Clear Skies

by A. M. Murray

  “I know that Aculeus recruits males running on testosterone and steroids. It must have been a difficult time for you,” Slade said.

  “The first thing Aculeus taught me was how the intelligence side of their work is about brain rather than brawn. There were quite a few women in my classes when I trained there. The DIA and directors of Aculeus believe that women can be significant covert players in the intelligence field. They blend in well as maids, nannies, personal assistants, secretaries, and even fashion designers,” she added with a faint smile. “Perhaps that’s another reason for selecting me. They’ve trained women who now work in surveillance all over the globe in these roles.”

  “What happened when your training ended?”

  “I went to Japan, established myself there, and connected with Chloe, aka Carol Palmer. It was all choreographed by Aculeus and the DIA. And you know the rest.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  Isa emptied her glass and twisted on the bed to look squarely at Slade. “I installed listening devices in several rooms, checked her emails and computer files when she went out or took a nap, and even went through her cell phone when I could get hold of it. It didn’t take long to learn that Chloe’s regular dinner guests were senior engineers and top administrators of Japan’s heavy industry companies, manufacturing aircraft parts. She treated them like royalty and gave them the best of everything, including charming female companions with sultry good looks—I told you back in Tokyo about making up rumpled beds the mornings after her dinner parties. Couriers brought her documents for the meetings.”

  “You withheld that information from me. It’s exactly what I needed to know.” Slade’s brow furrowed.

  “I’m sorry. But you have to understand I regularly reported to Aculeus, and they constantly reminded me to never speak of it to anyone. Their threats were not even close to subtle.”

  “Have you reported anything from Monaco to Aculeus?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let’s keep it that way at least until we have a clearer view of how the Tokyo killings are connected to all of this. I need to solve those cases first. The DIA may try to sweep them under the mat in the interests of the bigger picture, but I feel there are vital elements we’ve missed.”

  “I can send a few noncommittal reports and keep it vague for a while. I’ve advised them of Chloe’s death, of course.”

  “Who’s your direct DIA report?” Slade asked.

  “I don’t report directly to anyone in the DIA. My handler in Aculeus is a team manager called John Miller.”

  Slade knew Miller from way back. A renegade FBI operative dismissed three years ago along with a group of other dirty agents receiving cash and sexual favors from the drug cartels, he must have been picked up by Aculeus. A perfect match with their typical employee profile. If illegal activities were going on, Miller would be up to his neck in it.

  “Did he sign your contract?”

  “No. The president of Aculeus and the deputy director of the DIA, Neil Ashton did that.”

  Slade had seen Ashton at interagency meetings and knew his reputation as a sharp-elbowed administrator who’d moved rapidly up Air Force ranks with an oversized chip sitting perilously on his shoulders. If rumors were correct, he had the DIA director’s position in his sights as a springboard to the director’s job in the United States Intelligence Community, the federation of all the separate government intelligence agencies. Insiders believed that once he reached that position, he would build the alliance into a clandestine powerhouse, giving him authority on security matters that would rival and even surpass that of the White House. Those who’d known him at the start of his career described the transition of a vibrant and adaptable personality into a dour individual who’d taken on the obsessive drive of ambition, viewing his colleagues with a deep-seated rancor.

  Ashton outclassed Miller a thousandfold, but they’d be close competitors in a contest on whose ethics could sink lower. If Ashton mounted a dubious scheme, Miller would be the ideal tool to implement it for him. But he’d be an expendable tool at best.

  “What are Aculeus and the DIA doing with the information you sent?” asked Slade. “They didn’t stop Palmer’s interaction with the Japanese aeronautics experts, and she is charging ahead here with the Chinese with no apparent restraint. You’ve reported to your Aculeus handler for several months now—”

  “Twelve months to be precise.” Isa disrupted Slade’s train of thought. “I’ve provided them with plenty of information from Japan throughout that period.”

  Slade hesitated, then went on. “And your reports have corroborated suspicions they’ve had from long before you became involved, yet they did not step in to stop Mrs. Palmer’s interaction with the Japanese.”

  Slade ran his hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes.

  “The behavior of Palmer and Hewitt tonight,” he said, “suggests a financial transaction took place and no doubt involves another completed transfer of sensitive information to the Chinese, which infringes BFI contracts with AAC. I don’t think the Chinese hand over vast amounts of money just for special favors with high-class whores masquerading as models or for luxury trips on a superyacht. Yet the DIA has done nothing to stop them.”

  “Maybe the DIA and Aculeus don’t know anything about Palmer’s social connections with aeronautics industry players from China. We’ve learned that here. I didn’t see any sign of it in Tokyo.”

  “Perhaps. But when a person with Neil Ashton’s incandescent level of ambition is involved, there has to be another factor in play.”

  Isa stifled a yawn. “Can we sleep on it? I have to get going early tomorrow.” She touched the side of his face and traced the line from his cheekbone to his jaw.

  “You’re one hell of a maid.” Slade shifted the direction of his thoughts. “I want to make long and passionate love to you. I saw that yawn, but I’m choosing to ignore it,” Slade said, aroused. He gazed down at her beside him. His body responded to the slightest touch from Isa, and he pulled her into a gentle embrace, his lips caressing hers.

  “Does Alex know about us?”

  “Probably, though I haven’t told him. Put him out of your mind. He’s in his room either asleep or with his head immersed in shipping routes, phone records, and Trojan horses.”

  Isa smiled and rolled over to sit on top of him. She clasped his head in her hands and said, “Your move or mine?”

  “It looks like yours. Please feel free to do what you want with me.” Slade laughed before he kissed her ear, mouth, throat, and her mouth again for a lingering deeper kiss, then caressed the contours along the length of her body. He hesitated, sensing that he’d sent shivers down her spine.

  “Don’t stop.” Isa pressed her body close against him.

  “Do you know how much I want you right now?”

  “I can tell.”

  They made slow passionate love, savoring their growing intimate knowledge of each other.

  When their breathing returned to normal, they talked for an hour, sharing moments of their earlier lives. Before he could ask her more, Isa succumbed to sleep.

  Slade reflected that the intimacy a woman subtly creates with a man is what makes her desirable. Slade knew he’d been hooked, and right now, he didn’t care. After years of experience in interrogations, he’d developed a sense about them. He’d back Isa’s disclosure as a true account, if only because it came out naturally with minimal embellishment. People telling lies often say too much.

  He’d just closed his eyes when his phone rang.

  CHAPTER 23

  (Sunday Morning— Monte Carlo)

  “Dan, it’s Alex.”

  Slade looked at his watch. “It’s three in the morning.”

  “Sorry if I woke you, but I knew you’d want to hear this right away. On a hunch, I tracked shipping routes of small-to-medium-size, China-registered cargo vessels sailing close to the French Riviera coast. It’s not a typical course for freighters shipp
ing goods from China to Western Europe. I excluded container ships because they’re large and their movements too noticeable. So I focused on tramp cargo vessels.”

  Roche waited for a reaction, but Slade remained silent, trying to boot up his brain from its semi-comatose state.

  “It’s unusual for tramp freighters to follow a regular schedule of voyages—they’re chartered to haul loads, and every trip is different. But I found one, the Xiandao, traveling to the Port of Marseille from Yingkou Port, which is less than a hundred miles from where Palmer’s Chinese visitors come from. It departs from Yingkou every two months. And guess what. The dates of its travel off the coast here coincide with the Chevalier’s cruises. Xiandao carries a helicopter, and the Chevalier has a helipad. They could transfer a package of money without drawing so close to one another they’d raise eyebrows if their routes showed up in satellite surveillance, non?”

  Slade’s head cleared instantly.

  “Now we know how and where the money and technical data might have changed hands—on the Chevalier out at sea,” he said. “I’ll ask Mark to check the hotel rooms of Palmer’s Chinese guests while they’re out playing poker tomorrow night. There’s an odds-on chance Palmer gave them technical documents during their stay on the yacht.” Slade glanced at Isa to see if he’d disturbed her. “Hopefully, they’re overconfident and haven’t even thought about discovery, and that will have made them careless. With luck, he’ll find sensitive documents in a briefcase or their luggage.”

  “Right. See you in the morning. Dors bien.”

  “Fat chance after you woke me already,” Slade said.

  He fell asleep with his arms and legs wrapped around Isa after tossing around the random events and slowly emerging information in his mind. A few pieces of the puzzle now interlocked, but the picture they formed still made no sense.

  # # #

  They ate breakfast in their hotel’s coffee shop overlooking the port. The gray miasma of a light dusting of rain diminished the view across the road to the yachts. They rounded up Isa’s luggage and prepared to leave her room for the station.

  Isa wore a slim-fitting, red leather skirt, a color-matched sweater, and a black three-quarter length coat set off by black, knee-high, stiletto leather boots. With her jet-black hair cascading down her back, Slade thought she was more striking than Palmer, whom he’d earlier considered unrivaled in the looks department. But now he felt Isa stood in a class of her own; not just exotic and desirable, but subliminally seductive.

  “You dress well,” he said to cover his blatant stare.

  “Well, you already know that fashion design is my passion.”

  “I can see a direct correlation with the quantity of your luggage,” he said, smiling.

  “If you like the way I look, put up with the shit,” she laughed.

  “Have you ever worked as a model?”

  “During college, part-time. That’s when my interest in fashion piqued. After graduating, I gave up the runway for the drawing board,” she said. “But to be honest, my figure changed, and I developed a few curves models are not supposed to have, and that made it harder to get work. Why do you ask?”

  “You are far and away the most elegant woman I have ever dated.”

  “So we’re dating, are we?” Isa said with feigned surprise.

  “Indeed we are, as far as I’m concerned.” He kissed her and looked at her body with unconcealed appreciation. “I’m more than happy you developed curves. And if we don’t leave now, we’ll end up in bed again, and you’ll miss your train.”

  He picked up her luggage and moved to the door, then stopped.

  “Are you dating anyone else? I didn’t ask.” Slade held his breath.

  “No. When would I have found the time?”

  With his breathing back to normal despite a surge of testosterone, Slade guided her into the corridor. Cosmic irony. Isa evoked the most deep-seated feelings he’d experienced so far in his life, yet they’d met at a crime scene, and she was a possible, albeit unlikely, suspect. He’d like to switch off the feelings, as they occluded his judgment and made him vulnerable, but his attempts so far had failed.

  # # #

  The seven-two to Paris with Isa on board pulled out of Monaco station on time. She promised to book two rooms at her hotel in London for Slade and Roche. Slade expected the next thirty hours before seeing her again to feel more like thirty weeks.

  Dismissing these thoughts, he strode along the platform and noticed Fontaine ahead of him sauntering toward the exit, speaking into his cell phone. Slade caught up and waited until Fontaine finished his conversation.

  “Good morning, Ben. You came back from Nice by train?”

  “No, by car at five-thirty this morning, just in case our targets got started early.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “I followed Hewitt when he left the Hotel de Paris with his luggage. He took the seven-two to Paris, so our instincts last night to get an early start today were good.”

  “I just put Isa on that train. Do you know where Hewitt’s sitting?”

  “The second to last carriage. That’s the last I saw of him.” Fontaine paused when he saw concern flicker across Slade’s face. “Do you want me to ask someone from our Paris office to pick up his surveillance?”

  “No. We don’t have quick access to a photo, and it won’t be easy to find him. Maybe he’ll leave the train at Nice and head to the airport for a London flight. I’ll call Isa to give her a heads-up on Hewitt and advise her to keep out of sight. She’s sitting mid-train. She should be okay.”

  “Isa has to change platforms and trains at Nice. She’ll be fairly exposed there,” Fontaine said.

  He waited until Slade called Isa, without success. “I talked to Mark before. Palmer’s moving. He’s on her tail, and from the direction, he thinks she’s on her way to a bank. He’ll call back when he knows more.”

  Slade planned to walk back to the Port Palace Hotel, but when they stepped outside the station concourse, rain was coming down hard, gathering in puddles and soaking the throng of tourists pouring out of the station into the streets. They waited under cover for the worst of the downpour to pass, watching the traffic around them slow to a crawl.

  Fontaine jumped when his phone buzzed. He held up his screen to let Slade read a text message from Miles.

  “So Palmer went to Fealty Private Bankers (Monaco) Inc. and is on the way back to her hotel,” Slade said. “She visited them outside regular banking hours. That means Palmer’s a valued customer to get access to personal service so early. It also means she doesn’t want to draw attention to her banking habits here. Call your specialist and see what he can find using this information as the starting point.” Slade thought the investigation was slow, but at least it was forward-moving.

  Fontaine made the call, and Slade redialed Isa, but again, she failed to pick up. Slade looked up and saw that the drenching rain had morphed into a drizzle.

  They jogged back to the hotel, moving faster than the traffic, and joined Roche in the hotel’s lobby café, but not before another sudden shower of rain drenched them through to the skin.

  They sat down, jackets hanging over the backs of their chairs to dry. Fontaine’s cell phone buzzed again. He jumped up to retrieve it from his coat pocket, splashing his coffee onto the floor. He listened for several minutes and gave Slade and Roche the thumbs-up sign before he spoke to the caller.

  “Great work. Call me again when you learn more.” He put his phone down and said, “We have a trail, and our guy’s sent me a brief report.” Fontaine booted up his laptop and skimmed through an email. “Take a look.” He directed the screen to face Slade and Roche.

  Fontaine’s specialist reported hacking into Palmer’s private bank account among the digital files of the Monaco offices of Fealty Private Bankers (Monaco) Inc. The firm described itself as a boutique provider of discreet international banking and offshore financial services for international businesses. Every two months o
ver a period of twelve months, Palmer’s account received two transfers from the Monte Carlo Casino. Each time, the bank transferred her funds to an account in the name of Palmer Consultants Inc. in the British Virgin Islands branch of Fealty Private Bankers.

  The only three people authorized to operate the account were Richard and Carol Palmer, who were joint owners of the shell company—Palmer Consultants—and the local BVI enabler nominated as managing director of the firm. So far, the Palmer Consultants BVI account had accumulated funds totaling 230 million euros. Twelve months ago, the account had held only 30 million euros.

  “When the funds from their transactions in this two-day period are cleared and forwarded, there’ll be 270 million euros,” Slade picked up his coffee cup and set it down again when he found it empty.

  Roche let out a sharp whistle of surprise. “Mon Dieu, whatever they’re selling can’t be worth any more than that. This must be going to end soon.”

  “We’ll see what Palmer has to say later this morning when we meet her.” Slade signaled the waiter to bring another espresso. “I don’t want her to know how much we’ve dug up so far. We can ask questions she’ll think are harmless but might give us valuable insights.”

  “I’m happy to join you if it helps,” Fontaine said. “I joined the Bureau as a profiler. I can look for signs indicating whether she’s lying or not.”

  “Right. You’re in.”

  CHAPTER 24

  (Three Days Earlier—Thursday, Washington DC)

  The Atrium Hall of the Ronald Reagan Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC overflowed with more than a thousand environmentalists, the audience Neil Ashton had long dreamed of addressing. He saw a sprinkling of familiar DIA, NSA, and CIA faces in the crowd, and William Deacon, an old sparring partner from the upper ranks of the FBI.

  Bespectacled, Ashton’s tall, lean frame carried the expensive tweed suit well. It imparted an air of academia onto him, appropriate for a keynote speaker whose intervention concluded the conference proceedings. He felt empowered, a man who knew his subject and was not afraid to speak out. Exhilaration from being part of a pulse, part of a collective heartbeat of like-minded people coming to terms with the end of a habitable environment, energized him to deliver his words with passion.