Elizabeth Lowell - Innocent as Sin

Kayla traced the edge of the heavy silver knife that lay alongside her plate. Dull. Like her brain. “I assume you expect me to ignore the regulations that would require me to make sure the money was legitimately obtained.”

“If you wish to stay out of jail, yes.” Bertone made a sound of disdain. “Your government is very strange. First it tries to make policemen out of bankers. Then business realities force bankers to become criminals. It would be amusing if it weren’t so annoying.”

Kayla stretched her lips into a grim smile. “You’re aware of the fact that I’m only a junior officer at American Southwest Bank. I hope the checks you give me won’t be large.”

“You’ve accepted Elena’s deposits in the past.”

“There’s always the chance of a close internal audit, especially with a check this size,” she said, looking at Elena’s envelope. “Twenty million is a lot of money, even to a bank.”

Bertone frowned. “Audit? Is that controlled by your boss?”

“No. It’s an entirely different department.”

He stared at her, looking for the telltale signs of lies. Unfortunately he didn’t see any. “I haven’t heard of this.”

“Don’t feel bad. Learning the ins and outs of banking regulations takes years, and then the regs change overnight.” As Kayla spoke, she tried the edge of the heavy silver knife with her thumb again. Still dull as a baseball bat. “I could probably finesse the Treasury regs that require an SAR, but American Southwest is small enough that multimillions in new deposits to an old account will ring alarms all over the place.”

“SAR.” He said it like a curse.

“Suspicious Activity Report,” she translated sweetly. “We have to file a report with the feds whenever we encounter unusual activity in an account. And I believe your request would qualify as unusual if not outright suspicious.”

“You’re insolent.”

“I’m blunt,” Kayla said. “The more you know about what I can and can’t do, the less chance there is of a big misunderstanding. Who knows, we just might find we have a lot in common. Profitable things.”

Elena came back toward them, sandals sparkling. Behind her there was nothing but silence.

Bertone turned to his wife. “You said your banker was a naïf.”

“I said she was polite, sweet, and bright.”

“I’m flattered,” Kayla lied. “Nobody has called me sweet since I told my third-grade teacher to go screw the principal. I work for the bank, but I regard myself as an independent entrepreneur. And so does the bank.”

Bertone and Elena exchanged glances. Then he lit one of the Cuban cigars he’d taken up with his most recent identity change. He missed cigarettes, but it was a small sacrifice for freedom. In any case, there were so few places left in the land of the free and home of the brave where a man was free to smoke anything but fish.

“Go on,” he said, blowing out a stream of fragrant smoke.

Kayla forced herself to pick up the check she’d rather burn. “Entrepreneurs can be difficult, but they’re more useful than clerks. For example, a young bank officer with an entrepreneurial streak might remember that she’d handled transactions from the Bertone accounts at the Bank of Aruba in the past.”

“But of course,” Elena said impatiently. “You’ve handled many of-”

Kayla talked over her. “That would mean this entrepreneurial bank officer could say to her bosses that the customer had an established record of legitimate dealings with American Southwest and that the deal was what is called ‘normal and expected.’ That’s the important language, ‘normal and expected.’”

Bertone watched her through narrowed eyes.

“Of course,” Kayla said, “if somebody challenged the transaction at some later time, the ambitious bank officer would have to say she’d been mistaken about the previous banking relationship. So sorry, my bad, but everyone makes honest mistakes, right?”

For the space of a long, savoring draw on the cigar, Bertone was silent. Then he said, “Wouldn’t such a mistake get the young entrepreneur fired?”

“It might,” Kayla agreed, “or she might get a raise for bagging millions in new deposits. Banks love big new deposits, so long as they come with plausible explanations. That’s the whole fallacy of these ‘know-your-customer’ regulations. They’re really a way the banks can clean their own skirts. Plausible deniability, in political terms.”

Kayla flashed a cold, cynical smile, hoping that her clenched teeth didn’t show. What she was saying was half true. The other half was that the lowest employee on the banking food chain was the one who got fired and went to jail when normal and expected became unusual and suspicious in the federal government’s 20/20 hindsight.

Like the countless ways to interpret income tax law, the gray areas in banking law were often decided in court.

“In other words, all of this was quite unnecessary,” Kayla said. “I’m okay with a direct approach.”

“Refreshing,” Bertone said.

“Realistic.” She dug into her leather valise and came up with the escrow check for the Dry Valley acres. “Let’s start over. I’ll give you back your money, you can reconvey my ranch, and we’ll proceed with the other transactions on a much more friendly basis.”

Bertone looked at the check Kayla held out, then at his wife.

“Perhaps we’ve underestimated your little banker,” he said. “She seems more pragmatic than you suggested.”

Elena poured her husband more coffee. “I told you she was bright.”

When Bertone looked thoughtful, Kayla allowed herself to hope. Then he smiled coldly and shook his head.

“Keep the check,” he said. “I’ve learned that the best relationships are based on motivation. In any case, the escrow company assured me that the sale would be recorded by now.”

Beautiful, Kayla thought bitterly. Whether or not I cash that check, I’m well and truly screwed. But all she said aloud was, “I see you’ve done this before.”

Bertone’s cigar hesitated on the way to his mouth. Then he smiled. “Elena was right. You’re intelligent. But I’m surprised. You act like you’ve been down this road before.”

“It’s called the primrose path.” Kayla wanted to run, so she forced herself to stand and look down at both of them. “A girl knows she’s being seduced a long time before she feels the hand on her thigh.” She glanced at her unused coffee cup and plate. “Thanks for brunch.”

She turned away.

“One minute,” Bertone said, his voice like a whip. He picked up the Aruban bank draft and held it out to her. “Deposit this immediately. And I mean immediately.”

With cold fingers Kayla took the check. There was no other choice. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

She was trapped, helpless.

For the first time in her life Kayla understood, really understood, why people killed.

“Be sure you’re on time for the Fast Draw tomorrow,” Elena said. “It’s necessary for you to be there. And what is necessary to us, you will do.”

“I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.” Kayla turned and headed for the parking area.

Bertone drew thoughtfully on his cigar, settled back in his chair, and watched Kayla walk away. She wasn’t in Elena’s class, but she was an interesting female all the same.

“She’s not what I expected,” he said quietly.

“She came to heel quickly enough.”

He smiled. “I particularly liked the way she tried to turn the tables on us by hinting that she could be bought. That was deliciously inventive of her.”

“Do you think she meant it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Gabriel will follow her. Her desk, cell, and home phones are tapped. If she is foolish enough to go to the feds, Gabriel will stop her.”

“I don’t like having her run around free,” Elena said.

Bertone sighed. It wasn’t the first time the subject had come up. “After the Fast Draw event, I’ll give her to Gabriel, but only if he promises to keep her alive until the final transfer is made.”

Elena looked thoughtful. She tapped her peach-colored fingernails on the surface of the table. “That leaves too much time before we physically control her. It’s still dangerous.”

“Money always is. That’s why we have so much and others have so little. We risk.” He touched the frown lines between her dark brown eyes. “Don’t worry, beautiful one. As soon as Kayla transfers all the funds, Gabriel will silence her, the rebels will have the arms to overthrow Camgeria, and the oil concessions will be mine. Then you will dine with presidents and prime ministers as you desire.”

But first I will kill Joao Fouquette.

Money was useful, but there was nothing more valuable than power.

North of Seattle

Friday

9:44 A.M. PST

Andre Bertone,” Rand said, handing Faroe a mug of black tea. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as anyone can be in this business,” Faroe said. “He’s kept the identity for five years. Something of a record for him.”

“Sounds more French than Russian. Possibly Argentine.”

“It’s the name on his UN passport. He was Nicolas Gregori, aka the Siberian, when he killed Reed. Two weeks later Andre Bertone appeared with a cover story that went back to his mother’s milk.”

“Busy boy.” Rand poured his own tea.

“Oh, yeah. Bertone started out life as Victor Krout, a Siberian-born Russian. He was trained in the usual black arts at KGBU in Moscow. He speaks six languages, flies helos and airplanes, and practices tradecraft like a deep-cover agent.”

“Is he?”

“Doubt it,” Faroe said, yawning and stretching. “The Russians want Bertone’s ass. Something about unpaid taxes.”

“Bet it’s more like unpaid kickbacks.”

Faroe shrugged. “In some countries, kickbacks are just another name for taxes.”

“What’s a former KGB agent doing with a United Nations passport?”

“Ask Libya. Money and guns is my guess.”

“The creds must come in handy for a globe-trotting international gunrunner,” Rand said.

“Supposedly he’s not a gunrunner anymore,” Faroe said. “Now he has a bunch of shell companies and old friends standing between him and the obvious dirty stuff. The new and improved Andre Bertone is a respected and respectable international commodities broker. Oil, coltan, diamonds, timber, whatever one African backwater wants to sell and some first-world country wants to buy.”

Sipping at the strong, murky tea he loved, Rand paced over to the window and stared out. The bright interval of sun had passed. The sky was slate gray and the wind had increased, whipping the daffodils and turning the unsecured rotor of the waiting helicopter.

Faroe fought back another yawn. He’d been pulling twenty-hour days over Bertone.

“I want to read everything you have on him,” Rand said.

“Okay, with the usual reservations.”

“The ones that require me to cut out my tongue before talking, my fingers before typing, and my eyes before seeing?” Rand asked dryly.

“You remember. I’m touched.”

“Who’s the client?”

“An African nation that used the Siberian, got double-crossed, discovered it after the fact, and double-crossed the oil cartel Bertone fronts for in retaliation. Now the cartel is trying to start a civil war so that they’ll get oil concessions from the new government. If the oil-backed rebels get enough arms, they’ll win. But they won’t get arms if they don’t get the money to pay.”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

“Get used to it,” Faroe said.

“Do you trust your Camgerian interface?”

Faroe’s smile was slow and cold. “You haven’t lost a step, have you?”

“I lost a twin. Does that count?” Rand made an abrupt gesture. “Who’s the interface?”

“A man called John Neto. He was born in Africa and educated at the London School of Economics. Someday he’s going to run that oil-rich little country. Right now he’s head of the Camgerian national intelligence service-all three employees. He has a fine jugular instinct and the patience of a leopard. Best of all, he hates the ground Bertone walks on. He’s been tracking him for years.”

“So why does this Neto need St. Kilda?”

“The U.S. government won’t cooperate with him.”

“Gee, that sounds familiar,” Rand said. “So they stonewalled him same as they did me?”

“Yeah. And then they told Neto that he couldn’t come to the U.S. and present evidence against Andre Bertone.”

“Why?”