The Dark Tide Free for a Limited Time (15 page)

Saul Lennick waited on the Charles Bridge in Prague overlooking the Vltava River.

The bridge teemed with tourists and afternoon pedestrians. Artists sat at easels capturing the view. Violinists played Dvořák and Smetana. Spring had left a festive mood in the city. He looked up at the Gothic spires of St. Vitus and Prague Castle. This was one of his favorite views.

Three men in business attire stepped onto the span from the Linhart Ulice entrance and paused underneath the east tower.

The sandy-haired one, in a topcoat and brown felt hat, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, and with a ruddy, cheerful face, came forward holding a metal briefcase, while the others waited a few steps behind.

Lennick knew him well.

Johann-Pieter Fichte was German. He had worked in the private banking departments of Credit Suisse and the Bundesbank. Fichte possessed a doctorate in economics from the University of
Basel. Now he was a private banker, catering to the highest financial circles.

He was also known to represent some of the most unsavory people in the world.

The banker was what was known in the trade as a “money trafficker.” His particular skill was to be able to shift sizable assets from any part of the world in no matter what form: cash, stones, arms—even drugs on occasion—until they emerged in a completely different currency as clean and perfectly investable funds. He did this through a network of currency traders and shell corporations, a labyrinthine web of relationships that stretched from the dark corners of the underworld to boardrooms across the globe. Among Fichte’s less visible clients were Iraqi clerics and Afghani warlords who had looted American reconstruction funds; a Kazakh oil minister, a cousin of the president, who had diverted a tenth of his country’s reserves; Russian oligarchs, who dealt primarily in drugs and prostitution; even the Colombian drug cartels.

Fichte waved, angling through the crowd. His two associates—bodyguards, Lennick assumed—stayed a few paces behind.

“Saul!” Fichte said, embracing Lennick with a broad smile, placing his case at Lennick’s feet. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, my friend. And for you to come all this way.”

“The price of a service job.” Lennick grinned, grasping the banker’s hand.

“Yes, we are only the high-priced errand boys and accountants of the rich”—the banker shrugged—“available at their beck and call. So how is your lovely wife? And your daughter? She’s still up in Boston, is she not? Lovely city.”

“All fine, Johann. Thank you for asking. Shall we get on?”

“Ah, business.” Fichte sighed, turning to face the river. “The American way…His Excellency Major General Mubuto sends
you his highest regards.”

“I’m honored,” Lennick said, lying. “And you will return them, of course.”

“Of course.” The German banker amped up his smile. Then, in a soft voice, staring ahead, as if his gaze were tracking a far-off bird that had landed on the Vltava, he explained. “The funds we discussed will be in the form of four separate deliveries. The first is already on account at Zurich Bank, ready to be transferred upon your say-so to anywhere in the world. The second is currently held at the BalticBank in Estonia. It is in the form of a charitable trust designed to sponsor UN grain shipments to needy populations in East Africa.”

Lennick smiled. Fichte always had a cultivated sense of irony.

“I thought you’d appreciate that. The third delivery is presently in non-cash form. Military hardware. Some of it your own, I am told. It should be leaving the country within the week. The general is quite insistent on the timing.”

“Why the rush?”

“Pending the status of the Ethiopian military buildup on the Sudanese border, it’s conceivable His Excellency and his family may be forced to leave the country at fairly short notice.” He winked.

“I’ll see to it the funds don’t sit unproductive for too long,” Lennick promised with a smile.

“That would be greatly appreciated.” The German bowed. Then his tone turned businesslike again. “As discussed, each of the deliveries will be in the amount of two hundred and fifty million euros.”

Well over a billion dollars.
Even Lennick had to marvel. It crossed his mind just how many heads had had to roll and thousands of fortunes wiped out to assemble such a sum.

The banker said, “I think we’ve already gone over the general agreement.”

“The mix of products is quite diversified and fully transparent if need be,” Lennick replied. “A combination of U.S. and worldwide equities, real-estate trusts, hedge funds. Twenty percent will be retained in our private equity fund. As you know, we’ve been able to achieve a twenty-two and a half percent average portfolio return over the past seven years, net of any unforeseen fluctuations, of course.”

“
Fluctuations
.
..
” The German nodded, the warmth in his blue eyes suddenly dimmed. “I assume you’re speaking of that energy hedge fund that collapsed last year. I hope it won’t be necessary to revisit my clients’ unhappiness over that development, will it, Saul?”

“As said”—Lennick swallowed a lump, trying to redirect the subject—“an unforeseen fluctuation, Johann. It won’t happen again.”

The truth was, with the amount of capital available in today’s world, Lennick had learned to make money in every conceivable market environment. In times of economic strength or stagnation. Good markets or bad. Even following acts of terrorism. The panic after 9/11 would never occur again. He had billions invested on all sides of the economic ledger, impervious to the vagaries of whoever won or lost. Today geopolitical trends and shifts were merely hiccups in the global transfer of capital. Yes, there were always blips—blips like Charlie, betting on the price of oil so stubbornly and unable to cover his spots on the way down. But behind that, all one had to do was look at the vast Saudi and Kuwaiti investment funds, the world’s greatest oil producers, hedging their bets by buying up all the ethanol-producing sugarcane fields in the world.

It was the greatest capital-enlarging engine in the world.

“So it doesn’t bother you, my friend?” the German banker suddenly asked. “You are a Jew, yes, and yet you know that this money you take regularly finds its way into the hands of interests that are unfriendly to your own race.”

“Yes, I’m a Jew.” Lennick looked at him and shrugged. “But I
learned a long time ago that money is neutral, Johann.”

“Yes, money is neutral,” Fichte agreed. “Still, my client’s patience is not.” His expression sharpened again. “The loss of over half a billion dollars of their funds does not sit easily with these kinds of people, Saul. They asked me to remind you—your daughter has children up in Boston, does she not?” He met Lennick’s eye. “Ages two and four?”

The blood seeped from Lennick’s face.

“I was asked to inquire as to their general health, Saul. I hope they’re well. Just a thought, my old friend, from my own employers. Please, do not dwell. Still…” His smile returned with an affable tap of Lennick’s arm. “A small incentive to keep those—how was it you phrased it?—
fluctuations
to a minimum, yes?”

A cold bead of sweat traveled down Lennick’s back underneath his six-hundred-dollar Brioni pinstripe shirt.

“Your man lost us a considerable amount of money,” Fichte said. “You shouldn’t be so surprised, Saul. You know who you’re playing with here. No one is above accountability, my friend—
even you.
”

Fichte put on his hat.

Lennick felt a constriction in his chest. His palms, suddenly slick with sweat, pressed deeply onto the bridge’s railing. He nodded. “You spoke of four new deliveries, Johann. Two hundred and fifty million euros each. So far you’ve only mentioned three.”

“Ah,
the fourth…
” The German banker smiled and patted Lennick briskly on the back. He drew his gaze to the metal case at his feet.

“The fourth I’m giving you
today,
Herr Lennick. In bearer bonds. My men will be happy to escort you to wherever you would like it placed.”

By morning the welt on Hauck’s face had gone down a bit. He had packed his bags, set to check out in a couple of minutes. There was no need to press the old man any longer. He had other ways to find out what he needed to know. He glanced at his watch. He had a ten o’clock plane.

When he opened the door to leave, Pappy Raymond was leaning on the outside railing.

The old man’s face was haggard, eyes bloodshot and drawn. He looked like he’d spent the night curled up in some alley. Or like he’d been in a street fight with a ferret. And the ferret had won!

“How’s the eye?” He looked at Hauck. Somewhere in his tone was the hint of an apology.

“Works.” Hauck shrugged, rubbing the side of his face. “I was a little peeved about the beer, though.”

“Yeah.” Pappy smiled sheepishly. “Guess I owe you one of those.” The blue in his hooded eyes shone through. “You heading home?”

“Somehow I got the sense you’d be okay with that.”

“Hmphh,” Pappy snorted. “How’d I ever give you that idea?”

Hauck waited. He set down his bags.

“I was a fool my whole life,” Pappy said finally. He eased off the railing. “Stubborn with the best of them. Problem is, it takes getting old to find that out. Then it’s too late.”

From his coverall pocket, he took out the Orange Bowl ticket stub Hauck had placed in his hand the night before. He bunched up his lips. “We drove all day to see that game. Might as well have been the Super Bowl for all my son cared. It was to him. Seminoles were always his team.” He scratched his head, suddenly clear-eyed. “I guess I should say thanks. I remember last night you said…”

“My daughter was four.” Hauck gazed back at him. “She was run over by our car, in our own driveway. Five years ago. I’d been driving. I thought I’d left it in park. I was bitter, after the pain finally eased. My ex-wife still can’t look me in the eyes without seeing it all over. So I know…. That’s all I meant to say.”

“Never goes away, does it?” Raymond shifted his weight on the railing.

Hauck shook his head. “Never does.”

Raymond let out a breath. “I watched those goddamn tankers come in three, four times. From Venezuela, the Philippines, Trinidad. Twice I even brought ’em in myself. Even a fool could see those ships were riding way too high. Didn’t have a lick of oil. Even snuck inside the holds once to see for myself.” He shook his head. “Clean as a baby’s ass. It’s not right what they were trying to do….”

Hauck asked, “You took it to your boss?”

“My boss, the harbormaster, the customs people…No duty on oil, so what the hell do they care? No telling who was getting paid. I kept hearing, ‘You just bring ’em in and park ’em, old man. Don’t stir it up.’ But I kept stirring. Then I got this call.”

“To push you to stop?”

Pappy nodded. “‘Don’t make waves, mister. You never know where they might fall.’ Finally I got this visit, too.”

“You remember from whom?”

“Met me outside the bar, just like you. Square jaw, dark hair, mustache. The kind of SOB who looked like he meant trouble. Mentioned my boy up north. Even showed me a picture. AJ and some gal up there with a kid. I knew what he was telling me. Still I kept at it. Called up this reporter I knew. I said I’d get him proof. That’s when I went aboard. A week later they sent me
this
.”

Pappy dug into his trousers, the kind of navy blue work pants he’d worn on the job, and came out with his cell phone, scanning it until he found a stored call. He handed it to Hauck.

A photo. Hauck exhaled. AJ Raymond lying in the road.

Pappy pointed. “You see what they wrote to me there?”
SEEN ENOUGH NOW?

A screw of anger and understanding tightened in Hauck’s chest. “Who sent this to you?”

Pappy shook his head. “Never knew.”

“You take this to the police?”

Another shake of the head. “They won. No.”

“I’d like to send this picture to myself, if that’s okay?”

“Go ahead. I’m not standing by any longer. It’s yours now.”

Hauck forwarded the image to himself. Felt his phone vibrate.

“He was a good boy, my son.” Pappy looked Hauck in the eye. “He liked surfing and fishing. Cars. He’d never hurt a fly. He didn’t deserve to die like that….”

Hauck handed Pappy back the phone. He moved next to the old man on the railing. “These people, it was they that did this to him, not you. You were just trying to do what you thought was right.”

Pappy gazed at him. “Why are you doing all this, mister? You never showed me no badge. It can’t just be for AJ.”

“My daughter,” Hauck said, shrugging back at him, “she had red hair, too.”

“So we’re the same.” Pappy smiled. “Sort of. I was wrong, Lieutenant, the way I treated you. I was scared for Pete and my other boy, Walker, their families. Bringing all this up again. But you get them. You get those sons of bitches who killed my boy. I don’t know why they did. I don’t know what they were protecting. But whatever it was, it wasn’t worth this. You get them, you hear? Wherever this leads. And when you do”—he winked, a glimmer in his eye—“you don’t think about throwin’ ’em in no jail, you understand?”

Hauck smiled. He squeezed the man on the arm. “So what was the name?”

Pappy squinted. “The
name
?”

“Of the tanker?” Hauck asked.

“Some Greek word.” Pappy sniffed. “I looked it up. Goddess of the underworld.
Persephone,
it was called.”

Vito Collucci could find anything, if the matter was about money. He made his living as a forensic accountant, tracking down the buried assets of philandering husbands for vengeful ex-wives. The hidden profits of large companies trying to fend off class-action suits. Before putting out a shingle, he had been a detective on the Stamford police force for fifteen years, which was where Hauck knew him from.

Vito Collucci could spot a bad seed in a sperm bank, he liked to say.

“Vito, I need a favor,” Hauck said over the phone, heading out to the airport for his flight from Pensacola.

These days Vito ran a good-size company. He was a frequent “guest expert” on MSNBC, but he had never forgotten how Hauck had thrown him cases when he first got started.

“When?” he asked. When Hauck called, Vito knew it usually involved information. Information that was hard to find.

“Today,” Hauck said. “I guess, tomorrow, if you need it.”

“Today’s fine.”

Hauck landed at two, taking his Bronco up from La Guardia. As he passed Greenwich heading to Stamford, the station a mile away, it occurred to him that he was getting deeper into something and a little further outside the law than he liked. He thought about giving Karen Friedman a call but decided to wait. There was a text message on his phone.

Usual place
. From Vito. Three
P.M.
was fine.

The usual place was the Stamford Restaurant & Pizzeria, a no-frills cops’ haunt on Main Street, past downtown, close to the Darien border.

Vito was already there, at one of the long tables covered in checkered cloths. He was short, barrel-chested, with thick wrestler’s forearms and wiry graying hair. A plate of ziti with sauce was set before him, and a bowl of escarole and cannellini beans.

“I’d run up the check,” he said as Hauck came in, “but you’re lucky, Ellie’s got me on this cholesterol thing.”

“I can see.” Hauck grinned and sat down. He ordered the same. “So how’ve you been?”

“Good,” Vito said. “Busy.”

“You look thinner on TV.”

“And you don’t seem to age,” Vito said. “Except for that shiner you’re carrying. You gotta realize, Ty, you can’t tussle with the young dudes anymore.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Vito had a manila envelope beside him on the table. He pushed it over to Hauck. “Take a peek. I’ll let you know what I found.”

Hauck gazed at the contents.

“The ship was easy. I looked it up in Jane’s.
Persephone,
right?” Vito stabbed at a few ziti with his fork. “ULCC-class supertanker. Built in Germany, 1978. Pretty much outdated now. What’re you thinking, maybe of trading up to something a bit more seaworthy, Ty?”

“Might look good on the sound.” Hauck nodded. “Be a bit of
a bitch to dock, though.” He scanned a photocopied page from the nautical manual that displayed an image of the ship. Sixty-two thousand tons.

“Been sold around a couple of times over the years,” Vito went on. “The last time to some Greek shipping company—Argos Maritime. That mean anything to you?”

Hauck shook his head.

“Didn’t think it would. So I kept at it. Pretended that I was a lawyer’s assistant to the company, tracking down a claim. The past four years this scrap heap’s been leased to some oil-exploration outfit I can’t bring up anything on anywhere. Dolphin Oil.”

Hauck scratched his head. “Who’s Dolphin?”

“Fuck if I know.” Vito shrugged. “Believe me, I checked. No record of them anywhere in the D&B. Then I tried a trade list of petroleum-exploration and-development companies, and it didn’t show up either. If Dolphin’s a player in the oil and gas business, they’re keeping it pretty much on the QT.”

“You think they’re a real company?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Vito said, pushing his plate away. “So I kept digging. I tried a directory of offshore-company listings. No record of them in Europe or Asia. I’m thinking, how does a company with no record in the industry lease a goddamn supertanker? Guess what came up? Feel free to turn the page.”

Hauck did.

Vito grinned widely. “Out of Tortola—in the BVIs…Whaddaya know about that—
Dolphin fucking Oil!
”

“In
Tortola
?”

Vito nodded. “A lot of companies are being set up there now. It’s like a mini–Cayman Islands. Avoids taxes. Keeps the funds out from under the eye of the U.S. government. As well as the SEC, if they’re public. Far as I can tell, and I’ve only been at it a couple of hours, Dolphin’s basically just a holding company. No revenues or profits of any kind. No transactions. A shell. The management seems to be just a bunch of fancy barristers down
there. Check out the board—everybody’s got an LLC behind his name. Far as I can tell, it basically belongs to this investment company that’s situated down there as well. Falcon Partners.”

“Falcon
…never heard of it.” Hauck shook his head.

“You’re not supposed to have heard of it, Ty. That’s why the hell it’s there! It’s some kind of private investment partnership. Or at least
was
. The fund was dissolved and the assets redistributed back to its limited partners earlier this year. Took me a while to figure out why. I was hoping to try to get a list of who the partners were, but it’s totally private—buttoned up. Whoever they are, the money’s probably long back to wherever it came from by now.”

Hauck scanned over the one-page company summary of Falcon. He knew in his gut he was getting close.

Whoever owned Dolphin had been engaged in some kind of cover-up. They had used empty tankers but declared that they were filled with oil. Pappy had stumbled onto it, and they’d tried to shut him up, but whatever they were hiding, he wasn’t the kind that shut up easily, and it had ended up costing him his son.
Seen enough now?
Dolphin led to Falcon.

Close enough, Hauck felt, the hairs raised expectantly on his arms. “How the hell do we get to Falcon, Vito?”

The detective was staring at him. “What’s the point of all this, Ty?”

“The point?”

Vito shrugged. “First time since I’ve known you you’re not up front with me. My spies tell me you’re on leave from the department.”

“Maybe your spies told you why.”

“Something personal, is all. Some kind of case that’s consuming you.”

“It’s called murder, Vito, no matter who I’m working for. And if this was all just so personal”—Hauck looked back at him, curling a smile—“I’d have called Match.com, not you.”

Vito grinned. “Just warning an old friend to stay within the boundaries, that’s all.”

The private investigator took out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and pushed it across the table. “Whoever Falcon is, Ty, they wanted to keep it secret. The board’s pretty much the same legal functionaries as Dolphin.”

Hauck scanned down the page. Nothing. Fucking close.

“One thing, though,” Vito added. “I mentioned that Falcon was comprised of a bunch of limited partners who want to remain secret. But the general partner
is
listed. In the investment agreement, plain as day. It’s the outfit who manages the funds.”

Hauck turned the page. Staring back at him, there was a name. Vito had highlighted it in yellow.

When Hauck’s gaze fell on it, his heart sank a little, as opposed to the leap he’d always imagined. He knew where this was about to lead.

Harbor Capital.
The general partner.

Harbor was the firm that belonged to Karen Friedman’s husband.

“That what you’re looking for?” Vito asked, watching Hauck dwell on the page.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m looking for, buddy.” Hauck sighed.