CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Foot traffic on the Malecon was normal for a Thursday. In fact, it was normal for any day in December in Puerto Vallarta. The popular walkway, paralleling the beach and just on the fringe of the city center, was a curious mix of already-brown and still-browning tourists. The only Mexicans on the stroll were the timeshare sales people, a dwindling breed in a resort town where fractional ownership had peaked years back, and street vendors hawking beads and blankets. Edward Brand, dressed in khaki shorts and a loose-fitting white shirt, blended right in.

He passed the scuba shop just as a group of divers exited, heading across the beach to a waiting skiff. A dive boat was anchored a few hundred feet offshore. Brand sat on the bench overlooking the still waters of the Pacific and lit a cigarette. He sucked in the smoke and exhaled, watching the divers board the small craft. He thought it was funny that they would try to get in the boat without getting their feet wet. A dark-skinned Mestizo pulled the string on the motor, and it coughed to life, spewing blue smoke into the fresh ocean air. The motor revved, and then the craft was on its way, a small wake spreading through the gentle surf. Brand finished his cigarette and stepped on the embers. A moment later, his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered.

“Yes?” was all he said.

“Just calling in to report on the woman in San Francisco,” the voice said. It belonged to Brent Hawkins, and he was referring to Taylor Simons.

“And . . .”

“Her trip to Paris seems to be coincidental. She toured about a bit, some of the time in the Latin Quarter, but that’s normal. It’s a popular part of town for tourists.”

“It’s also a dangerous part of town for her to be wandering around in.”

“I know. But I don’t think she was there to look for our guy. I had a careful look at her credit card authorizations, and most were for meals and taxis. Some of the meals were close to his apartment, but probably more coincidental than anything else.”

Brand weighed his response, then said, “All right, so much for Paris. What is she up to now?”

“She was in Washington for a bit, but she’s back at home now. I’m keeping an eye on her the best I can. After she got back to San Francisco, she took a call from the friend she visited when she was in D.C., but it was a bad connection and they ended up talking on a pay phone. I had a directional mike in the car and made a couple of sweeps by the building she was in when she made the call, but there was too much ambient noise. I had no way to record the conversation. I’m not sure what they talked about.”

“Is this a problem?” Brand asked, watching the divers climb from the smaller craft onto the dive boat. One of the women slipped and would have tumbled into the water if a crew member hadn’t caught her.

“No, I don’t think so. But Kelly Kramer, her friend, works at the National Security Agency.”

Brand sucked in a sharp breath. The odor from a nearby sewage outlet stung his nose and lungs. “What did you say?”

“NSA. Kelly Kramer works for the National Security Agency.”

“Jesus Christ. You call to tell me Taylor Simons is talking with a guy who works for NSA and you don’t think this is a problem. Are you fucking nuts?”

“It’s okay, Edward. Her relationship with Kramer goes back to G-cubed. He worked there as her Web-design expert. He just took the NSA job and moved to Washington. Kramer’s a newbie at the agency. He’s no threat.”

“Don’t tell me that someone working inside an agency like the NSA isn’t a threat,” Brand shot back. “These guys have access to information no one else does.”

“That’s crap,” Hawkins said crisply. “They’re not any better connected than we are. I checked out his application and his work history. He’s simply a computer forensics expert they’ve hired to work on information they get from the field operatives. On a scale of one to ten in the agency’s hierarchy, he’s belly-button lint. Nothing.”

“Christ, you had better be right. That kind of shit scares me.”

“Don’t let it. From what I can see, Kramer and Simons were pretty tight at G-cubed. They were more like friends than employer-employee. It fits that she’d visit him, given what happened. He’s out of San Fran, and he’s safe. She’s still grieving. She hops a plane and visits a friend in a different city where she isn’t reminded of her husband every time she turns around. It makes sense.”

“I want you to watch him. Watch him closely.”

“He’s NSA, Edward. You don’t watch these guys too closely without getting caught. I’ll keep tabs on Taylor. She’s the easy one to watch. I’ve got a bug on her home phone. I can try to track her cell phone, but that’s much more difficult, especially without the office sanctioning it.”

“Okay,” Brand said. There was a brief silence where neither man spoke. The deep throaty sound of diesel engines skimmed over the water as the dive boat weighed anchor and turned toward the open ocean. It quickly diminished in size as it left the protected area near the beach and headed for Los Arcos, the local dive site near Mismaloya Beach.

“How are things going with the money?” Hawkins asked.

“I’ll transfer the funds this afternoon. The money should be in your account by six o’clock tonight.”

“That’s fast for a Mexican bank.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s no secret that you’ve been using Mexican banks, out of Mexico City. And they’re notoriously slow. I’m impressed they can get the money across so fast.”

“I don’t use Mexican banks,” Brand said. “Seven of our marks were given scraps of information so they could find the antique shop in Mexico City. That’s why those accounts were set up. I transferred a bit of money to them, but nothing substantial. Your money will be coming from a Caribbean account. That’s all you need to know.”

“I don’t care if a stork drops it, so long as I get it.”

“It’s coming. This afternoon. Including the fifty large for checking out the woman’s trip to Paris.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting.” Hawkins hung up.

Edward Brand lit another cigarette and watched the smoke curl up and slowly dissipate into the warm Mexican air. He stared out at the ocean, the water’s surface a series of gentle sine waves as the surf touched the shore. There was no sign that a boat had just passed that way. If he hadn’t been sitting in that chair, watching the dive boat leave the harbor, he would never have known. It struck him that the world was filled with two kinds of people. There were those who blazed trails across the landscape leaving indelible marks on the terrain of their lives. Others floated on water leaving no trail to show where they had been or what they had done.

And for the first time in his life, he felt a tinge of sadness. Perhaps that he was wasting his life, leaving no mark. He had no children, no career that he could point to and say, This is what I did with my life. Not unless he wanted to highlight the trail of misery and anger he left in his wake. But they were choices made many years ago and those choices had led him to where he was now. And that included being very wealthy. That it was other people’s money was merely a technicality. Money didn’t care who owned it.

He smiled and crushed out the cigarette. An inkling of a conscience. Now that was a first.