Elizabeth Lowell - Innocent as Sin

“Barter, not cash.” Neto leaned back in his chair and massaged his right forearm just above the prosthesis.

“With what?”

“Blood diamonds, stolen oil, coltan-”

“What is coltan?” Thomas asked.

Rand went back to reading. Unlike the future TV audience, Rand already knew more than he wanted to about the “black stone” that was the basis of modern electronics.

Yet he couldn’t help listening to the events that had caused his brother’s death.

“Coltan is mucked out of the ground by independent miners, rebels, and men with legitimate Camgerian licenses,” Neto said. “There was a time in the 1980s and 1990s when coltan was worth nearly as much as solid native copper and was much easier to find. The rebels who confronted the Camgerian government five years ago used coltan to finance the purchase of arms. They bartered sacks full of it for AK-47s.”

Rand saw the words as a series of pictures, vivid as only a flashback could be.

Bulging gunny sacks lined up along the dirt runway.

Sweating black rebels unloading wooden crates of high-tech death.

A Russian turboprop.

The Siberian.

Blood.

Reed’s blood.

Everywhere.

“The guns were stolen or purchased in Eastern Europe, from Soviet, Bulgarian, and Ukrainian arms depots,” Neto said. “Then they were flown south to equatorial Africa and traded for coltan, which could be easily monetized in the world market.”

“Monetized?” Thomas asked right on cue.

“Sweat and blood and coltan turned into hard currency,” Neto explained. “Victor Krout, now called Andre Bertone, was one of the leading forces in this illegal trade. He used his ties to the Russian military-industrial establishment to organize what had been random smuggling into a coordinated, very profitable business. I estimate he made one hundred and fifty million dollars over the ten years he was active in the illegal arms trade. Much of that money was wrung from the blood and bones of Camgerians. I will get it back on their behalf. With that money we will dig village wells and vaccinate children, build schools and clinics and hospitals. For millions of Camgerians, that money is the difference between continuing stability and the atrocities of war.”

“Can you retrieve that money legally, under international law?” Thomas asked.

Rand’s mouth flattened. If international law worked reliably, St. Kilda would be out of business. Transnational criminals weren’t stupid. Bertone was nothing short of brilliant. Courtroom proof was hard to find when everyone who stepped forward was murdered.

And that was what Krout/Bertone did.

“Yes, we will prevail,” Neto said, “but it will be difficult. Bertone, as he is known today, has long since put his disreputable past behind him. Using money gained from bringing war where peace had been, he has become a very wealthy oil broker, a middleman between renegade African regimes and rebel armies on one side and some of the world’s leading oil companies on the other. Bertone has a whole list of former arms clients who are tied to him-rebels who used his weapons to overthrow governments and governments who used Bertone’s arms to suppress rebellions.”

“You’re saying that money, rather than any kind of idealism or politics, motivated Bertone in the arms trade,” Thomas said.

“Idealism?” Neto laughed bitterly. “Bertone could not find it in the dictionary. Yet, or perhaps because of that, he has many powerful allies in Africa, Russia, Brazil, France, and even the United States. That is why you had to come to Canada to talk to me. My request for a U.S. visa was turned down.”

Rand waited for the next, obvious question: Why would the U.S. refuse Neto entrance?

Instead, Thomas went back to the sexier, safer, far more visual subject of arms, diamonds, oil, and violence. Rand could practically see the montage of film clips that would be used to help the viewer understand that Bertone’s profits could be measured in suffering as well as dollars.

Faroe gestured to Rand.

Rand closed the computer and walked to the suite’s small dining area, where a portable fax had been set up. “Scrambled?” he asked Faroe softly.

“What do you think?”

“Like eggs at a buffet.”

Faroe looked at his watch. The fax began spitting out papers. He handed them to Rand and waited for the explosion.

“Application accepted?” Rand asked in a rising voice. “Invitation included? Frigging parking permit? You mean there really is such a dumb-ass thing as the Fast Draw?”

“Sure is. And now you’re a part of it. Come on. Grace is waiting for us in Phoenix. She has more papers for you to sign.”

“What?”

“Employment contract.”

Rand shook his head sharply. “If my word isn’t good enough-”

“Your protection as well as ours,” Faroe cut in. “If you’re employed, you can claim confidentiality if the feds question you.”

“Try it again, in English.”

“I knew you’d ask, so I had her write it down.” Faroe reached into a hip pocket and drew out a file card the size of his palm. “She said, and I quote, ‘American law gives us some cover on the basis of trade secrecy, but only if Rand signs an employee confidentiality contract. Otherwise he would have no plausible basis for refusing to answer FBI questions.’”

Rand blinked. “Was that English?”

“Good as it gets. The original thing was two pages long.”

Rand looked at the St. Kilda Consulting contract and read quickly. His only comment was, “‘Employed for a time to be mutually agreed upon.’”

“That’s my Grace.” Faroe handed the other man a pen.

For a moment Rand hesitated, remembering Reed’s bloody death and the smiling life of Kayla Shaw. He hadn’t been able to save Reed. Maybe he could help her.

More likely not.

Rand took the pen anyway.

“Welcome back,” Faroe said.

“Tell me that in a few days.”

Faroe took the signed contract and nodded to a woman who had been waiting across the room. Freddie walked toward them briskly, scissors and comb in hand.

Grinning, Faroe did a fast fade.

Phoenix

Friday

7:10 P.M. MST

Impatiently Bertone tapped his fingers against his polished desk. Joao Fouquette might demand that everyone jump through hoops for him, but he took forever to answer his private satellite phone. Knowing the Brazilian’s lifestyle, he was probably enjoying a long, leisurely meal with his mistress and was reluctant to focus on business.

Finally Fouquette answered, his voice rough, almost breathless. “Speak.”

“The account has been set up at our Aruban bank.”

“It took long enough.”

“It went more quickly than you had any right to expect, and you know it,” Bertone said.

In the background Bertone heard a woman’s voice say, “Joao, my soul, you promised me no business. It is my name day.”

“I’ve sent all the information to your coded e-mail,” Bertone said over the sound of Fouquette soothing his mistress.

“Expect the transfers within forty-eight hours,” Fouquette said almost absently.

“But of course,” Bertone said. “I’ve alerted the men to begin gathering the cargo at the Ukrainian warehouse. When the full payment is transferred, the cargo will be flown immediately to Camgeria.”

“Joao,” said a pouting voice. “I am cold without you.”

Fouquette broke the satellite connection.

Bertone set the unit aside, picked up a scrambled cell phone, and punched speed dial. Gabriel answered immediately.

“All is well?” Bertone asked.

“Ver’ quiet. She visit a taqueria and now drives back to her little ranch. Such a hot woman need a man.”

“Business first.”

Gabriel sighed. “Sí. It is a long time I wait.”

“Death is a lot longer. Keep it in your pants until I give you the signal.”

“And if she goes sideways on you?”

“Bring her to me immediately.”

“Alive?”

“If possible. If not, stupidity is a capital crime.”

Phoenix

Saturday

2:30 P.M. MST

Kayla sat at her desk and wanted to scream. The American Southwest Bank building was pretty much deserted. The only sound she’d heard in hours was the elevator opening and closing while guards or cleaners made their rounds. Everyone was off to enjoy the weekend.

Except her.

Damn it, Foley, where are you?

She hadn’t seen her boss for twenty-four hours. As far as she could tell, Foley had left work shortly after he’d talked to her.

Cash the check. I’ll put the rest of it in motion.

She had.

Had he?

Anxiety crawled over her like needles, first hot and then cold.

As she’d already done countless times already, she clicked on her e-mail icon. The answer hadn’t changed.

Nothing new from her boss.

Almost desperately she opened the last e-mail from Foley, the one from yesterday.

Relax, Kayla. I’m working on it.

“Okay, great,” she said under her breath. “But how hard can it be to consult with the corporate counsel and compliance department? Even if you have to bring in the rest of the high-powered executives, it shouldn’t take a whole day. Everyone is in town. I checked. So where the hell is my boss?”

She took several long, slow, deep breaths, willing her nerves to settle. Foley might be slick as snot, but he wasn’t a fool. Neither were his bosses. They would understand that she was innocent.

Wouldn’t they?

She closed her eyes and gripped her desk until her fingers ached. She was the lowest creature on this particular food chain. If anyone was eaten, it would be her.

God, how could this have happened?

Silently she rehearsed the facts she’d have to retell over and over again before this mess was cleared up. And while she did, she prayed she wouldn’t have to give her frail explanations to some cold-eyed federal agent.

Part of her wanted to grab her backpack and passport and get on a plane.

Part of her wanted to scream.

Most of her wanted to kill Bertone and dance at his funeral.

Automatically she checked her phone for voice mails, hoping that one from Foley would be there, telling her everything had been handled.

Nothing.

She checked her e-mails again.

Nothing.

Grimly she stared at the screen.

This is all a bad dream, right? It isn’t real.

It can’t be.

She typed her way into the bank’s master database. With shaking fingers she called up the Bank of Aruba correspondent account she had established at Foley’s instruction. The screen flashed into focus, then blinked, as if updating itself.

Forty-five million, five hundred thousand dollars.

Air left her lungs in a rush. “That can’t be. The check was only for twenty-two million.”

With a growing sense of sickness, she scanned down to the banker’s code authorizing the second deposit.

It was hers.

No! I didn’t make a second deposit.

She refreshed the screen once, twice, three times. Nothing changed except the speed of her heartbeat.

Not a bad dream after all.

Just a bad reality.

Someone was using her bank code to make unauthorized deposits into the Aruban correspondent account that she had created.

Damn it, Foley. You said you would help.

She hit her e-mail button one last time.

Nothing new.

And there was nothing she could do about it right now except trust Foley to get off his ass while she went to the Fast Draw paint-off and smiled so that her picture could be taken with her equally smiling blackmailers.

Castillo del Cielo

Saturday

5:30 P.M. MST

The tape securing the recorder to the small of Rand’s back itched like fire ants. The nearly invisible wire that served as a microphone tweaked his chest hair when he moved a certain way.

“Stop scratching. It blows out the microphone.”

Faroe’s voice came from the earphones of the fake iPod that Rand wore. When the Bertones had turned down an offer from The World in One Hour to film the contest as a human interest piece, Faroe had wired Rand for sound and given him a special camera. It had been prepared by St. Kilda technicians and was capable of shooting through the compound lens, as any other camera would.