Graves’s stare suggested him trying to decide whether to take a chance on St. James.
“Cameron is the CEO, I take it?”
Graves nodded. “Yes. Cameron Anderson. Bit of a salesman, as you will see. Overconfident. Puts a spin on everything.”
“Do all board members know you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“Are they fully supportive of this ‘review,’ as you call it?”
Graves shrugged. “All but one.”
St. James’s body stiffened.
Graves brushed lint from his suitcoat. “There are nine directors, including the chief executive officer. One director, David Blakie, a friend of Cameron’s, believes this is a witch hunt on my part. Complete waste of time and money.”
“Is it?”
“Is it what?”
“A witch hunt.”
“Certainly not!” Graves replied as if St. James meant to insult.
Sensitive. St. James managed not to smile.
Graves said, “You will likely interview the board as part of your mandate. You can ask their perception of my motives then. All but Blakie’s will be positive, I’m sure.”
St. James scribbled notes. Graves noticed St. James was left-handed. “Very well. When does this have to be done?”
“We want you to start as soon as you are interviewed by the board.”
St. James looked slightly startled for a second time.
Graves broke into a broad grin, his first since the meeting began.
“I see you are not used to being scrutinized, Hamilton,” he said.
St. James smiled. “On the contrary, Nelson, it happens every time I am engaged … but usually before, not after.”
Graves’s face clouded and he cleared his throat. “What about cost? How expensive is this likely to be?”
“I have a standard contract, which I’ll prepare and email to you. The fee is $5,000 US per day, plus out-of-pocket expenses, billed on the last day of each month, payable on the fifteenth of the following.”
Graves’s face tightened. “Your fee could be quite substantial at those rates. Can we not agree on a fixed fee?”
St. James grimaced. “Absolutely not! I don’t know how long the assignment will take, nor what I might find, or what cooperation I may receive. I will not rush my work to shoehorn it into an arbitrary fee,” he said forcefully.
Graves’s forehead rose, and his face reddened. “I’m not used to such open-ended arrangements. Why, it’s like writing a blank cheque.”
St. James frowned and rested both elbows on the desk. “Yes, it is like writing a blank cheque,” he said sternly, staring straight into Graves’s eyes. “But you’re the one with the problem. You want special expertise, not a commodity. Yet, you expect commodity rates.” St. James leaned back in his chair. “In any case, I am not in the habit of compromising on my fees.”
Graves looked pained.
St. James ignored the expression and said, “I am well known for what I do, Nelson, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. If Cameron hasn’t heard of me, he’ll google my name. Then he’s not going to believe the management review is legitimate. Simple as that.”
Graves frowned. His tone was authoritative: “You’re very sure of yourself, Hamilton. I hope you’re as good as Dunlop says you are. I hope I won’t be sorry I trusted you with this delicate matter.”
St. James leaned forward again. “I assure you you’ll not be sorry, Nelson. Even if there are no issues, you’ll at least have the benefit of knowing one way or the other.”
Graves shrugged as if he had no choice. And he didn’t. St. James knew it. And Graves knew it. Graves’s board would expect him to negotiate fees. But St. James was having no part of it.
Graves cleared his throat again. “Do you actually have time to do this? That is, do you have other cases that would interfere with this project?”
“I have one other case on the go right now, an investigation into a possible fraud in Washington. It takes priority for the next couple of weeks. Then I’ll be free to devote time to CISI.”
Graves’s grin was feeble. “I should think there would be many fraud cases in Washington.”
St. James ignored the attempt at humour.
Graves abruptly stood, signalling an end to the meeting.
“My executive assistant will send you possible dates for the board meeting. I suggest you be well prepared.”
St. James nodded and the two shook hands.
As Graves left, St. James leaned against the doorjamb watching the short figure walk the brightly lit white hall toward a bank of elevators at the far end. He imagined Graves thinking he shouldn’t have come to Ottawa to engage a man he couldn’t control. For a moment St. James wondered if he really wanted this mandate. Something felt off.
After Graves left his office St. James walked his usual route to the Duck for a Bass fix. Anna was not on duty. Grabbing a table close to the bar he yelled to Gunther for a pint. Beer in hand, he opened his laptop, double-clicked on a file labelled ”Standard Engagement Letter,” then fished Graves’s card from a pocket and typed CISI’s information in the appropriate spaces.
For a long moment he watched traffic build on Clarence. Cars backed up, waiting to climb a deteriorating multi-floor parking garage, prevented other vehicles from passing through to Sussex.
St. James leaned back in the chair, running fingers through his hair, contemplating a ten per cent success fee for CISI. Smiling faintly as he rejected the idea.
$5,000 a day was frightening enough for poor old Nelson.
After guzzling the last of the Bass, he placed the empty glass on the time-worn table and carefully proofed the CISI engagement agreement. Once satisfied he slid the cursor over send and the contract headed off into cyberspace.
Chapter 8
Ten o’clock Saturday morning St. James’s cell vibrated, Smythe’s number on the call display.
“Hamilton, it’s Louis,” he said, sounding quite pleased.
“What’s up, Louis?” St. James said cheerfully.
“Entering the whole first section of the code in the new probability software draws a complete blank,” Smythe said.
St. James’s cheerfulness quickly evaporated. “So, what do we do now?”
“Well, after I put the first section through every search option with no result, I considered sections within the section.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Do you have the code with you?”
St. James pulled the code from a pocket and smoothed it out on the coffee table.
“Got it.”
“You see the first letter is ‘g’ followed by a comma and the last letter is ‘j’ with a comma preceding it.”
“Yes, I see that,” St. James said, running a finger across the paper.
“In between are seven letters plus the number 1 with no punctuation. I considered the middle part may mean something on its own, without the first and last letters.”
“Go on,” said St. James slowly.
“So I carved out the seven-letter middle section plus the 1 and ran that through search engines and databases.”
“And ...”
“It comes up as the transfer code for the Cayman National Bank.”
“How do you know?”
“It matches the bank’s SWIFT code.”
“What the hell’s a SWIFT code?”
Smythe lowered his voice to emphasize an incoming jab. “And you call yourself a knowledgeable investigator.”
St. James ignored the poke.
Smythe let it go. “SWIFT stands for Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication. It’s an organization that provides registration codes for country-to-country, bank-to-bank wire transactions.
“SWIFT codes consist of letters and numbers to identify where money is going. If you break down ‘cnbtkyk1’, the first four letters represent the bank; ‘cnbt’ is the symbol for the Cayman National Bank Ltd. The next two letters, ‘ky’, represent the country
code, which of course, in this case, is Cayman. The next two, ‘k1’, is the bank location code within the country. Usually there’s an additional three digits on the end to identify which branch receives the transfer. That was left out for some reason. It’s possible this section is the first part of a wire transfer to Cayman.”
“Hmm, could make sense, but with legislated bank reporting how can money be transferred without a trace?”
“Don’t know the answer to that, man.”
“So, what could ‘g’ and ‘j’ mean?” St. James said.
“Don’t know that either. All I know is when you include those two letters and search the total section as one piece, it doesn’t mention a SWIFT code for Cayman. That tells me the letters ‘g’ and ‘j’ have nothing to do with the bank itself.”
“Hmm. Good work, Louis,” St. James said encouragingly. “Keep at it.”
He spent the morning in the study filing and tidying papers. He went into the kitchen, made a ham sandwich, pulled a club soda from the fridge, and settled on an island stool to have lunch. At two he went for a stroll in the Market. It was 3:00 when he returned to the condo, just in time for a second call from Smythe.
Smythe launched into his work without so much as a “Hello.”
“Since section one identifies the Cayman National Bank, I thought section two might reflect some sort of bank transaction. Maybe a transfer initiated by the crooks. Maybe where the $23 million ended up,” Smythe said in an upbeat tone.
“So I called the Bank to ask how the transfer process worked. Explained we worked for Global, chasing stolen funds. I spoke with a lady named Antoinette who schooled me on privacy rules. Painful, but I made it through. I wasn’t allowed to ask questions about particular accounts or real customers. She used fictitious information to explain how things worked. Made-up names, account numbers, and events to walk me through the system.
She said each transaction from one bank to another had its own identification number. That’s how they track funds.”
“Are they made up of a certain number of characters?”
“Antoinette says typically three letters followed by nine digits. The first three letters identify the country banking system originating the transaction. Second part is a nine-digit number identifying the transaction itself.
“To find out whether Stevens’s code contained a transaction ID, I slowly read out each section and asked her to see if any part was an ID. When I got to the end of the second section she interrupted. That’s a transaction ID right there, she said. Which part, I asked. She said, ABA#021000089. Three letters followed by nine digits.”
“So what does that give us?” St. James said anxiously.
“ABA stands for American Bankers Association. It’s a transfer of funds from a United States bank to the Cayman National Bank.”
“Do we know whose account?”
“No. Confidential. Antoinette wouldn’t budge on that.”
“Do we know if the transaction actually took place?”
“No. All we know is the code contemplated one taking place. Not that it actually did.”
St. James was silent for a long moment. “Well, where do we go from here?”
“I saved the best for last.” St. James heard a smile in Smythe’s voice.
“Well?”
“Antoinette confirmed the numbers following the transaction ID are an actual account number! 012-67141 is eight digits.”
St. James’s spirits suddenly picked up. “Now we’re getting somewhere! So what does the last part of section two mean? The ‘co-na-csprite1’.”
“Haven’t a bloody clue.”
Chapter 9
Monday morning St. James considered spending Wednesday and Thursday in Washington reviewing police files a second time.
Before making arrangements he emailed Jason Williamson, the detective in charge of the Stevens case, asking if files could be made available tomorrow. He copied in FBI Inspector Slate, who’d be in charge if Stevens was kidnapped. FBI jurisdiction. Jason would be in charge if it was theft. And Jason was operating on the assumption Stevens did steal the money. In the meantime Slate remained on standby, prepared to move at a moment’s notice.
Slate replied, inviting St. James to dinner the next evening if meetings with Williamson were confirmed. Jason responded a half hour later, saying files would be available as well as an office to use while St. James was in Washington. Jason would be in meetings most of Wednesday but would have time for St. James on Thursday morning.
Satisfied the timing would work St. James fired up his laptop and booked a flight to Washington. Satisfactory arrangements made, he confirmed dinner with Slate.
Wednesday morning’s flight was twenty minutes late, with low fog blanketing the Ottawa airport. But St. James still made it to First District Division on M Street shortly after 10:00.
The inside of the rectangular three-story brick building reminded St. James of RCMP headquarters, with officers busily chasing down leads, searching databases, and running GPS traces on persons of interest.
He was escorted to an office designated for visiting police by a short bald overweight office manager chewing tobacco and wearing clothes St. James thought could have been made in the 1950s.
The Stevens files were packed in three boxes stacked one atop the other on the floor of the office. He helped himself to coffee from a machine down the hall and settled into a space slightly smaller than his university office.
St. James pulled the top box down, flipped open the lid and found a small white plastic box containing pictures of Stevens’s office and computer. He looked closely at each one, trying to spot anything he might have missed the first time around, noting the neatness of Stevens’s desk and office surroundings, but not much else.
Next St. James studied interview notes Jason and his partner had made, reading each page carefully, once again looking for information he may have overlooked during his first trip to Washington.
Approximately fifteen people had been interviewed, including the firm’s chairman, Nathan Strong. Detailed interview notes for cleaning staff and accountants came next. Then Stevens’s wife, Beth, and their two daughters, Sandra and Emily. Normal procedure. Standard questions. Nothing of interest, except that the notes for Beth Stevens had a line scribbled in the margin in Jason’s handwriting: marriage in serious trouble.
Memories of his interview with Beth flashed before St. James’s eyes. He thought the woman had to be bipolar. One minute she was morose, pleasant the next, angry the one after that. A very awkward and difficult interview. But Beth did manage to confirm all Stevens’s clothes were accounted for. No suitcases were missing, and his passport was still in the basement safe.
No one interviewed noticed a change in Stevens prior to his disappearance. No clues in his desk. No strange pattern of travel leading up to the crime date. No unusual charges on credit cards or suspicious telephone calls.
“Just as I remembered,” St. James said aloud.
Rummaging to the bottom of the box, he found the registration for a Mercedes Benz S550 4matic he hadn’t seen the first time. He compared the license plate and serial number to the code, but no combination or permutation of numbers or letters matched.
Then he pulled a file labelled “Bank Statements.” Jason’s people would have traced every bank transaction for a year prior to the crime date, looking for unusual transfers between Stevens and third parties. But St. James had to see for himself. He ran a finger down each page. Nothing suspicious or unusual jumped out. Not even one small transaction with the Cayman National Bank. No notes concerning SWIFT codes, transaction IDs, or account numbers. Everything seemed to be what would be considered normal business.
He pulled a file labelled “Miscellaneous.” Police often filed unidentifiable or seemingly irrelevant documents under miscellaneous, with no other logical place for them at the time. St. James paid close attention because documents discovered later could render those in Miscellaneous very relevant, helping to
support or refute a theory.
The first thing he came across was a shareholder agreement between a company called LTC Holdings Inc. and Jensen Holdings Inc. Behind the document was an email from Jensen, dated a week before the shareholder agreement was signed, instructing Stevens to transfer $50,000 to LTC Holdings’s lawyer. Since Jensen was in the business of investing in real estate St. James considered this to be normal activity. In other words, not suspicious, on the face of it, anyway.
The next file was labelled “Investments”; it consisted of ten to twenty emails written to Stevens by Jensen instructing him to make similar transfers to various privately held companies in exchange for common shares. Amounts varied, but most related to nursing and retirement homes. Also familiar from St. James’s first visit.
“Nothing new here,” he grumbled.
The next file contained Jensen’s investment plan, outlining demographics and the shortage of retirement homes to accommodate the elderly baby boomers. There was money to be made building new homes.
Makes sense with aging baby boomers.
Three hours behind an undersized desk in the small office was causing cramping in St. James’s long legs and a feeling of claustrophobia. He decided to walk to the hotel for fresh air, to clear his head, and to check in.
He grabbed the oversized duffle he had brought that morning and headed out. The day had grown cold and quite windy since he’d landed at Dulles International. The skies were overcast, yet a sliver of sun struggled to poke through east of the city.
Traffic crawled, making it difficult for drivers to make time. Sidewalks were crammed, people rushing to do whatever they needed to do that day.
Minutes later St. James arrived at the hotel on 1st where he had reserved a room. He checked in and made his way to his fourth-floor room to freshen up.
Smythe was taking a long time to break the Stevens code and St. James was feeling the weight. He needed to know what the jumbled letters and numbers meant in order to make further progress. So far he’d found no evidence Stevens had ever been to Cayman. No airline, hotel, or restaurant credit card charges, not even a single phone call to the island nation.
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