Espionage Games

by J. S. Chapman

  “All right,” she said. “If you won’t start, I will. Something terrible happened there. The woman didn’t stand a chance, I think we can both agree on that. Except―”

  Benedicto bit. “Except?”

  “Except, perhaps, for the second man.”

  “Jesus ...”

  “Oh,” she said, “wasn’t it supposed to get out?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “That would be telling. But getting back to Coyote. If he and the other man were partners, there wouldn’t have been a fight.”

  “A fight?” he asked innocently.

  “And it wouldn’t have been between Mrs. Brodey and the intruder since he would have been much stronger than her. No, it could only have been between two men with equal stakes in the outcome. But let me ask you this. Do you think Coyote was capable of murdering Milly Whitney in a maniacal, drug-induced fugue?”

  “I do,” he said without hesitance.

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Only a guilty man runs.”

  “Or an innocent man who’s been railroaded.”

  He didn’t react.

  “I heard his IQ is so high it can’t be measured.”

  “A pity the IQ didn’t come with a conscience.”

  After their tequilas arrived, they toasted the end of the day. His eyes looked into her soul before he said, “If we’re going to make a deal with the devil, you and I, and it looks as though we’re heading in that direction, I’d like to pick your brain, Ms. Burke. I’d like to know whatever you can tell me. In return, I will tell you whatever I can.”

  “Sounds fair. But to be perfectly honest, Sergeant, I really don’t care if Coyote is guilty or innocent. I don’t have a cock in that game. But I will say this. If I find him first, I’ll hand him over to you.”

  “Your agency may not like that.”

  “That’ll be my problem.” She was being brash. She was being overconfident. And she was probably breaking protocol along with a host of rules and regulations. “Is it a deal?”

  He paused to consider. “And if I find him first?” His bass voice was low and mellow but laced with a hint of mirth.

  “You can’t go overseas. True?”

  He hesitated before conceding to the truth with a measured nod.

  “I’ve also done my homework. You used MonCom once before. On the Esposito case.”

  “Raoul Esposito.”

  “He’s serving twenty-to-life at the River North Correctional Institution, courtesy of Sergeant Detective Jaime Benedicto, who never lets his man take a hike. Except maybe,” she said, “for one.”

  The tiniest quirk at the corners of his mouth gave away his amusement, and something else besides. Defensiveness. Insult. A cheek muscle twitched before he finally said, “I don’t have a vindictive mindset, but I have to admit, your Jack Coyote has pinched a nerve.”

  “He’s not my Jack Coyote.” She detected something else. “It’s more than personal with you. It’s a goddamn vendetta. He made you look lousy. And you’re going to make him pay for the insult.”

  He chuckled without humor. “Damn straight. He suckered me with his charm. Hell, he could talk a dog catcher out of putting down a rabid Rottweiler.”

  “No love lost between you two.”

  “Jack shit.”

  She leaned forward. “If I bring him in ... and it’s a big ‘if’ ... he’s all yours. And welcome to him.”

  He nodded subtly with his eyes wide open. Cordelia was the one to blink.

  When Alva brought out the house specialty, hotter than a Washington day in August, she left them to it. Business was slow this early in the evening. The detective was equally slow in getting around to what he wanted to say. When he did, he took the center path. “Knowing what you know now about Coyote, what’s your verdict? Guilty as charged? Or innocent as the day is long?”

  Her knife and fork addressed a burrito big enough to feed four. The detective demonstrated the proper way, grabbing his own like a sandwich and hefting it to his mouth. Cordelia set down the utensils. “I’ve thought about it, Detective. I’ve thought about it plenty. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

  He shook his head in the negative, snorting.

  “You think I’m a bleeding heart.”

  “Didn’t say that. But you are, aren’t you? A sucker for a handsome face.”

  “And like all men, you don’t like any competition.”

  He laughed heartily.

  She decided there was a spark of humanity left inside the detective after all, but only a spark. She had known plenty like him. Her family was populated with Jaime Benedictos, Chicago cops every one. Vice, homicide, narcotics, they’d done it all, put up with untold crap, and had the scars and attitudes to prove it.

  “If Coyote didn’t do it, then who the hell did?” She was making messy work of the burrito. When he didn’t answer, she paused mid-bite. He knew something.

  “There’s a latent,” he admitted almost as a whisper.

  “Is there?” With a dubious if not cautious voice, she said, “That never came out.”

  “For a reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’ll see when you review the files.”

  Her pulse quickened. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Come to the stationhouse. Afternoon is best.”

  “What will I find?”

  “A name.”

  She waited patiently.

  “Katerine Cécile Arnaud Madoc. French. Wanted by Interpol for forgery.”

  Cordelia set down the burrito and considered him. He was a queer man as cops went. He had a thick skin. He also had scruples. Left over, perhaps, from a happy childhood, a loving mother, and a close-knit family. Or acquired after getting the crap kicked out of him. The foundation was unimportant. What was important to Jaime Benedicto was going after the bad guys and putting them away, to the exclusion of everything else, even if it meant ignoring contradictory evidence, the kind buried in thick file folders. Yet he still had a conscience that set him apart and allowed him to see other possibilities, even if it was like sandpaper rubbing an open wound.

  “Do you have a family, Detective Benedicto?”

  “The sun rises and sets.”

  “Do you despise high living, moral depravity, and twisted values?”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “What if the contents of your files exonerate Coyote?”

  “I don’t believe they will.”

  “Then why give me access?”

  “Call it a professional courtesy.”

  He was giving her a gift. An amazing gift. “Read something in one of our disreputable tabloids, and found it interesting. You might, too. A few days before Coyote purportedly killed Ms. Whitney, he used a credit card to pay for a one-night stand with a prostitute in a sordid motel where cockroaches wouldn’t stay and where, in an alcoholic rage, he raped her and left her for dead before passing out in his car a mere two miles down the road.”

  “Washingtonian Sun, wasn’t it?” He sat back, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  “I think the story was concocted. You do, too. Because you checked it out. Didn’t you?”

  He smirked. Shook his head with irritation. And gave in without a fight. “You’re being straight with me. I’ll return the favor. Sally Jones? The call girl? Doesn’t exist. At least, not on any police blotter in Maryland or surrounding counties. The name of the police officer? Roger Montpelier? Bogus. And there’s no Severn Keys Motel off the 301.”

  “Then the story was planted. But for what purpose?”

  “I don’t have to tell you.”

  “Who do you think was behind it?”

  “Wouldn’t know. But I know why.” Casually he unwrapped a plastic toothpick and stuck it into his mouth. “As an insurance policy. To make him look dirty. What’s your theory?”

  “Three letters. HID.”

  He nodded, sniffing in a ponderous breath. “Seems I’ve
met my match. And she comes in a tidy package of moral superiority.”

  The drama behind his dark eyes was evident. Her arguments had taken him off his stride. He had to weigh his rock-solid belief in Coyote’s guilt against a case of plausible innocence, and found it difficult to reconcile the two.

  Not a woman to be swayed by flattery or intimidation, Cordelia pressed her point. “Still. What’s the point? If he can’t be judged by the preponderance of evidence, then it must not be solid enough.” She was fishing for the truth. And fishing for the integrity of a man she was beginning to like.

  “And meanwhile,” he said with a sigh, “after the Whitney woman lay dying if not already dead, and while overdosing on a cocktail of drugs in the aftermath of a sadomasochist sex binge, Coyote hacks four brokerages and transfers a personal fortune into several offshore accounts.”

  “Yet fails to make his escape due to a near-fatal overdose.” She shook her head at the contradiction. “I’m analytical. When I add two and two, I expect the answer to be four. When it’s five, I get a tiny bit suspicious.”

  “Your conclusion?”

  “The only reason Coyote is alive is because his employer suspects he has incriminating evidence against them.”

  “His employer being the Homeland Intelligence Division.”

  “Correction,” she said. “His employer being the United States government. I presume you read the papers.”

  “The exposé in the Washington Gazette.”

  “Do you think the reporter is onto something?”

  “Time will tell.” He checked his watch. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have an appointment. Late as it is. But please stay. Alva has a special coffee. Ask for the Columbian roast. She’ll know what you mean.” He smiled. It was a warm smile but guarded.

  She held up a finger and grabbed one of her business cards, holding it forth.

  He looked it over, raising his eyebrows, seemingly impressed. “Is that what they call investigators at your agency? Senior Data Research Specialists?”

  Officially, I’m a financial analyst, but the term rubs money launderers the wrong way.”

  “Ah. I see.” Again the smile.

  After settling the bill, he left, the storefront bell tinkling and the door whisking shut at his back.

  The dining room was relatively empty, only a few other diners speaking in hushed tones and eating ravenously. Her appetite returned. She was hungrier than she realized. It must have been the rush of adrenalin. She finished her meal at a leisurely pace until the sun began its slow descent and Alva came around to light candles in a packed dining room. Benedicto was right about the coffee. It was exceptional.

  13

  Republic of Nauru, Micronesia

  Monday, August 18

  MADELYN GIBBONS WAS pretentious. Every word she spoke was measured and calculated. Jack suspected she knew more than she was saying. About him. About the agency she worked for. And about the hundred thousand dollars. Though shifty and shrewd, she hadn’t completely dismissed him. Far from it. She reeled him in with her unconventional beauty, her cool regard, and her invitation to dine.

  She met him promptly at six, dressed more casually than at the office. She carried a briefcase, a brown satchel bag with double handles and detachable shoulder strap, and she set it close to her feet. After the waiter arrived with menus, she said, “If you haven’t already noticed, Nauruan cuisine leaves much to be desired. Since the island is so remote, and freight and transport infrequent, what fresh vegetables and fruits we have are grown locally. The wine, though, is always superb.” She ordered for them.

  The dining room was furnished with rattan chairs and handcrafted tables, and open to the outdoors. Ceiling fans lazily whirled above. Hurricane candles flickered on the tables. Torches lights sputtered out on the patio.

  When the wine arrived, was dutifully decanted, and poured with alacrity into sturdy crystalline goblets, she offered a toast. “To fruitful relationships.”

  After sipping the neon-red Shiraz, Jack nodded approvingly. From the start, neither had much to say. They were feeling each other out, and assessing weaknesses and strengths simply from body language and eye contact. Their earlier meeting had been contentious. This dinner was a truce, and an informal way to feel each other out.

  After exchanging pleasantries about the island and the sights, Jack made a direct request. “I would like to set up several offshore accounts. On behalf of my client. Maybe here in Nauru. Maybe in other tax havens. Do you have some advice? Where to go? What to do?” His motives were pointed. He wanted to put off the contentiousness of their earlier meeting and pretend they were just two people talking money. He also wanted to get around the shell game they had been playing and aim straight at the heart of dirty money and everything that implied.

  She dug into her purse and drew out a packet of cigarettes, lighting up before rattling off the well-rehearsed script. “The usual. Mexico. Cyprus. Seychelles. Cayman Islands, of course. The Channel Islands off England ... Guernsey, Jersey, and the Isle of Man. Bahamas. Turks and Caicos. Nevis. Barbados. Netherland Antilles. St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Bermuda. Panama. Switzerland, naturally, and nearby Austria. Cyprus. Costa Rica. Belize. And Vanuatu—our neighbor, so to speak—only six-hundred kilometers due south. We all offer IBCs—international business corporations—where ownership is hidden behind the name of the trustee.”

  “Trustee?”

  “An agency like ours. Or wherever the offshore account is set up. Often close to where an expatriate settles down. Not that this is your plan, mind. Or should I say, your client’s plan.” She let the implication sink in before going on. “In fact, you could live anywhere in the world since the money is only a debit card away. Parking funds in this way serves two purposes. Avoiding taxation. And hiding illegal activities.” She applied a slight lilt to the last word, almost like a question mark, as if suspecting his imaginary client of similar improprieties. “Not that your client’s business is any business of mine, except of course on a purely practical level. I only handle the disposition of said assets. Most clients like yours usually trust the people they’re dealing with to handle everything. It can be simple for those of us who daily work the loopholes. Or complicated for those who don’t.”

  She possessed a practiced art of looking askance at him, as though putting her faith on intuition and instinct to a greater degree than direct observation. She was also testing him, trying to find out what he was about and how far she should trust him. In her line of business, relying on her gut was not only routine but the stuff of survival.

  “You should also establish an OAPT—that’s an Offshore Asset Protection Trust, sometimes known as a Foreign Security Trust—where reliable individuals are named as beneficiaries. Again, a trustee is appointed to manage your account and underlying investments, making it impossible for litigants, lawyers, or governments to get at the assets. As an extra measure of security, an ancillary bank account is often set up in a country other than where the IBC is located, though this is purely a matter of preference. The bank issues a debit card to the bearer, which makes the funds available anywhere in the world. You should also establish an offshore mailing address. Depending on the country or countries you choose, everything can be set into motion within ten to twenty days.”

  It wasn’t lost on him that she repeatedly used the words you and your. He pointed out the omission. “You probably meant to say him and his.”

  “How astute of you to pick up on that.” She smiled thinly, as if both of them were in on the joke.

  “And your percentage?”

  “Fifteen,” she said without blinking. “It may seem steep, but in the end, it’s a true bargain, given our visibility and potential liabilities. If you’re in agreement, we can start with that hundred thousand dollars of yours. Yes, I know, I know. I led you to believe the money’s gone. How was I to know you are who you say you are?” Slyly she said, “Mister Finlay. Or is it still Mr. Harrier? Or perhaps ...” She let the sentence
drift like the smoke at the tip of her cigarette. “Mr. Coyote?”

  He eyed her over the rim of his wine glass. “There are several people who would pay a great deal for that information.”

  She placed a finger across her pursed lips. “Mum’s the word. Discretion is our credo. In our line of business, we have to be careful. Your troubles have preceded you. One has only to dig deep enough to find the bodies. So many of them seem to follow you around. No worries,” she said, shrugging. “Should I want to contact your government and let them know where you are, and should they consider you important enough to track you down here, you would have already left the island. But ...” She paused to consider her words. “That leaves what we’re saying ... here ... tonight ... just between you and me. On a gut level, my instincts tell me I should be worried about you. After all, this evil twin of yours has already attacked once. Perhaps more than once.” Yet again she applied a humorous lilt to her suggestion, trying to draw him out. When he said nothing, she shrugged and went on. “I decided to trust you, so long as I can keep our relationship on a strictly professional basis. Where money is concerned, I’ve dealt with far more dangerous blokes than you appear to be.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  Laughter sparkled in her eyes. “And ...,” she said, drawing the word out, “if you’re satisfied with our services, we can handle everything from wherever you are in the world.”

  “It’s only a hundred grand.”

  “Money is money. But yes, you raise an interesting point. I would not offer our Grade-A services unless I thought this was but a down payment on a lucrative partnership. Or have I read you incorrectly?”

  “You haven’t.”

  “Fifty million,” she said levelly. She sat back, swirling the wine in her glass. “We get internet here, you know.” With a devilish glint in her eye, she drained the glass with a lift of her chin even while her eyes glared down at him. She deftly lowered the glass and allowed him to refill it. “I take it you won’t be returning to the States. Now or ever.” Once again, she left an implicit question mark at the end of her sentence.

  “What drew you to that conclusion?”