Shell Game

by Jeff Buick

  “Bonjour.” The voice that answered was tired but coherent. It was Alan Bestwick.

  “Alan, it’s Edward,” Brand said.

  “Yes,” Alan said hesitantly, switching to English. “I thought you weren’t going to call here.”

  “Unless the situation warrants it. Right now this is one of those situations.”

  “Is everything all right?” Alan asked, wide awake, concern creeping into his tone.

  “Yes, fine. Taylor was in Paris recently. Did you see her?”

  “No.” Now there was anxiety in his voice. “What was she doing in Paris?”

  “I thought you might know.”

  “Taylor thinks I’m dead. There’s no reason for her to be in Paris looking for me.”

  “I hope not,” Brand said. “You’re positive that you didn’t leave something that would tie you to France?”

  There was a long pause as Alan Bestwick went back over things in his mind. Finally he said, “No. Taylor had nothing that could lead her to Paris. Nothing. I’m sure of it.”

  “Okay. Just keep a low profile. I’m going to have someone watch her. I’ll let you know if she comes anywhere near you.”

  “Maybe I should take off for a while,” Alan said. “Head south. Lie on a beach somewhere.”

  Brand mulled over the idea. “No, I don’t think so. All that does is introduce another variable. With you in Paris, I know where you are and whether she’s close to you. If you’re on a beach somewhere, my guy may know where Taylor is, but we won’t know where you are. It’s definitely better if you just stay put. And if she returns to Paris, we’ll know something’s up.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just keep on your toes.”

  “I’ll do that.” The international line clicked over to a dial tone.

  The Mary Dyer scraped the edge of the dock slightly as the captain backed her into her assigned spot in the marina. The yachts on each side were comparable in size and finishing, giving Brand the anonymity he was hoping for. He had purchased the boat through one of his dummy corporations three years earlier with the take from another scam, and had registered it out of the Seychelles Islands. Boats were a wonderful way to stay incognito, especially if you were smart enough to leave little or no paper trail back to your real identity. They were highly mobile, traveled in international waters and could disappear from the radar in hours if necessary. He was quite pleased with his decision to live on the boat, all the while giving the police clues that led nowhere.

  The FBI had spun their wheels on the Canadian connection. Brand had learned early in the game that the police always wanted to find something to put in their files. If they had a blank file folder, they got embarrassed and angry. They had a basic need that had to be filled, and they kept looking until they had enough reports to make it appear they had given the bad guy a real run for his money. For that reason, he had given them enough to find the condo in Vancouver if they were on their game, but even that hadn’t happened. Now, close to ninety days had passed since he had emptied out the NewPro offices and disappeared. After ninety days the trail was growing cold, the file gathering dust. That suited him just fine.

  Two hundred and twelve million dollars. God, what a scam. Every individual piece of the puzzle had fallen into place without a hitch. The only possible problem right now was Taylor Simons, and her impromptu trip to Paris. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that it was simply a coincidence. Alan Bestwick was fastidious in his attention to detail, and if Alan was sure he had left no clues for Taylor to follow, then that was the way it was. Still, he would keep tabs on Taylor Simons for a while. It was simply a matter of due diligence.

  The engines slowed to an idle, then stopped. A young Mexican boy in white pants and shirt, one of the many wharf rats who worked the marina, secured the lines and clamped the gangplank in place. Two uniformed Mexicans from the port authority marched down the long wooden wharf. Edward Brand leaned back in his chair and motioned for one of his crew to refill his coffee mug. The Mexicans could come to him. Unlike Alyn Waage, who was dumb enough to carry millions of dollars with him, Brand never traveled with more than nine thousand five hundred US dollars. Never. There were banks in Grand Cayman with managers who didn’t ask too many questions as long as they were sure the money wasn’t coming from the sale of drugs, and there were bank machines in every port. There was no reason to invite a trip to a Mexican jail. He heard the heavy clumping of boots on the deck and smiled. They would check him out and clear him for unlimited entry to Mexico. And Mexico was where he would stay.

  Things were so simple, if you didn’t complicate them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  They left Renita Gallant in the situation room at the National Security Agency and drove back to Kelly’s condo in D.C. It was suppertime on Monday and three hours since they had learned how Alan had survived the crash into the ocean. Kelly moved about the kitchen with an amazing degree of alacrity and in less than an hour whipped up an authentic paella, complete with chicken and seafood and flavored with saffron. Taylor picked the wine, uncorked it and poured for both of them. She tried the paella and gave him a slight nod.

  “This is excellent,” she said. “I didn’t know we had a gourmet cook working at G-cubed. You never volunteered to cook lunch for the staff.”

  He speared a piece of chicken and grinned. “Once people know you can cook, they expect it. Keep them in the dark. It’s a good rule of thumb.”

  “Now that I know, you’re in trouble.”

  They finished their meal, talking about everything from politics to hot lunches for underprivileged school kids. When they were both done, Taylor cleared the dishes and Kelly poured more wine. They sat on comfortable leather couches in the living room, Michael Jones playing on the sound system, every note crystal clear. Kelly flipped a switch and the gas fireplace threw a dim flickering light through the room.

  “So what now?” Taylor asked. “We know the son of a bitch is alive, but what can we do with it?”

  Kelly gently swished the wine about in the glass. He took a small sip and rested the glass in his lap. “We’ve got a couple of things to follow up on. First off is the boat. That’s our best course of action right now. The Mary Dyer has to be registered—all boats have to be registered somewhere. We find out where and what name it’s under. Brand probably has no idea that we know about the yacht. It could be a rental, but it could also be his.”

  Taylor managed a small smile. “That’s good thinking. What else? You said there were a couple of things.”

  “Maybe. When you were telling me what happened before Alan went over the cliff, you said Brand stopped and had lunch at a bar a few miles before the cliff.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “You said he used the house phone to make a call. You were specific on that—the house phone, not a cell phone.”

  Taylor nodded vigorously. “Yes. He used the restaurant’s phone. Why?”

  “Phone logs,” Kelly said. “The Mexican phone company will have a record of the number he dialed.”

  “Jesus, you’re smart. I would never have thought of that.”

  “Guess what that gives us?”

  She shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “You’re sure,” he said. “Think about it. Who was he calling?”

  She stared at her wineglass, trying to figure out who Brand would have needed to speak with. It had to be logical or Kelly wouldn’t have figured it out. There had been no one but Brand on the road when they had arrived at the point where Alan had gone over, so there was no reason to call ahead to have someone block the road or pretend to be injured so they would stop. Meeting Brand on the curve had been more than enough to guarantee that. So what else was there? Then it hit her. She gave Kelly a smile.

  “Got it. Scuba divers can only stay underwater for a certain length of time. He called ahead to let them know he was coming so they could get in position.”

  “Very, very good,” Kelly said,
giving her a small clap. “Whoever was on the other end of that line is a possible connection back to Edward Brand.”

  “Two avenues to figuring out who he is and maybe even where he is.”

  “That’s the idea.” Kelly drained the last of his wine and headed to the kitchen to put on some water for tea. He returned a few minutes later with a teapot and cups on a tray. He left it on the coffee table, giving the tea time to steep.

  “You know,” he said, “checking out the yacht registry and the phone call isn’t going to take a lot of time. Guess what else we could look into?”

  “What Alan’s real name is? I’m damn sure it’s not Bestwick.”

  “That’s one. There’s one more.”

  “What?”

  “I still think one of the cops is dirty,” Kelly said, pouring the tea and handing her a cup. “That stuff on the computer didn’t get there by accident. We could dig around a little bit and see what we come up with.”

  “Then it would have to be one of the FBI agents—either Brent Hawkins or John Abrams. It couldn’t be Sam Morel. He didn’t have time to rig the computers.”

  Kelly shook his head. “Sure he did. The computers were sitting in the room when I got there. They were plugged in and ready to go. Detective Morel easily could have generated that invoice from the antique shop in Mexico City, then powered the systems down and locked the door. And remember, you said Morel went out of his way to keep you and Alan in the know. He was your ears and eyes to what was happening with the FBI’s investigation.”

  Taylor didn’t answer. Sam Morel was a nice man who had tried to help her and Alan when their lives had come crashing down around them. He had been assigned by the San Francisco Police Department as their liaison between the victims and the District Attorney’s office. What possible upside was there for Sam Morel to be feeding information back to Edward Brand? Except money, of course. Brand had just ripped them off for almost fourteen million—two million less than originally thought once she subtracted Alan’s million and a half that had never been part of the equation. That amount of money could sway people to do things that they may not otherwise do. Kelly was right, Sam Morel was as much a suspect as a conspirator as were the two FBI agents.

  “Here’s a question for you: how do we manage to dredge up all the information we need on three cops—two of them federal agents?”

  “I have some connections,” Kelly said.

  “Ones you can use?”

  He shrugged. “It all goes back to asking and seeing what they say. The worst is no.”

  Taylor set her empty tea cup on the table and grabbed the sides of her head. “This is hard on the brain. We’ve got too many things on the go.”

  “Never too many,” Kelly said. “It gets bleak when your options are limited. Right now we’ve got lots of options. That’s a good thing.”

  She smiled and dropped her hands back on her lap. “Okay, you’re the expert. I’ve never done anything like this before. Checking out federal agents who might be working with the bad guy, looking at phone records, tracking down who owns a luxury yacht—this is all out of a suspense novel.”

  “The bad news is I’ve never done it before either. But I think it’s just a matter of logic. We have a few problems, and we need solutions. We deal with each angle individually and then take the results and throw them in the collective pot. If we can find the right information, everything is going to lead back to Edward Brand. And eventually to Alan.”

  “Okay, back to my original question—what now?”

  “I’ve got to work this week. I haven’t been back long enough to have accrued any holidays. Maybe it’s better if you head back to San Francisco.”

  “Is that important?”

  Kelly shrugged. “We’re trying to find out who Brand is, but keep in mind that he knows who you are, where you live and just about every detail in your life. It’s easy for him to keep tabs on you. If I were him, that’s exactly what I’d be doing. If he does have someone on the inside, every time you use your debit card or one of your credit cards he’ll know exactly when and where. Brand can track where you are at any given time and what you’re doing. He probably already knows you were in Paris.”

  “Then it’s already too late. He’ll know I was in Paris looking for Alan.”

  “But you weren’t. You originally went to Paris just to stand on a street corner. You could have been there for any number of reasons. I wouldn’t panic about it.”

  “I suppose you’re right. That’s assuming he’s watching me.”

  “If I were him, I’d watch all my marks for signs that they’re getting on with their lives. The best thing you can do is give the appearance that you’re resigned to the fact you lost your money. Get back to what he will think is your normal life. That way if he has someone watching you, the red flags don’t go up.”

  Taylor slowly nodded. She hardly liked being referred to as a mark, but that was exactly how Edward Brand viewed her. She had been chosen because she was a woman with money. No other reason was necessary. Then they had methodically removed the money from her life and discarded her. Kelly’s choice of words was accurate. She had been a mark. It wasn’t a nice thought. Now she had to go back to San Francisco and try to live a normal life. It wasn’t going to be easy, sitting on her butt knowing that Alan was wandering around somewhere with a smug grin and millions of her money. Still, Kelly was right.

  “What about the check from the insurance company?” she asked.

  “Cash it,” he said without hesitation.

  “But I know Alan’s alive. That’s fraud.”

  “Not cashing the check is an absolute giveaway that you suspect something. You have to do it. You can always give the money back later.”

  “Okay, but make a note that I’m doing this under duress. I don’t like it. The first chance I have, that money goes back to the insurance company.”

  He laughed. “You and your morals. They’re incorruptible. Most people couldn’t cash the check fast enough.” He finished the last of his tea. “I’ll do what I can from this end, Taylor. I’ve got some pretty good resources to draw on. You try to keep it together in San Francisco.”

  “Why are you doing this, Kelly?” she asked. “I know you’re climbing out on a limb a bit at work. You could lose your job.”

  He laughed again and shook his head. “Maybe, but I doubt it. I’m not pushing the limits. Getting the satellite data was tough. Running some personnel checks on a couple of FBI agents isn’t going to raise any eyebrows. Checking the registry on the Mary Dyer is nothing. I can submit the search at nine and have an answer back by noon. Same thing with the phone logs for that restaurant near San José del Cabo. Buzzards. That’s it. Nothing to it, Taylor. Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Michael Jones played on, his piano soft and relaxing. Taylor settled back into the cushions, relaxed and warm. The flame in the fireplace was mesmerizing. She watched it for a few minutes, alternating between wondering what had happened to her life and marveling at her own tenacity. It was amazing what the human spirit could endure. Now, instead of just rolling up in a ball and fading away, she and Kelly were going on the offensive. They were looking for Edward Brand, the mastermind of the scam and the key to finding Alan. And through some grace of God, with Kelly working for the NSA, they had connections she would never have thought possible. In that moment, tucked between the cushions watching the fire, she felt for the first time that they might find him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Kelly keyed in the request to pull the personnel files on Brent Hawkins and John Abrams, then studied what he had on Sam Morel. Getting Morel’s information was going to be a bit trickier than the two Federal agents. The National Security Agency and the FBI were linked in many ways, one of them being the sharing of information at a nonclassified level. But the agency had no such working relationship with the San Francisco Police Department. That posed a problem.

  He pulled the hierarchy for the SFP
D, looking for any names he might know from the years he spent in the city working with G-cubed. The best he could do was a lieutenant from the Tenderloin District. A beer-league-baseball and drinking buddy. Not the greatest resource, but it would have to do. He printed the page and set it on the side of his desk. It was still too early on the West Coast to call.

  He switched to the registration for the Mary Dyer. It took almost an hour, but he found the yacht registered through OCRA worldwide, a yacht and ship registration company out of Mauritius. The ship itself was registered in the Seychelles, a group of forty-one Islands lying a few hundred miles off the east coast of Africa. The owner of the Mary Dyer was a corporation called Atolls Are Fun, which had provided the necessary builder’s certificate with technical details, proof of ownership and a radio license. The corporation was registered in the Seychelles under the International Corporate Service Providers Act 2003, which granted special offshore regulated privileges. Low tax status was first on that list, followed immediately by treaty access and trustee services for administering the corporation. Through all the smoke and mirrors, Kelly was able to dig deep enough to bypass the trustees, who were just bankers charging a fee to keep Atolls Are Fun in tune with the laws of the country, and find the owner. There was only one name.

  Robert Zindler.

  He jotted the name on a separate sheet of paper and stared at it for a minute. Was that Brand? It well could be. Edward Brand had no reason to think anyone would ever key in on his yacht. Even if they did, there was nothing to tie Robert Zindler to Edward Brand or to the NewPro scam. The fact that the two men were so distinct in their lives lent Kelly to think he may have found the link. If nothing else, it was one more dot, and every dot counted.

  Kelly set Taylor’s stuff aside for a couple of hours and concentrated on work the NSA paid him to do. A SEAL unit had intercepted coded communications between two al-Qaeda terrorist cells operating out of remote regions of northern Algeria. The problem with the data was two-fold. Straight off the top it was in Arabic, which was only a minor inconvenience as they had Arabic-speaking persons on staff at both NSA and CIA. But it was the encryption the terrorists had used on the data that was stumping the experts at Langley. When that happened, the first place they turned to was the National Security Agency—the code breakers.