Innocent as Sin

by Elizabeth Lowell

  She turned away.

  “One minute,” Bertone said, his voice like a whip. He picked up the Aruban bank draft and held it out to her. “Deposit this immediately. And I mean immediately.”

  With cold fingers Kayla took the check. There was no other choice. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

  She was trapped, helpless.

  For the first time in her life Kayla understood, really understood, why people killed.

  “Be sure you’re on time for the Fast Draw tomorrow,” Elena said. “It’s necessary for you to be there. And what is necessary to us, you will do.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.” Kayla turned and headed for the parking area.

  Bertone drew thoughtfully on his cigar, settled back in his chair, and watched Kayla walk away. She wasn’t in Elena’s class, but she was an interesting female all the same.

  “She’s not what I expected,” he said quietly.

  “She came to heel quickly enough.”

  He smiled. “I particularly liked the way she tried to turn the tables on us by hinting that she could be bought. That was deliciously inventive of her.”

  “Do you think she meant it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Gabriel will follow her. Her desk, cell, and home phones are tapped. If she is foolish enough to go to the feds, Gabriel will stop her.”

  “I don’t like having her run around free,” Elena said.

  Bertone sighed. It wasn’t the first time the subject had come up. “After the Fast Draw event, I’ll give her to Gabriel, but only if he promises to keep her alive until the final transfer is made.”

  Elena looked thoughtful. She tapped her peach-colored fingernails on the surface of the table. “That leaves too much time before we physically control her. It’s still dangerous.”

  “Money always is. That’s why we have so much and others have so little. We risk.” He touched the frown lines between her dark brown eyes. “Don’t worry, beautiful one. As soon as Kayla transfers all the funds, Gabriel will silence her, the rebels will have the arms to overthrow Camgeria, and the oil concessions will be mine. Then you will dine with presidents and prime ministers as you desire.”

  But first I will kill Joao Fouquette.

  Money was useful, but there was nothing more valuable than power.

  11

  North of Seattle

  Friday

  9:44 A.M. PST

  Andre Bertone,” Rand said, handing Faroe a mug of black tea. “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as anyone can be in this business,” Faroe said. “He’s kept the identity for five years. Something of a record for him.”

  “Sounds more French than Russian. Possibly Argentine.”

  “It’s the name on his UN passport. He was Nicolas Gregori, aka the Siberian, when he killed Reed. Two weeks later Andre Bertone appeared with a cover story that went back to his mother’s milk.”

  “Busy boy.” Rand poured his own tea.

  “Oh, yeah. Bertone started out life as Victor Krout, a Siberian-born Russian. He was trained in the usual black arts at KGBU in Moscow. He speaks six languages, flies helos and airplanes, and practices tradecraft like a deep-cover agent.”

  “Is he?”

  “Doubt it,” Faroe said, yawning and stretching. “The Russians want Bertone’s ass. Something about unpaid taxes.”

  “Bet it’s more like unpaid kickbacks.”

  Faroe shrugged. “In some countries, kickbacks are just another name for taxes.”

  “What’s a former KGB agent doing with a United Nations passport?”

  “Ask Libya. Money and guns is my guess.”

  “The creds must come in handy for a globe-trotting international gunrunner,” Rand said.

  “Supposedly he’s not a gunrunner anymore,” Faroe said. “Now he has a bunch of shell companies and old friends standing between him and the obvious dirty stuff. The new and improved Andre Bertone is a respected and respectable international commodities broker. Oil, coltan, diamonds, timber, whatever one African backwater wants to sell and some first-world country wants to buy.”

  Sipping at the strong, murky tea he loved, Rand paced over to the window and stared out. The bright interval of sun had passed. The sky was slate gray and the wind had increased, whipping the daffodils and turning the unsecured rotor of the waiting helicopter.

  Faroe fought back another yawn. He’d been pulling twenty-hour days over Bertone.

  “I want to read everything you have on him,” Rand said.

  “Okay, with the usual reservations.”

  “The ones that require me to cut out my tongue before talking, my fingers before typing, and my eyes before seeing?” Rand asked dryly.

  “You remember. I’m touched.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  “An African nation that used the Siberian, got double-crossed, discovered it after the fact, and double-crossed the oil cartel Bertone fronts for in retaliation. Now the cartel is trying to start a civil war so that they’ll get oil concessions from the new government. If the oil-backed rebels get enough arms, they’ll win. But they won’t get arms if they don’t get the money to pay.”

  “You’re giving me a headache.”

  “Get used to it,” Faroe said.

  “Do you trust your Camgerian interface?”

  Faroe’s smile was slow and cold. “You haven’t lost a step, have you?”

  “I lost a twin. Does that count?” Rand made an abrupt gesture. “Who’s the interface?”

  “A man called John Neto. He was born in Africa and educated at the London School of Economics. Someday he’s going to run that oil-rich little country. Right now he’s head of the Camgerian national intelligence service—all three employees. He has a fine jugular instinct and the patience of a leopard. Best of all, he hates the ground Bertone walks on. He’s been tracking him for years.”

  “So why does this Neto need St. Kilda?”

  “The U.S. government won’t cooperate with him.”

  “Gee, that sounds familiar,” Rand said. “So they stonewalled him same as they did me?”

  “Yeah. And then they told Neto that he couldn’t come to the U.S. and present evidence against Andre Bertone.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Not in the interests of the U.S. at this time.’ Visa denied.”

  Rand made a disgusted sound. “Same shit, different year.” He took a swallow of hot, bitter, aromatic tea. “So St. Kilda has suddenly become an agent for a foreign power? Even if it’s a tiny African nation that has had more names in twenty years than Andre Bertone, it’s still a little dicey, isn’t it?”

  “Only if we’re pursuing another nation’s political interests. We aren’t.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “Neto’s government has issued a murder warrant for Krout, aka Bertone, which makes this a criminal inquiry,” Faroe said.

  “Steele is skating on a thin edge.”

  “Actually it’s Grace, and she assured us it’s a defensible position. She also assured us that we’d all be a lot happier if we nailed Bertone in such a way that no one would want to make a federal case of it.”

  Rand thought about it, whistled, and said, “That’s some woman you married.”

  Faroe grinned the grin of a well-satisfied male.

  Sun fought to pierce the clouds, failed, and sulked. Rand watched the small skirmish overhead and thought hard. “What do you want from me?”

  “You’re the one man we know who has seen the Siberian close enough to identify him. If you can verify that Bertone is the Siberian by another name, St. Kilda can chip away at his UN creds. At least that’s what the brains of the outfit both say.”

  “Both?”

  “Steele and Grace.”

  “Steele actually listens to her?” Rand asked.

  “At the top of his lungs. And vice versa. It’s quite a show.” Faroe looked at his watch. “Ready to meet Neto?”

  “I thought he was denied a visa.
”

  “Here, but not in Victoria, B.C.”

  The wind gusted around the cabin. The branches of a fir tree tapped against the glass. It sounded hauntingly like Morse code from a prisoner.

  Me.

  That’s what I’ve become. Prisoner of the past.

  “What the hell,” Rand said, shrugging. “I need to go to Murchie’s anyway. I’m running out of tea.”

  “If it goes well in Canada, we’re heading straight to Phoenix. Steele doesn’t like what he’s hearing on the Brazilian grapevine. Neither do I. We could be working on a much shorter clock than Neto believed. Pack your painting gear along with whatever else you think you need,” Faroe said.

  “I thought the St. Kilda adage was ‘Pack your weapons and live out of Wal-Mart.’”

  “They don’t have the kind of professional painting gear you’ll need if you go to the Fast Draw in Phoenix.”

  “Big if.”

  “Humor me.”

  “The last time I did, Reed died.”

  “Wrong,” Faroe said calmly. “I humored Reed and let him follow you around Africa with a rifle. You never had a sense of humor worth mentioning.”

  Rand almost snarled, almost smiled. “I’ll need dossiers on this Elena, whoever she is.”

  “Bertone’s wife.”

  “And the ASB banker, whatever he, she, or it is.”

  “She. Kayla Shaw. My computer’s on the helo. You can read dossiers while we fly to Victoria. Get a move on. The film crew will be getting restless.”

  Rand blinked. “Film crew? Are they part of the Fast Draw contest?”

  “Hell of an idea. I’ll work on it.”

  “What does painting have to do with Bertone?”

  “It’s all on my computer.”

  “Which is on the helo, which is heading for B.C.”

  Faroe punched Rand’s shoulder lightly. “You listen good.”

  “Too bad I don’t obey worth a damn.”

  “We’ll work on that.”

  12

  Phoenix

  Friday

  12:12 P.M. MST

  Kayla was tempted to drive past the freeway turnoff again, but she made herself go to American Southwest Bank instead. More than an hour of roaming Phoenix’s ninety-mile-an-hour freeways was all the time she could afford to work off her anger and fear. She pulled into the employee-of-the-month parking space in front of the glistening steel and copper-colored glass building that housed American Southwest.

  “What bullshit,” she said, turning off the engine. “What complete and utter bullshit.”

  For the past three weeks she’d enjoyed using the parking space. It wasn’t the gold star in her file that she cared about, it was the chance to walk a quarter mile less in the heels all women employees were required to wear.

  And that’s bullshit, too. If heels are so necessary, why don’t men wear the damn things?

  She’d take a suit and tie over pantyhose and heels any day.

  “No worries,” she told herself as she got out of the car. “After I talk with Steve Foley, I won’t have to rub up against American Southwest dress codes.”

  Or any other business kind.

  Wonder how I’ll look in prison orange.

  She slammed the car door. The explosive sound was so satisfying she opened the door and slammed it again. Harder.

  Okay, tantrum over.

  Now think.

  Because thinking is the only thing that will keep me out of bright orange. And I look really lame in orange.

  She’d always assumed that people who went to prison had it coming. What really burned her was that she hadn’t done anything wrong. Her real estate deal was entirely legal. Any other landowner would have been blameless.

  But she was an employee of American Southwest Bank who had, at best, engaged in an unusual private transaction with a very important client. That was a firing offense.

  She could live with that.

  It was the idea of going to prison for laundering money that spiked her blood pressure.

  Automatically she went through the discreet metal detectors, nodded to the guard, and used her electronic passkey on the elevator. Her office wasn’t on the top floor, but Steve Foley’s was. If neckties and ever-shining shoes bothered him, he didn’t show it. He dressed for success, talked for it, breathed for it.

  He was the youngest vice president in the bank’s history. He’d been at the bank a year less than Kayla, decades less than many of the other women in her department, yet he’d leapfrogged over them and into the corner office with the ease of a handsome, charming young executive bound for greatness.

  It hadn’t hurt that his father was a member of the bank’s board of directors.

  Kayla still wasn’t sure if she was more annoyed by the implicit sexism or the explicit nepotism in his rapid promotions. She was sure that she’d never cared for Foley, had passed up his offers for a social relationship with bland professional smiles, and had worked hard for every tiny raise she got.

  Now she had to tell him she’d screwed up. She wondered if he’d be sympathetic or happy to see her on her knees. Her gut said that sympathy was a long shot.

  She found Foley behind a clean walnut desk that was decorated with a seldom-used pen set, a never-used baseball autographed by a Diamondbacks reliever who had since been traded to Kansas City, and a booster’s award plaque from the National Rifle Association. Pretty typical of an Arizona executive. He glanced in her direction as she entered and closed the door behind her.

  “Hey, Kayla.” He flashed a smile perfect enough to be a news anchor’s. “How’s the best-looking banker in Phoenix?”

  Kayla ignored both the smile and the personal remark. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  Foley glanced at the closed door. “That’s what I’m here for.” He gestured to the client chair across the desk from him. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not certain yet,” she said, which was half true. “I just had a meeting with a client. He asked me to deposit a big check for him.”

  “Well, that’s what banks are for, isn’t it?” He pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

  She was tempted to keep on standing, but she sat down, carefully keeping her knees together, a feat that particular chair made nearly impossible. No doubt that was why Foley had chosen it.

  “This is an unusually big check,” Kayla said.

  “How big?” Foley asked without looking away from her long legs.

  “Twenty-two million dollars.”

  He focused on her face. “Not bad, Kayla. Not bad at all. You should be dancing, not frowning. Unless there’s some difficulty with the check?”

  “It’s drawn on a Caribbean bank by one of our best clients, Andre Bertone.”

  “He’s good for a lot more than twenty-two million,” Foley said, rocking back in his swivel chair. “So what’s the problem?”

  “I thought I should run it by you before I cashed the check,” she said carefully. “I’ve never heard of the bank the check is drawn on, and I’ve never seen this account in Mr. Bertone’s records. When I tried to do some fundamental due diligence, Andre and Elena both told me where the money came from was none of my business.”

  Foley sighed and shook his head. “Most of our wealthy clients just don’t understand our obligations under the Patriot Act. I assume you explained everything to him.”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “He went postal,” Kayla said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “First, he tried what amounted to blackmail. Very cleverly done, but still blackmail.”

  Foley’s mouth opened. He shook his head sharply, then picked up his desk pen. “Explain.”

  “Remember that land I own out toward Wickenburg?”

  “Sure do. Did you decide to sell it like I advised?”

  Kayla told herself that Foley didn’t mean to sound patronizing. And if she repeated it often enough, she might believe it. “The deal just closed this
morning.”

  “Good. Small ranches are sentimental holes in all but the wealthiest purses. You don’t have a big one. What’d you get for it?”

  “Twenty-five thousand an acre.”

  “Yowsa,” Foley said, fiddling with the pen. “That’s a great price. Did you go with Charlotte Welmann?”

  Kayla nodded. She’d taken Foley’s recommendation because she didn’t know any local Realtors and hadn’t wanted the hassle of selling Dry Valley by herself. “Charlotte started with a high price because she wasn’t sure what the market would be.” Kayla grimaced. “The place sold in a day.”

  “Huh. Guess you should have asked more.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “Charlotte told me the buyer was an out-of-town investor who was quietly buying up ground for a large development. I was required to sign a confidentiality agreement, promising not to reveal the sale. The buyer’s agent said his client was worried that other landowners would hear about my sale and start jacking up their prices.”

  Foley nodded. “That’s pretty standard. So what does all this have to do with your, ah, blackmail problem?”

  “About an hour after I signed the agreement and picked up the escrow check, I learned the identity of the buyer. Andre Bertone.”

  Foley’s blond eyebrows lifted. “Well, that’s a little weird, but I don’t see—”

  Kayla cut across his words. “Bertone told me if I didn’t deposit his twenty-two-million-dollar check without questions, he’d see that I got in trouble with the bank and the federal government over the Dry Valley sale.”

  Reaching into her valise, she pulled out the check and shoved it across the desk to her boss. Then she rubbed her fingers over her skirt, trying to remove even the feel of the transaction.

  Foley picked up the check and looked at it silently. It appeared to be just what she’d said it was.

  Twenty-two million bucks.