“Oh, so, that’s it? The case is all tied up with a neat bow, the guilty party is in custody, and the principality of Monaco is safe again,” Roblot said oozing sarcasm. “No one believes that this story is as simple as that!” He shook his file folder in the air. “I have here enough evidence to subpoena at least three more plausible suspects!” He opened the folder and read from one of the pages. “In 1998 and 1999, Almasi collaborated with the FBI to expose the Russian mafia’s international money-laundering operation. Almasi kept eleven bodyguards with machine guns, many of them veterans of the Mossad in Israel, who worked in shifts and were always with him. Witnesses saw Almasi at Cap d’Antibes with Boris Berezovsky, the Russian oligarch implicated in the 1999 Aeroflot scandal, in which tens of millions of dollars were diverted from the state-controlled airline. Witnesses also place Almasi at the restaurant of Hotel Martinez in Cannes quarreling with two other Russians.”
“Nonsense! Almasi suffered from advanced Parkinson’s disease,” Dupont countered. “He was too ill and too medicated to have been at either place.”
Roblot ignored him and read from his folder. “One year before his death, Almasi informed the FBI about Russian money-laundering activities at Bruce Rappaport’s Bank of New York.”
“Enough!” The Attorney General stared in astonishment at Roblot. He rose from his desk and walked over to Roblot. “Inspector Roblot, are you suggesting we subpoena the head of the Bank of New York to question him about Almasi’s murder?”
“That would be a good start,” Roblot said.
The attorney general took the file from Roblot and leafed through it. As he read the notes, his anger flared, and he brusquely closed the folder. “Roblot, you are the best investigator in Monte Carlo. But my patience is wearing thin. We have no time for wild conspiracy theories. You are dismissed from this case.” He handed the file back to Roblot. “I have all the evidence I need.”
“Sir!” Roblot protested.
“This case is going to trial with the evidence on record.”
“I was afraid you would take this position,” Roblot said. He removed a sealed envelope from inside his suit jacket. “Therefore, I have prepared my resignation.”
The Attorney General took the envelope but didn’t open it. He tapped it against his fingers. “Resignation not accepted.” He went back to his desk and placed the sealed envelope in the top drawer. “…Yet. Think about what you’re doing, Roblot. I will give you one week to rescind your resignation.”
“I don’t need one week or even one minute. Whether you accept my resignation or not, I am filing a request for Judge Hullin and the lead prosecuting attorney to recuse themselves from this case as they are clearly complicit in a cover-up.”
“I am the lead prosecuting attorney on this case,” the AG said, his voice no longer hiding his anger.
“See you in court,” Roblot said, then turned and walked out.
“You quit your job?”
Patrick Roblot’s wife Lisette was of a certain age, but her wholesome beauty was ageless. She shunned the high maintenance treatments that most Monégasque women ritualized. Clean living and the love of a good man were her beauty secrets. Roblot continued to pace the floor silently in his den, until she stepped in front of him stopping his stride. Seeing her concern, he kissed her on the cheek and walked to his desk.
“What about the trial?” Lisette asked.
“All my findings were brushed aside. There are at least three possible suspects in Almasi’s murder, but the Attorney General refuses to accept any new evidence that doesn’t support convicting Todd Mayer.”
“But, didn’t Mayer confess?”
“Under duress!” he barked in frustration. Then he realized she was just as ill-informed as the general public. He needed to explain to her just enough to understand his plan. “Here, I’ll show you.” Roblot rifled through his file and pulled out a document. “A year before his death, Almasi gave evidence to the FBI concerning the diversion of a $4.8 billion International Monetary Fund stabilization credit that never reached those for whom it was intended in Russia. The Geneva prosecutor, Benjamin Bartolo, maintained that Almasi was murdered for giving evidence to both the FBI and Swiss prosecutors concerning the diversion of the IMF credit, which went from the New York Federal Reserve Bank to Almasi’s New York Republic Bank in Monaco and then to various banks in Switzerland and elsewhere, but not to Russia. A year before his death, Almasi’s New York Republic Bank provided information to the FBI on those Russian money-laundering activities at Bruce Rappaport’s Bank of New York. Rappaport used his base in Geneva to pursue investments in a wide range of places, including Belgium.”
“So?” Lisette asked.
“So, I’m getting stonewalled here in Monaco. Meanwhile, investigators in Geneva and Belgium are making connections. So, I have no choice but to go to Belgium.”
“Belgium!” Tears filled her eyes, no longer able to contain her exasperation.
“Don’t worry,” Roblot held her in his arms. “It will be a short trip. But it will go a long way in helping me solve this case.”
Lisette pulled away. “Some mysteries can’t be solved.” Roblot’s expression was heartbreaking, and she regretted the words.
“Thanks for reminding me, Lisette.”
“We have survived the worst together. Isn’t that enough? Why must you pursue causes that mean nothing to us?”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“When will it end?”
“This will be my final case.”
“I don’t understand. You just quit the police force.”
“That’s correct. There are powerful dark forces who want to cover this up. But there are also powerful people, good people, who want the truth to come out.”
“Who?”
“Someone who has hired me as a private investigator. The less you know the better. Suffice it to say, the case is not closed and this time I’m working for the good guys.” He kissed her and took his jacket. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t wait up.”
Shadowy figures come in all varieties, and not all of them are the evil kind. Frédéric LaFontaine was not publicly known the way George Soros or other billionaire philanthropists were. He preferred staying out of the spotlight and disdained any recognition for his good deeds. He literally floated under the radar, helping where he saw the greatest need. Ever since he had made his wealth by developing a patented online interface software that was used by every bank in the world, he was able to go off the grid, living on his mega yacht, helping change the world for the better. To that end, he had gradually built a network of allies of all different skillsets whom he could enlist depending on necessity.
For LaFontaine, the death of such a revered personage as Ekram Almasi was too suspicious to be handled through the usual law enforcement channels. The only way to bring justice was with the help of highly trained individuals one degree removed from official roles. Despite LaFontaine’s repeated attempts to recruit the inspector previously, Roblot had remained loyal to UPD. But the Almasi murder case was the final straw and Patrick Roblot didn’t hesitate to hand in his resignation when he saw where Almasi’s murder trial was headed.
“Welcome aboard!” LaFontaine greeted Roblot with a warm hug and jovial laughter. His buoyant presence had a way of making anyone feel relaxed.
“It’s great to see you, Frédéric,” Roblot said.
He boarded the yacht as he had done many times before, but it still never failed to impress him. He followed LaFontaine to the elegantly furnished saloon where they were served potations and hors d’oeuvres.
“Champagne?” LaFontaine offered, to which Roblot nodded yes. He poured two glasses and they clinked in a toast.
“To semi-retirement,” Roblot said.
“You handed in your resignation?” LaFontaine laughed cheerily. “Congratulations! Now the real adventure begins.”
“As long as my wife will put up with it,” Roblot warned. “I told her this was important.”
<
br /> “There is not much more important than the truth.”
“She’s mostly concerned about me traveling,” Roblot confided. “But, for this case, I’ll go wherever I’m needed.”
“Assure her that I will provide full comfort and safety. We have additional help on the ground in case of emergencies.”
“That is reassuring,” Roblot said, taking a relaxing sip of champagne. “I’m not afraid for myself, of course.”
“Of course,” LaFontaine said. “Your wife has been through enough. Your work so far has been invaluable, and we only ask your help to finish what we started. After that, you can truly retire.”
“That is all I ask, as well,” Roblot said taking another sip. “So, you need me in Belgium?”
“Actually, I need you a little further southwest.”
S I X
December 11, 2001
Although it didn’t happen as often as before since Louise had discovered yoga, the buzzing in her ears and the aching in her head were all too familiar and indicated that the fun party at the bar the night before had been a wee excessive. She stirred, because she wasn’t alone, her body in a state somewhere between arousal and agony. Oddly, the hangover had brought on a super-relaxed state. Lying on her back naked under the cotton sheets, her knees up, legs slightly apart, she was open to temporary relief. A hand caressed her inner thigh and a mop of hair brushed her gently like a sex toy. The tongue lashing was spot on, his finger entered, moving side to side against the upper vaginal wall, intensifying the hangover remedy as she climaxed.
Deaf to her own cries of ecstasy, she opened her eyes and saw Robert’s adorable dimples and irresistible smile. Ready for full penetration, she bent her right knee as he positioned himself, when her ears were suddenly ravaged by the sound of a blaring horn.
“Shit!” Robert said, checking his Rolex Submariner dive watch. He sprung off the bed, his erection waving goodbye as he hopped on one leg to put on his board shorts.
Louise’s pupils contracted as she looked toward the morning sun diffused through the sheers that billowed in the sea breeze. An idling boat engine rumbled, and Robert gave her the same dimpled smile that had landed him there.
“My ride is here.”
She lifted herself on one elbow. “Can’t you stay for breakfast?”
Robert slipped on his Vans and leaned over to give her a kiss on the lips. “I just ate.”
“Ha, ha. Do you really need to go on another dive trip? Those boats are for tourists.”
He grinned. “It’s my boat.”
Louise kissed him back. “See ya’ ’round.”
Robert headed out to the beach while Louise put on her kimono and went to the bar where Big Steve poured her a cup of coffee.
“Y’all got crazy up in here last night.” He slid a mug of hot coffee in front of her. She held it with both hands like a holy chalice and drank gratefully.
“Big Steve, what the fuck am I doing?”
“Livin’ large, girl,” he replied fiddling with his cell phone.
“Where’d you get that? Did someone lose it?”
“It’s mine.” Louise snapped her fingers and he reluctantly handed it to her.
“This is state of the art.”
“Dat’s right, Lulu. From the boss-man.”
“Michael sent it you?”
“Yo’ daddy.”
“Wait. What?” Her head throbbed as she tried to clear her thoughts. “My father, George Moscow, is sending you state-of-the-art technology, but he won’t even let me call my own mother?”
“Y’all could still be in danger, especially after 9/11, and your daddy and Michael want me to be ready for anything.”
Louise hopped off the bar stool and Big Steve winced like she was going to hit him, but she just handed him the phone.
“That’s fine, Éti,” She said mocking his fake name. “I’m not mad at you for going behind my back. It’s just that I really miss my parents.” Louise walked behind the bar and poured herself more coffee. She took her cup and headed back to her bungalow.
“Ya’ll want breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You gotta eat!”
“I gotta lie down.”
The desperate feeling of frustration was washing over Louise, mixing with the hangover and the post coital buzz, as she continued past her bungalow down to the beach. This “paradise” had been the compromise she had made with her father. But the dark forces it protected her from still infiltrated her soul anyway, especially in the up-and-down anxiety since September 11th. The enforcers of the banking industry, the so-called Black Network, were still out there possibly plotting to avenge her BCCI whistleblowing, and perhaps even had a hand in the 9-11 attacks.
She missed her old life more profoundly now than she had during all the years living on the island. The physical buzz also reminded her of Jean-Philippe, and how distant he had become to her. Staring out at the horizon, she was surprised to taste her own tears of discontentment. But at the same time, her heartbreak seemed insignificant compared to the vast and briny sea. There was something deeper at play at that moment. She knew the time had come to dive back into her old life.
Although usually jovial and deferential around Louise’s father, Michael Fuentes was almost unrecognizable in this enraged state. His dark eyes, powerful jaw, and high school varsity gymnast’s shoulders made him appear menacing.
Michael had first met Louise when she was an undergrad at Princeton, before she went on to earn her Harvard MBA. Shortly thereafter, Michael had graduated from West Point and was recruited by the FBI, not only for his academic achievements but also for his language skills. He had grown up in Rome with a Chilean mother and Spanish father, so he spoke four languages from birth. His mother had been a Chilean ambassador in Spain and his father a foreign correspondent covering the Spanish Civil War.5 His parents had instilled in him diplomatic instincts, which dovetailed nicely with his FBI work. But today Michael was less restrained.
“Goddamn it, George! We knew this was going to happen but did nothing to prevent it!”
George Moscow listened calmly from behind the desk of his home office in Westchester County, New Jersey. George was a Harvard Law School graduate, but he looked more like a button man for the mob than an intellectual. He was six feet tall, and over two hundred pounds, with hooded eyes and a nose that appeared to have been broken at least once. Street smart and tough, he talked out of the side of his mouth, but never said anything confidential or incriminating. He was the New York City detective in charge of white-collar fraud who had been instrumental in taking down BCCI with the help of his daughter, Louise Moscow. George got up to pour Michael a scotch on the rocks.
“Yes,” George said, handing Michael the drink. “The intelligence community knew of an imminent attack by Al-Qaeda but could not get the attention of the Bush administration even with the director of the CIA, George Tenet, running around like his hair was on fire.”
Michael barely sipped his scotch and went off again. “No shit! I was at the White House meeting in July with the FAA, the Coast Guard, the FBI, the Secret Service, and the INS when Richard Clarke stated in no uncertain terms,” Michael made air quotes, “‘Something really spectacular is going to happen here, and it’s going to happen soon.’ No one knew it would be this spectacular, or this soon!”
Michael’s cell phone pinged. He looked at the screen, and his eyes showed yet another blow to his already frayed psyche.
“Great!” Michael waved his phone in the air. “Guess who?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Jean-Philippe! Not a peep from him for years, then suddenly.” He shrugged sarcastically. “I wonder what he could want!”
“He might want to check on Louise,” George speculated. “I’ve alerted Big Steve to start working on Louise to come out of protection.”
“You mean Éti? Man! Talk about a cushy gig. He’s been living blissfully on a remote island in the Caribbean.”
“Taking care of m
y only daughter.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t an important gig,” Michael said.
“Well, his little dream job might soon be more than he bargained for,” George said.
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Big Steve has been worried about Louise. Being away for so long had already been taking its toll on her. He said the distress from 9/11 is pushing her over the edge.”
“I don’t envy Big Steve handling Louise,” Michael said.
“He said she’s taking it well.”
“That can’t be good.”
“Exactly.”
“I assume you have a plan?” Michael asked.
George sat down at his desk and chose his words. “Perhaps Jean-Philippe can be a part of this.”
“We all need to work together now, officially or not,” Michael admitted.
“You get on a military aircraft tonight and meet with Jean-Philippe to gather intelligence, see what he’s working on,” George said. “He might have some input on getting Louise involved in an investigation.”
Michael leaned forward his attention piqued. “The last time we enlisted Louise’s help in an investigation we set her world and the banking world on fire. Now you want to bring back the man who she feels burned her?”
“Interesting choice of words,” George replied.
“Wait, are you opening an investigation into the banker accidentally killed in a fire last year?”
George sipped his scotch. “If anyone has the tenacity to pull this off, it’s Louise Moscow. See if you can convince Jean-Philippe that we need to bring Louise out of protection.”
S E V E N
December 12, 2001
“Can you convince George Moscow to bring Louise out of protection?” Jean-Philippe asked in a heavy French accent. Michael was sitting in the same chair that Father Gregory had been sitting in when Jean-Philippe assigned him to culling gophers at the Catholic retreat in Genval.
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