by Lee Vance
Thirty minutes of tedious cross-referencing establishes the basics. The pages are trade records, from the perspective of Turndale and five clients. About half the purchase and sale activity is in ruble-denominated Russian securities, and the other half consists of foreign-exchange trades, mainly euros against the dollar. I set the foreign-exchange trades aside for the moment, deciding to concentrate on the securities first. A separate page identifies the traded securities by ISIN and lists daily settlement prices over a fourteen-month period, ending in August. The trade and price records link to running position and portfolio value reports aggregated by client. There’s too much going on for me to immediately discern anything beyond the basic fact that Turndale seemed to be making money. Fortunately, Andrei also linked all the trading activity to a series of pages detailing the underlying money movements. A frenetic Australian professor taught me the rudiments of forensic accounting at business school, his first and foremost rule to always follow the cash.
I’ve barely begun on the cash when I notice an odd and ominous inconsistency. The trading records cover Turndale and five clients. Hence, money should be moving among six bank accounts. I count a second time, knowing I haven’t made a mistake. There’s cash flowing among seven accounts. My accounting professor taught us a unit on fraud, opening with the story of a supermarket chain that was consistently losing 10 percent of their sales in a particular store to theft. Only after wasting significant time and money on detectives and security cameras did they turn to their accountant for help. The accountant toured the premises and immediately noticed that while the manager had been submitting receipts for nine cash registers every day, there were ten registers in the store. The moral, according to my former professor, was that all fraud is obvious once you’ve admitted the possibility. I lift my pen again with a sense of dread, fearful of what I’m about to learn.
A muted cough from the dark stacks to my rear startles me out of grim reverie some hours later. Turning my head, I see Mr. Rozier approaching with a white ceramic mug in his hand.
“You’ve been down here quite a while,” he says, setting the mug in front of me. Faded gold letters on the side spell out World’s Greatest Grandfather. “I thought you might like some fresh coffee.”
“Thanks.”
I lean back in my chair and rub my face with both hands, careful to avoid my bruise. It’s dusk already, a flickering streetlight visible through the ground-level window overhead. My neck aches as I twist my head from side to side, trying to work some of the tension out of my back and shoulders.
“You look tired,” he says, sounding concerned. “Maybe you should take a break, get something to eat.”
“I’m almost done here. I’ve just got to figure out one more thing.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Maybe,” I reply, looking up at him. “Was Tolstoy or anyone from his school of thought ever known as the ‘good father’?”
“Not that I know of,” he says, his eyebrows lifting. “Why?”
“I’m trying to log in to an account on a French-language Web site, but the system’s demanding the answer to a secondary security question.” I tilt the computer monitor upward so he can see it, touching the screen with a finger. “Here. This phrase translates as ‘Enter your private word,’ and then when you click on the button next to it, the system gives you a hint.”
“ ‘Bon papa,’ ” he says, the accent I noticed earlier more pronounced as he reads from the screen.
“You speak French?”
“After a fashion,” he says, still studying the monitor. “I was born in Haiti and grew up speaking Creole. When real French people hear me speak, they cover their ears and moan.” He raises his hands and mimes a grimace of cultural pain. I give him a tired grin, but the mirth’s already fading from his expression. “You’re trying to log in to an account at a Luxembourg bank. Why?”
It’s the seventh account, the one that’s destroyed my faith in Andrei. Turndale and their counterparts were buying and selling securities furiously, but somehow all the cash ended up in Luxembourg. Andrei had pasted in the electronic statements for the account through August, and it was clear who the beneficiary was. The trip he’d taken to Rome, the last time we saw each other, had been paid for with a debit card linked to the Luxembourg account.
“I’m looking for an old friend,” I reply, choosing my words carefully. “The fellow who owns the Tolstoy book. If I can access the account on-line, I might be able to see where he’s been spending money recently, and track him down that way. I know the account number and password, but I’m getting tripped up by the security question.”
“Your friend told you the password to his bank account?”
“I guessed it.”
Mr. Rozier frowns for a second and then turns his back to the desk, gripping the edge with his hands and easing himself to a seated position on top of it. His knees crack loudly as they bend and he sighs.
“Some mornings I get out of bed and it sounds like those cartoon characters from the cereal commercials on TV—Snap, Crackle, and Pop. You mind if I call you Peter?”
“Please.”
“My name’s Rupert,” he says. “Kind of old-fashioned, like me. I take it this friend of yours has gone missing.”
“Yes.”
“Any special reason?”
“He did something bad,” I say flatly, my newly acquired knowledge eliminating any doubt. I know why William Turndale fired Andrei.
“Mmm,” Mr. Rozier says. “Are the police looking for him?”
“If they aren’t, they will be soon.”
“And what do you plan to do if you find this friend?”
“That depends on what he has to say for himself.”
Mr. Rozier stares at his shoes, feet kicking gently. I can hear running footsteps and high-pitched laughter overhead.
“It sounds like your after-school group is here.”
“Yes. I’ve got to get back upstairs before they tear the place down.” He slaps his hands on his thighs and looks up, meeting my eyes. “Bon papa translates as ‘good father,’ but it’s a colloquial expression in French. It pretty much meant grandpop when I was a boy, but more recently it’s also been used to mean father-in-law, or maybe even some other older person who’s particularly close to a youngster—a favorite neighbor perhaps, or a mentor of some sort. Do you know anyone else in your friend’s family? Because that’s whom I’d ask.”
“I do,” I say, taking my phone from my pocket.
“Keisha told me you were a good man, Peter.” Mr. Rozier leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “She was angry about those stories in the paper. She said you’d never hurt anyone.”
“I’m grateful for her confidence,” I say, meeting his gaze. And sorry that she’s wrong.
“Well,” he says, standing up stiffly, “I’ve got to go round up those kids. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“One thing, maybe.” I hunt through my notes. “More of a loose end. I can reconcile all the cash flowing in and out of my friend’s account except for the opening deposit. The account was originally funded eighteen months ago with a wire transfer of four point one six million Swiss francs from something or somebody called GPICCARDAG. I assume it’s another bank, but I haven’t been able to nail it down on the Internet. Do you have access to any kind of directory that might be able to help?”
“Maybe.” He reaches out to take the note from me. “I’ll do a little research after I get the kids settled.”
“I’d appreciate it,” I say. “You’ve been a big help already.”
“You can do me a favor back.”
“What’s that?”
“God will speak from your heart if you take the time to listen,” he says, touching a finger to my chest. “Slow down a little bit. Don’t do anything you’re going to regret later.”
“I’ll try to do the right thing,” I reply, resisting the urge to ask him if he’s talking about the same God that denied Je
nna children and then let two thugs murder her in our garage.
“Good,” he says, turning away. “That’s the best any of us can do.” He starts off toward the stairs, joints cracking loudly. “And drink that coffee before it gets cold. The Lord abhors waste.”
I can hear him chuckling as I dial Katya’s office number on my cell phone. I pick the mug up and take a sip. The coffee’s hot and excellent.
“Katya Zhilina’s office,” Debra says when she picks up.
“It’s Peter Tyler,” I say, setting the mug down. “I need to speak with Katya urgently.”
“She’s not available.”
“Where is she?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Fine,” I say, trying not to sound irritated. “I guess I’ll just call her on her cell, then.”
“Be my guest.” Debra hangs up.
Katya’s cell number rolls into voice mail. The whole goddamned world is on voice mail.
“Katya. It’s Peter.” I hesitate, unsure what message to leave. “I found out what Andrei did. We need to talk as soon as possible. Call me when you can.”
I read her the new number, hang up, and then tap the phone against my forehead impatiently. It occurs to me that there’s someone else I can try, someone who might be able to tell me about Andrei’s bon papa, or even more. Dialing information, I ask for the number of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
26
THE MET’S CLOSED to the public on Mondays, the cavernous entrance hall seeming haunted without crowds. I’m standing in a small room just inside the main doors, a gore-spattered saint staring at me from a poster on the wall while a guard talks into a phone. I check my new watch and see that it’s a few minutes past five.
“Mrs. Zhilina’s finishing some work,” the guard says. “One of my colleagues will escort you upstairs in a moment.”
“Thanks.”
I sit down on an uncomfortably architectural bench and lean all the way forward, locking my hands under my knees to stretch my lower back. Katya insisted it would be a waste of time for me to ask her mother questions, but that was before I learned what Andrei’d done. Once Mrs. Zhilina understands how Andrei’s actions have placed Katya in jeopardy, I should be able to persuade her to help me. And if she tells me where Andrei is, I won’t have to bother fooling around with his bank records.
“Sir?”
A slender Asian woman wearing a white shirt and a red museum ascot beckons to me. We climb two flights of fire stairs and pass through several long hallways before reaching a white door labeled A32: CONSERVATION. She taps, waits for a hail from within, and then opens the door with a key card.
A windowless rectangular room extends to my right. Glass-fronted cabinets line the long walls, displaying brown sample bottles and geometrically shaped glassware; unfamiliar electronic equipment rests on counters beneath. A semicircular bank of work lights shine brilliantly at the far end of the room, casting eerie horizontal shadows. Shading my eyes with both hands, I see an easel at the focal point of the arc, a haloed figure half-hidden behind it.
“Sit please,” Mrs. Zhilina says, pointing some sort of tool at me. “Or stand. I’m almost done here.”
“You mind if I take a look?” I ask, walking toward her.
“I do,” she says firmly, waving me back. “And be quiet, please.”
A good beginning. Her throaty accent carries me back in time. Our first meeting pretty much set the tone of our relationship. She’d thrown a dinner party to celebrate Andrei’s graduation from business school, the guests Katya, Jenna, me, and a handful of older Euro types, the conversation exclusively about art. My one contribution was the admission that the only museum I’d ever visited in New York City was the Museum of Natural History. Nobody seemed interested in hearing about the dinosaurs.
I take a seat on a stool at a high worktable and reach for a binocular microscope, pulling my hand back before she can tell me not to touch anything. Glancing over my shoulder, I notice a hinged wooden diptych hanging on the short wall adjacent to the door, twinned portraits of pale young women in three-quarter profile, ink black hair pulled back severely. Bare shoulders and lowered eyes convey an impression of sad vulnerability. The nearer face is Katya’s, the farther like enough to be her sister. A cousin perhaps.
The work lamps extinguish abruptly, plunging the room into darkness. Undercounter lights come up a moment later, harsh shadows exchanged for soft. I can see Mrs. Zhilina more clearly now. Her hair’s grayer than I remember, but she doesn’t look much different otherwise, a slight woman with stern dark eyes and a skeptical cast to her features.
“So,” she says, peeling off surgical gloves. “Peter Tyler. It’s been six years, no?”
“About,” I reply, not recalling when we last met. “I was just admiring Katya’s portrait. Who’s the woman on the right?”
“Me, a very long time ago,” Mrs. Zhilina says, draping the easel.
“They’re remarkable,” I say, embarrassed at not having guessed. It was the expression that fooled me. It’s hard to imagine Mrs. Zhilina looking vulnerable. “Did you paint them?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you were so accomplished.”
“I painted what I saw,” she says dismissively. “Great art is painting more than you see. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thanks.”
She limps toward me, leaning heavily on a cane and carrying a tray laden with metal implements that look like dental tools.
“Can I help?” I ask, standing up.
“No,” she says, gesturing me back to my seat with the tray. “I’m not a cripple. Some fool tripped me with his umbrella in the street a few months ago and I broke my hip. It hasn’t healed properly, but I’ve gotten used to it.”
She hooks the cane over the edge of a sink and fills an electric kettle before meticulously cleaning her tools and placing them in a rack to dry. She’s tiny from the back, certainly not five feet, and is wearing a white lab coat that falls to her ankles. Turning from the sink, she seats herself on a stool opposite me, carefully lifting her bad leg with both hands and resting both red-slippered feet on a rung.
“So,” she says again. “Permit me to tell you how grieved I was to learn of your wife’s death.”
“Thank you.”
Her smock-covered knees are slightly higher than her waist, giving her the look of a gnome on a toadstool. The intensity of her gaze belies any comic impression, obsidian eyes boring into me.
“Katya told me that you were looking for Andrei, and why.”
“I know. I asked her to call you.”
“I’d hoped not to hear your name from her again. Your recent liaison was very painful for her.”
Christ. I can feel my face reddening. It never occurred to me that Katya might confide in her mother.
“You’ve behaved very badly,” she continues coldly. “And now you’re trying to drag Andrei into your problems?”
“I’m not trying to drag Andrei into anything,” I say angrily. “He put himself in the middle of this.”
“Because he sent your wife a package?”
“Because someone looking for that package may have murdered my wife.”
Mrs. Zhilina watches me imperturbably as I struggle to calm down. This isn’t going the way I’d planned. The electric kettle whistles and she rises to attend it. She returns carrying two conical glass beakers of tea on a tray.
“Drink,” she says, pushing one toward me. “It’s good for you.”
I pick the beaker up and take a tentative sniff—peppermint. I take a sip and set it down again.
“Now,” she says, “explain yourself.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know yet,” I say, chafing at her tone. “The starting point is that Andrei stole money from Turndale—a lot of money.”
“Ridiculous,” she says crisply. “Katya would have told me.”
“Katya doesn’t know. But you must’ve realized something was wrong when Andrei disappeared
.”
“He told me he had personal difficulties and needed time to himself.”
“Ridiculous,” I say throwing her own word back at her. “Turndale fired him. Katya knows that. Or didn’t she tell you?”
Mrs. Zhilina taps one finger on the table, the same gesture Katya makes when she’s angry.
“Tell me,” she says.
“About a year and a half ago, Andrei came into a chunk of money. I haven’t figured out where it came from yet. He used the money to fund a foreign-exchange trade with a Swiss bank. He made a big bet that the dollar would rise against the euro just as it began falling. Within a month, he was down a million dollars. Instead of closing the position and taking his loss, he doubled up. The market moved against him again, and suddenly he was down two million dollars. The Swiss were ready to close him out. He needed more money to keep the position open. You with me so far?”
“Yes,” she says quietly, blue-veined hands gripping her tea. “How do you know this?”
“I pulled records off his computer in Moscow. Andrei’s job with Turndale was to buy stock in Eastern European companies. His records indicate he put five million dollars of Turndale’s money into a Russian company named Fetsov, but somehow the cash ended up in his personal account.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My best guess is that he counterfeited the stock certificates. A guy in Hong Kong did the same thing a few years back. In America, stock certificates aren’t issued much anymore—everything’s kept track of electronically. Lots of second- and third-tier financial markets still use printed stock certificates, though. Andrei told Turndale he’d used their money to buy Fetsov stock and gave them the counterfeit certificates. Then he wired the five million to the Swiss and doubled his bet on the dollar again. He lost the five million in seventeen days. So he counterfeited more shares. And then things got ugly.”