Shell Game (33 page)

“You fly out tomorrow?” Taylor asked.

“Eight in the morning. But I've got to hub through Mexico City and Dallas. I don't get into D.C. until almost nine at night.”

“You lose an entire day. That puts you at the office on Saturday, December thirtieth. How much time do you need?”

Kelly shrugged. “Not sure. I know how to access Langley's computers without being seen by any of their sniffing devices. Getting in isn't a problem. It's where to put it. I've got to create a file that shows the CIA had an operative at Monte Alban who discovered the cave, and Brent Hawkins, our rotten little FBI agent, has to be able to find it. So it has to be deep, but not too deep. That's going to be the problem.”

“You can do it,” Taylor said.

Kelly smiled. “Sure. I can do it.”

Taylor brightened. “When you initiate the transfers, where does the money go?”

“Well, the first five hundred thousand will go to a charity of my choice. Probably the children's hospital in Washington. They can always use another half million dollars. I'm not sure where to send the bulk of the money. I'll figure it out.”

“What sort of account do you need?” she asked.

“Somewhere in the Caribbean. An existing account would be best, but a new one will do in a pinch. I can probably set one up from D.C.”

“I've got an account in the Bahamas,” Taylor said. “I was thinking about buying a condo down there before I met Alan. When we got married I kind of forgot about it.”

Kelly sat forward. “Is the account still active?”

“Sure. I've got about twenty thousand dollars in it. And they debit their administrative fees every year. Why? Do you think it would work?”

“It should. And it's a long-established account. That's a good thing. Do you have the number with you?”

She laughed. “You've got to be kidding. No. But it's on my computer back in San Francisco. I'll give you my IP address and password so you can log into my hard drive.”

“Do you have some sort of remote access on your system? I'll need it to get in.”

She nodded. “PC Anywhere, and it's hooked into the Internet. The account number and the access code are in an encrypted file.”

“Smart girl. Did Alan know about the account?”

Taylor took some time to think. Finally she said, “No, I don't think I ever mentioned it. We never discussed buying a property in the Caribbean.”

“Excellent. The file has always been encrypted?”

“Yes. The banker who set up the account recommended it, and I was scared that someone would hack into my computer and get the code, so I did it right away.”

“Okay, jot down the file name and the password into your computer, and I'll pull it. That's where we'll send the bulk of the money.”

“Won't he be able to trace it?” Taylor asked.

Kelly grinned. “Not a chance. I'm going to bounce the money off fifteen satellites and twenty banks before putting it in the account. There is absolutely no chance he'll be able to trace it.”

Taylor took a deep breath. “Then we're almost there. Ricardo will get Adolfo up to speed, then head for Cabo San Lucas to meet Carlos Valendez. You're leaving for D.C., and I'm staying here to get the fake artifacts in place and light the fire. Everyone with a part to play.”

“Cogs in the wheel. Just keep your fingers crossed that Alan doesn't see Ricardo in Puerto Vallarta.”

Taylor played with her empty cup, the coffee long since drank. “When you leave tomorrow, I won't see you again until this is over. In fact, if it goes wrong I may never see you again.”

Kelly tried to smile, but the reality of what she said hit him hard. It was true. If Edward Brand or Alan Bestwick smelled a rat or figured out the scam too quickly, people would die. Taylor was at risk. She would be on top of an unforgiving mountain in the heart of Mexico in the middle of the night. At least one person, probably armed, would be nearby. If that person learned they had been robbed, they would go ballistic. Taylor's life would be on the line.

“It'll be okay,” he said. “We'll make this work.”

She slowly nodded. “Just get the money. All of it. Ruin him.”

“I'll get the money,” Kelly said. “I promise.”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTY-NINE

Alan Bestwick played with the label on the beer bottle. He scraped one edge until it began to lift, then pulled. The label came off in one piece. He set it on the glossy wood tabletop and glanced about for the thirtieth time. The inside of the yacht was opulent, polished teak and chrome, with a wide-screen plasma television tucked against the bulkhead. The window coverings were drawn shut, and it was dark. The television was off, and there was no remote control in sight. He simply sat and waited as Edward Brand had told him to an hour ago when he arrived at the yacht. Brand was on the phone in another part of the boat, and Alan could pick up occasional snippets of the conversation when the man's voice rose. Brand wasn't happy about something.

The wall clock had just ticked past two o'clock when Brand pulled open the door to the salon and entered. He walked through the plush salon and into the galley. He took a beer from the fridge and twisted off the cap, then returned and sat opposite Alan on one of the soft leather chairs beside the television.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

Alan shrugged. “The weather in Paris is shitty. I felt like getting some sun.”

“This isn't the only place on the planet with warm weather.”

“It's been almost four months,” Alan said. “The proverbial dust has settled. The job is over. We did it. You're just being overly cautious.”

Alan's easygoing manner partially disarmed Brand. He sipped the beer. “Still, it's not a good idea. The less we're together the better.”

“I wanted to find out what you were up to. To see if you had anything on the go.”

Brand motioned to the room he had just left. “I'm trying to get something off the ground, but I'm dealing with idiots. I don't think it's going to work.”

“What's wrong?”

“There's an industrialist in Germany who is looking for offshore investments. I've set up a shell company in St. Lucia and a great prospectus on a company about to be listed on the New York Stock Exchange, but the banker in St. Lucia is getting greedy. He wants twenty-five percent. The figures aren't working with him taking that kind of slice.”

“What are you going to do?” Alan asked, rising and grabbing two more beers from the fridge. He set one in front of Brand and retook his seat.

“I've got a man on the Island who is willing to take care of my problem.”

“The banker?”

Brand nodded. “For ten large he's fish food. It's simply amazing what a small sum of money can buy.”

Alan laughed. “I've always found that interesting. An absolute value on a human life. Ten grand. So that's what a Caribbean banker is worth.”

“This particular piece of shit, yes. That leaves me with having to find a substitute. I'll be doing that while the police are poking about trying to figure out who killed the first one. It's a no-win situation.”

“Go to a different Island.”

“A lot of the Islands are starting to tighten up. The Caymans are still the best, but that's where the NewPro money is, and I'm not drawing any heat to that. There's too much money in that account to do something stupid.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

Brand's face clouded over again. “I still don't like that you're here, Alan. It's a dumb idea.”

“Okay, I'll stay a couple of days and then take off. Maybe go down the coast to Acapulco. Lots of nightlife there. Lots of women who like money.”

“You get your share okay?” Brand asked.

“Fine. Thanks.”

“You earned it. Good job with Taylor.”

Alan's face changed. Emotion flooded into his eyes. “Taylor is an incredible woman. There were times when I wished this whole thing would collapse, and we would back off. I think I could have stayed married to her and been quite happy. She's beautiful and intelligent. Very intelligent. It probably sounds kind of strange, but I miss her.”

“You were married for three years. It's normal. You've got to let it go.”

“Yeah, I know.” Alan paused, staring at the ground, then said, “You want to go out and get some dinner?”

Brand shook his head. “Something's not getting through that thick skull of yours, Alan. I don't want to be seen together. Not now, not ever, unless we're working and we know the marks. Doing stupid things is how people get caught.”

Alan launched himself off the couch. “All right, but I'm going to have some fun. Maybe I'll stay in town. If I don't make it back, I'll be at the Sheraton.”

Brand's eyes narrowed. “Don't make it back. Stay away, Alan. Your presence only complicates things. For no reason.”

Alan gave him a grin as he headed up the stairs. “Nice boat, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Brand muttered under his breath to the empty room. “Idiot.”

Edward Brand finished the beer and picked up the empties. It was almost New Year, just three days until the fireworks would usher in another January 1. This year had been very good to him. He wondered about what the next would hold. Perhaps he should quit while he was ahead. It was the safe thing to do. Even as he cleaned the galley and wiped down the countertops, he knew that wasn't going to happen. Conning people, taking their money, was like a drug. He thrived on it. Needed it, almost. No, no almost about it. He needed it. It was his habit, and he needed his fix.

He finished cleaning the galley and headed toward the aft of the boat. He was going stir crazy on the yacht. His crew was stripping one of the motors and retooling a drive shaft, and he wanted to see how things were coming. Patience, he told himself as he strode through the luxury craft. Patience. Something always came up. Never failed. The world was funny that way.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY

Ricardo and Kelly both left Oaxaca City on December 29—Kelly early in the morning and Ricardo two hours later, at ten. The flight into Cabo San Lucas was through Mexico City, but the layover was short, and Ricardo landed on the tip of the Baja Peninsula just after two in the afternoon. He slipped into one of the many cabs lining the road in front of the modest two-story airport and sat back for the ride along the stretch of highway commonly known as the corridor. Traffic was light on the twenty-two-mile strip, and he was in Cabo San Lucas by three-thirty. He paid the driver and exited at Puerto Paraiso, the ultra-modern three-story shopping mall adjacent to the marina.

Ricardo checked Carlos Valendez's address. 417 Matamoros Street. He glanced quickly at a sheet of paper with directions written in pencil while on the plane. He didn't look like a tourist, dressed in faded jeans and a casual plaid shirt, and the last thing he needed was to stand on a street corner studying a map like one of the countless
gringos
off the cruise ships. He stuffed the directions back in his pocket and hiked up the neighboring street.

The odor of tacos and refried beans lingered in the hot air as he passed strings of restaurants filled with tourists. Small shops selling silver and tacky ceramic iguanas lined the narrow roads. He found Matamoros and headed northwest toward the higher numbers. In the three hundreds, he slowed and began to saunter up the slight incline. He crossed a side street, concentrating now on the numbers. Four-seventeen was about halfway up the block and only two doors from a hole-in-the-wall bar catering more to locals than tourists. He settled into a chair near the open window and picked up a newspaper. When the bartender looked his way he ordered a Corona.

Now it was time to wait. To wait and hope Carlos Valendez, the man Edward Brand had relied on to let the scuba divers know he was on his way, was home. He nursed the Corona and read the paper. There were worse ways to pass the time.

Taylor stopped by the goldsmith's shop at four o'clock. He had promised the work would be finished and ready to be moved before sunset. She took a cab directly from the bank where she had used Kelly's debit card to withdraw the necessary four thousand dollars to pay for the service. The shop was a dingy space, with no windows save the one fronting onto the street, which was so caked with dirt and grime that the illumination from the sun reminded her more of moonlight. She set the package containing the money on the desk as the goldsmith, a wizened old man well into his seventies, carted the masks and other artifacts to the front of the shop. He spoke no English, and Taylor no Spanish, but communicating wasn't hard. He counted the money, and she checked the quality of his work. Both were fine. She carried the items out the front door in a large box and set them in the trunk of the cab. Ten minutes later, she was safely back in her hotel. After she had stashed the items in her room, she went in search of Adolfo. He was in his room and answered the door on the first knock. He smiled and waved her in.

“Did you bring your identification with you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied in English. He wasn't fluent, but they could easily communicate. “This is it.” He produced a single card with his picture in one corner and an official-looking stamp in the other. Beneath that was his name and title, in Spanish.

Taylor scrutinized it closely. The quality was outstanding. She didn't read or speak the language, but she got the drift. Adolfo was a high-ranking government official. One who needed his palm greased before the treasure could be released from the cave. Adolfo had brought the identification with him from Mexico City, where a skilled craftsman had worked magic with the forged document. And Edward Brand would be looking at the ID in poor light. It was fine.

“Tomorrow we will go to Monte Alban,” she said. “In the morning.”