Espionage Games Page 7

  “I see that five thousand dollars remained in the Caymans and was subsequently withdrawn. But let’s call it an even hundred thousand, shall we?” She tilted her head, an amused smile on her lips. The smile went away. She swung back to the computer terminal and made an additional series of entries. Then she sat back. Pondering, weighing consequences, considering the cost of acting one way as opposed to another, and rehearsing an adequate explanation. “As it turns out, Mr. Harrier, we cannot give out any further information on that account since it’s been closed.”

  “Say what?”

  She slanted her head in thoughtful repose. “You heard me.”

  “I don’t believe you fully appreciate my client’s position.”

  “Oh, but I do.” Her lips curled with amusement. She enjoyed putting him in his place.

  “Are you telling me I have no rights to my client’s records?”

  “Or his money,” she emphasized, again angling her head, this time in a way that caused her dark-blonde hair to swing with the motion, a haughty gesture that intensified the sweep of her cheekbones, the wideness of her brow, and the laughter in her eyes.

  He reconsidered his opinion of her. She had certain redeeming characteristics. Though still a brusque, even insulting woman, she carried with her a unique brand of femininity. She was quite sure of herself, and quite strong willed.

  “We are bound by regulations, Mr. Harrier, regulations that prevent any Larry, Mo, or Curly ... oh, I see you’re smiling, but we’re quite familiar with American culture ... from waltzing in and giving us a cock-and-bull story about a missing hundred thousand dollars that may or may not belong to whomever he says he represents. Tedious, I know, but there you have it.”

  “As this power of attorney attests, I am the legal representative of John Finlay, the rightful owner of the funds in question.”

  “And I,” she said, her eyes impassive and her face tranquil, “am the custodian of those funds. I have a fiduciary duty to protect them.”

  “You said the account was closed.”

  “By me, as it happens. But before you say anything on behalf of your representation of this alleged client of yours, allow me put it to you this way. Any one of our official island banks would not have been as welcoming as I. Probably, they would have called law enforcement and had you slapped in one of our fine jails for trespass and fraud. As it is, I must protect our interests rather than yours. I just did.” A substantial amount of woman lay in wait behind the smug pronouncements, pompous words, and churlish smiles. She was enjoying herself much too much. “Please don’t take offense at what I’m about to say, Mr. Harrier, but even if that piece of paper has a signature comparable to the one that may or may not be on file, how do we know it hasn’t been forged?”

  He called her bluff. “My client is a victim of identity theft. The signature you may or may not have on file is the forgery.”

  “You may smile and pose and brandish documents all you wish, Mr. Harrier. But as you see, I’m not laughing since it’s not a laughing matter. So please, do go on. Entertain me. I haven’t had so much fun since I don’t know when.”

  “You think this is con.”

  “I said no such thing. But as it stands ....” She let the unsaid words speak louder than if she had shouted them from the island’s Topside.

  “Let me put it to you another way.”

  “I am waiting with bated breath.” She leaned forward with expectation, her chin planted firmly in a cupped hand.

  “What I’m about to tell you must remain in the strictest confidence.”

  “Pray continue.” Her voice bubbled with amusement while her face remained stoic and unswayed.

  “I’ll be plain. The funds my client seeks were hacked from four American brokerage houses in the name of Mr. Finlay but not at his suggestion, direction, or instigation. A total of fifty million dollars was stolen by a person or persons unknown, transferred to accounts registered in my client’s name, and transferred yet again into several offshore bank accounts, yours being one of them. Several American and international laws were broken in the process. My client is under suspicion of embezzlement along with a host of other charges. Unless he can clear his name, he will go to jail for a very long time.”

  Her caddy smile returned, tepidly at first, before intensifying.

  “You’re amused.”

  “Not in the least.” By now she was enrapt with his tale of woe, her eyes sparkling. “Please. Do finish your story. For the sake of decorum, I’ll try not to laugh.”

  “The account you’re holding is the only one we were able to track down.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars?” she asked. “Two-tenths of one percent of the total amount?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the other ... let me see whether I’m good with figures ... forty-nine million nine-hundred thousand dollars ... disappeared.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that?”

  “Yes,” he repeated.

  “That, my dear Mr. Harrier, is more bullshit than anyone can possibly swallow in a single day.”

  “I’m not pointing fingers.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “Now you’re being facetious. And insulting.”

  “Well, pardon me. I didn’t mean to sound so cavalier. I meant to be as serious as a dare.”

  “And I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this mix-up on behalf of my client.”

  “Ah, now it becomes clear.”

  The beautiful face—and he decided it was beautiful, after all—was unreadable, a face made for playing poker.

  “Horror of horrors, I think you’re referring to the financial art called money laundering.”

  “Theft.”

  “Now you’re being facetious, if I may be so bold. But if you think what we do here is illegal, in a real or moral sense, think again. No. Unless you can present a notarized copy of the original application, or a receipt, or an original statement of the accounts set up on behalf of Mr. Finlay, something that plainly indicates you are indeed a bona fide representative of his, I cannot let you view the files. Better yet, bring Mr. Finlay here. Fly him out. Unless he is being held in one of your fine American jails as we speak.”

  “Not yet,” Jack said. “He’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Then do as I ask. As soon as possible.” She slid a cell phone to his side of the desk. After several moments passed, she said, “You decline?”

  “This isn’t a pony show.”

  “Oh, no. I thought it was. But if not ....” She hesitated. “Since you cannot produce those papers, or your client, else you would have agreed to do so by now, the real point I was about to make is moot.”

  “You’re saying you can’t help me.”

  “I have just said so.”

  “But the account has been closed. You said so yourself. I have nothing to gain personally.”

  “Except invasion of privacy.”

  “I take it you mean my client’s privacy.”

  “Nauruan banking laws, which are directed at the pleasure of our Australian principals, are quite explicit, Mr. Finlay, and quite strict. My hands are tied. What do you think this is, bush week?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Here at Nauru Bank Trust Limited, we take our fiduciary responsibilities quite seriously. You Americans are all alike. You think you’re as cunning as shithouse rats.” She leaned forward, hands clutched together, knuckles white. “But allow me to say that I’ve had a bad day. Normally I’m not so bitchy. But you must think me a dill, coming here with a story like this. You’re probably FBI or CIA, trying to catch us out.” She clucked her tongue. “A case of identity theft, my humble ass, which you can’t prove at any rate. But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, truly I am. This someone or group of someones whom you claim has stolen your client’s identity, do you by any chance have a name or names?”

  “As it is, I’ve already jeopardized my client’s safety.”

  “How so?”
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br />   “Just by being here on his behalf.”

  “Then you don’t have any proof of your claim. Or is this just a fishing expedition, trying to catch us out? Let me tell you, Mister Wise Guy, we didn’t just get off the boat. We had a run on our banks not so long ago. Licenses for every one of our offshore banks were revoked. It took us years to get up and running again. We run a tight ship here. We mind our Ps and Qs, and we’re not going to let any tinfoil American agent with the Treasury Department come in here and run us out of business.

  Jack wanted to strangle her pretty throat but repressed the desire. In a level tone, he said, “You misunderstand me.”

  “Oh, but I understand you all too well, I’m afraid.”

  He sighed again and tried to get through to this pigheaded woman with her childish smiles and her barefaced accusations. “Do the funds still exist? I assume they do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so protective. I’m surprised at your attitude. The amount is a piddling amount, hardly worth posting a bulldog at the gate, and a condescending one at that.”

  She took umbrage, drawing herself up and glancing down at him from the tip of her upturned nose. “I am not a bulldog, and I take your remark as an insult.”

  “Then I apologize.”

  “Too late. The cow has left the barn. But instead, allow me to make a proposition.”

  “Indecent, I hope.”

  “You should be so lucky.”

  “Now you’re getting personal.”

  “I have a lot more where that comes from, mate. And from my vantage point, it’s been rather personal all along, but let’s not get into the weeds. Let’s try to be civil with one another.”

  Never in his experience had a woman touched so many triggers. He wanted to kiss her and strangle, preferably simultaneously. “My client wishes to transfer the funds, but he needs to do it in such a way that’s untraceable.”

  “Now you’re talking turkey.” She said nothing more, merely waited for him to elaborate.

  “Can you help me out, Ms. Gibbons? Yes or no.”

  “May I say, Mr. Harrier, you’re a worthy representative of your client. I underestimated you. You’re very clever. And stubborn. But then, so am I. Do come again. I can’t remember the last time I have been quite so entertained.” She stood. The hem of her skirt fell from mid-thigh to kneecap while leaving creases permanently impressed across her rounded hipbones. She noticed him noticing and ironed her hands over the material. “Better yet ... the Oceana? ... it has a decent dining room. Shall we meet this evening to continue our discussion? Say, six o’clock? Though it would seem your government scraped the bottom of the barrel when they recruited you. But I do so look forward to our next meeting, when we can redraw our blades and spar once again.”

  “Provided we make one thing clear. Emmanuel.”

  “What about him?”

  “Make sure he gets whatever referral fee he’s owed.”

  She eyed him speculatively before saying, “One, you’re telling me you don’t want him cheated. Two, you’re telling me you’re honest as the day is long.”

  “Yes to your first statement. Hardly ever to the second.”

  She eyed him with renewed interest. “I don’t often meet men like you.”

  “What kind of men would that be, Ms. Gibbons?”

  “With balls.” She paused to gauge his reaction. It must have been positive, because she said, “It’s unusual in my profession. And believe me when I say, I’ve met the tall and the short.”

  “I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment.”

  “Quite the contrary.” She came around the desk. “Well then, is it a date? For this evening?”

  He rose to meet her. They shook on it. He couldn’t help but notice they were roughly the same height and wearing the same deferential grins.

  10

  London, England

  Monday, August 18

  ART THEFT IS the third highest-grossing criminal activity in the world, right behind drugs and weapons.

  Acquiring masterpieces through illegal means isn’t carried out merely for riches. It is much more sinister than that. It is the theft of beauty, of history, and of genius; the stealing of one man’s vision to satisfy another man’s baseness; the raiding of exaltations in exchange for selfishness; the pilfering of magnificence; the degradation of civilization; the denial of the divine rights of all men. Quite simply, stealing art is a crime against humanity.

  Had it been written in scripture, it would have been the Eleventh Commandment. Thou shalt not steal the works of man for the works of man are the works of God, so sayeth the Lord.

  Only a small percentage of stolen art is ever recovered. Those masterpieces that are returned to their rightful owners have been hidden in basements and vaults and private galleries for decades, unseen by the public, and unavailable to connoisseurs who can only admire their former glory from faded photographs. When this or that work is recovered and restored, it is widely acknowledged by reasonable people that riches are not enough to fill the empty souls of misshapen men.

  Simon Brodey was one of those men. He had always been a connoisseur of both talent and beauty. An oil painting or marble sculpture or ancient artifact often married both attributes into a pleasing array of evocativeness, where utility, shape, vision, color, and craft were combined into a tour de force. Having majored in fine arts at George Washington University, Simon knew something about painting. Then he turned his talents to hacking. Coding started as a pastime. Before he knew it, he traded paintbrushes for phishing and phreaking. It paid the bills but did not satisfy his innermost desires.

  If he couldn’t paint, he decided, he could deal.

  After setting up house in Westminster, he attended shows and galleries, acquainted himself with the local art scene, and acquired an intuitive feel for who was legitimate and who was shady. At one of the galleries, where the art was trifling but the attendees were not, he hobnobbed with acquirers of fine taste. There, he struck up a conversation with the head of a multinational banking concern whose tastes ran to the eclectic and whose mistress of the moment was a flashy bauble hanging onto her benefactor’s arm. Simon was invited to accompany them to an upcoming charity gala as their guest.

  He dressed for the occasion. Wardrobe was essential, including the shiny accessory dangling from his arm, a charming lady whose hourly fee was astronomical but whose personality and native good looks drew attention ... yearning on the part of men and jealousy on the part of women. Simon himself didn’t have to be handsome or erudite. He only had to pretend he was by the clothes he wore and the company he kept. His clothes were tailor-made. The company he kept was also tailor-made. Her name was Amber, which matched both her eyes and her hair. She was dressed in designer wear, which showed off her luscious body and set off her magnificent tresses, parted down the middle and hanging just below her shoulders. She was the trophy. He was the trophy buyer, or in this case, borrowed for an evening of splendor to be followed by a night of acrobats. Simon used her once before. She more than lived up to the promise of her keepers. She even acquiesced to his taste for Asian attire, even if she wasn’t. Together, they were a hit.

  Having made a splash with pithy comments and the bauble on his arm, the London art scene became his oyster. From that point forward, he only needed to find the pearl within: the singular contact who would introduce him to the upper crust of London society.

  At one of the gallery openings for a bourgeois painter possessed of meager artistry but unique vision, which combined bold paint strokes, clashing color choices, and avant-garde subjects, Simon was with Amber as usual. The hostess of the shindig was a woman of no artistic talent. She didn’t have to be talented. She only needed a winning personality, the gift for gab, a knack for schmoozing, and the pluck to make flamboyant statements whether true or not, so long as it sounded as if she knew what she was talking about. Her stocky body type was unappealing, yet she had a way of carrying herself that invited stares. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have been noticeable. But
her bright red hair—cut in the shape of a parasol—made her unique. There was a brashness about her that Simon found appealing. She was loud-mouthed and loudly dressed and constantly aware of her surroundings, particularly of men who cast covetous glances her way. She caught Simon on her hook and reeled him in. It didn’t take much. He was equally interested in her, from her maroon lipstick to her startling blue eyes, and finally to the spicy way she looked him over with the camera lens of those eyes. Snap, snap, snap, and within seconds, she had the make, model, year, and specs of Simon Digby-Jones, almost as if she were reading a brochure.

  Amber nodded in the girl’s direction. “She likes you.”

  “Not my type.”

  “She’s exactly your type. Do you want me to disappear?”

  “Not quite yet. Let’s wait.”

  They waited, strolling around the gallery with other patrons, drinking champagne and munching hors d’oeuvres, and making insipid comments about various artworks.

  Eventually the girl came over, saying, “This isn’t his best. I’ll show you the one that is. He doesn’t think so. But I do. I can probably negotiate a deal for you.” She guided them to a corner of the gallery, around a pillar, and into an alcove. “What do you think?”

  Depicting a woman who looked familiar, nude and unabashed, the painting was in the Mondrian style, the shapes and colors arranged in a fanciful pattern, umbrellas serving as the central motif.

  “Her hair should be red,” Simon remarked. “Not black.”

  “It was done when during my black period. His black period, too.” She laughed a hearty laugh, with her mouth open and her head thrown back. She wasn’t being affectatious. This is who she was. She introduced herself with an extended hand. “Molly Steward. And you are ...?”

  “Simon Digby-Jones.” Her skin was smooth and silky, and her eyes hypnotic. He couldn’t look away.

  “Ooh, straightlaced as they come. I like my men straightlaced. You’re American, aren’t you?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Your accent gave you away. It’s what Americans think we Brits sound like. You can drop it for yours truly.”