Jerichos fall, p.20
Jericho's Fall, page 20
“Please.”
“The theory is that, in stripping valuable assets from the companies before reselling them, the first thing Scondell Bloom did was remove all the cash, or sell all the liquid assets. Most of the cash flowed into the operating budget and the investment pool, meaning that a big chunk was returned to the partners as income. The rest of the cash was invested around the world in a variety of foreign companies, where a lot of it vanished. Some of the companies were thriving, some of them were shells. Either way, the money flowed into them, and then out again, untraceable. On the books, the money had been reinvested, and then those reinvestments had taken huge losses. In real life, with the compliance of a few foreign nationals, it had been siphoned into offshore accounts controlled by the partners—”
“That sounds terribly illegal, Rebecca. Somebody should do something about it.”
“The puzzle for the prosecutors—the reason they’re not sure they can prove any of this—is how on earth the firm built this network of willing helpers around the world. Why would the directors of foreign corporations, or the currency regulators of foreign countries, put their livelihoods on the line to help a handful of American businessmen steal a fortune? And then lie to investigators about it? On Wall Street, they’re shaking their heads. Nobody knows. All they keep saying is, somebody must have owed somebody else some huge favors.”
“I see.”
“But you and I know what the answer is, don’t we? Jack Notting was CIA. Jericho Ainsley was CIA. I bet, if we went down the masthead, we’d find a few others, from managing directors to bit players, who were CIA. I think the whole bunch of them called in favors around the world. I think people owed them, and made up for it by looking the other way. I think Scondell Bloom was their retirement account.”
“I see.”
“And I think that’s what Jericho’s threatening to disclose. I think you cooked up the rest of it—the national-security angle—just to get me to cooperate.”
“That’s quite a story.” They were back at the car. “Can you prove any of it?”
“No. It’s a theory.” It was nearly dark. “Like I said, I was wondering what you thought of it.”
“Well, for one thing, to make it work, you’d have to assume that only Jack Notting was CIA. Not Rufus Scondell and Doolie Bloom. These were smart men. You’d have to assume that Notting pulled the wool over their eyes. They had no idea what he was up to.”
“Or that this was the deal. They’d get their share, but if anything happened, they’d take the fall.”
“Yes. I see. I see. And they’d be too frightened to talk.”
“That’s right.”
“But a friend of mine overheard Lewiston Clark telling you that Scondell Bloom was washing mob money. I don’t think the Agency and the mob get in bed together these days.”
A friend of mine. An unsubtle confirmation that Dak’s people were watching. “That would be a good cover story, wouldn’t it?” Beck said. “It would explain perfectly any acts of violence or intimidation that might occur. The perfect rumor to cover whatever is really going on.”
“Fascinating.” He leaned against a bench, crossed his arms. “And what do you plan to do with this theory of yours, Rebecca? Write a book? Call your Congressman? What did you have in mind?”
“Nothing. I’m not doing a thing. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I’m getting on that plane tomorrow—no, Friday—and forgetting any of you ever existed.”
Dak nodded. They left the park, crossing back toward the clinic, where Beck had left her rental. “I think that’s a very good idea.”
“Still, there’s one thing I don’t understand.” He did not warn her off, so she plunged. “These men who did this thing—whoever they were—they’d spent their careers serving their country. They were patriots. Why would they turn around and spit in their country’s face?”
“Maybe that’s not how they saw it, Rebecca. Maybe they looked at the size of their pensions after decades of risking their lives, seeing things too terrible to think about and sometimes doing them, all so the pigs-in-clover crowd could sip champagne in their private jets and party with movie stars who give speeches about how terrible these people were, the people working to protect them. Maybe they got sick of it. Maybe they wanted their fair share.”
“By theft? By fraud?”
“By whatever means necessary, Rebecca. Just the way they’d been trained.”
“But they were patriots,” she objected again, the last safe harbor of her secret romantic view of her country. “They loved America.” A pause. “Didn’t they?”
Dak’s tone was kindly. “I suppose, in their way, they did.”
“In their way?”
He pointed. “See the flag, Rebecca? It’s flying at night, but it’s not lighted. That violates a federal law. Did you know that? There’s a federal statute called the Flag Code. It was adopted by Congress during World War II. It’s still on the books, but nobody enforces it. Nobody cares. People call themselves patriots, and then they violate the rules for flying the American flag. Because patriotism—left, right, or center— means whatever people need it to mean.”
They drove back to town in silence.
(iii)
The were at the Red Roof Inn, standing beside the car.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Leaving? Leaving where?”
“Going home. I’m retired.” He had his hands in his pockets. “This isn’t my fight. I wanted to help him, but he doesn’t want to be helped.”
She rubbed her eyes. “And this wouldn’t have anything to do with the story I just told you.”
“My arrangements are already made, Rebecca. You can call the airline if you don’t believe me.”
Beck was not sure why she wanted so badly for him to stay. Maybe the same reason children wanted so badly for Santa Claus to be real. “What if I were to agree?” she said. “What if I helped you find whatever he’s hidden?”
For an instant, the chilly eyes warmed with interest. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s too late. My work is done. I tried to change his mind. I couldn’t. So I’m going home.”
“Just tell me first, Dak. Tell me if I’m right. That this has nothing to do with national security and everything to do with the stolen money—”
He shrugged. “Most of your story makes perfect sense to me. But it’s not my province. I’m not a rich man. I didn’t get into the intelligence business to protect rich men. If Jack Notting stole money, I hope he rots. If Jericho helped him—well, I love him, but he’ll have to take his chances with the rest of the crooks. No, Rebecca. I’m here for my country. What I told you the other night isn’t some cover story. It’s the truth.”
“Then why—”
“I’m not finished. I said most of the story makes sense. The part about Jack Notting being a thief? I’m willing to believe it. But the notion that Jericho has the goods on him? I’m skeptical, Rebecca.”
“Why? If Jericho is willing to blackmail the government of the United States, why would he stop at doing the same to a rogue billionaire?”
“With what? His word against Notting’s?”
“Evidence. Records. Whatever there is. He could have collected it, and hidden it somewhere.” She grew eager. “My theory connects all the dots. Jericho has the records of Jack Notting’s illegal transactions—”
Dak waved this away. “Say you’re right. It’s a big assumption, that anybody would organize all of this over money, but say you’re right. Fine. Jack Notting stole money, he hid it abroad, Jericho helped him. But you have to understand something about a man like Jack Notting. There wouldn’t be records.”
“There would have to be. They could be hidden. Fine. But nobody could remember so many details. Someplace, somewhere—”
“No, Rebecca. No. Listen. A couple of years ago, there was this movie. The bad guys were CIA agents running a secret assassination squad, right? Killing American citizens, all that. And how did they get caught? Because the bad guys kept these files, on official CIA stationery, in a safe in New York City. The files said who got killed and who did the killing. Right? Now, that’s the Hollywood version. Let’s talk real life. I was Director of Operations for six years. Suppose— hypothetically—that we really did decide to get rid of somebody. I’m not saying we did. I’m saying, suppose we did. Number one, nobody would be crazy enough to put it on paper. Number two, if we did put it on paper? There was a little trick we pulled, whenever we had to keep records that we might not want people to see. We never put them on stationery, only on blank pages. And there were always typos. Lots and lots of typos. Typos, cross-outs, pieces taped together from different typewriters or fonts. Now, why would we do that, Rebecca?”
She saw it. So obvious, once you thought about it. “So if the records ever got out they would look fake.”
“Exactly. That’s exactly right. And a lot of government secrets are kept just that way, Rebecca. On cheap paper with no letterhead and lots of errors. So if the Times or CBS or some blogger ever gets hold of them they won’t even bother to run with the story. That’s Jack Notting’s background. I don’t believe he’d keep records. But if he did? They’d be in a form that couldn’t possibly incriminate him. No, Rebecca. I know you don’t believe my story. You don’t think Jericho is threatening national security. You think either I’m lying to you or people are lying to me. But my story makes the most sense.”
“But what about—”
His cell phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, and something much like pain flared in his eyes. He walked several paces away to answer, and spoke in a whisper. But Rebecca’s ears were excellent. “Yes. What? Who? Max? Max is coming here? Who sent— I see. I see. No, I’m leaving anyway. What? No. With Max around, it doesn’t make sense, does it? Yes. Okay.”
Agadakos hung up and swung back. “It doesn’t matter what’s true and what isn’t,” he resumed, as if the other conversation had never taken place. “Because you’re flying to Chicago on Friday anyway, right?”
“Right,” she said.
Wrong.
(iv)
Margaret Ainsley called while Beck was driving back to Stone Heights. She had heard about what happened, she said. She was so sorry. She asked Beck to pass on her best wishes. She would call Stone Heights tomorrow.
“You could call tonight,” said Beck. “I’m sure everybody’s up.”
“Oh, no, no, I would just be a bother.”
“It would be fine—”
A pause. “And as to the rest of what we talked about, there’s been another development.”
“Which is what?”
“Well, according to my sources, it seems that—”
The static rose suddenly, and the call was lost. The screen said Beck still had bars, and when she called the house to say she was on the way, she had no trouble. But, try as she might, she could not get through to the Senator.
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 23
The Réseau
(i)
On the last day, heavy thundershowers arrived, like heralds of coming tragedy. Jericho, exhausted, slept late. The three women tiptoed around one another like partners in a bad marriage. Beck, for a change, was the one hogging the single telephone. She left multiple messages for Senator Ainsley, both on her cell and at her office, and logged a series of conversations with an increasingly frantic Pfister, who seemed terrified at the idea of attending the regional sales conference alone. She assured him that everything he needed was in the memos she had left behind, and reminded him that she would be arriving only a day later than planned.
“What are you doing out there, anyway?” Pfister demanded, his nervousness making him shrill. “What’s the big meeting?”
“It’s hard to explain,” she answered, realizing that Jericho had never briefed her on the details of the excuse that would keep her here another day. She wondered whether the big promotion was on or off, or a figment of Jericho’s fevered imagination.
When she said goodbye to Pfister for the third time, the phone immediately rang again. She wished somebody else would answer, but she was sitting right at the desk.
“Hi, Beck,” said Tish Kirschbaum. “Have you been stepping on somebody’s toes?”
Rebecca, very surprised, asked what she meant.
“I had a call from my friend in the U.S. Attorney’s office. He said all the assistants got this confidential e-mail, wanting to know which of them had been talking to you.” She laughed. Nothing had scared Tish in college, and nothing scared her now. “Nothing stays confidential long these days, huh?”
“What exactly did the e-mail say?”
“No idea. He didn’t send me a copy. He made it sound all bureaucratic. You know. That they should report any and all contacts with you to a supervisor, et cetera, et cetera, and a reminder that the work of the office is not a subject for public discussion.”
“Tish, you could get in trouble!”
Another hooting laugh. “Why? I’m not bound by their secrecy rules. I’m legally free to repeat anything I hear, and so are you.”
“Legally,” Beck muttered.
“Say again?”
“Nothing.” How do you tell your best friend that your phone is tapped? Especially when you’re talking on it. “Tish, I have to go. I’ll call you when I’m home. Please don’t discuss this with anybody else.”
“Now you sound like the memo my friend got.”
“Every now and then,” said Beck, borrowing from Jericho, “the government of the United States is actually right.”
(ii)
Sheriff Garvey stopped by. He was very somber. He wanted to see Jericho, but Jericho was not available, so he settled for the sisters. Rebecca tried to make herself scarce, on the theory that this was family business and she was leaving tomorrow, but the sheriff said she might as well hear this, too. So they sat in the great room, over near the window with the spectacular mountain view, and listened quietly as the man the Former Everything had elected explained that Jericho would soon be arrested.
“Mr. Pesky took a turn for the worse during the night. He already had a couple of broken bones after his fall from the roof. What your father did to him—well, that made it a whole lot worse. There’s some internal injuries.”
“The injuries could be from the fall,” Audrey objected.
“The doctors say they are from the fall. They’ve been aggravated, is all. He’s being airlifted to Denver”—a melodramatic glance at his watch—“even as we speak.”
The women looked at one another. The atmosphere in the room was ugly, and Beck knew that as soon as Garvey was gone it would get a lot uglier.
“Now, everybody knows Mr. Ainsley is sick,” the sheriff continued, “and, well, he is who he is. Nobody’s in a hurry. He’s not going anywhere. The State’s Attorney will convene a grand jury, and that’ll take time. Maybe the grand jury will decide he’s delusional, Miss Ainsley, just like you said last night. But the State’s Attorney, well, she’s gonna push hard. She’s made that clear. A prosecutor doesn’t get all that many shots at a rich white guy. Sending the former head of the CIA to prison for assault is the kind of thing that can get you your own talk show on CNN or Fox. And—well, he did do it, after all.”
“Yes,” said Pamela, jaw jutting grimly. “He did.”
“The only thing is—nobody seems to know why.”
“I told you,” Audrey began.
“Right. That he’s delusional. My Deputy Pete Mundy doesn’t happen to agree. My deputy thinks Mr. Ainsley wanted actual information, and right now the State’s Attorney is listening to him, not to me. The only way I can help is if you tell me what his real motive was. What he’s been up to. Why so much craziness is happening up here. What he wanted from Mr. Pesky.”
“No idea,” said Audrey.
“None,” said Beck.
“He wanted to know who Pesky was working for,” said Pamela. The other women turned on her in dismay, but she was not done. “And, no, he didn’t tell us whatever he found out. If he found out anything. I doubt that he did. From what Rebecca says, he wasn’t in the room very long.”
The sheriff looked more dismayed than ever. “My deputy reports that when he arrived on the scene and broke down the door, Mr. Ainsley said, ‘We’re done here.’ Now, my deputy has the State’s Attorney believing that meant he already had, uh, extracted whatever information he was looking for.” He opened his jacket. “Look. I’m not wearing a wire. I’m not taking notes. But I need something to take back to the State’s Attorney. Something to persuade her that Mr. Ainsley was acting”—he squinted at the ceiling, searching for the phrase—“out of some rational fear. Isn’t there anything you can tell me? About what he’s been doing?”
Audrey and Beck exchanged glances of growing kinship, and growing suspicion, but once again Pamela marched into the breach.
“We don’t know what he’s been doing, but we do know he’s been worrying a lot. He thinks people are out to get him. Maybe they are. But he just sits up in that room all day and broods and broods.” Where had she summoned those tears from? Pamela was no crier. “He might not be delusional, Sheriff, but he’s not well. It’s not just the cancer. It’s more than that. My father spent his career sniffing out other people’s conspiracies and planning his own. It’s how he sees the world. He never believed Pesky was taking those pictures on behalf of a magazine. None of us did.” Drawing the others, unwilling, into what Beck thought of already as her treachery. “You say the State’s Attorney wants an arrest. Fine. We can’t stop her. But we’ve been complaining for weeks about trespassers, and your department has done squat to protect us. If my father has gone off the deep end, I think you and your deputies have to shoulder some of the blame.”
“What are you—”
