Clayton looks Thomas square in the face. “We don’t have time for a commercial flight. The bankers we just met have a private jet. I’ll call them and tell them it’s an emergency.” Within ten minutes, Clayton secures access to a private Learjet, which will be fueled and ready for takeoff in forty-five minutes. He and Thomas leave their clothes at the hotel. They go straight to the airport. As the taxi pulls into the private parking lot, Thomas and Clayton can see a sleek cream-colored Learjet emblazoned with the logo for the Bank of Cayman on its side, fueling up. The air smells like jet fuel. To their right, another private plane screams up the runway and takes flight, banking off to the left over the water. A pilot waves at them casually from their plane’s cockpit. They are in the air in thirty minutes flat.
Clayton Pierce watches the sun dip, disappearing into the Caribbean Sea’s horizon. As twilight appears, both Clayton and Thomas wonder if Isabella is safe.
Neither man has any idea what the other is thinking.
Neither man has any idea what the next day would hold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Endure, and preserve yourselves for better things.
—Virgil, Aeneid
Yosef, the assassin, always the good soldier, does as Thomas instructs. Pierce has sent everyone home, so Black and Knight’s offices are quiet as Yosef enters the lobby and takes the elevator up, putting on black leather gloves as the elevator ascends.
Yosef turns the key in the lock, punches in a ten-digit security code, closes the doors behind him. Looking around, he makes sure that everyone has left. Quickly, he goes straight for Thomas Pierce’s office. The office gleams white and black and pink, catching sunset-streaked colors off the ocean. The air here feels cooler than outside.
Yosef goes to the file cabinet, finds what he is looking for and removes it. Thomas Pierce’s laptop is sitting on the glass desk. Yosef takes it with him. He checks the trash can. Nothing there. Yosef moves to the computer server room, which is kept separate from the rest of the office—always cold. With gloved hands, he removes the computer drives one by one, crushing them underfoot.
He likes the sound of them crunching.
They are useless now.
He removes his cell phone from his pocket, calls Pierce but gets voice mail. He leaves a message of only one word.
“Done.”
* * *
Isabella has been at the day spa getting the kinks out of her spine.
God, what a good massage can do for one’s stress level.
As she gets into her white Mercedes GLE 550e, her phone vibrates. It is Yosef. He sounds out of breath, very unlike Yosef.
“You need to get back to the house. Thomas says the feds are closing in. He says destroy all evidence at the house. The photos, visa, files, everything.”
“What?” Isabella is not easily spooked. “What are you talking about, Yosef? This is not like you. What feds?”
“Listen, Thomas got a call from Judge Rifkind today. Rifkind got hit up for a warrant for the offices. He turned them down, but they know about the files. Once they have those, they know about everything. All of it. The entire operation. Thomas tried to call you, but you weren’t picking up. So he called me. They’re hopping a private jet in Cayman to get back as soon as they can. I’ve taken care of the office already. But you need to take care of the house.”
Isabella feels stress come back into her shoulders. Her left shoulder goes into a quick spasm. She rubs it and then the back of her neck.
“How would that stupid Powers woman know anything?” Isabella does not say it as a question, just more of a statement.
On the end of the line, she can’t see Yosef roll his eyes. “Get rid of the evidence and get out of South Florida.”
Isabella hangs up. She turns the ignition, hits the gas. Her Mercedes accelerates to seventy-five miles per hour in less than ten seconds, spewing gravel. Within fifteen minutes, she is at the house.
She storms in, slams the front door behind her, yelling at the staff to get out. They do as she instructs. Running up the stairs to the master bedroom, she goes to the gun safe, unlocks it and pulls out her Glock 9 mm. Undoes the safety. Her favorite weapon. If anyone but Thomas and Clayton walks in this house, she will gun them down.
“Damned FBI,” she whispers under her breath.
She moves quickly to the computer on Thomas’ desk. Holding the Glock, she shoots at it, where the hard drive is. It feels good to fire—with each shot, she pictures Dr. Catherine Powers’ face and head. Exploding like a melon with each bullet. Isabella curses under her breath.
Isabella’s cell phone rings.
It is Natasha.
“What is going on?” Natasha is such an innocent sometimes.
“I’m shooting Thomas’ computer. Destroying the drive.” Isabella continues to fire, watching the plastic casing flying in pieces through the air.
“Why?”
“The feds are coming.”
Natasha’s tone and the tempo of her voice change.
“What are you talking about, Mother?”
“You heard me.”
By now the Glock is empty, out of bullets, but Isabella continues in her rage, pulling the trigger over and over. A burned-plastic and gunpowder smell permeates the air. There is gunpowder residue on Isabella’s hands. She realizes for the first time she is sweating. Isabella never sweats.
“What about Yosef and the others? What about the files?”
“Yosef has taken care of it. He has destroyed what needed to be destroyed.”
“And Thomas and Clayton?”
“I presume they are on their way back from Cayman by now. I do not know for sure. It is what Yosef told me.”
“And you, are you all right?”
Isabella sits on the floor and puts her head in her hands. “I’m fine. I am fine.” She hangs up. Isabella begins to cry.
* * *
The next morning at eight, Cat, Nate, FBI agents and the local cops execute a search warrant on the downtown offices of Black and Knight. As they ascend in the elevator, Cat remembers the first time she was in this building. She remembers Thomas Pierce’s lies and his cavalier and condescending attitude toward her. His attitude toward anything that resembled justice. She remembers Clayton’s odd demeanor.
Cat barges though the double glass doors on the forty-fifth floor, shoving the warrant in Sarah’s surprised face. “This is a warrant to search the premises. No one moves, no phone calls, no one texts, no e-mails out to anyone. And no one leaves. Got it?”
Simultaneously, PD, other FBI agents and Nate are doing the same thing on the forty-second, forty-third and forty-fourth floors. Everyone looks up as though they cannot believe what is going down.
Thomas Pierce steps out of his gleaming white office. His cheeks are the color of strawberry jam. “What the hell is going on? This is a law firm. What do you think you are doing?”
“I have a warrant to search the premises and all of your computers and anything else I want. You got it? Signed by federal judge Francisco Calderon Gonzales. Oh, you don’t know him.” Cat’s words sound of fake surprise. “Because I’m pretty sure you know Judge Rifkind, don’t you?”
Thomas Pierce’s face turns redder.
“What are you talking about? This is a law firm. We have business to do.” He looks around at the astonished staff. “Get back to work—all of you.”
Cat yells. “If I see one of you lift a hand or a finger to a computer or whip out a cell phone, you will be arrested for obstruction of justice.”
The employees get it. They sit still.
Thomas Pierce resists. “You can’t tell my staff what to do. I’m the boss.”
“No, right now, the federal government is the boss.”
Cat tells one of the local agents to cuff Thomas Pierce. “Resisting entry to the premises is not a good idea, old boy.” The agent sits him down on one of the white leather chairs in the lobby. Cat can hear Sarah giggling at the sight of Pierce like this.
; Cat walks straight back to Pierce’s office. Clearly, something is wrong. The file cabinet she remembers is empty. Pierce’s laptop is gone. There is not a single sheet of paper anywhere. As pristine as his office was before, now it seems as if it has been sanitized. Cat can’t believe what she is seeing.
She walks out of Pierce’s office to him and barks at him, “Where are your servers?” He gets up, hands behind his back in cuffs, and shuffles to the back of the office, a side room. Cat opens the door, and there on the floor are the smashed hard drives.
This can’t be happening. How did they know we were coming?
As soon as she says the question in her head, she knows the answer. Judge Rifkind set it up. Told them we were coming. Cat mouths a choice four-letter word to herself.
She turns around. Thomas Pierce looks all smiles. Cat can just about punch that stupid smile right off his face. She mouths the same four-letter word, this time in his direction. All of this for nothing. All of this for Roxie. And they have nothing. Pierce looks like he has just swallowed a canary. Nate looks incredulous.
What is she supposed to do?
“Where are the damned files? I know they were here. I know all about the stores, and the wire transfers, and the Italian fashion house. I know about the school in the Ukraine. I know Isabella is part of all of this.”
Pierce says nothing. But it is clear. He is enjoying this.
“And I know you are a liar.”
Thomas Pierce’s face breaks into a full smile.
Then he demands the handcuffs be taken off. Nate starts to comply.
Cat turns around to Nate. “Not so fast. Let’s execute on all three floors. I want this place turned inside out, top to bottom. Until then, we keep our friend here in custody in cuffs. That should get the other partner’s attention, as well as Judge Rifkind’s.” Nate tightens the cuffs back on Thomas, tighter than before. Pierce grunts. He doesn’t look happy.
Cat thinks for a moment, considers her next move. “As a matter of fact, given the situation here, I would venture to guess that Mr. Pierce’s home should also be searched. Nate, get Judge Gonzales on the line. I’ll need another warrant. And I need warrants for all the partners’ homes. This is not over by a long shot.”
With those words, Pierce starts to sweat. Profusely.
His smug smile disappears for good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Men fall from great fortune because of the
same shortcomings that lead them to rise.
—La Bruyère, Les Caractères
Isabella waits for the police throughout the night. Into the morning. She expects the feds and SWAT to surround the house at any moment. But they do not appear. And in the morning, after a restless night, Thomas does not pick up his cell phone. She cannot get anyone at Black and Knight to pick up either. Everything is going to voice mail.
Isabella calls no fewer than ten times.
She throws her cell phone against the living room wall, watches it explode into pieces. Not used to this waiting game. Isabella hates it, hates Dr. Catherine Powers and hates the FBI.
She reaches Clayton on his landline at his home.
“Clayton, what is going on? I can’t reach Thomas at the office. No one at the firm is answering their cell phones. Everything is going to voice mail.”
Clayton’ voice is low and serious. “Judge Rifkind said that they would be trying to get a warrant. I wonder if they are executing this morning. Maybe the whole place is getting turned upside down. Maybe Thomas can’t answer your call because of them.”
Always one for action, Isabella says, “So what do we do?”
“Sit tight. I’ll go down there and find out what is happening.”
No sooner is Clayton Pierce in his black Bentley, backing out of his driveway under 150-year-old banyan trees, than black-and-whites pull up and surround the vehicle.
He gets out, slams the car door behind him. He is moving toward Nate. His face is flushed, shoulders up. He looks like a charging bull. “Do you know who I am? I am a business man. I have friends in high places. I’ll call the mayor. You can’t do anything to me. You can’t hold me.”
Nate steps forward, leans back and coldcocks him in the face. Clayton falls hard on his driveway. In an instant, Nate is over him, turns him over onto his belly, chicken wings Clayton’ arms, Nate knees hard into the middle of Clayton’ back, all his body weight on the man, as Clayton is screaming. Nate slaps on cuffs. Clayton protests, this time interspersed with choice four-letter words. “Call my lawyer,” he keeps screaming toward the house. His staff just stands there in the front door watching the firestorm of what is happening in disbelief. It is clear none of them are going to do anything, much less anything fast, to help their employer.
Nate deposits Clayton in a black-and-white cruiser’s back seat, slams the door in the man’s face. Clayton is still screaming for his lawyer.
Nate and the black-and-whites enter the house, showing Clayton’s staff the warrant if they ask. A paper with a federal judge’s signature on it is good enough for them. None of them say a word to protest. They willingly let Nate into Clayton’s house.
After thirty minutes of work, a forensic computer guy is able to retrieve files that Clayton thinks he deleted. Like most people, Clayton believes that by pressing the delete button on your keyboard, you can delete a file from a hard drive. This is not true. In fact, experts can scrub drives repeatedly, but the right expert can still find files on them. Clayton’s HP laptop is no different.
It contains an immense amount of information.
A treasure trove.
Including contact names at the embassies in Ukraine, Eastern Europe and Russia who falsified visas and passports—people who were compromised for money. Extortion victims. Prominent on the list is one Victor Vladimir Nabokov—a former professor of the Soviet Union, ex-KGB, now working at an embassy arranging false visas and passports for numerous “students” to enter the United States. From the looks of the dates of birth for the girls, many are either underage or just barely eighteen. Girls’ occupations are listed as US student, English student, secretary and the like. No employers are listed because no legitimate ones exist.
Nate knows this is evidence of an international prostitution ring. International sex trading. Sex trafficking. A crime that affects between twenty-seven and thirty million women and children worldwide, depending on whom you talk to. In the US, no one speaks of it. But it is ever present and growing.
Another folder on the screen, simply titled “Money,” makes it clear that the wire-transfer stores are used to move money back to Eastern Europe. Nate wonders if some of the money is used to fund the war in Ukraine against the Soviets. He wonders how much of the money has funded terrorism. He wonders how much of it has delivered arms and munitions into the hands of rebels. He wonders how much harm has come from it.
From the looks of it, Victor Vladimir Nabokov has no loyalty. Even though he is ex-Soviet and ex-KGB, Nate knows he is the kind of soldier whose morals get sold to the highest bidder. And it looks like he is being paid with both money and girls. He gets first pick of each group of girls he sends to US soil.
Nate closes his eyes, picturing the perverted things that Victor Vladimir Nabokov does to helpless girls caught up in this crime web.
A shiver runs down Nate’s spine. Sweat spikes on his hairline.
It is times like this that he loves his job. But it also times like this that he hates his job. Because in doing his job, he is exposed to cold and heartless criminals. People who cannot be called men—but animals, because that is what they are. Men with no loyalty, no honor, no valor and no love.
Nate closes his eyes again, then opens them and focuses back on the screen. He can faintly hear Clayton outside screaming for his lawyer.
It is easy to conclude from what he sees under another tab on the computer screen marked “Fashion” that the Italian fashion house is nothing more than another front for money laundering, except here they use some of the “
girls” as models for print ads. From what he reads and the photos he sees, the girls are jacked up on drugs. Probably heroin. Some look like they barely eat, their eyes sunken from days of getting high, lack of food and lack of sleep.
In the photos, the girls appear to be paired with accompanying male model “handlers” who make sure they “work.” The “handlers,” no doubt, make sure their girls finish their jobs without saying anything to anyone about their predicament. About the Operation.
Drugs keep the girls high and lean. Drugs keep them stoned with their mouths shut. Drugs keep them doing things no woman should ever have to do. And if the drugs don’t control them, the “handler” is there to take care of things.
A perfect combination for most print photographers. Follow the photographer’s instructions like a zombie. And with a “handler” present, there’s no chance any girl will say anything about being held against her will. No chance she will say anything about the drugs.
The perfect cover.
Under a tab called “School,” Nate finds facts related to the language school. It is a visa mill. Enticing girls with promises of American jobs, nice lily-white American jobs or jobs in the cruise industry or Las Vegas. It is every Eastern European secretary’s dream—to come to America to find happiness, a little fame maybe. The chance for a better life. The chance to find a good man and a little bit of happiness. No more abject poverty. No more freezing winters with little to eat. No more struggling to make ends meet. No more living in tiny apartments. No more answering to Ukrainian mobsters. Little do these girls know, that is exactly what they are signing themselves up for when they sign up for the “language school”—life enslaved to the mob.
Just a new kind of mob.
More worldly, sophisticated mob. Or so it seems.
To Nate, the sex trade means prostitution—the oldest profession in the world. And all for money. Always was. Always will be. You can glamorize it. Give it a different pretty name. Call it an “escort service.” Call it a “dating service.” Call it a “gentlemen’s club.” But sex for money is the same all over the world. It is prostitution—just taken to a new level.
Dying Declaration Page 18