Once Gerda completed the repair, she set the chicken on its feet and watched as the bird experimented with its rejoined limb. After a few practice steps, it hobbled away, taking a direct path down the dusty dirt track toward the two-lane highway, drawn forward by whatever mysteries inspired such creatures.
THIRTEEN
Albion International, Zurich, Switzerland
Adrian Naff’s secretary, a smart young Austrian named Derek Müller, had the best damned posture of anyone Adrian had ever met. His spine was a steel rod, his chin always pulled in as if he were about to be inspected by a zealous drill sergeant. Derek was punctual, factual, direct, and to the point. One-word answers to ten-word questions. An air of utter calm and proper respect for the chain of command.
Best of all, the kid showed no hint of disdain for Adrian’s informality or his lax administrative skills. Adrian was a laissez-faire boss. He’d gotten that way after years of service in the mechanized ranks of the military, where blind loyalty was often blindly rewarded.
On numerous occasions, Adrian had invited Derek Müller to join him for a drink after work, and each time Derek declined, offering no excuse. Adrian would love to get the kid tipsy, see who was lurking beneath the starched oxford shirts and brutally creased trousers.
Derek was standing in Adrian’s office door. His brown hair had a healthy gleam and, as always, was perfectly parted.
“Still jet-lagged, sir?”
“Does it show?”
“You’ve got that foggy look in your eyes.”
“What’s up?”
“Miss Campos is here to see you, sir.”
“Show her in,” he said. “And remind me, what time’s my flight?”
“Four o’clock at Kloten. Your car will be downstairs in half an hour.”
Back from DC on Saturday evening, flying to Greece on Monday afternoon. This time to bodyguard one of the senior vice presidents who was giving a paper at a World Bank symposium on microfinance. Whatever the hell that was.
Adrian kept a packed suitcase in his office for such surprise outings. It happened with grim regularity, various vice presidents requesting Adrian’s own company on treks to unfriendly corners of the globe, often preferring the boss to the members of his top-flight security team.
Adrian knew he wasn’t in high demand because he was a charming seatmate. It was all about vanity. Traveling with the head of security as their personal bodyguard conferred a hint of prestige to a junior executive in the status-obsessed corporation. Though Adrian found the practice annoying, he played along, partly because he was a good soldier, but mainly because Julie Marie’s medications were costing more every month, and after the recent American election, some of her meds were no longer covered under Shelly’s health-care plan.
Lucia Campos slipped into Adrian’s office and asked if she could shut the door.
“Of course.”
She was a petite woman with jet-black hair boyishly cropped. She had obsidian eyes and narrow lips and the high, hard cheekbones of her Portuguese mother, who came on yearly visits to shop Zurich’s boutiques. Lucia wore a trim, gray pinstriped suit that was tailored to conceal the best features of her figure. Features that Adrian had gotten to know intimately last winter, when they’d shared an intense though brief affair. She’d cut it short, concerned that an interoffice relationship, while not formally forbidden, might compromise her ethical credibility. Lucia Campos was Albion International’s chief compliance watchdog, after all. Ethics were her life’s blood.
“I understand you’re on your way to the airport, so I’ll be quick.”
“As long as you like. Sit down, relax. You look jittery.”
“I didn’t know who else to speak to.”
“It’s good to see you. We might as well work on different continents lately. It’s been weeks.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” she said. “I try to keep my distance.”
“I understand.”
Though he didn’t. Not really. He’d relished their time together, thought it might grow into something richer. She was smart and had a quirky sense of humor and was a hell of a cook. Though a devout Catholic, she liked her wine and was boisterous and athletic in the bedroom. They’d shared a string of breathless nights, which Adrian occasionally recalled in exquisite detail.
“Look, I’m sorry to bother you with this. I shouldn’t be here.”
She took a seat in the leather wingback chair in the far corner, then came to her feet and began to pace in front of Adrian’s desk.
“Is it about work?”
“Yes.” She gave him a rueful smile. “These days everything is about work.”
From the inside of her jacket she withdrew a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Adrian. He laid the paper on his desk, smoothed out the creases, and looked it over. Her handwriting was elegant, the words formed with schoolgirl precision. But the two paragraphs were loaded with business-school gobbledygook and columns of numbers. The only phrase he recognized was one he’d encountered last week during his trip to DC.
“Dark pools,” he said. “I’ve heard of those.”
“That seems to be the cornerstone of this swindle.”
“Who’s getting swindled?”
“I don’t have a name. Not yet.”
“So all of this, these numbers, it’s, what, some kind of calculation?”
“You could call it that, yes. A calculation that doesn’t add up.”
“But that’s your job, isn’t it? To catch things that don’t add up?”
“That’s the accounting department. My job is to make sure everyone is following the rules. International banking regulations, the Third Basel Accord. Leverage ratio, liquidity requirements.” She halted, looked flustered. “I’m sorry. No one seems to know exactly what I do. Not even you. It’s difficult to explain to the uninitiated.”
“I’ve tried,” Adrian said. “Your job is impressively incomprehensible.”
“Okay. For one thing, in my world there’s something we call ‘tone at the top.’ What’s the message being sent throughout the corporate structure about complying with ethical and legal regulations? That message flows from the top down. That’s my greatest challenge in this company.”
“Let me guess,” Adrian said. “The tone coming from Lester is whatever you can get away with.”
She shook her head. “Worse than that. Aggressively worse.”
“And this?” Adrian tapped a finger on the sheet of figures.
“It seems to be the outline of a scam. Either it’s already in process, or it’s a plan about to be enacted. I can’t tell from what I’ve uncovered so far.”
“Where did you find this?”
“I have unrestricted access to all corporate transactions, past, present, and upcoming. I can look at what I choose. Top to bottom.”
“So what do you do with it?”
She sighed and shook her head and picked up the sheet of paper.
“I’m supposed to present items of this sort to Mr. Albion and Ms. Bixel. That’s my responsibility. To prevent them or any of their employees from committing ethical or regulatory lapses.”
“But this is more than a lapse?”
She nodded.
“So you’re not sure it’s wise to run it by them?”
“If, as I believe, this originates in Albion’s office or Bixel’s, showing it to them would be pointless.”
Naff leaned back in his chair, blew out a long sigh. This goddamn company was warping everyone who worked there, crushing the weak and gnawing away at the decent ones like Lucia. A soulless environment whose only guiding principle was maximizing profit.
“Adrian,” she said. “I’m afraid.”
“What? For your safety?”
“No, no. Not that. I’m afraid my work will be dismissed out of hand. Or that I’ll be dismissed. Either way, it’s the end for me.”
“So this is illegal. You’re sure of it?”
“It is worse than illegal,” she said. “
But yes, if this were exposed, certainly ESMA would prosecute. ESMA is the governing body for the EU, the organization that enforces the regulations, like the SEC in the United States. But I suspect this is more than financial wrongdoing. There’s another element here. This appears to be a crime against nature itself.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Do you know what a pathogen is?”
“It isn’t good, I know that much.”
“It’s a microorganism that can cause disease—a virus, bacterium.”
“I see,” Adrian said. “We’re talking about biology.”
She nodded.
Adrian sat up straighter. Not sure he wanted the answer, but he asked anyway.
“By any chance is this scam related to olive groves?”
“How in the world did you know that?”
“Biology,” he said, but didn’t have a chance to finish because that was the moment Larissa Bixel pushed open the door to Adrian’s office and stepped into the room. Derek Müller stood behind her, looming over her shoulder, giving Adrian a shrug of helpless apology.
Bixel stared at Lucia, at the paper in her hand, then to Adrian she said, “I need a minute with Mr. Naff. You may leave, Campos.”
When the door was shut behind her, Adrian spoke first: “Horst Schneider is checked in at the Baur au Lac, room 305. A very nice suite. He’s an interesting man, quite a conversationalist. He had some fascinating insights about Mr. Albion’s passion for weightlifting.”
“Never mind Schneider,” Bixel said. “Why was Campos in here?”
Bixel had changed out of her garish gym clothes and into a gray sweater and a shiny black bomber jacket. Her trousers were charcoal, and her boots were made from animal hide that matched the jacket. Some unlucky beast had been snatched from its pastoral life so Larissa Bixel could look tough and trendy.
“Lucia and I were having a conversation.”
“About what?”
“Personal matters.”
“Are you entangled with the woman again?”
“Entangled?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Not that my personal life is any of your business, but no, Lucia and I are not entangled.”
“But you were.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“There’s little that goes on in this building I’m unaware of.”
“Ms. Campos and I are not involved.”
With a skeptical squint, Bixel digested that, then glanced around Adrian’s office as if searching for damning evidence against him. She wouldn’t find much. No photos, no knickknacks, no decorations of any sort. As barren as a monk’s cell, which is exactly the way Adrian liked it. Purely functional and colorless. No way anyone could draw conclusions about Adrian’s life beyond these walls.
“Can I help you with something, ma’am?”
Bixel drew a deep breath, expelled it, and said, “Come to my office. I want to discuss a matter with you.”
“What’s wrong with right here?”
“Five minutes, in my office.” She turned and left.
Adrian dallied at his desk for fifteen minutes, a childish show of disrespect, then walked past the elevator and climbed the four flights up to Bixel’s suite. It was three times the size of his own office, with far better furniture and a sweeping view of Zurich’s orderly skyline. Her teak desk alone would have consumed Adrian’s entire floor space.
Hanging prominently on one wall were several photos of her daughter, Gerda. Adrian had never paid much attention to the photos before, but while Bixel ignored his presence, busying herself with signing a stack of documents, Adrian studied the ones closest to him.
In a couple of them, Gerda was eight or nine, wearing a sparkly bodysuit. She was waving one of those long brightly colored ribbons in a snaking figure eight that seemed to wrap around her body. She’d been a stocky child, built like her mother, not the lithe physique Adrian associated with gymnasts.
“That’s how she began.” Bixel had moved to his shoulder as silent and swift as a snake through wet grass. “It’s called rhythmic gymnastics. It’s women only, a floor exercise. They perform with ropes, hoops, balls, clubs. Gerda preferred ribbons, as you can see.”
Adrian said, “She started early.”
“She loved the ribbons, but floor work didn’t suit her—too much emphasis on gracefulness and delicacy. All that silliness.”
“So she switched to track and field.”
“Correct. High jump, at which she excelled. Then her coach persuaded her to try the decathlon. I resisted it, but I have to admit he was correct in his appraisal of her prowess.”
“Silver medal, yeah, that’s some prowess.” Adrian moved past Bixel to look at the awards-ceremony photograph. Gerda was glowering up at the woman one podium step above her.
“My daughter is a highly gifted individual. She deserves only the finest that life has to offer.”
“Every parent’s belief,” Adrian said.
“Perhaps,” Bixel said. “But not every parent has a child as exceptional as Gerda. She will marry a wealthy man, a man who can provide the best life has to offer. She has earned it.”
It seemed an odd tangent for Bixel. More personal, more revealing than she ordinarily was.
“Have you ever been poor, Mr. Naff?”
“I’ve never been anything else.”
“Poverty can turn people into animals. My daughter and I have firsthand knowledge of that intolerable disorder. Never again for either of us.”
Adrian drifted away from the wall of photographs. The display of Gerda’s transformation from a light-footed, girlish dancer whirling her ribbon to a brawny marvel of German industrial-strength coaching was making him irritable. He was picturing Julie Marie, her thick eyeglasses, her limp legs, her wheelchair, her resolute smile. Don’t pity me, that smile said. I’m doing fine.
“Mr. Albion has a problem and needs your assistance,” Bixel said. “He’s running a surveillance operation on an individual, and Mr. Albion’s personal tracker has lost contact with the target.”
“A surveillance operation I’m not aware of?”
“It’s a private matter,” Bixel said. “Let’s leave it at that.”
Adrian waited, trying to maintain his poker face.
“As a result of this loss of contact, Mr. Albion needs to know the name of a specialist on our tech team with the capability of tracking the whereabouts of a particular cell phone signal.”
Bixel’s eyes had grown twitchy. Her glance was skittering around the room, as if searching for a safe place to land. Bixel had an aversion to eye contact, but today’s jumpiness seemed of a higher order.
“Sure, I have someone who can handle that,” Adrian said.
Bixel moved back to her desk and took a seat in the large padded chair. She looked down at the stack of papers before her. “And who is that person, Adrian? His name, please.”
“Who’s being tailed? Tell me that first.”
“As I said, it’s a private matter and doesn’t concern you or the security team. That’s all I can share. If you’re unwilling to assist me, tell me now. But I must caution you, Naff, Mr. Albion has no patience left for your insolence. You wouldn’t want him to reconsider your future with the organization.”
Later, when Naff reflected on that moment, his hesitation seemed to stretch out for several minutes as he considered walking out of Bixel’s office and exiting the building for good, weighing all he had to lose or gain in continuing to work for Albion International, along with all he had already lost and gained in this lucrative, miserable job that was sapping his moral integrity.
Julie Marie also flashed into his mind, along with the meds that eased her muscle contractions and slowed the progress of her condition. Surely his daughter’s welfare alone outweighed all other considerations.
But in fact, his hesitation probably only lasted a second or two, and it was only later that he would assign to that moment any level of deliberation. The simple fa
ct was that Adrian wanted to know what the hell was going on, if only for Harper McDaniel’s sake, and the best way to accomplish that was to stay in the game a little longer.
“Jennifer Dowdy,” Adrian said. “She’s in the computer lab. I’m sure she can pinpoint a particular cell phone’s GPS coordinates. Though I’m not sure that’s legal.”
Bixel dismissed his concern with a backhanded wave.
“Of course, Jennifer would need the number for that cell phone. And an approximate location would be helpful. At least the right country.”
“I believe that shouldn’t be a problem,” Bixel said. “Thank you, Naff. You’re free to go.”
In the hallway outside Bixel’s suite, Adrian drew his cell phone from his pocket and called Jennifer Dowdy’s extension to alert her to what was headed her way and to make sure she texted Adrian the cell phone’s coordinates and the name attached to the account as soon as she had them.
FOURTEEN
Castillo de Aranjuez, Canena, Spain
“You can shut off the map,” Nick said. “I know my way from here.”
As twilight settled and the car grew silent, Harper set Nick’s phone aside and turned her attention to the Leica. If she waited much longer, the thugs’ blood and tissue would harden and might be impossible to fully remove.
She drew the cleaning kit from her camera bag, unscrewed the camera’s lens, unfastened the eyepiece and the battery pack, and set them on the seat beside her. With the microfiber cloth, she wiped away the larger streaks of blood and specks of tissue. Then she dampened a cotton swab with the cleaning solution and began to work on the corners and crevices of the outer body.
The two men, Ángel and his partner, would require stitches. She’d gashed them badly. Without a doubt, Marco would’ve accused her of excessive force. She’d gone further than she should have, a few punches too many, unnecessary head slams. She’d lost control, let her emotions overrule her training.
She wiped down the lens mount, dampened another swab, and cleaned the viewfinder, followed by the battery terminals, flash contacts, and eyepiece. Using the rubber bulb blower, she squeezed out several puffs of air to clear away loose particles inside the camera. With a light touch, she wiped the mirror clean and caught a refracted glimpse of her face. Taut and tired, not herself, an anxious strain in her eyes.
When You Can't Stop (Harper McDaniel Book 2) Page 10