Patriot Acts (16 page)

One of two things happens.

In the first instance, the candidate frowns slightly, embarrassed, and perhaps sits back in his seat. After a moment, with regret, he explains to you that the laws in Monaco—the banking laws—are under the French system, and doing such a thing would be illegal. He’s extremely sorry, but he cannot help you.

At which point you look mildly surprised, apologize for taking his time, and depart.

Scratch one candidate.

In the second instance, the candidate appraises you for a moment or two, then nods and says that such a thing can be done, but not without some legal maneuvering. He may mention additional cost, though, in all likelihood, will not, as that would be gauche in the extreme.

You respond by saying that you suspected as much, and would appreciate any assistance he can offer.

The transaction then takes place. You remain in Monaco long enough to see it to conclusion, and at its end, you thank the candidate, and ask if he might be available to you in the future.

There is a chance here that he will say no, that this is the extent of the illegalities he is willing to undertake. But, if all has gone well, if you and he have managed a rapport of some sort, he will say yes, certainly.

You thank him, and part company.

Perhaps two or three weeks later, you call to make another appointment. The sooner the better; you only need a few minutes of his time. If your last transaction was as successful as it seemed, he will accommodate you.

You come to the office with a briefcase. Not one of the metal-sided aluminum Halliburton cases, because those positively scream “ill-gotten gains” at the top of their lungs. Something elegant, leather, preferably.

The candidate greets you warmly, ushering you into his office. He offers, once again, refreshment, but this time you decline. You have a train to catch, you apologize.

Then you set the briefcase on his desk, opening it as you speak. You say that you have some business to attend to in South Africa, and you would be very grateful if he could hold this for you, just in his office safe, perhaps, until you get back at the end of the week. You show him the contents, stacks and stacks of currency, preferably in dollars. Half a million dollars, you tell him, and you of course will pay him for the service.

Again, this may prove to be too much, and he may refuse. In such a case, it is best to apologize and depart with no further fuss.

If he agrees, you do much the same thing, with gratitude in the place of apology, before leaving to catch your train.

You are not going to South Africa.

You are staying in Monaco, and putting the candidate under the microscope, or at least the best microscope you can manage while working alone. First, you must ascertain that he has not told anyone of his dealings with you, especially the authorities. This can be determined in relatively short order. Next, you begin tracking his movements, his activities, devoting multiple days to this task. You mark his social habits, his associates, any friends, any lovers. You follow him in his off hours, to and from work. You watch him about town, and at home.

You’re looking for things you might have missed, anything that might become a liability. Soon, now, you and the candidate will be entering a very long-term, very permanent partnership. Once the next step is taken, there will be little opportunity to correct any errors of judgment. Now is the best time to put the brakes on, before things progress.

So you follow the candidate, and you learn everything you can. One morning, after tailing him to his office, you double back and return to his home. You break in and perform a comprehensive search, taking most of the day to do it, going about it carefully, so as to leave no signs of your presence. You examine his clothing, noting the labels, discovering the name of the tailor he uses. You read the old love letters kept in the back of the bottom desk drawer. You find his collection of art-porn DVDs. You discover that he has a taste for very expensive whiskey. You take note of it all.

Once all of this is done, you withdraw to consider what you have learned. You must make your decision. Can you trust this person, this man? Is his greed enough to be of service to you, and yet not so great as to be a liability? Is his willingness to break the law pathological, or considered?

No matter what you do, however, you cannot eliminate the risk you are about to take. The best you can make is an educated guess. Do you bring the candidate in, or abandon the pursuit?

Eventually, you are going to have to trust somebody.

Eleven days after leaving the briefcase with the candidate, you call again. This time, you speak to him personally. You tell him that you’ll be in town that evening, and that you’d like to come by and collect your case, settle up, and speak about other business. It is a given, at this point, that the candidate is happy to accommodate you.

You arrive that evening, just as the offices are closing, and the candidate greets you, asks how your trip went. You tell him that it went well. He invites you into his office, and returns your case to you. You do not bother to open it and check the contents—you are trusting him, as he has trusted you—but instead produce an envelope from your bag or your coat, and hand it to him in turn.

For your help, you say.

He resists the urge to examine the envelope, to count the money. He can tell by the feel of it that it is substantial, and in cash. He tucks the envelope away, then offers you a drink, as he has on each visit. This time you accept, a glass of Scotch or brandy, perhaps, if he is willing to join you in it.

He is, and now, each of you seated in the office, you relax. Perhaps you light a cigarette, perhaps you loosen your tie, but by your manner and your look, you make it apparent that you are off the clock, and you are inviting him to act in the same manner. You exchange more small talk; maybe you steer the conversation to one of the hobbies or interests you learned of while examining his life. You keep it subtle; the ideal is that he does not realize until days later that the reason you spoke of the air show you saw in Paris is because you know of his fascination with vintage biplanes.

Finally, you set aside your drink and say to the candidate that you appreciate everything he’s done for you. He’s been very helpful, you say, to such an extent that you’d be interested in expanding upon your business relationship.

He indicates his interest, his curiosity. He asks you to please continue.

I’m a consultant, you tell him, in the risk business. I’ve clients all around the world, and most of them are very, very sensitive about their privacy, about having their identities known. For that reason, even I need to be able to distance myself from the people who hire me.

The candidate looks at you, listening closely. His expression tells you that he is trying to determine just what, exactly, the “risk business” is.

Go on, he says.

Look, you say, I realize this sounds very cloak-and-dagger, but in my profession, absolute privacy of the client is the paramount concern. I’m certain you understand the need for that kind of discretion.

Absolutely.

You nod, as if to confirm that his words and your thought are entirely as one. You lean forward, making eye contact, and then continue. I need someone who has proven himself to be both responsible and resourceful to act as my intermediary, you say. Someone who can retrieve business propositions for me from a variety of sources, and then forward them to me in a timely and secure manner. This is something that, at least in terms of contacting me, may only occur a handful of times a year, not including the one or two meetings we would have face-to-face.

You sit back, giving him a moment to consider what you have said.

If you are interested in helping me out like this, you then say, I can tell you the following. My annual income is projected to be in the tens of millions of dollars. Now, I understand that what I’m asking you to undertake for me will require a significant amount of your time and resources. Acting as my agent, so to speak, you’d of course be entitled to a generous portion of my earnings.

Do you think this would be something that might interest you?

There is a silence while the candidate considers. He is trying to determine what he knows, trying to balance that against the prospect of a generous portion of millions of dollars a year. Certainly, he has concluded that what you are doing for a living is illegal, though precisely how illegal, he is unsure. He is considering the risk to himself, not because he has reason to fear you—although, if he is the man you want, he will have realized by this juncture that you are certainly dangerous—but because money is of no worth to him if he cannot spend it.

Yes, he says, before the pause stretches too long. Yes, I am interested.

You smile, making your pleasure with his decision apparent. Wonderful, you tell him, I’m very pleased. I think we’re going to work very well together, and I think you’re going to find our association to be a lucrative one.

It certainly sounds that way, he agrees.

I do have a project I am working on now, you tell him, as a matter of fact. What I need is a driver’s license for the U.K. with my picture on it, but in another name.

The pause this time is very brief. Perhaps he hesitates because he has realized the first thing you are asking of him, now that you have made your relationship formal, is to break the law. Or perhaps he is merely wondering how best to accomplish the goal.

I can arrange that, he tells you with a smile of his own. Yes, I can arrange that.

The name of Alena’s lawyer was Nicolas Sargenti.

CHAPTER

FIVE

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Elizavet,”
Nicolas Sargenti said. “Even if you had done work for Gorman-North, there would be no way to prove it. The entire nature of the transaction, from its beginning to its end, is perfect in its anonymity. That is how
you
have always desired it, for both of our sakes, I must add.”

Alena growled from the back of her throat, and spun away from where the attorney sat in the reading chair by the window of our hotel room. “It would have been American, an American job.”

“A job on American soil?” Sargenti asked. When he spoke, his accent was more Italian than French. “Or a job bought by an American?”

“The latter, it would be the latter.”

“The same problem. Impossible to say.” Nicolas Sargenti released a pained sigh, looking to where I was lying on the bed, back against the headboard. “Michael, what is this about, please?”

“We’re having some trouble,” I told him, and indicated the bruises that covered my torso. They were glorious in their color, and while Alena had massaged most of the swelling down, their array of green, yellow, red, and blue remained spectacular, and covered me in strips and splashes from my shoulders on down, disappearing beneath the waistband of my pants.

The damage could have been much worse, and as it was, it was relatively minor. I was stiff and I was sore, but the frostbite hadn’t taken, and my fingers and toes had feeling and motion. Given another day or three of rest, I’d be back to fighting speed, so to speak.

Nicolas Sargenti managed a courtesy chuckle. “Dare I ask what has placed you in such an ignoble position?”

“I fell,” I told him. “In the snow.”

Alena filled a glass with orange juice from the glass pitcher on the room service cart, left over from our yogurt-and-muesli breakfast. The cart also held a pot of tea and some rapidly fading fresh fruit.

“All right,” she said to Sargenti, handing me the glass and a handful of ibuprofen. “You are still checking inquiries?”

“Not as frequently as I once did.” Sargenti adjusted his glasses and refocused his attention on her, his voice as mild and soft as ever. “But I do check them, yes. I add that you did tell me that you were retired, Elizavet, so if this has been a shortcoming on my part, I think you will understand. For the last several years I have not thought it necessary to stay atop them as I once did.” An almost hopeful gleam came to his eye. “Though I still field requests for your services. Would you be reconsidering your decision?”

“No, I am not. I am retired. I intend to stay that way.”

Sargenti nodded slightly, letting his eyes go about the room again, taking it in. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. If she wanted to maintain that she was retired, that was fine with him. She still required his services, as I now did, and he still took a hefty annual stipend to provide what we needed.

This was the third time I’d met Nicolas Sargenti in person. The first time had come some two and half years earlier, in Warsaw, at the Radisson Hotel off Grzybowska Street and Jana Pawla II Avenue, near the business center of the city. It had served as both Alena’s annual meeting with her attorney, as well as my introduction to him. At that point, Alena had explained that I was now her partner, and she was hopeful Sargenti would be willing to provide for me the same services he provided for her, for an increased percentage, of course. He had been willing; his only question had been whether or not she was still retired, and if so, did that mean that I would be taking on the clients she now declined. He had seemed entirely ambivalent when I’d explained that, no, I was not, at the present, looking for work.

The second meeting had been almost thirteen months prior to today’s, in Moscow, at the Rossiya Hotel, near the Kremlin. The Rossiya had closed its doors the following month, though I doubted our business there had played any part in that. Sargenti had supplied Alena and me with a new battery of identities, and then gone over the books with her. He had noted that her expenses were outstripping her earnings, but had then assured her that her investments were still performing quite well, and that there was more than enough money left in the account. Her investments, I learned, were primarily in real estate owned around the world. At the Moscow meeting, she had directed him to sell two of her properties, one of them in Hong Kong, the other in California. Together, the two sales had netted over thirty million dollars.

Considering that Nicolas Sargenti now took forty percent for his services—an increase from the thirty he’d earned when representing her alone—the fact that she was retired didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. And no wonder, then, that when she’d e-mailed him from Bozeman the day before yesterday with the sentence “Tuesday morning grove,” he had dropped everything to meet us at the Grove Hotel in Boise this morning.

He hadn’t traveled to us out of greed alone. He’d come because he had to. It was the nature of the relationship. He would come, because if he didn’t, he believed either Alena or I would kill him. The only way out of his dealings with her and me was in death.

He certainly knew it as much as Alena or I did. That it didn’t bother him in the least said volumes. It wasn’t something he ever considered, I don’t think; the idea of betraying her was absolutely alien to him, and probably had been so even before he had discerned exactly what she was doing to command such enormous fees. Sargenti was in his late sixties, now, retired from private practice. He had everything he could want, and more money than he could ever spend.

I found him fascinating, and had from the first time we’d met in Warsaw. From what Alena had told me, I’d expected someone in his forties, perhaps approaching fifty, but Sargenti was nearly twenty years older than that. His hair, worn flat on his scalp as if glued there, had gone entirely to gray where hair remained, and not much of it did, and his head itself was shaped almost exactly like an eggshell. He was an ugly man, genuinely so, as if genetics had conspired to intentionally mismatch his features to optimal effect. His eyes were hazel, muddy, widely spaced, and heavily lidded, and each seemed to protrude from its orbit enough that I thought they must surely brush against the inside of his spectacles. His nose managed to be both narrow, high, and flat at the same time, leading with the nostrils, and his mouth was small, as if to compensate for the real estate taken by everything above it. Pockmarks finished the ensemble, old scars from a childhood illness.

But where nature had failed him, money had come to the rescue. His winter suit was perfectly tailored, and he wore it well, from the silk tie to the braces to the fine leather shoes. The attaché he always seemed to carry with him gleamed with the warmth that only superb leather has, and the Zenith watch on his wrist was never the same one twice, and always unpretentious in its elegance. There was nothing ostentatious in how he presented his wealth. He had it, he was comfortable with it, and that was all he wanted from it.

I understood greed, or thought I did, but Nicolas Sargenti gave me a whole new perspective on it. For him, this wasn’t about acquiring wealth; it was about his right to have it in the first place, and to keep it. Perhaps it was entitlement, or a sense thereof, born from some psychological need or trauma. But whatever the reason, he was greedy because he wanted to be, and in that I also understood why, in him, Alena had made a perfect choice. She indulged his desire, satisfied it. She did so in a way that allowed Sargenti to feel everything he had was well earned.

Alena moved to the window, parting the privacy veil with her hand enough to look out, thinking. Sargenti waited, taking a sip from his cup of tea, then replacing the cup carefully on its saucer.

“The requests for my services,” she said. “You do not respond to them, I assume?”

“I have seen no point in it,” Sargenti admitted.

“But they’ve come, these requests, they’ve come through the established channels?”

“I am unaware of any other way to retain your services than those protocols we established to do so. Your anonymity—and Michael’s, for that matter—is entirely intact. I have done nothing to compromise that, Elizavet, I assure you,” he added. “For your sake as much as my own.”

Alena let the curtain fall back. She smiled down at Sargenti, in his chair. “No, Nicolas. That is not my concern.”

“I am relieved. I have always, as you know, treated my work for you with the utmost care.”

I spoke up from where I was on the bed. “Do you know if it’s been the same person or people trying to contact her?”

Sargenti cocked his head, perhaps trying to parse the question. “I’m not certain I understand your meaning, Michael.”

“It’s an insulated process, right? It starts the same way, say, uses the same initial point, but it’s the cutouts that change, the steps necessary for the initial inquiry to reach you?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, though there are several possible points of initiation.”

“And when you’ve received these, when you’ve checked, you’ve simply ignored them, right?”

“Disregarded, I would rather say.”

“Disregarded, then. No response.”

“Correct.”

“But you’re still receiving requests. So someone isn’t getting the message, or is ignoring it.”

Sargenti frowned. “Perhaps so. I had presumed that the requests were being made by different individuals, not by the same individual again and again. But it is possible.”

“How many points of contact are there?” I asked. “How many starts to the chain?”

“Five,” both Alena and Sargenti said, together.

I looked at her. “Is it likely they know more than one point of contact?”

She shook her head.

“So we’re looking for multiple attempts stemming from the same point of contact.”

“Possibly.”

In his chair, Nicolas Sargenti closed his eyes, combing his memory. “A moment,” he murmured.

Alena moved back to where I was on the bed, taking a seat beside me. Her right hand moved to find mine, simply to rest her fingers against my own. She looked tired, and she looked worried, and she looked guilty, and none were states I was used to seeing on her.

Our experience at the cabin in the Montana woods had, in its way, been far worse on her. While Bowles and the others had worked over my body, what Alena had done to secure my freedom had worked over her soul, fragile as it was. It had forced her to step backwards to what she once had been, and it made her doubt she could ever change.

Sitting on the side of the bed, not looking at me, afraid to even hold my hand, I knew what she was thinking. It didn’t matter what changes the last three years had wrought upon her; she now believed it was only an illusion.

She was still an instrument of killing, still an empty thing, and she always would be.

Bowles died, and I went for the pistol he dropped, my fingers too numb to manage the task easily. It took me too long to do it, I was too slow, and all I was thinking was that if Sean wanted to finish what Bowles had put into motion, I wasn’t going to be able to stop him. I didn’t know where he was, and that meant that Alena most likely didn’t, either.

With the pistol in my swollen, useless hands, I fought myself to my feet, slipping in the snow. My teeth had stopped chattering, and I was beginning to feel warm again, and I still had enough wherewithal to recognize that was a very bad thing; it meant I was turning hypothermic, and that I wouldn’t last for much longer in the cold.

Then I saw Sean, standing at the door to the cabin, and I brought the gun up much too slowly, but he didn’t move, and I realized why. He’d disarmed, dropping his weapon, standing with his hands raised to either side. Between two of his fingers something sparkled.

“Just a job,” Sean said. Slowly, he moved his hand, showing me what he was holding. “I’ve got the key for the cuffs. It’s yours.”

I lurched forward a couple of steps. “You speak Russian?”

The confusion lasted only an instant. “No.”

In Russian, as loud as I could, I shouted for Alena not to shoot him, that we were going into the cabin, that I had to get warm. Sean flinched slightly at the abruptness of my voice, but that was it for movement until I reached him.

“Inside,” I told him.

We went into the wreckage of the front room. The table had busted during the fight, as had one of the two chairs. I all but fell onto the couch, not feeling the room’s warmth at all. Sean turned to close the door.

“Bad idea,” I said.

“The heat’s going out.”

“She’ll kill you.”

He stopped, watched me as I held out my hands, still holding the pistol. I doubted I could actually get my finger to contract on the trigger if I needed to, and I suspect he doubted it, too. He put the key in the small lock on the Flexi-Cuffs and twisted.

“Take them off me.”

When he dug his fingers between my skin and the plastic, I didn’t feel it. He pulled the cuffs free, careful to draw them over the pistol without touching it, then threw them aside onto the floor. As soon as he’d finished, he unzipped his parka, then draped it around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I said.

“There are blankets in the bedroom. If I go and get them will she kill me?”

I shook my head.

He went to get the blankets, returning with three dark wool ones that smelled of mothballs and must. He was wrapping the second one around my legs, tucking its end beneath my feet, when Alena entered. He didn’t hear her come inside, and the only reason I knew she was there was because I’d been watching the door.

She’d dressed for the work and the weather, winter camouflage in the form of overwhites. Her hair was hidden beneath a black watch cap, and that was barely visible beneath the drawn hood of her white parka. Grime and mud peppered her clothes, and the blood that soaked her right arm and spattered her right side was bright in contrast. The rifle across her back was a monster, a Winchester, the kind the locals used for hunting big buck, and in her hands she held one of the guns we’d taken from the Burien cache, a modified Ruger with an integrated suppressor.