‘As low as twenty, as high as fifty grand,’ she said.
‘And we have bingo,’ I said. ‘If they got fifty large from just twenty of the kids’ families, that’s a million. If they got half that from the next hundred or so, add another million. Plus the initial three, that makes it a five-million-dollar racket, divided by five years and someone is grossing a mill per annum. Figure half of that goes out in salaries, bribes and expenses, and you’re still putting upwards of half a million a year in an offshore bank. But how the hell do refugee families cough up that kind of cash?’
Delia shrugged. ‘Extended family, appeals to their village, overseas relatives and of course NGO money.’
‘NGO money?’
‘There are a couple charities that buy people out of slavery.’
‘Doesn’t that just make the whole scam more profitable? Supply and demand?’
‘You want to go yell at do-gooders trying to save kids? Anyway, when we had enough information we set up a sting, the real Guardia Costiera and US Navy. The idea was to catch the phony patrol boat in the act, after they’d taken the kids, and be heroes. I was aboard the USS Bulkeley, a destroyer. Guns, missiles … you could blow up a good chunk of the Middle East with just that one ship.’
I waited. I waited and a feeling of dread crept over me. I did not want to be the sort of man who could already guess what happened next. I did not want to be the kind of man who thought that way. But something very dark and sad was in Delia’s eyes.
‘The rendezvous happens. I’m watching it on radar. We close in. Five miles out in very rough seas and the smugglers spot us. So, they force the kids over the side at gunpoint. They figure we’ll stop to rescue them, and they can get away. Thirteen kids went in the water. No life jackets. Waves. Rain.’ The story stopped for a while as memories played out behind her eyes. Then, with an unsteady sigh, ‘The Italian boat raced like crazy to save as many as they could, but on the Bulkeley, I tell the captain no, chase that fake patrol boat, get him!’
I looked at her. Her face was a twisting grimace of pain. Tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill down her cheek. She made a quick, surreptitious swipe at them. I must have been especially vulnerable from the near-death experience because my own eyes started welling up in empathy with her.
I am not good with tears. I always tried to exit any con before the tears started.
‘So, we got ’em. We caught up to the patrol boat. They threw up their hands and we went aboard, three FBI in addition to me, and the sailors of course. We searched …’
‘And found no refugees,’ I said. ‘No kids.’
She had lost her words. She nodded, and that did send a tear falling. ‘The Italians saved one kid. One. We found the first bodies when the sun came up. At first you know, you think, no, that’s not what I’m seeing. I am not seeing a little boy’s face … I’m FBI, I’m not supposed to … I’ve seen things, you know, I mean I’ve seen dead bodies, I’ve seen stuff …’
Had I not been a dick earlier and tried to put moves on her, I could have put my arm around her. She needed an arm around her. Hell, so did I.
She sniffed, and blew out a shaky breath. ‘Anyway, we locked the assholes up in the brig aboard the destroyer. It’s not exactly San Quentin, the sailors have other things to do, so I decided I’d go down and check on the prisoners.’ Sly pride peeked out beneath her eyelids.
‘With a big stick?’
The slightest of nods. ‘Anyway, the Chief Petty Officer saw me and he … and he … goddammit!’ More tears, too many for her to wipe away. ‘“Ma’am, you can’t do this,” he said. The sailor, the petty officer. He had kids, he had a little boy and a little girl and we both wanted to go and wipe the bastards out.’
‘How did he stop you?’
She made a laugh that was as much a sob. ‘Well, David, he pointed out that I was supposed to be the law. This, he said, is not a job for law.’
‘Ah.’
‘Anyway, I walked away. The next morning, it turned out the guy playing captain, the head man, the one who’d given the order to throw the kids … well, he committed suicide by hanging himself with his own belt. Which was odd because he’d been stripped and made to wear overalls.’
‘I see. You investigated to see who might have arranged the suicide?’
‘One of the sailors, either from outrage or because they knew the Sicilians would not want him to talk and thought it might earn him some points with them. I didn’t know and didn’t much care. I gave the matter a good five minutes’ worth of investigation. Didn’t find anything.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Once we docked back in Palermo the remaining crew lawyered up. Money changed hands. The only evidence we had of the murders were distant sightings through lashing rain, and the kid we’d rescued. The one kid the Italians had saved as I sent the destroyer chasing …’
‘The kid?’
‘Disappeared. One minute the authorities had him, and the next minute, poof. The rest of the crew made bail.’
‘And also poofed.’
‘There was a crew of five on the smuggler’s boat. One Algerian, one Lebanese, three Cypriots, including the dead captain. We ran prints of course and found four hits, the captain, the Lebanese, an Algerian and one of the remaining Cypriots.’
‘Ah.’
‘Lebanon is no-go for us, and Algeria’s not much better, so we chased down the Cypriot’s history. His name is Panagopolous. Nestor Panagopolous. His day job was working security.’
‘For?’
‘For a private security firm.’
‘Italian? Cypriot?’
‘American.’ She stopped talking and again I saw the internal argument.
‘Delia. I came very, very close to being dead,’ I said. ‘I get security protocols and all that, but I think you need to tell me whatever the fuck you know.’
She didn’t take much convincing. The moral calculus had changed. I’d gone from useful tool to being a guy she knew, liked, despite herself, and who was sporting multiple bright white bandages which were, arguably, (entirely) her fault. ‘It’s called ExMil International. They have offices and people everywhere, mostly ex-military, as the name implies.’
‘And that’s your angle? You’re after that guy?’
‘We got a tip he was back on Cyprus, under a different name. Doing work for the AZX Bank.’
‘That’s a Russian bank.’
‘With a branch in Limassol. A very active branch.’
I closed my eyes. My hand, armpit and leg hurt. My jaw was not quite aligned in a way that would make eating corn on the cob easy. And I wanted something more than toast.
‘I’m going to make more coffee.’
She followed me to the kitchen and watched as I got to work on the breakfast I had ordered – with plenty for her as well.
‘Oh, by the way,’ she said. ‘I disabled your Nest cameras. And I got rid of our bug, too. The one you had tuned to ambient noise?’
‘Of course you did.’ I chopped chives. ‘You might have made a good crook.’
‘I like having a retirement plan.’
‘The dead British fugitive, Rachel/Amanda. She was your source on this Cypriot guy.’
‘Kim and I were supposed to meet her.’
‘Yeah. Money?’
Delia shook her head. ‘Passport. She wanted a valid US passport. She wanted to disappear.’
‘She had two passable British passports.’
‘Yes.’
‘But she couldn’t return to the UK. Because?’
Delia winced. ‘I’m afraid telling you that would definitely be a felony and you don’t really have a need to know. I can’t tell you anything more without risking my job, and I like my job.’ She shrugged. ‘But you’re pretty good at guessing.’
So, it was going to be like that.
I thought for a moment while I stirred eggs. The bangers were in my impromptu stove-top dutch oven, a sauté pan with a second pan upended and used as a lid.
&
nbsp; ‘Can you slice that melon?’ I asked. ‘Not really quite up for knife work just yet.’
She cut the melon in half, scooped the seeds into the trash, and peeled us each a quarter.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Here’s my guess. Rachel had a relationship with someone in intelligence, MI5, 6 or GCHQ, whoever. Probably more than a mere relationship, but she did something that soured that relationship. Was she …’ I quirked my mouth and realized that hurt. ‘I have to go with money. She stole.’
I looked at Delia who said nothing and did not meet my eye but also did not say no.
‘They had her in place somewhere, as an asset, and opportunity knocked. A bank? A business? She skimmed a bit, did she? Got caught? And ran?’
‘This is excellent melon. Have a piece.’ She speared a chunk and held it out for me. I snapped it up like a trout with a worm.
‘Okay, so Rachel worked for, let’s say, MI6. MI5 are just cops, and cops wouldn’t think to have a homemade garrote and DIY pepper spray in their overnight bag.’
‘A garrote?’
I told her how I had obtained Kiriakou’s evidence inventory and had it translated. It was a struggle to make it all sound off-hand, like I wasn’t absurdly proud of myself.
‘Interesting,’ Delia said, frowning. ‘Carabiners and wire. I’m not sure I would have caught that.’
‘It’s not a defensive weapon.’
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘But, look, the Brits don’t arrange to stab unreliable MI6 agents on the beach for a bit of skimming from a target bank.’
Did she realize she had just confirmed that Rachel had been working at a bank? I was pretty sure she had. Accidentally. Delia was enjoying the game.
I pulled out two plates just as fresh toast popped. I assembled scrambled eggs with chives and crème fraiche, a well-browned banger, melon, toast with butter and marmalade. It was yet another glorious morning so I led the way onto my patio. Paphos was below and south, a collection of rooftop cisterns, satellite dishes and laundry lines. The Mediterranean reflected sunlight in semaphore flashes that half-blinded me.
We sat like a couple. Delia on one side of my patio table, me on the other. She was looking out, I was looking at her. We both had lovely views.
‘So. Rachel/Amanda. Ramanda. Was not just some casual asset, she was an agent,’ I said.
‘I like the eggs.’
‘Gordon Ramsay on YouTube,’ I explained. ‘So, MI6 places Rachel in a suspect bank. Probably under the other name, what was it? Amanda something. Ramanda sees an opportunity but she gets caught.’
‘By whom, I wonder, in this fictional scenario?’ Delia asked.
‘By the bad guys or the good guys. Or both. Right? One way she’s doing time, the other way she’s ending up dead. Either way she has to run. She takes her passports and flies to … why the hell come to Cyprus? If you’re running from the Brits, this is the wrong damn place. If you’re running from bent Russian bankers, even worse.’
Delia stayed silent.
I rapped the table with my knuckles. ‘Of course, duh. To see you and Kim. You bring her here to ID Panaglop-um, whatever.’
‘Panagopolous. So, this is a banger,’ Delia said, slicing sausage. Very precise movements. Make a thin slice, spear it on the fork, pile some eggs on top, and past her teeth.
‘The guy, Panagopolous. Ramanda knew he was on the island, and she … um … No, it was you, wasn’t it? You made it a condition of the deal. You think like a cop, so you want that in-person ID. You want her to point a finger and say, “That’s him.” You need that to get a warrant. You were going to take her in front of a magistrate, have her ID your perp so you could file an extradition request. My God, you are a cop.’
Delia nodded and did not look happy. ‘Yes. I’m the cop who got her killed.’
‘You weren’t going to bust the guy, the Cypriot, at least not right away, though, because you’d found out he was working for the AZX Bank. You wanted his dick in a wringer and were going to squeeze him for information on Russian money laundering, and Ramanda was going to serve him up for you. That’s a two-fer for you, Delia, you nail a money launderer and a child-killer. But when Ramanda takes a knife to the spine, the FBI figures, oh, well, there goes our witness, this isn’t working out. They call you home to …’
‘I am attached to the Rome office.’
‘Better food than Athens.’
‘Yes, David, that’s how Bureau assignments work: by the number of Michelin-starred restaurants.’
‘North of three hundred in Rome, five in Athens.’
‘You’re a very strange man,’ Delia said.
‘Yeah,’ I admitted, though I didn’t see what was so strange about knowing the best food cities. ‘Anyway, Kim goes back to Rome, and you stay, because you care about whatever it is the bank is up to, sure, because you’re FBI and all, but you care a hell of a lot more about taking down Panagopolous. Because you’re a decent human being.’
‘And the other two, the Algerian and the Lebanese. In time.’ That came out in almost dreamy tone. She had long savored that thought.
I bussed the dishes, taking my time about it as Delia sat with her legs stretched out in the sun. When I rejoined her, I asked, ‘Tell me how money laundering works.’
‘You don’t know?’ When I didn’t answer she said, ‘Well, at the most basic level it’s pretty simple. You’re a Moscow drug dealer, you’ve got a million dollars in cash, but it’s all in rubles and you aren’t dumb enough to trust Russian banks for long, you might annoy the wrong oligarch and your account evaporates. There’s no such thing as a really private bank in Russia, they’re all oligarch-owned and operated with the tacit support of Russian intelligence. You can’t keep the money in cash, there being no honor among thieves … present company perhaps excepted.’
I made a back-and-forth ‘could be’ gesture with my hand.
‘First, you want a bank that doesn’t ask too many questions. Rubles or bitcoin, it doesn’t matter, money isn’t real until it’s in dollars, pounds or euros.’
‘Deutsche Bank a few years ago,’ I suggested. ‘Or let’s say the AZX Bank. But you want it in and out fast.’
‘Purely as an example, let’s say that,’ she allowed. ‘You form some shell corporations, they each have a bank account, and you start depositing your ill-gotten gains into those accounts. The bank then pushes your money out to, let’s call it the ABC company, a shell corporation in the Bahamas or Caymans or wherever. Of course you own that shell corporation, too, by way of various other shell corps. ABC invests in real estate and local politicians, the real estate transactions confuse the picture further because never forget, money laundering is all about Three Card Monte. Where’s the money? Not under this cup or that cup. From there on you have apparently legitimate money from this ABC corporation and you can spend that money in Los Angeles or London or Paris. The money started out as dirty rubles and turned into clean dollars in a nice, safe, overseas bank with strict bank privacy laws. If the Russian version of the IRS asks how you paid for that yacht you’re driving around the Black Sea, you say ‘from the ABC corporation of the Bahamas.’ You pay just enough taxes and you’re an upstanding citizen. There are dozens of variations. But that’s the basic.’
‘The banks take a cut.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Whoever is providing protection in Russia gets a cut.’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t get why we need to drag kids into it,’ I said. ‘If you’re some Russian oligarch or mob guy or both looking to get money out of Russia and into the west, why the human trafficking?’
‘That is the question. We have pieces.’ She held up a chunk of melon as a visual aid. ‘We do not have a whole.’
EIGHTEEN
Delia went back to her hotel to face police questions about the extraordinary elevator ride – the cops were questioning all hotel guests. She would spin them a tale of knowing and seeing nothing. They might bother to run a make on her, but probably wouldn’t.
If they did, they’d see she was FBI, which would mean she’d lied to them, but then again: FBI. The Cypriots might be mad, but not enough to get into a pissing match with the Bureau.
Did the hotel have video in their lobby and hallways? Would the cops be able to connect Delia to me? And the me on the video to the me currently worrying about it?
I scrolled back through every memory of Delia’s hotel. Had there been CCTV? I sure hadn’t felt it, and my instincts were generally good. So, maybe it would be nothing but eyewitness testimony – bad enough, but given the confusion that sensible people tend to feel when locked in an elevator with a stabby Russian, perhaps not fatal. At least not fatal in terms of evidence available to a random cop. But to Kiriakou? He would know, and if he was bent he might not care too much about the solidity of his evidence.
I checked my locks and managed a couple hours of actual work, not first draft stuff, that takes more focus than I was capable of. But I can copy-edit in a coma, so I did that and cleaned up a fuzzy sentence here and cut a superfluous paragraph there.
It made me feel good. Normal. I like to work.
The day was getting on toward noon when Chante broke in and snuck up behind me in an attempt to kill me by inducing a heart attack. At least that was a perfectly plausible story I could absolutely tell the cops if I decided to bring charges.
Unlikely.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I said after spinning the chair and rising into a fighting stance. If by ‘fighting stance’ you mean feet tangled in the legs of an overturned chair and fists raised like some Victorian-era poster of John L. Sullivan. It was almost a pity it wasn’t Bristle, he’d have laughed himself to death.
Chante stared at whatever she saw two inches to the right of my eyes and said, ‘I come to you with a problem.’
Oh, you’ve got a damn problem, all right, you rude, inconsiderate, graceless creature. In fact, I barely know you and yet I could start a top ten-list of your problems. I did not say.
‘You realize that just because you have a key …’ I started, then saw she wasn’t listening. So I said, ‘I’m getting coffee.’
‘I will take one.’
A Sudden Death in Cyprus Page 15