CHAPTER 17
K
ate and James had no illusions about Alec Specter and the methods he brought to bear in conducting his affairs. Among their concerns were the cleverness the man had displayed and the extensive measures he had taken to conceal his actions.
He’s going to be a hard nut to crack.
Kate poured some coffee and handed a cup to James.
“What’s the next move?”
“These assassins are obviously professionals, right?”
She nodded.
“They’re organized, which requires planning.”
“True.” She was curious as to where he was going with this.
“There must be a ringleader of some sort.”
“Right.” Kate shifted her weight to one foot. “Assuming these guys are mercenaries, their leader must be some kind of an ex-military type.”
“And based on what we’ve seen, he must’ve had a high rank.”
“What exactly do mercenaries do?”
“They’re soldiers for hire. Former military, infantry, maybe even Special Forces, independent contractors employed by private interests. Most mercenaries are assigned to guarding important facilities or people. But some participate in active combat, especially in the Middle East and Africa.”
“Like you.”
He shot her a look of surprise.
“Yeah, like me, except I’m one of the good guys.”
“And with mercs and money, the sky’s the limit.”
“It’s a sad thing,” Kate said, shaking her head. “Offer enough money and the best-trained men in the world are available to anyone.”
“If a man is willing to sell his soul …”
“… and he has one to sell.”
James looked at her, saying, “The hits have been so clean.
Too clean
. Alec Spector has to be the link to his funding.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Follow the money. Hack, tap, beg and borrow.”
James walked over to a built-in desk and taking out a pad and a pen, began making lists covering their respective tasks. Minutes later he tore pages from the pad and handed them to her. It was a list of assignments she would allocate to a band of relentless, professional researchers. She studied it; basically a mandate for unleashing an army of aggressive—and expensive—private investigators in New York City and Washington, D.C.
James walked to the front of the townhouse, opening the windows and closing the wood blinds before turning to a large fireplace made of natural stone. From kindling and logs he prepared a fire to buffer a cool breeze of morning air that floated toward the back of the residence. A pass-through from the living and dining rooms to the kitchen ran the full width of the townhouse and created the feeling of a big open space.
He sank into a chair beside the fireplace as she began the task of coordinating the activities of her network of computer geeks.
“This is going to burn a lot of cash,” Kate said as she looked at her list.
James sipped from his coffee cup. “I figured a million or so.”
“For each task?”
“Right. A million for each of the assignments, plus a half-million for anyone providing a link to the ringleader’s funding.”
“And a million for a direct link to the leader?” she added.
James looked over at her as she stood near the sink. “Right now, that seems like a lot to hope for.”
Kate got situated at the dining table and James returned to his chair in the living room, expecting nothing less than a marathon.
“We need to cover the whole spectrum. The investigators should plunge into Specter’s life,” he said. “Business, personal and family ties. Everything, across the board.”
“How about contacting his enemies?” Kate suggested. “Someone might feel like talking.”
“Good idea.” James studied his notes. “Tell the P.I.’s we’re paying double their standard rate, and cash incentives for useful information. That should get them to dive in.”
James went into the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee and stood beside Kate, pointing to her notepad. “This item is important. The researchers need to dig into his past business dealings; court cases, phone records, travel records. They need to search high and low until something comes up.”
An hour later a team of high-priced talent was beginning to penetrate every crevice and recess of Alec Specter’s life: his first girlfriend, every place he had ever slept, the name of his kindergarten teacher . . .
Kate’s contacts hacked into servers, obtaining the mobile numbers of targeted individuals who were contacted at work, at home, on the golf course—even one on the commode. Inside of two hours, the work force had grown to dozens of men and women; a collective battering ram in pursuit of the truth.
At six-thirty in the evening, a researcher called James with an item he believed could be of interest. He had been delving into records on the server of a travel agency that serviced the Wolfe & Hunt law firm, eventually discovering Specter made two trips to Paris in the past six months. The pattern was inconsistent with his profile.
Specter
did
travel, but never overseas. Until recently.
“What are you thinking?” Kate asked.
“It could be something. Or maybe he decided that Paris is an attractive destination.”
“But the timing is suspicious,” she countered. “And he made
two
trips.”
“Good point. I like the idea of doubling the number of investigators. Burrow deeper into his pool of enemies.”
“It’s a rather large pool, James.”
“I know. But we might catch a break.”
He turned loose more private investigators who headed out in search of loose lips. James removed some items from the fridge and began preparing for an early dinner. An hour later, Kate cleared papers from the kitchen’s center island and they stood, eating and chatting—opting to dine standing because they were too amped.
They finished the meal and tried to take the edge off by sharing a bottle of red wine.
The minutes ticked by—each feeling like an hour.
The daylight receded and evening fell. The hour was approaching nine o’clock when one of the secure phones rang. James picked it up. Kate noticed his expression brighten as he listened to the caller.
A few moments passed.
He nodded. A grin swept across his face.
“Thank you.”
A silence.
“Well?” Kate prodded.
“I think we’re on to something,” he said. “This investigator—a very attractive woman on his team—she left a bar in New York City ten minutes ago where she had a long conversation with a guy. He went on and on about how he was burned by Alec Specter on some bogus tax shelter. Lost a bundle, wants revenge, but he can’t implicate Specter directly in the scam.”
“And?”
“I guess he was so drunk and enamored with this young woman that he unloaded on her. His lawyers heard rumors from credible sources about this slick lawyer, Alec Specter, and his involvement in hiding money in banks in Paris.”
“Interesting,” Kate said, looking up from her papers.
“You could have your contacts compare transaction data at banks in Paris to wire transfers on the Wolfe & Hunt servers. Any patterns and correlations in connection with this ringleader would be bound to surface.”
“That would take a long time,” she replied.
“Not necessarily. You could ask your contacts to help write some custom software programs. It could reduce the time from days to
hours
.”
“True.”
Kate added, “Given the extent of the data, the research personnel would have to be ramped up. The raw data will have to be analyzed by people who know what to look for.”
She paused.
“By offering some bonus cash, we could increase speed and efficiency.”
James rose to his feet and kissed her. “I married a smart woman.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said, pleased by the compliment.
Given a new mandate, the geeks sprang into action, pounding away at servers in Paris and New York City—hardened security features erected for the purpose of keeping them out. The challenge would test their resolve and skills.
And the researchers sifted documents, reducing them from millions to tens of thousands with sophisticated computer software. But technology has its limits. Nothing can take the place of human analysis. Any clue—or piece of the puzzle—would be brought to light through personal application.
Two hours passed.
Nothing.
Kate drifted off.
A few minutes after eleven o’clock, a secure phone rang. James answered it.
“Talk to me.”
“I’ve got something really hot,” announced the caller.
“Go.”
“It’s an account at Baribus Private Bank Paris. Your buddy Specter controls it. During the past six weeks, a man named Max Baer has made multiple withdrawals from the account. The amounts range from fifty thousand to a hundred and fifty thousand Euros.”
“So?”
“James! The withdrawals were tendered in cash. You know, the man walks into the bank and comes out carrying a sackful of currency.”
“Better.”
“The bank’s archive of surveillance videos can be tapped into, but not remotely. Somebody has to actually enter the building.”
As James spoke, the caller heard a quick inhale. “Much better, terrific. Four hours from now the bank opens for business. We have to get those tapes.”
“Hey, wait a minute. We’re geeks, not operatives.”
“We need those videos,” James said flatly.
He explained to the geek how one of his colleagues in Paris would enter the bank under the guise of a maintenance technician employed by the bank’s security company. James contacted a friend in Paris who agreed to help with logistical support and assure the extraction went smoothly.
A few minutes later he got a callback from the geek, hoping the cash incentive had been sufficient.
“He’ll do it.”
CHAPTER 18
A
ndre was an extremely nervous computer geek when he arrived near the bank in Paris. Tall, wiry and in his late-twenties, his boyish appearance hid an intensity just below the surface. He rode in the passenger seat beside Nicolas, the man James had sent, and they pulled to the curb by the Baribus Private Bank, beyond the range of the security cameras.
Nicolas glanced at his watch: 9:45 A.M.
The morning was beautiful, the sun beating down along ancient cobblestones streets and buildings of grand architecture.
Nicolas turned to Andre. “Well, are you ready?”
They had planned extensively during the night, but Andre felt anxious. “Give me a minute to compose myself.”
“Sure, take all the time you need,” Nicolas said, enjoying the city’s easy beat and watching pedestrians and tourists as they walked by along the sidewalk.
Moments later, Andre exhaled heavily. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Nicolas gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
He crossed the street and walked into the Baribus Private Bank, affecting a casual air as he stepped over to a security guard who sat behind an information kiosk. He presented his credentials to the guard who made a phone call to the security company. The call was rerouted and answered by a geek—an accomplice of Andre. Satisfied the company had dispatched a maintenance technician to the bank, the guard motioned toward the elevators. Andre took slow, deep breaths and rode the lift down two floors to a secured area where he was met by another guard, this one giving him clearance to enter a room that contained the bank’s surveillance equipment. A Frenchman sat over by a wall of monitors, and he turned and greeted Andre who gave a polite response.
Andre went to the other side of the room and stood before a bank of database servers. A moment or two later, the Frenchman who was looking at the monitors turned and faced him.
“Have you seen Gustave lately?”
Beads of sweat pooled on Andre’s forehead. He suddenly felt grateful; last night, Nicholas had suggested that Andre memorize the security company’s employee records, past and present.
Andre didn’t look over, and kept his eyes on his laptop.
“Not since he died last year.”
The Frenchman nodded, swiveling his chair around and back to the monitors. The threat deflected, Andre began copying the files to his hard drive.
Ten minutes later, he came out of the building and jumped in the car beside Nicolas.
“How’d it go?”
Andre was visibly shaken, saying, “Drive! Please, just drive.”
Nicolas pulled from the curb and drove away. When Andre’s nerves calmed down, he booted his laptop, sending an email with video footage to Kate. She opened the files, importing them into a software program she had written last night in a sleepless stupor. Videos were extracted that corresponded to the dates and times when the mystery man had made his withdrawals at the bank.
The time in Georgetown was nearing five o’clock in the morning, and somehow James had been able to get some desperately needed sleep. Hearing the email tone on Kate’s laptop, they both sat up and got in front of her laptop. Looking at the email attachments, they saw images of a man on the screen. He appeared to be in his seventies.
James put on a pot of coffee before rejoining Kate on the sofa.
“This is the best it’s going to get,” she said. “I sorted through the footage, made the conversion into photographs and enhanced the ones with the best camera angles.”
A second attachment had footage of the man walking by two surveillance cameras. Looking at the videos, both of them noticed a slight limp in his stride.
“I’d say he’s in his mid-seventies, give or take,” James said.
She played the videos again.
“That seems about right.”
James detected a presumption in the man’s carriage: it was unmistakable, like someone who had at one time held a position of high authority. Kate opened the file with the photos and brought up the clearest one, which filled the whole screen. They studied him; about six feet tall, white, a slender but robust physique for a man of this age, and his eyes—they suggested an alert mind.
James got two cups of coffee from the kitchen, put them on the table and leaned over Kate’s shoulder to inspect the photo again.
“So, this is the next piece of the puzzle.”
“What now?”
“The rest we’ll have to get from Specter.” As he turned to Kate, he saw a look of concern. “What?”
“Back to New York?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Come on, James. Alec Specter’s life has been turned inside out in the past twenty-four hours. All the probing and investigating, he’s bound to know something’s up.”
Judging by the look on his face, he didn’t like the idea either.
“We have to stop the flow of money to the assassins, and find this guy before he kills us. Specter’s the only way to track him down,” he said, pointing to the man on the laptop.
Kate grimaced.
It’s moments like this that make me queasy. I know he’s right, but his compulsive attraction to danger is unsettling. I fell in love with a risk junkie.