by Chris Knopf
The next day we were in a bar not far from our hotel drinking straight vodka with Ekrem “Little Boy” Boyanov. More specifically, Little Boy and Natsumi were drinking straight vodka. I was hard into my third club soda.
Little Boy was, not surprisingly, huge. His head alone probably outweighed Natsumi. Boyish only in his tussled good looks and ready grin, his hands could crush golf balls and had, in fact, mashed a few heads.
“So how’s Mirsada doing?” I asked him, after about a half hour of perfunctory pleasantries and expressions of irrevocable devotion and regard.
“She’s in good graces, which I take to mean getting laid, which believe me, no problem for Mirsada. The girl loves her work.”
“I need her to get Joselito out of his apartment for a hunk of time. Not just a night out. A weekend in Atlantic City, or St. Barths.”
“This we can do.”
“Thank you,” said Natsumi.
“And I could use the help of a good B&E man. A New York City apartment specialist.”
“Sure. We do anything for you two nuts,” he said.
“We are honored to have you as trusted partners,” said Natsumi, with a little Japanese bow.
“See? This is why. Respect.”
Before it got too ripe, I called the waiter over and we ordered our meals. With that accomplished, I asked Little Boy what he’d been up to.
“A little of this, a little of that,” he said. “Nice business in copper from old buildings. We learn this from you, Mr. G. Metals rule. High-end hookers, still too profitable to let go, though the wife don’t like this too much. But what the hell? Girls keep signing up, boys keep looking for business, this is my fault? Otherwise, core interests in boosting general merchandise, cigarettes and booze going good. Very dull but profitable, with little exposure. I don’t look for glamour, just reliable ROI, you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
He downed a full glass of Grey Goose and said, “So, what’s the big picture?”
I paused to focus his attention. “Joselito is affiliated with an organization out of Spain who we think are right-wing vigilantes, though we’re not sure,” I said. “We think they’re in a fight with another group, also underground, though we’re not sure about that, either.”
“Things can get pretty murky with Europeans,” said Little Boy.
Having fought in the Balkan War, Little Boy’s opinion on that had some standing.
“It turned out we could have used your friends over there,” I said, and told him about the attack at the outdoor café.
“Sorry about that, Mr. G. Scary shit, right?”
“Oh, yes,” said Natsumi. “And that lake is colder than you think.”
“So you want some company now?” he asked.
“Again, not yet. But we might.”
“Give the word. We got local representation here in Astoria. Can be in midtown in half hour or less, depending on traffic.”
“Thanks, Little Boy,” said Natsumi.
“You got it, Mrs. G.”
WE WAITED until Joselito and Mirsada were well on their way to Clear Waters Resort and Casino in Connecticut, Natsumi’s alma mater, before breaking into his apartment. Little Boy’s go-to breaking and entering specialist was a soft-spoken guy in a nice suit, with a briefcase, who met me in a restaurant about a block away. It was midday, and the place was filling up with the lunch crowd. We shook hands, but he didn’t share his name. I gave him the address and he instructed me to stay put until he called sometime in the next hour. He said when I got to the building, I could just walk in, since the access control system would be disabled. At the apartment, I could also walk right in, but should lock the door on the way out.
“Best break-in is the break-in they don’t know about, or can’t figure out,” he said, then left me.
A half hour later, he called. “Not so easy, not so hard,” he said. “Come over anytime.”
“How do I pay you?” I asked.
“I invoice Little Boy,” he said, “he send you a bill. Central processing.”
Everything happened exactly as he said it would, with no sign of tampering, but I wasn’t surprised. Little Boy set very high standards.
Joselito’s apartment looked as if he’d had some help decorating. The motif was basic Manhattan bachelor of respectable, though not excessive means. Leather couches, lamps with black lampshades and brushed-nickel bases. Art on the walls, none of it Goya or Velázquez. Glass coffee table with a few neatly placed coffee table books, one filled with black and white erotic photography.
His computer, a PC, was in the bedroom. I sat at the desk and surveyed the simple array of keyboard, screen, CPU and external hard drive. The first thing I did was unscrew a little service door on the back of the CPU and stick a compressor mic like the ones I used in Italy inside the housing. I was able to use the smallest possible receiver, since it only had to travel as far as Joselito’s own wireless router. Then I turned on the system and inserted a boot disk written for that model computer and operating system.
The boot disk had an application you wouldn’t think could be legal, since the first thing it did was tell the computer to boot up the rest of the stealth operating system, giving me complete command of the machine’s data, including the keys to the wireless access.
I plugged in an external hard drive with two terabytes of memory and started copying everything—all files, folders, applications, photos, music, videos, movies, along with the operating system itself.
While this went on in the background, I stuck a flash drive in another USB port and downloaded monitoring software, another entirely legal application. Used by corporate security departments, the application lived deep inside the operating system, undetectable, where it could record and transmit everything that happened on the computer. So as Joselito worked, all keystrokes, emails coming in and going out, web pages opened and closed, user names and passwords entered, photos looked at and music played would show up on a dedicated PC back at our hotel rooms, in real time, without Joselito ever knowing a thing.
An hour later I left the apartment with Joselito’s cyber life—past, present and future—fully secured.
I WAS tempted to contact Mr. Etherton at First Australia in Grand Cayman, but there wasn’t much more he could tell me, and he was already terrified enough. I had all the same information he’d released to the kidnappers, and since most of it was contrived and no longer of any use, not much could be made of it.
There was only one item of concern, a lockbox account in Delaware the embezzled funds had flowed through on their way to the Caymans. With that account in hand, the right people would be able to follow the money laundering scheme all the way back to Florencia’s insurance agency.
“Oh, crap,” I said out loud, as an electric jolt of revelation shot through me. “Damien Brandt.”
“What?” Natsumi called from the other room.
“I just had what an old client of mine called a ‘blinding glimpse of the obvious.’ ”
She came in the room. “About what?”
“When Brandt was killed I naturally assumed people from the same crowd who murdered Florencia were responsible. That would be bad. This is worse.”
She sat down on the bed, and I went on.
“In the letter from Joselito to Domingo he referred to various friends. He’s not only a forensic accountant, he used to work for Interpol and the Guardia Civil. Not hard to imagine he’s got contacts all over the place with whom he can exchange information.”
“Including the FBI?” she asked.
“Why not? Very useful in his work in corporate security, financial branch. Information is the fuel that runs international policing, and national security. He’s well positioned to have learned about the Grand Cayman account, and has the skills to trace it all the way back.”
I explained he’d have to employ some subterfuge to get by various security systems and confidentiality policies, but if I could do it, a professional like him surely could as w
ell.
“Especially if he’s willing to kidnap, torture and murder,” said Natsumi.
“Not him personally, I’m willing to bet. He’s way too valuable to risk that kind of work. He gets the intel, then the VG sends in the shock troops.”
“So what are they after?” she asked.
“The money.”
She cocked her head and allowed a little of her Japanese composure to slip from her speech. “In other words,” she said, “they’re after us. Everybody’s after us.”
“How often do you get consensus between groups of murderous underground Europeans and the FBI, both domestic and international?”
“You forgot the State of Connecticut and certain elements of organized crime.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So what do we do?”
“Call Little Boy, then drive to Albany.”
I told Little Boy, on speakerphone so Natsumi could join in, that I’d successfully hijacked Joselito’s computer and heaped praise on his B&E guy.
“Runs very successful apartment security company over in Astoria,” he said. “You can see why, eh?”
“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes,” said Natsumi.
“I need time to go through his data, so there’s not much else for you right now, though I’d like to keep Mirsada on the case.”
“No problem there, Mr. G. She’s havin’ a blast. Likes the Basque guy. She’d slit his throat without hesitating, of course, but doesn’t mean she can’t like him.”
“Fair enough,” said Natsumi.
THE NEXT morning we drove north after rush hour had crested. The day was cool and sunny, and traffic on the Palisades Parkway light to moderate. I enjoyed being back on American roads, though I retained the habit of frequently checking the rearview for maniacal European drivers bearing down from behind.
I was wearing a brown-haired wig, full beard, horn-rimmed glasses and a fake nose. And a three-piece suit. Natsumi was appearing as her own self, since we decided she should stay in the car when I visited the New York Department of State, Division of Corporations, State Records and Uniform Commercial Code.
I’d called ahead the day before and was assured by a Mrs. Blakely that if I presented myself at her office at One Commerce Plaza in Albany, she’d be happy to provide copies of up to six Certificates of Registration per day.
“Only need one, but thank you very much for your help.”
“It’s what you pay me to do.”
One Commerce Plaza was a tall, late-twentieth-century office tower in the shape of an H. Even in a town filled with architecture of little distinction, the building had achieved a remarkable glass-walled blandness.
Natsumi took the car so she could find a coffee shop somewhere to go online while she waited for me. The security guard in the lobby took my name and called Mrs. Blakely, who had to be reminded of the call the day before, but eventually let me come up.
Inside a double set of glass-panel doors was a long, high counter where mostly well-dressed people were bellied up talking to the staff on the other side. At either end were wall-mounted paper trays stuffed with forms. A Take A Number dispenser controlled the queues. It looked like I had about ten people in front of me. I spent the time reading posters with severe warnings and declarations, not a please or thank you in sight.
As a researcher, I’d spent a lot of time in places like this, so I was comfortable with the environment and the people who worked here, which contrary to everyone’s assumption, aren’t as reflexively hostile as their reputations contend. Mrs. Blakely being a good example.
“Yes, sir,” she said, with an eager smile, “I do remember the call well. Once you reminded me.”
I wrote the name United Aquitania on a slip of paper and handed it to her. She disappeared into the back and was only gone for a few minutes. She smacked two sheets of paper on the counter.
The name of the registered corporation was United Aquitania.
The address was on Spring Street in Soho, NYC.
The official representative of the corporation who signed the Certificate of Registration was Florencia Zarandona.
BACK AT the hotel, I committed all my time and attention to Joselito’s computer. The effort was well aided by the standard search commands built into Windows 7 and other Microsoft applications.
Within minutes I located my first priority, email correspondence with the address, [email protected].
Most of the back and forth concerned financial issues, reporting on the movement of funds, incoming statements, currency exchanges, all mundane and all in prose. No figures, and no mention of specific banks or account numbers, or individual names.
Well, I thought, no kidding. The guy was an expert in corporate financial security. He knew the hazards of email.
But I pressed on, working my way back through both the inbox and the sent folders, until an interesting chain started in Spanish with the subject line, “investigatión americanos.”
Domingo:
Have you received current financials? Note increased expenses over prior year. Attributable to increase in eliminations Stateside. Ten versus five. Copies of authorizations available on request.
Joselito
Joselito:
Expenses approved. Next for elimination on the way by courier.
Domingo
There were more of these messages, all with the same sinister flavor. Then this:
Domingo:
Have received very important information. Please call.
Joselito
Then about a week later:
Domingo:
Have researched Caribbean facility. Will proceed as discussed.
Joselito
A few days after that:
Domingo:
Have determined the path. Will need authorization to use friends for nonstandard research.
Joselito
Joselito:
Authorized.
Domingo
Joselito was off his email for about a week after that, then it looked like he put in a day catching up. Most of the correspondence involved his corporate clients, written in flawless English, if you excuse the dopey business jargon. But then he took up again with Domingo:
Domingo:
Funds in question have been removed by an unauthorized and unidentified party. Checked with my friend, who obtained confirmation. Guidance, please.
Joselito
Part of me took pleasure in seeing my scenario validated, the rest was appalled at what those vapid, innocuous words actually described.
Joselito:
Learn more.
Domingo
Domingo:
Friend describes American male and Japanese female working for Rodrigo.
Joselito
This pissed off Domingo.
Joselito:
Not working for Rodrigo!
Domingo
Domingo:
Apologies. Friend claims otherwise. Please call.
Joselito
“Swell,” I said to myself.
Domingo:
Friend thanked me for new information. Has returned the favor. Please call.
Joselito
The subject line went dormant nearly up to the current time, when one last exchange occurred.
Domingo:
As discussed, have deployed friends to intercept American male and Japanese woman.
Joselito
I called Natsumi into the room and showed her the string.
“They don’t know where we are,” she said, getting right to the point.
“They don’t. But I’m feeling less invisible every day.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m going to call Shelly. Stick around.”
When he answered, I put him on speakerphone.
“Are we still on truce status?” I asked.
“As far as I’m concerned.”
“Can you tell me the Bureau’s theory on me?”
“Not without more from you.”
&
nbsp; I took a deep breath and decided on the spot to put a lot of trust in a guy who had very little trust in me.
“There’s a Spanish corporate security expert living in New York named Joselito Gorrotxategi. He’s a forensic accountant and a veteran of Interpol and the Guardia Civil in Spain. He’s also working for what I believe is an underground element of that same organization called Los Vengadores del Guardia, The Guard’s Avengers. Probably with the help of your mole, he learned about Florencia Cathcart’s Grand Cayman account and traced the laundering scheme back to the agency. Ergo Damien Brandt.”
“You can prove all this,” he said.
“Don’t know. I have all the data on his computer, and I’ve installed monitoring software and a listening bug. Won’t be able to benefit from the last two until Joselito gets back from Connecticut. I think tomorrow.”
It took Shelly a few moments to respond.
“Inadmissible,” he said.
“Since when did you people care about that? Anyway, I’m asking you not to bust him until things play out a little more. And if possible, put a muzzle on that idiot at the Bureau.”
“What else do you have?” he asked.
“Your turn.”
He huffed into the phone, but gave me something anyway.
“Natsumi Fitzgerald was in the Cayman Islands with a male Caucasian, medium height, black hair and moustache—probably false—forty to fifty years old. They took possession of material left in a safe-deposit box that the foreign service of the FBI suspected had links to a European terrorist organization. A couple matching the same description was involved very recently in a shooting in the Lake Como region of Italy, where two members of that organization were killed.”
Natsumi took my shirt sleeve and squeezed. I patted her hand.
“What about those Chilean banks?” I asked.
“A pass-through to an account in Madrid is connected to that same organization. Shut down right before we got there, with all the funds withdrawn and untraceable. That’s all you get.”
“Not the name of the organization?”
He didn’t like that.
“There’s a very strong opinion around here that you’re the male Caucasian. You’re clever, but not invincible. Important people are getting very interested in you. You can’t imagine the shit storm I’m holding back. I can’t protect you when national security is involved.”
