“Don’t forget the Russian paintings I bought for Andre’s birthday a few months ago,” Elena said without looking up. “The sum was several millions of dollars. Five, in fact.”
“You paid what the gallery charged,” Kayla said. “Way too much, in my opinion, but I’m not an art appraiser.”
“Was the source of the money used for payment well documented?” Bertone asked idly.
But his eyes weren’t idle. They were the eyes of a predator that had just pounced.
Adrenaline and ice fought for control of Kayla. She had expedited the birthday transfer on Elena’s assurances that she would provide the supporting documentation for the transaction as soon as the paintings cleared customs.
Now Kayla knew why Elena had been “too busy” to gather documentation.
“I see you begin to understand,” Bertone said. “You established accounts and funded them without a clear idea of the source of the funds.”
“It’s a technical violation,” Kayla said tightly. “Hardly worth a fine, much less a jail sentence.”
“There have been several such technical violations over the past few months,” Elena said. “Coffee, Andre?”
“Thank you.” He glanced back at Kayla. “When those violations are added up, they make a disturbing pattern of complicit and compliant banking practices. Your practices, Kayla.”
Adrenaline urged her to flee.
Her brain overruled.
She had been and was under strong pressure from the bank to keep the Bertone account happy. She’d cut a few modest corners to do so, knowing that Steve Foley, the head of the private banking division, would strip naked, jump on a pogo stick, and sing “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” to keep Andre Bertone’s millions under deposit.
Can’t fight.
Can’t flee.
Think, she told herself savagely. There’s no other choice.
Bertone sipped coffee noisily, all but straining it through his modest mustache.
Kayla turned to Elena. “Is this what I get for trying to be helpful?”
“No,” Bertone said before his wife could answer, “this is what you get.” He picked up the brown envelope and offered it to Kayla.
She looked at it like it was a snake.
“Go ahead,” Bertone said almost gently. “The damage is already done.”
“This is a fine opportunity,” Elena said, her voice impatient. “Don’t be such a ninny.”
Kayla took the big envelope. She knew her hands trembled, but there was nothing she could do about it. She pulled out a sheaf of documents and fanned rapidly through them.
Escrow instructions.
Quit-claim.
My signature.
Bertone’s signature in the margin.
Realization came. “You’re the one who bought my ranch.”
“Exactly,” Bertone said. “I paid you an outrageous price for a few acres of sand and a dull, worn-out house. No matter what the Phoenix Chamber of Commerce claims, it will be many years before development comes to those dismal acres. Who would expect an international businessman like me to pay so much for so little?”
Kayla’s stomach slid down her backbone. No one would believe it. She certainly didn’t.
Not anymore.
Bertone ticked off points on his fingers. “You opened accounts, you moved money without proper documentation, you never even asked for copies of my passport and my wife’s.”
Kayla wanted to argue. She couldn’t. Taken alone, nothing she’d done would cause a problem.
Taken together…
“I see you understand,” Bertone said, saluting her with his coffee cup. “To a nasty, suspicious mind, the sale of your ranch would look like payment for the illegal services you rendered.”
9
North of Seattle
Friday
9:39 A.M. PST
Silently Rand McCree put the nearly bare canvas into a cubbyhole and propped his folded easel in the corner of the old cedar cabin that served as his studio. He hoped that the ordinary chores would help him get a better handle on the emotions caused by Faroe’s arrival.
St. Kilda has found the Siberian.
Five years hadn’t taken the edge off Rand’s rage at holding his identical twin in his arms and watching life fade from his eyes, hearing the last ragged breath, feeling the utter slackness of death.
It should have been me.
But it hadn’t been.
Rand looked at a large, violently energetic painting that nearly filled one wall of the studio. It was a stormy seascape titled Lucky Too Late. He’d created the painting in a drunken rage, a savage good-bye to the hope of a better past.
Live for both of us.
Yet Rand hadn’t been living. He’d been hiding in booze and the quest for vengeance. Now he both lived and hid in painting.
And waited for a chance at vengeance.
“Hell of a painting,” Faroe said, admiring it. “I never saw any of your art before. You won’t embarrass yourself at the Fast Draw.”
“The Fast Draw? What’s that, a pistol contest?”
Faroe laughed. “That’s what I thought when I first heard the name.”
“How does that connect with the Siberian?” Rand asked bluntly.
“Money.”
“One way or another, it’s always about money.”
“The Siberian made about a half-billion dollars selling arms to both sides of every war he could find,” Faroe said, “plus a lot more wars that he started to keep his business humming.”
Rand looked from the painting to Faroe. “Keep talking.”
“After your brother died, Steele quietly, patiently, started picking apart the Siberian’s cover. It took a long time. The man had six identities that we discovered, but every time we got to his last known place, he was gone.”
“I know.”
Faroe nodded, not surprised. He’d suspected that Rand was always there, a half step behind, as patient in his own predatory way as Steele.
“After the CIA blew off your photos,” Faroe said, “you dogged St. Kilda like a bad reputation. In between you came to the Pacific Northwest and started painting again.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“The Siberian is a cashiered KGB operator with diplomatic credentials from Libya who speaks six languages and has a brain that would make Albert Einstein envious.”
“Well, that would explain the way he ran us around in circles,” Rand said.
“Yeah, he’s one bright boy. He bought about half the small arms in what used to be the Soviet Union, bought the planes and pilots to transport them, and resold the arms at a huge profit to private armies and irregular militias all over the African continent. South America, too, but his real specialty is Africa. He made half a billion dollars ramping up the violence between nations, states, tribes, and villages. Without him Africa would have more stable governments and a lot less human suffering.”
Rand gave him a sideways look. “Spare me the sermon. I don’t lead with my idealism anymore. Just give me an address and the Siberian is dead.”
“That could be a problem.”
“Why?”
“You might have changed, but St. Kilda hasn’t,” Faroe said. “We don’t hire out as assassins.”
“No problem. I’m not part of St. Kilda anymore.”
“You will be if you want that address.”
For a time there was only the sound of the wind bending trees and flowers with equal ease.
Rand looked at the scar on Faroe’s head. “I suppose you got that in the International Court of Justice.”
“No. And I didn’t get it whacking Hector Rivas Osuna from a sniper’s blind. He could have given up anytime. He didn’t. I survived. He didn’t.”
“If Steele didn’t want the Siberian dead, why did he track him down?”
“Steele gets downright mean when someone kills one of his employees. In any case, he has dossiers on every international crook and politician and corpo
ration that he might have to work for or against.”
“So you have a client.”
Faroe nodded. “The client isn’t interested in extralegal termination. He wants to find the Siberian’s money and seize it before the bastard can start another lovely, enriching African war.”
“So you’ve become some sort of glorified international assets tracker?” Rand asked in disbelief.
“Without money, dictators and crime bosses and other bad guys are about as dangerous as an unloaded gun.”
“Put them in the ground and they’re about as dangerous as a wet dream,” Rand shot back.
Faroe laughed. “I’m going to love watching you tangle with Grace.”
“You haven’t told me what you want me to do.”
“Paint a landscape in two hours on an estate in beautiful, overpriced Pleasure Valley, Arizona.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
Rand measured Faroe. “What else?”
“You still good with a camera?” Faroe asked.
“I gave it up five years ago. Besides, you said you wanted a painter.”
“I need an operator with your looks and skills.”
“Looks?” Rand laughed curtly. “Since when?”
“Since Grace assured me that even with face fur, you’re the best looking of the available operators. Elena likes handsome men. And we’re hoping a certain ABS banker will too.”
“One of us isn’t making any sense.”
“Are you in or out?” Faroe asked.
“What does this have to do with the Siberian?”
Faroe waited.
“Will it lead me to the Siberian?” Rand demanded.
“Yes.”
“I’m in.”
10
Pleasure Valley
Friday
10:41 A.M. MST
To buy herself time to think about the dimensions of the cage the Bertones had put her in, Kayla had been going through the escrow documents again. Very slowly.
Twice.
Still her heart was beating too fast, her skin felt clammy, and her muscles were pudding.
Thank God I’m wearing sunglasses. Without them I’d look like a jacklighted doe.
When in doubt, brazen it out.
“Mr. Bertone…” she began. Then she said, “Since we seem to be in business together, shall I call you Andre?”
Bertone looked surprised, then vaguely annoyed.
Kayla forced herself to smile. “So what’s this all about, Andre? What do you want from me that I haven’t been giving you?”
Silently Bertone measured her. Then he turned to Elena. “She has spirit.”
“So does a horse.” Elena folded up the paper. “That’s why we ride with quirts and spurs.”
The sound of young, excited voices came from the direction of the house. The back door slammed.
Elena pushed to her feet. “I should have known Maria couldn’t control the children for more than a few minutes. She doesn’t understand that they must play as well as be quiet, so they test her always. Miranda, especially, ties the silly woman in knots.”
With that, Elena walked quickly toward the house. The gems in her sandal straps shot sparks of color with each step.
“Elena told you what she wants,” Bertone said.
“A new nanny?” Kayla showed him two rows of white teeth. “Sorry, but that’s beyond my expertise.”
Bertone’s gray eyes narrowed. He tapped his index finger on the creamy envelope that carried his wife’s gold letterhead. “Deposit this check immediately into Elena’s entertainment account. There will be more coming. Bigger checks. Be prepared to transfer the money from her account to an overseas account as soon as the bank opens on Monday morning.” He smiled. “After that, no more special services will be required of you. We’ll forget that we ever had this little talk.”
Kayla traced the edge of the heavy silver knife that lay alongside her plate. Dull. Like her brain. “I assume you expect me to ignore the regulations that would require me to make sure the money was legitimately obtained.”
“If you wish to stay out of jail, yes.” Bertone made a sound of disdain. “Your government is very strange. First it tries to make policemen out of bankers. Then business realities force bankers to become criminals. It would be amusing if it weren’t so annoying.”
Kayla stretched her lips into a grim smile. “You’re aware of the fact that I’m only a junior officer at American Southwest Bank. I hope the checks you give me won’t be large.”
“You’ve accepted Elena’s deposits in the past.”
“There’s always the chance of a close internal audit, especially with a check this size,” she said, looking at Elena’s envelope. “Twenty million is a lot of money, even to a bank.”
Bertone frowned. “Audit? Is that controlled by your boss?”
“No. It’s an entirely different department.”
He stared at her, looking for the telltale signs of lies. Unfortunately he didn’t see any. “I haven’t heard of this.”
“Don’t feel bad. Learning the ins and outs of banking regulations takes years, and then the regs change overnight.” As Kayla spoke, she tried the edge of the heavy silver knife with her thumb again. Still dull as a baseball bat. “I could probably finesse the Treasury regs that require an SAR, but American Southwest is small enough that multimillions in new deposits to an old account will ring alarms all over the place.”
“SAR.” He said it like a curse.
“Suspicious Activity Report,” she translated sweetly. “We have to file a report with the feds whenever we encounter unusual activity in an account. And I believe your request would qualify as unusual if not outright suspicious.”
“You’re insolent.”
“I’m blunt,” Kayla said. “The more you know about what I can and can’t do, the less chance there is of a big misunderstanding. Who knows, we just might find we have a lot in common. Profitable things.”
Elena came back toward them, sandals sparkling. Behind her there was nothing but silence.
Bertone turned to his wife. “You said your banker was a naïf.”
“I said she was polite, sweet, and bright.”
“I’m flattered,” Kayla lied. “Nobody has called me sweet since I told my third-grade teacher to go screw the principal. I work for the bank, but I regard myself as an independent entrepreneur. And so does the bank.”
Bertone and Elena exchanged glances. Then he lit one of the Cuban cigars he’d taken up with his most recent identity change. He missed cigarettes, but it was a small sacrifice for freedom. In any case, there were so few places left in the land of the free and home of the brave where a man was free to smoke anything but fish.
“Go on,” he said, blowing out a stream of fragrant smoke.
Kayla forced herself to pick up the check she’d rather burn. “Entrepreneurs can be difficult, but they’re more useful than clerks. For example, a young bank officer with an entrepreneurial streak might remember that she’d handled transactions from the Bertone accounts at the Bank of Aruba in the past.”
“But of course,” Elena said impatiently. “You’ve handled many of—”
Kayla talked over her. “That would mean this entrepreneurial bank officer could say to her bosses that the customer had an established record of legitimate dealings with American Southwest and that the deal was what is called ‘normal and expected.’ That’s the important language, ‘normal and expected.’”
Bertone watched her through narrowed eyes.
“Of course,” Kayla said, “if somebody challenged the transaction at some later time, the ambitious bank officer would have to say she’d been mistaken about the previous banking relationship. So sorry, my bad, but everyone makes honest mistakes, right?”
For the space of a long, savoring draw on the cigar, Bertone was silent. Then he said, “Wouldn’t such a mistake get the young entrepreneur fired?”
“It might,” Kayla agreed, “or
she might get a raise for bagging millions in new deposits. Banks love big new deposits, so long as they come with plausible explanations. That’s the whole fallacy of these ‘know-your-customer’ regulations. They’re really a way the banks can clean their own skirts. Plausible deniability, in political terms.”
Kayla flashed a cold, cynical smile, hoping that her clenched teeth didn’t show. What she was saying was half true. The other half was that the lowest employee on the banking food chain was the one who got fired and went to jail when normal and expected became unusual and suspicious in the federal government’s 20/20 hindsight.
Like the countless ways to interpret income tax law, the gray areas in banking law were often decided in court.
“In other words, all of this was quite unnecessary,” Kayla said. “I’m okay with a direct approach.”
“Refreshing,” Bertone said.
“Realistic.” She dug into her leather valise and came up with the escrow check for the Dry Valley acres. “Let’s start over. I’ll give you back your money, you can reconvey my ranch, and we’ll proceed with the other transactions on a much more friendly basis.”
Bertone looked at the check Kayla held out, then at his wife.
“Perhaps we’ve underestimated your little banker,” he said. “She seems more pragmatic than you suggested.”
Elena poured her husband more coffee. “I told you she was bright.”
When Bertone looked thoughtful, Kayla allowed herself to hope. Then he smiled coldly and shook his head.
“Keep the check,” he said. “I’ve learned that the best relationships are based on motivation. In any case, the escrow company assured me that the sale would be recorded by now.”
Beautiful, Kayla thought bitterly. Whether or not I cash that check, I’m well and truly screwed. But all she said aloud was, “I see you’ve done this before.”
Bertone’s cigar hesitated on the way to his mouth. Then he smiled. “Elena was right. You’re intelligent. But I’m surprised. You act like you’ve been down this road before.”
“It’s called the primrose path.” Kayla wanted to run, so she forced herself to stand and look down at both of them. “A girl knows she’s being seduced a long time before she feels the hand on her thigh.” She glanced at her unused coffee cup and plate. “Thanks for brunch.”
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