subplot in a story far removed from himself, and hardly worth his consideration. Whether he was in jail or at large had nothing to do with him. Or maybe it did. While surveilling him, he had learned a thing or two about the man. He was a smart motherfucker. Slippery, agile, and enigmatic. True, he was stuck in a nine-to-five job, which made his movements predictable. But during off-hours, he wasn’t quite as predictable. He was also a loner.
Greg knew something about loners. They were disciplined. They were hardheads. And they were driven. If he were Coyote, he would want to find out who did this to him, and why. He might already know the why, which left the who. With nothing left to lose, there was only one path for a man like him to take. He would track down those responsible for his downfall and introduce them to their Maker, but not before extracting from them every bit of information that could lead him to the architect of the operation … and then to seek his final revenge. Coyote would be out for blood.
Greg finished his coffee but did not leave the café. Instead, he watched the passing parade of people, principally the women, each slim and tan and young as the days are long. While the afternoon was blazing, the breezes were refreshing, and even if they weren’t, Greg never broke a sweat. Inside, he was cold as ice and as unfeeling as a microbe. But he did love his women. He wanted a taste of each. Since he could not have them all, he would have to choose wisely.
He decided to travel down to Costa Rica, where the girls were more beautiful than any other place on earth. He should know. He married one, drawn to her like a honeybee to pollen. He could taste the sweetness of her now. After his absence from her bed for several months now, no doubt she had convinced herself that never again would he darken her doorstep. Sadly mistaken, she would never be rid of him until the day she died. Or he died. Whichever came first.
18
Washington D. C.
Saturday, July 26
THE SUN WAS beginning its slow descent, bringing an end to a long day. Earlier rains left the pavement wetted down. Fog and filtered light swirled in the air, casting an uncanny spookiness on the town.
After Jack left Rupert’s digs, he meandered down the street, peering into parked cars and zeroing his sights on ignition switches and console trays. Some drivers are lazy by nature, thinking it’ll take just a few minutes to run into this coffee shop or that dry cleaner. A few minutes usually turns into ten, fifteen minutes … more than enough time for someone with thievery in mind to come along and take what isn’t his … either for a joyride or a quick profit at the local chop shop.
He came upon an old-model car advertising itself as easy pickings. The door was unlocked and the ignition key left in the steering column. In less time than it took to take a piss, Jack let himself inside and sped off. Being picked up for grand theft auto couldn’t be any worse than facing a murder charge.
Twenty minutes later, he rolled past a high-rise apartment building on the west side of town and pulled into a parking space across the street. He dug into a white takeout bag, the sides greasy but the odors appetizing. He needed something to fill his queasy stomach, something to occupy his unsteady hands, and something like normalcy, even if it was eating a double cheeseburger with bacon while staking out his former lover’s apartment building from the front seat of a stolen auto. He had to chuckle, if only to chase away the idiocy his life had become.
Halfway through his meal, a white sedan with tinted windows pulled alongside the stolen auto. Jack guardedly set down his sandwich. The sedan backed up and parallel parked in the space immediately to the rear. Its daytime running lights blinded Jack in the rearview mirror. Soon the brights doused. The driver rolled down the side window. He lit a cigarette. The tip flared. Smoke spiraled from the window crack. Minutes later, a woman dressed for an evening of pleasure emerged from a nearby apartment building. Her throat was swanlike, her hair rose madder, and her grace as gentle as spring rain. The driver emerged from the car. He likewise was dressed for an enjoyable night on the town. He went around to the passenger side, gave the lady a brusque though thorough kiss, and opened the door for her. Within a minute, the sedan pulled away.
Jack took a steadying breath and resumed his watch. After finishing his meal and chasing it down with lukewarm coffee, he pulled out a cell phone and fondled it like a man caresses a lovely lady, gently and with respect. He debated with himself. Should he or shouldn’t he? And why pull a stunt like this? Why the hell not? was his considered answer.
Since his GPS coordinates could be traced, he drove several miles away and made the call. A woman answered with a cheery lilt to her voice. “Severn County Sheriff’s Office. How may I direct your call?”
“Could you patch me through to Sergeant Benedicto.”
“What is this in regards to?” The lilt was gone.
“I have a tip. For his ears only.”
“What is your name?”
“John Doe.”
“Ah, I see, Mr. Doe. We have a desk for that.”
“I don’t want to talk to a desk.”
Her voice became haughty, officious, brittle.
“Yours is an unusual request.”
“It’s an unusual tip.”
“All right, Mr. Doe. Let’s see what can be arranged.”
She was playing for time, alerting others, setting into motion a sequence of events to track down coordinates and alert dispatch. A minute passed. Then two minutes. Jack heard transferring clicks and finally a brusque, “Benedicto,” at the receiving end.
Jack didn’t answer.
“Well?” Benedicto was in a foul mood. Most likely he was always in a foul mood.
Jack broke the silence. “Why have you been shadowing me? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”
A long pause preceded him saying, “Pretty clever the way you’ve been evading me and my men. Where did you spot us?”
Cyber Warfare Page 11
