“Maybe, but I’ll need more to work with,” Michael bluffed.
“We have infiltrated a hub of suspicious activity involving the son of a local nobleman.”
“Organized crime laundering drug money?” Michael asked.
“It definitely involves illicit trade,” Jean-Philippe said.
“Where does Louise fit in?”
Jean-Philippe hesitated but then got to the point. “We believe there could be links to the death of a prominent banker.”
Michael was quick on the uptake. “The Almasi case? You don’t think they caught the right guy?”
“There are way too many suspects with money at stake.”
“And lots of it,” Michael added.
“Whoever loves money never has enough – Ecclesiastes 5:10,” Jean-Philippe quoted.
“Those in the sole pursuit of gold, money, and power will stop at nothing. I think I read that in Newsweek,” Michael retorted. “So, you’re thinking the Banker’s Grave?”
“A banker who knows too much…”
“It’s not a conspiracy theory if it’s true.” Michael lean back and pondered. “I can think of three suspicious deaths of prominent bankers right off the bat. The chairman of Banco Ambrosiano, Roberto Calvi, hung by the neck beneath Blackfriar’s Bridge in London in 1982. Then, there’s the owner of Franklin National Bank, Michele Sindona, who died after drinking coffee laced with arsenic in an Italian prison in 1986…”
“And now the owner of New York Republic Bank, Ekram M. Almasi, who burned to death trapped in his heavily guarded penthouse in Monaco,” Jean-Philippe said.
“Each of these dead bankers knew a lot of secrets. But, Calvi and Sindona were murdered after their banks collapsed.”
“Exactly!” Jean-Philippe said. “Of those three, Almasi’s death is the most curious. He died with his financial empire intact.” Jean-Philippe spoke passionately, rising to his feet, pacing and emphasizing with his hands. In the setting of the dimly lit 14th century monastery anyone else would have thought Jean-Philippe had lost it. But Michael knew what it was like to have loved and then lost Louise Moscow. The heartbreak turned to wretchedness, which eventually evolved into tempered steel will.
Before Jean-Philippe had met Louise, he had been widely known as a somewhat eccentric national hero in France. He came from a very old lineage of the French aristocracy, including a long line of commandants with the French Royal Navy, dating back to Napoleon I. He had fought with the French troops against Gaddafi when Libya invaded Chad, earning him the title of Chevalier, which is the French equivalent of knighthood. Believing he should honor that title he devoted his life to his country, and it was not uncommon to see him riding his horse through Paris Tuileries Garden.6 Now since his self-imposed exile – along with his horse – at this 14th Century Belgian Monastery, Jean-Philippe had made it his mission to stop a dangerous criminal organization he had helped uncover.
Michael’s own patriotism was strong, but Jean-Philippe was the proverbial Hero, a modern-day Beowulf. That’s why Michael could never be jealous of him. He was worthy of Louise’s undying love. Michael listened patiently to Jean-Philippe’s soliloquy.
“The commonly accepted explanation for Almasi’s murder is convoluted, unconvincing, and highly improbable.” Jean-Philippe raised his hands indicating a headline, “Male nurse murders Ekram Almasi. Ridiculous! The prosecution argues that Todd Mayer, a former Green Beret, started a fire in a wastebasket so he could then save Almasi and gain his respect. He did not intend to kill Almasi, he just wanted to get back in his favor by rescuing him. Nonsense! A far more plausible explanation for Almasi’s fiery demise is his connection to shady banking dealings.”
“Jean-Philippe, is it possible you have been cooped up in this monastery too long?”
“Not at all! Don’t you see? This is an epic drama. Like an opera with a gigantic cast of characters you can never keep straight, all hiding something, and half of whom are in disguise most of the time. But in this case, the plot is hidden bank accounts, camouflaged ownerships, and dirty money. It is not so different from the endless deceptions that the characters in operas are perpetrating on each other and on the audience. Also, as with the opera, bizarre, unexpected connections keep turning up.”7
“What connections have you made?” Michael asked, trying to keep Jean-Philippe on topic.
“These high-society people form secretive organizations, such as the 1001 Club and the Bilderberg Group, which tend to attract some questionable individuals.”
“Isn’t the purpose of the 1001 Club to raise funds in support of the World Wildlife Foundation?”
“Yes, of course. It is a noble cause. But there are some, shall we say, interesting delegates. People like Dr. Alfred Hartmann, a former director of Rothschild banking group who was also a high-ranking executive at BCCI.”
“BCCI, Louise’s old employer.”
“Exactement. Dr. Albert Hartmann was director of Swiss Military Intelligence and a former general manager of Union Bank of Switzerland and later chairman of Hoffman-LaRoche. Hartmann resigned from LaRoche after a price-fixing scandal. He also resigned as board director of the Rothschild family bank holding companies after payments from Rothschild A.G. Zurich were traced to the assassins of Roberto Calvi.”
“One of the murdered bankers!” Michael began to see the connections. “If I recall correctly, Hartmann was also chairman of BCCI’s audit committee in Luxembourg, but the FBI never investigated him.”
“Correct,” Jean-Philippe said. “Hartmann also ran Banque de Commerce et de Placement in Geneva for many years. BCCI’s gold dealings for Colombian drug cartels passed through BCP. Large sums of money earned by market rigging activities laundered through BCP were believed to have played a part in the Iran-Contra affair. But most interesting, Hartmann was also vice president of the CIA-connected Inter-Maritime Bank and was also a CIA asset. His controller was Edwin Wilson.”
“Remind me again who is Wilson?” Michael asked.
“Wilson was the CIA operative who specialized in gay and pedophile blackmail stings against political targets.”
“Yes!” Michael recalled. “He also specialized in creating financial fronts for the CIA.”
“Like I said, shady bank dealings,” Jean-Philippe said.
“Any other connections to Almasi?” Michael asked.
“Yes. Hartmann has close links to Bruce Rappaport.”
“The Bank of New York’s Bruce Rappaport?”
“That is the one. It’s all connected. Rappaport opened Inter-Maritime in Geneva in 1966. Through that bank, he helped provide the Bank of New York with important business contacts in Russia. They channeled millions of dollars through Bank of New York and Inter-Maritime. Payments linked to one of the biggest money-laundering schemes in the United States. After aggressively seeking business in Russia for years, Bank of New York is now under federal investigation for money-laundering. See what I mean by opéra?”
“That’s where Almasi fits in,” Michael realized aloud.
“Oui!” Jean-Philippe confirmed. “One year before his death, Almasi’s Republic Bank had provided information to the FBI on Russian money-laundering activities at Bruce Rappaport’s Bank of New York. The banking aspect is why I believe it would be beneficial to bring Louise in.”
As an FBI agent Michael couldn’t give specifics on his knowledge about the Bank of New York investigation, but he knew this connection was legitimate. “That should be good enough for George Moscow,” Michael concluded. “I’ll tell him we are bringing Louise out of protection with the help of our intermediary.”
“You aren’t in direct contact with Louise?” Jean-Philippe asked, stoically maintaining an air of impartiality.
“We felt it was better to keep our contact at arms-length while Louise is in witness protection. We have a guy, Charlie, who is a former Navy SEAL and has a private investigation agency in the Caribbean. We asked him to refer clients looking to set up offshore businesses to Louise, under the pr
etext that he doesn’t do that kind of work. It had the added benefit of keeping tabs on potential elicit offshore banking activity. Anyway, exactly what kind of mission did you have in mind for Louise?”
“There is a former police superintendent from Monaco, Patrick Roblot, who has an interest in the Almasi murder. Perhaps this Charlie could refer Roblot to Louise?
“That sounds like a symbiotic relationship,” Michael agreed.
“Yes, it does,” Jean-Philippe said. “The more I think about it, the more I think Louise will be a great asset. We have the Belgium situation covered here, but we need someone in other areas where we believe there is related criminal activity. For example, we have Intel on substantial nefarious activity in France that needs to be fleshed out. Louise would be a perfect plant. Roblot cannot make known his involvement with the investigation since he left the Monte Carlo police on sour terms. But he has a man who can get her on the right track. Roblot was involved in the Almasi murder investigation and will be a crucial, albeit off-the-record, resource to this investigation.”
“Okay I’ll give you the coordinates and you have this guy Roblot contact Charlie.”
“Understood,” Jean-Philippe confirmed. They both got up to say goodbye. “One last thing,” Jean-Philippe said. “There is some Intel floating around that we think is a code word you might want to look into.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Maltese Falcon,” Jean-Philippe replied.
Michael laughed, not sure if it was a joke. “Maltese Falcon? A little cloak-and-dagger, don’t you think?”
Jean-Philippe remained impassively good-natured. “Yes, it could be nothing,” He walked with Michael to the door. “But there have been several mentions of it in our surveillance.”
“What do you think it could be?”
“It could be a delivery, maybe an arms shipment. We have been on high alert here for any chatter alluding to it.”
Michael began to see the potential importance of the clue. “Okay, I’ll check with the FBI for any COMINT on Maltese Falcon. And I’ll let Charlie know Roblot will be in touch.” Michael shook Jean-Philippe’s hand.
“Will you be in town long?” Jean-Philippe asked.
“Nope,” Michael replied. “I’m getting right back on the military aircraft to New York.”
Jean-Philippe gave Michael a warm priestly hug. “Thank you, my friend. Safe travels.”
At 1400 hours Charlie Nielson maneuvered Sealed Fate, his brand new 60-foot Marlow yacht, away from his dock like a man on a mission. The former Navy SEAL had a top-paying client with an emergency: His daughter had dropped a beloved toy overboard and needed Charlie to dive for it. Although his client was an experienced diver, the object was below 150 feet and didn’t want to chance it.
Charlie wished all his gigs could be this cushy. This particular client paid him a generous monthly retainer plus expenses, literally for child’s play. His last commissioned job entailed extricating 50 kilos of cocaine and three cadavers from a drug lord’s sunken cruiser. For this client he was basically being paid to take his new Marlow out on a test drive. It handled like a dream and within a half hour he was less than a mile from the nautical coordinates of the toy emergency. As he followed the coordinates to his client’s mooring place, a voice came over channel 16 of his VHF radio.
“Sealed Fate, Sealed Fate, Jenny, over.”
“This is Sealed Fate, over,” Charlie replied to his client.
“Six eight?” his client said, offering an open channel.
Charlie switched the channel to 68 and keyed the mike. “Sealed Fate, Jenny, over.”
“ETA, Sealed Fate. We’re going to DEFCON 5 here. Major Bratz anxiety, over.”
“ETA 15 minutes, over,” Charlie replied.
“We’ll hang tight, see you in 15. Over and out.”
Charlie signed off just as channel 16 pinged again.
“Sealed Fate, Sealed Fate, Coast Guard, over.”
Charlie had a sinking feeling as he replied, “Sealed Fate, Coast Guard, over.”
“Six eight, over,” came the command.
Charlie switched back to channel 68 and keyed the mike. “Sealed Fate, Coast Guard, over.” But an unexpectedly friendly and familiar voice replied.
“Be careful what you wish for, Sealed Fate, over.”
“Well, I’ll be, Michael Fuentes,” Charlie said. “What are your coordinates? Over.”
“Sadly, I’m calling from the Staten Island Coast Guard,” Michael said. “Maybe I can get out to your neck of paradise next time, over.”
“This day just gets better and better. Which of my wishes came true now? Over.”
“Well, the time has finally come for you to actually meet Ruby Red, over,” Michael said, using Louise’s code name. There was a moment of silence, so Michael checked the mike. “Sealed Fate, did I lose ya? Over.”
“I’m here. Happy to help. What’s the mission? Over.”
“As soon as you get on land call my encrypted phone line, over.” Michael replied.
“Roger that, I’d do it right away, but I’m in the middle of…” Charlie hesitated to tell Michael the nature of the job. “Let’s just call it a family emergency. Can I call you in a couple hours? Over.”
“Copy that, over.”
“Over and out.” Charlie loved that it was okay to be blunt on VHF radio.
He arrived at his client’s mooring and suited up for the dive. The client showed him a photo of the object and about where it had gone overboard. Charlie gave a salute and flipped backwards into the clear waters. His underwater vision was exceptional. Between working as an open water divemaster and scavenging crime scenes, he was trained to quickly spot anything from the most stealthily camouflaged creature to an out-of-place object.
In less than half an hour he had recovered the toy, made a safety stop and broke the surface with the toy raised above his head to cheers. He climbed aboard the client’s boat and took something out of his buoyancy vest before handing the doll to the little girl.
“This is a tether.” Charlie slid her hand through a slip knot on the end of a nylon strand and clipped the other end to the soggy toy. “Now your doll will stay with you even if you drop her.”
“What do you say, Isabella?” Charlie’s client said.
“Thank you,” Isabella said.
“You’re welcome. What’s her name?”
“Cloe,” Isabella replied, hugging her Bratz doll.
“Nice to meet you, Cloe and Isabella,” Charlie said, getting back on his boat and waving good-bye as he sped off.
Once dockside, Charlie input Michael’s encrypted phone number into his mobile. The conversation was short and to the point.
“So, Ruby Red, eh? Karen Baker AKA Louise Moscow. I haven’t seen her since I took her yoga class about a month ago, under-cover operation to check in on her, of course.”
“Well, now it’s time for your big reveal,” Michael replied, “We need you as our liaison to a private investigator from Monaco, Patrick Roblot.”
Michael detailed Roblot’s background, the timing of his arrival, and some additional instructions for Louise once Roblot outlined the operation for her.
“Am I privy to the reason I’m picking up a retired cop from Monaco and introducing him to Louise?”
“You’ll find out soon enough when Roblot briefs Louise.” Michael then paused, almost dramatically. “Let’s just say that Karen Baker will be leaving your neck of the ocean very soon.”
E I G H T
December 13, 2001
Louise and Big Steve descended a skyscraper in a glass elevator the size of an office. Outside the elevator, they could see a vast metropolis of gleaming metallic towers and soaring motorways clover twisting to unite roads to nowhere. Big Steve nattered indistinctly as Louise reassured him.
“Don’t worry.” Just as Louise spoke, the elevator began to jostle them. “This is normal. Elevators are built to withstand extreme tremors.” Then the elevator began to swivel and scr
eech under the pressure.
In the near distance, a large plume of smoke rose from a commercial high rise beneath them. Louise tried to avert Big Steve’s attention by pointing in the opposite direction. But she saw more disturbances in each direction. Fires blazed in patches below, making it clear the city was under attack. Streams of artillery fire and rockets traversed the skyline, some coming close to the elevator, until one finally made contact. Big Steve continued to chitchat seemingly oblivious to the onslaught.
Louise crouched down to the floor and shouted, “Get down!” But Big Steve ignored her and suddenly appeared to be sitting behind a desk, with total disregard for the dangers outside.
Louise could see uniformed soldiers lined up in formation on rooftops, wearing imperial-shaped helmets that sloped down to their shoulders. It was an invasion, and the country was under attack from a great military led by corrupt forces.
“If we survive this elevator ride, we should commit suicide instead of being taken prisoner,” Louise said. “Some evil force has hacked into our system. The FBI is in league with a corrupt government. Only the CIA can help us now…”
Startled awake, Louise checked the clock, 7:30 a.m. Hunger pangs coupled with lingering dread from the bizarre nightmare forced her out of bed. Ever since the events of 9/11 she had been having recurring anxiety dreams. She shook it off and went out to the bar where she found Big Steve at the computer.
“Mornin’, sunshine.”
“Wow, this place is immaculate.”
Big Steve peered at her over the reading glasses halfway down his nose. “Got the bookkeeping done too.”
“Okay, what’s going on, Éti?”
He got up and poured her a cup of coffee. “Can I make you some eggs and toast, Karen? Y’all must be starving.”
“I’m famished.” Louise drank the coffee like an elixir. She stared at the television that was locked on CNN with the sound muted and jazz playing soothingly over the stereo speakers. Big Steve brought a plate of hot food. “Wow, breakfast, coffee, the bookkeeping done, and spring cleaning in December. What gives?”
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