The double doors at the back were already open. He skipped up into the cargo area and carefully deposited the antenna onto the floor. He secured it with a tie-down so it wouldn’t fly around.
As he stepped out of the back of the van and closed the doors, he was busy searching for the keys in his pocket. He barely noticed the brief red flicker of the laser-guided broad head as it rocketed toward him. In less time than it took to blink, the rotating razor-sharp edges at the arrow’s tip tore into the center of his chest. The momentum of the arrow carried it through his body as the glowing tip just missed his spine and came out his back. Skewered like a piece of meat, he dropped to the ground like a sack of flour. All of it without a sound, the difference between Ana and the people who abused her equipment.
She moved quickly across the graveled pavement behind the building. She looked in the back of the van and quickly realized that only part of the equipment was there, the antenna and some cable.
By the time she reached the man on the ground, the muscles in his legs were still twitching. A froth of bloody bubbles emerged from the corner of his mouth carried on a shallow breath. He was still alive, but he wouldn’t be for long.
She laid the bow on the ground and got up close to his face. “Where’s the rest of it? The box with the computer?” She grabbed him by the hair and pulled his face up to hers so he could see her in the darkness. “Is it up on the roof?”
She realized he couldn’t speak and watched as the life went out of his eyes.
Agirre took a deep breath and then allowed the man’s head to settle back onto the ground. She reached around behind him with gloved fingers and quickly unscrewed the broad tip of the arrow from its shaft. She examined it to make sure that no part of the razor’s steel had broken off to become embedded in the wound.
Ana then dropped the arrow’s tip into a small plastic bag and slipped this into her coat pocket. Then with enough force to raise his back off the ground, she stood and pulled the fletch end of the shaft with both hands until it slipped from his body. She made no effort to wipe the streaks of blood from the shaft on his coveralls. She wanted no telltale signs offering any clue as to what had killed him.
The rotating flared razors on the tip of the arrow would have made a massive wound obliterating any pathologic evidence as to its cause. The frayed threads of cloth where the arrow had pierced the coveralls, front and back, might offer a hint to a bow hunter. But most pathologists were used to dealing with gunshot and stab wounds, where they would collect ballistic evidence or measure the shape and depth of a knife wound looking for toolmarks on bone. In this case they might venture a guess, but there was nothing left behind from which to form any real conclusion, no toolmarks or ballistics that could be matched to a weapon.
By morning, the removable razor edges of the broad head would be dancing in the sandy surf beneath the ocean off the end of some pier. The wooden shaft would be burned. The light compound takedown bow would be reduced to its three component parts and slid back into their plastic tube, less than a foot in length. Checked with other luggage at the airport, it had cleared both security and customs coming from France, as had the arrows after they were reduced to pieces to be assembled on arrival.
Ana found the keys to the van on the ground next to the dead man’s left hand. First she climbed up onto the roof of the building where she had seen him coming down. There was nothing there.
She had arrived at the corner of the building just in time to see the first man jump into the car and drive away.
There was no sign of the large steel case. Maybe he had put it up in the front seat. She picked the bow up off the ground and went around the vehicle toward the driver’s-side door. When she opened it, her heart missed a beat. There was no sign of the box, the computer, or the one-of-a-kind software inside it, items that she feared could be traced back to its makers, and from them to her.
By lowering the front passenger seat of her rental car, Ana was able to load the antenna, cable, and tripod into the vehicle. She would rent a storage locker to stash the stuff until she could find the rest.
SIXTEEN
The ragtop on my old Jeep is singed and the passenger-side Mylar window is partially melted from the heat of the blast. Whatever took control of the flashy high-end car that carried Ben to her death, it was clear from what I saw that her boyfriend who was driving was helpless. The fact that Alex was unconscious, and from everything we know couldn’t operate a car in his condition, raises the obvious question: Was Serna killed in the same way? Was Alex just the passenger payload in a guided missile?
My ears are still ringing as Herman and I settle into two high-back wicker plantation chairs on the patio behind Norman Ives’s home. It is on a bluff overlooking the Pacific in La Jolla.
Herman and I didn’t waste time going back to the office following the inferno near the airport. Instead, we drove directly here. I called ahead and then phoned Harry and asked him to meet us. He is on his way. It is time to pick up the pieces and regroup.
Norman and Sharon Ives are Alex’s parents. It is in their house, a stately white Dutch gambrel-style home on an acre of manicured grounds high on a bluff over the ocean, that Alex has been staying since his release on bail. A large oval pool in the backyard, the reflection of its submerged lights dancing in the trees overhead, offers the illusion of an oasis. Beyond the yard, off in the distance, a few dotted points of light mark the dark horizon, boats at sea on a moonless night.
Sharon Ives offers us a drink, iced tea. We decline. Norman offers something stronger and Herman takes a scotch on the rocks. Herman’s hand seems to be shaking, a slight palsy, the effect, I suspect, of the blast. I fill them in. Harry arrives and I replay the revolving tape of the evening’s grisly events for him.
Any hope of evidence that might cause the D.A. to drop the charges against Alex Ives went up in flames with the girl named Ben. I can still see her eyes, the aspect of her face as I stare down at the intricate woven surface of the rattan coffee table around which we are all now huddled.
“I don’t understand. Why can’t you just tell them what she told you?” Sharon Ives doesn’t get it.
“Whatever she told us is hearsay,” I explain, “inadmissible in a court of law. Besides, it’s not likely that the prosecutor would take our word for it.”
“We needed her,” says Herman.
“A writing would have helped,” says Harry.
I talk to Alex about the little bits and pieces I got from the girl before she died, the silver-handled cane with the bird on it, the description of the man, gray hair, sixty to sixty-five, well dressed, wearing a suit. “Could be anybody,” he says, “but it rings no bells.” Not until I mention the name Becket, the man whose table he was supposed to be seated at the night of the party. “That was it. I remember now,” says Alex. “Becket. But I never needed it because no one asked.”
“So where do we go from here?” Norman, Alex’s dad, asks the question.
“That’s the problem,” I tell him. “After what happened tonight, our biggest dilemma is no longer a legal issue. We must now be concerned for your son’s safety.”
“What do you mean?” With this, I have Mother Ives’s undivided attention.
“It pains me to tell you this, but whoever killed the girl probably wants to kill your son,” I say.
“I think you’re being overly dramatic,” says Alex.
“Bullshit,” says Harry.
Sharon Ives looks at Harry as if he has just defecated on her best china.
“You can double that for me,” says Herman.
“Only reason you’re alive is some Good Samaritan pulled you from the flames the first time,” says Harry.
“Why would someone want to kill Alex?” she asks.
“You better ask your son,” I tell her.
She looks at him. “Alex, tell me! What have you gotten yourself involved in? I want to know, and I want to know now!”
“Mom!”
“Tell your moth
er!” Norman Ives piles on. “Son, we need to know what’s going on if we’re going to be able to help you.”
Alex looks at me with an expression like I’ve ratted him out. “All right!” He’s had enough. Everybody, including his parents, beating on him, and now two murders. “I’ll tell you what I know,” he says. “Not that it’s going to do any good. I can’t see any connection. You have to promise not to tell anyone else.”
“Get him a drink,” says Harry. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”
Over Jameson on the rocks, the kid unloads what he knows. “A few years ago, if you remember, there were news stories about the Treasury Department, the IRS, and some offshore banks. Internal Revenue was cracking down on overseas banking. They were chasing US citizens who had money deposited in confidential offshore numbered accounts. One estimate was there was two hundred and fifty billion dollars in back taxes and penalties owed on what was hidden offshore. Pick a report and they’ll give you a different number,” says Alex. “Nobody knows for sure how much. According to the US politicians who were leading the charge, these people with the numbered accounts were dodging US taxes, either by shifting funds offshore before paying taxes or depositing income earned overseas and not reporting it.”
“I remember,” says Harry. “As I recall, the Swiss bankers were screaming that the fakers in Washington had them stretched out on the rack. The powers in D.C. were turning the screws. Threatening lawsuits.”
“To the Swiss, banking was a cornerstone industry, and confidentiality was its foundation. It was the principal reason many people banked with them, especially the wealthy,” says Alex. “In many cases these were not interest-bearing accounts. The well-heeled were often willing to deposit money and pay fees for privacy. Uncle Sam had fallen on hard times.”
“Not hard to see why,” says Harry. “Forty years of profligate spending by American politicians pissing away other people’s money had them searching cupboards for loose change.”
“Somebody suggested the idea of shaking down the overseas banks to get them to cough up the names of American taxpayers,” says Alex. “After all, most of these were foreign corporations, and Washington was wallowing in class warfare. Hating the rich was in vogue,” he says.
“And it wasn’t just civil lawsuits. Some of the European officers of these banks were threatened with criminal prosecution here in the United States. Charges that they had knowingly conspired to assist US customers to commit fraud and tax evasion. And our government had a big hammer. International wire transfers,” he says. “If you want to send money by wire to another country, something that is done daily by businesses around the world, many transactions require that you convert it into US dollars because the dollar is the world reserve currency. That means that these transactions have to go through the Federal Reserve System in New York. The US Treasury Department let it be known that overseas banks refusing to cooperate with the IRS by failing to disclose the identity of US account holders might have their wire transfers blocked by the Fed in the future. In effect, this could put foreign banks out of business.”
“T. R. said to carry a big stick, but nobody ever said anything about a cudgel,” says Harry. “Still, I guess if they owe the taxes.”
“That was true, as far as it went,” says Alex. “But then some strange things began happening. Stories started to crop up around Capitol Hill that the Treasury and the IRS were beginning to soften on the issue. Evidence started to surface that they were cutting deals, outlining a plan that wasn’t nearly as forceful as the words and accusations they were spouting in front of the cameras.”
“Pushback from foreign governments?” asks Harry.
Alex shakes his head. “There was that, but there was something more. We were told that identification of some accounts was being treated as out-of-bounds, off-limits. There was something called the ‘PEP Office’ that had been set up at one of the foreign banks that had a branch office in Washington. PEP, we were told, stood for ‘Politically Exposed Persons.’ These are people with power in public office. It’s one of the things banks look for as a red flag in terms of possible money laundering. Typically it involves third-world dictators who might be looting their national treasuries. But not always. It could also involve politicians from developed countries who have suddenly acquired funds offshore and they want to hide it in a numbered account.”
“Funds from where?” says Harry.
“That’s the question,” says Alex. “Nobody knows. What was more interesting was that when this information surfaced, that there might be US PEPs out there, politicians with numbered accounts, a lot of them seemed to lose interest in the offshore banking issue. Some of the people pounding loudest on the table suddenly got very quiet.”
“Your government at work for you,” says Harry.
“Go on,” I tell him.
“Because the Swiss banks were being hammered by the IRS and the Treasury Department, they decided to use a random selection method for picking several thousand US account holders at one bank headquartered in Switzerland. The identity of the account holders and the account information for the unlucky ones who were picked was to be turned over to the IRS for audit. The account numbers were to be drawn at random in hopes that the fear of exposure would force other Americans to come clean, file returns with the IRS, and avoid enforcement actions should their accounts be selected for audit. But according to Tory, a source working at the bank told him that there were a number of accounts that were never placed in the pool for selection.”
“Who told him this?”
“I don’t know. It happened on our first trip when we were in Switzerland. But I didn’t go to the meeting. He wanted to go alone.
“There’s more,” says Alex. “We were told there was a whistleblower, a man by the name of Rubin Betz. He had been arrested by the FBI for tax evasion and money laundering some years earlier. I can’t remember exactly when. He claimed he was being set up, that the government had built a case against him because they wanted to shut him up. At the time they arrested him, he worked for one of the offshore banks. I can’t remember which one.
“He claimed to have the goods on a number of powerful people, including some American politicians who he said held sizable numbered accounts in banks overseas, accounts that were never disclosed either to the IRS, to Treasury, or on public disclosure forms that are required to be filed under federal law. He said that these people were being allowed to skate while others were being hammered by the government.”
“Did you talk to this guy Betz personally?” I ask.
“No. That’s the thing. He’s in a federal penitentiary, maximum security. Bunking next to one of the ayatollahs who tried to blow up the World Trade Center before they knocked it down. That’s what I was told.”
Harry and I look at each other.
“For a white-collar crime, I’m told that this is unusual,” says Alex. “You’re both lawyers.” He looks over at Harry and me. “You tell me.”
“So if you didn’t talk to him, how do you know all this?” asks Harry.
“The only one Betz was allowed to see was his lawyer. So I talked to him.”
“And he told you all this?” I ask.
I can tell by the body language that Harry is already starting to discount this. Disgruntled lawyer who lost a case.
“He told me that he and Betz tried to cut a deal with the government. They made what you call a proffer. You know what that is?”
I nod.
“Betz and his lawyer supplied a list of names to the deputy US Attorney handling the case, names of people that the whistleblower, Rubin Betz, said held secret offshore accounts. This list went up the chain at Justice. I was told by the lawyer that some of these names you would recognize. Prominent people,” says Alex.
“Did he supply you with any of the names?” asks Harry. “This lawyer?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?” I ask.
“According to Betz’s lawyer
, the government not only refused to deal with them, they piled on more charges. They claimed that Betz was not dealing honestly and that he was withholding information from the government. The attorney admitted that his client was no choirboy. But he claimed he wasn’t withholding anything either. He said that the government used this as an excuse to put the man away. It also chilled anyone else with information from coming forward. It was almost as if they didn’t want to know. The lawyer said that Betz wasn’t dangerous. There was no history of violent crimes in his past, what the lawyer called mostly minor white-collar stuff. And no reason for maximum security. He said they charged Betz with things that they never charge in other cases. Stuff they always let slide, especially if you were willing to cooperate, which Betz was.”
“Lesser included offenses,” says Harry.
“I don’t know. Probably. All I know is that they threw the book at Betz,” says Ives.
“Prosecutorial discretion,” says Harry. “Government can do whatever it wants, kick the crap out of their political opponents while ignoring the crimes committed by their friends. Given the current political divide it could become the next national pastime.”
“Betz’s lawyer told me that at sentencing the government asked for a term of fifty years. Even the judge went ballistic. He sentenced him to twelve.”
“He must have done something,” says Harry. “Still, goes to show you, you never want to get crossways with the government.”
“This lawyer, do you have his name?” I ask.
“I do. But it won’t do you any good.”
“You mean he won’t talk to me?”
“He won’t talk to anybody,” says Ives. “He’s dead.”
“Don’t tell me . . . a traffic accident?” says Herman.
Ives shakes his head. “Plane crash,” he says. “About a year and a half ago. Just after his client went to prison. He owned a small private plane. They said it was a mechanical problem.”
“Alex, I want you to quit that job right now,” says his mother. “Who are these people you’ve gotten yourself involved with?”
The Enemy Inside Page 11