Ring of Lies (71 page)

Mike turned the page. Anderson had b
een investigated for misconduct. O
nce for passing on information to a reporter, although nothing was proven, and on the second occasion, for making derogatory sexual remarks to a female agent. He knew the agent in question. She’d done very well, and held an exceptional rank for someone her age. This explained why Anderson been turned down for promotion on more than one occasion. In the Bureau, memories
were
long.

Mike leaned back in his chair. Ordinarily, Jack was a fair man and always looked at the bigger picture, but could the stigma attached to Anderson’s misconduct be t
he reason for Jack’s animosity?

Agents had an unspoken code of
honour
and wouldn’t hesitate to turn a fellow agent in if they knew he’d done something illegal. Did Jack have something on Anderson—something that would link him to criminal activity?

Mike shook his head. There was nothing in the files to support Jack’s supposition that Anderson had anything to do with leaked information. He checked his watch
,
nine thirty
-
five. Jack would be calling shortly. He stood, and rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his head from side to side.

So Anderson was out. That left Bill Kennedy. Fifteen years into his twenty, he was marking time until retirement. Divorced twice, he’d been with the Miami office for
seven
years. Kennedy was by far the most serious bastard Mike had ever met. How many times
had he looked into those steel-
coloured eyes and wondered what Kennedy was thinking? And how many times could
h
e claim he knew? He used to tell himself that
inscrutability
was the mark of a good agent
. But now Mike had other thoughts… had Kennedy been hiding something all this time?

The squad room was empty, the computers silent. Mike picked up his empty mug. On the way to the coffee machine he paused at Kennedy’s desk. It looked as if the man had just moved in. There were no photographs, nothing of a personal nature to indicate whose
workstation
it was. He reached to open the top drawer, but, feeling like an intruder, withdrew. If he couldn’t trust members of his own team, then Chrissie was right, it was past time for retirement.

The cell phone on his belt vibrated. His stomach growled as he propped a hip on the edge of the desk, reminding him of the casserole waiting for him at home.

‘
Zupanik.
’

‘
Sir, this is Agent Baker
from the
computer forensics laboratory. That piece of paper with the numbers on
,
the one
A
gent Mancuso copied to me
,
I’ve finished running it through the computer and it turns out that it’s an IBAN number.
’

‘
A what?
’

‘
An IBAN number
—
a
n International bank account number, used by the European Banks clearing system. IBAN numbers identify accounts at banks all over the world. They’re used to speed up the transfer of funds.
’

‘
That’s fine, but can you identify
the
bank and country where the account is located?
’

‘
Yeah, I can.
The twenty four digits represent the country code, the clearing bank and the account number.
’

‘
I don’t need an explanation.
Just tell me the name of the bank and the account number. You can put the rest of the details in an email.
’

‘
Th
e Suisse Bank
in Lausanne. Account number 0C1024502871CH.
’

‘
Any news on the laptop or notebook?
’

‘
Cryptology is
still
working on the notebook. As for the laptop, the hard drive has been
re-formatted
.
’

‘
You can’t salvage anything
?
’

‘
When you
format
a hard drive, the software writes over the previously stored data. W
e’ve been able to reconstruct a virtual drive
and re-create some of the files
. Most of the
m
are connected with Elliott’s accountancy clients, but three are encrypted. We’re working on those.
’

‘
Thanks for the update Agent Baker.
Keep me informed
.
’

‘
One more thing—
’

‘
Yeah?
’

‘
Agent Mancuso sent us some
videotapes
from Miami International
.
We managed to enhance the pictures and pull off a picture of a woman who l
ooks
like
she was
travelling w
ith your guy. She appears twice. O
nce chatting to Elliott as they wait in line at immigration, and
later
walking through
the terminal building
. Homeland Security
is trying to
match her face to a
name and
passport
, and trace her seat allocation with the airline
.
In the meantime, I’m faxing over some still shots.
’

‘
As soon as you get a positive ID let me know.
’

Mike cut the connection
. Finally, they were getting somewhere.
The
fax
machine in the corner of the office
buzzed and whirled into life. Slowly
,
the image of a woman appeared. He lifted it off the tray and s
tared at the grainy photograph.
Apart from her shoulder length blonde hair, h
er features
and eye
colour
were indistinct
. He swore and wished that airports would replace the
videotapes
in their security cameras more often
instead of
re
-
using them.

He
started
to
punch
in Jack’s cell phone number then thought the better of it. This information he would deliver in person.

Back in his office, he returned the files to the safe and locked it, then picked up his briefcase and turned out the lights. Twenty minutes later, he
turned
into the drive of his home.

Lights showed through the gap in the curtains
covering
the
large bay window of the family room. Mike climbed out of the car and rubbed the left side of his
chest, just below the ribcage.
His ulcer was playing up again. H
e hoped Chrissie had gone easy
with
the p
eppers in the casserole.

He always enjoyed
com
ing home. No matter how badly the day had gone
,
Chrissie always welcomed him with a smile and a hug. He
unlocked the door and stepped inside. The house was silent. He stood his briefcase on the hall table. Chrissie’s Cairn terrier, Briar, came running up to greet him, jumping up at his side for a pat and tummy rub.

‘
In the kitchen,
’
Chrissie called.

Mike ruffled the small dog’s head then went in. Chrissie sat at the counter drinking her customary bedtime cup of hot chocolate. He planted a kiss on her cheek.

‘
Sorry for being late.
’

Chrissie stood, and took
the
casserole out of the fridge.

‘
You’re
never
home on time, Mike. It comes with the job
,
something I accepted years ago. I just wish you’d been around more when the kids were growing up.
’

Mike sighed. They’d had this argument almost weekly for the last thirty
-one
years.
‘
I know. At least I can do right by David and Angie.
’
He watched his wife spoon casserole on
to a plate and cover it with film. The burning sensation in his chest hit a new high.
His breath caught and he winced.

‘
You get off to bed, I’ll see to that,
’
he said taking the plate from her hand.

‘
You’re sure?
’

‘
I know how to work the microwave. Go on, I’ll be up in a minute.
’
He
kissed her cheek and
waited until she left the room, then
took the jug of milk
out of the fridge
and poured some into a glass. The cold liquid
soothed the burning in his stomach
. He drained the gl
ass and went back for a refill.

P
ain
, unlike anything he’d experienced before,
tightened like a vice
around his heart
, and pulsated down his left arm
.
The glass slipped from his grasp spilling its contents on the floor. Sweat popped on his brow
; the room spun
.
Nausea rose in his throat as he struggled to breathe.