12

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“YOU’RE LATE,” TAGGERT said with a scowl. Cordelia arrived in the corner office at 1:01 PM, a short minute after her boss. “When Ms. Burke eventually gets settled, we can begin our briefing.”

The office belonged to Frances Hynes, deputy director of the Global & Terrorist Financial Crimes department inside the agency officially known as the Monetary Compliance Network but usually referred to as MonCom. She had earned the exalted privilege of occupying the southeast corner of the top floor of their low-rise building in Langley. The plate-glass windows afforded a smoggy view of the main complex, parking lots intervening, greenery encircling the campus. Frances had her hands full, and much fuller these days than at any time during her tenure. Prior to coming to MonCom, she had been with the FBI. She was no amateur. She could handle whatever came along and did so diplomatically, showing grace under fire and never breaking a sweat. Despite her diminutive stature and her mid-cropped blond curls framing a pink face of sobriety, she was a formidable force.

The conference table had space for up to six key players. All but two chairs were occupied.

Cordelia felt an unexpected queasiness in her gut. She blamed it on Taggert. He was going to pay. For now, all eyes were upon her. After she shut the door on a soft click, distant hallway noise evaporated, closing off a government conclave of conspirators and secret keepers gathered in the name of national service. The queasiness leapt into her throat. She took the fifth chair.

Breaking the tension, Frances imparted a kindly smile towards Cordelia, settled back, and with a patient gesture, gave her leave to set up her laptop, bring up essential files, and assume an air of undivided attention paired with feigned confidence.

Cordelia understood why she had been invited to this high-level meeting and what was expected of her. Simply to state the facts as she knew them, unembellished by opinion, and afterwards, nod in agreement to whatever the others decided.

“Eric,” suggested Frances, “why don’t you start off.”

Everyone at MonCom was on a first-name basis, no formalities here. Although she had never been in a meeting with the head of her section, Cordelia understood that whenever Eric Sinclair spoke, subordinates listened, and whatever actions he took, proceeded quickly and efficiently, no questions asked or concerns voiced. “Jon has already briefed us on your findings,” he said, acknowledging Cordelia. “And we’re in accord with his conclusions.”

She briefly looked at her boss before asking, “Which are?”

“Simply that you chanced upon something significant.” His eyes went to Taggert. “Or have we missed anything?”

Taggert came to her defense. “The reason Ms. Burke is confused is because she hasn’t been included in any of our previous meetings.”

“Ah yes, the Russian infiltration.”

The information stunned Cordelia as nothing else could have. Russia never figured into her assessment, making her wonder what they knew that she didn’t. She forced a smile and said nothing. Panic replaced queasiness. Gone was her eagerness, vanished her pride, deflated her excitement.

Eric Sinclair was a hulk of a man with a cherubic face that belied the taskmaster beneath. Known for celebrating the invention of wine, he was generally a cheery man, the grandfatherly type, even if sometimes vulgar, also exacting and scrupulous. “We do keep a tight ship, don’t we? Too tight.” He paused as if searching for correct wording and deliberate phrasing. “Without giving away too much, at least at this stage, allow me to rephrase. Do you have anything to add to your vanilla name wrapped inside the manila envelope? Jon has brought us up to speed, but perhaps you have more to add. Something ... I don’t know ... dramatic,” he said, waving his hand. His smile was pleasant enough but his attitude was brusque, almost insulting. Sitting back and folding pudgy hands over his considerable belly, he cleared phlegm from his throat. “Perhaps I put it badly. Well, yes ... come to think ... yes, I did. The request shouldn’t have been asked as a question. Of course, you have more to add. That’s why you’re here, aren’t you? We could have invited a puppet, but a puppet you’re not. Give us your perspective, Ms. Burke. Don’t be shy. And don’t leave anything out. Apologies, excuses, and slanting are unnecessary. We’re a cozy little group here, and you’re invited in. Tell us what you know. Not just what you know. But what you think about what you know.”

The others were used to his folksiness and sarcasm, and showed it in their amused, almost tittering expressions. A sigh of relief rippled around the table. The balloon of formality had popped. Eric nodded pleasantly, almost like a department store Santa holding his toddler audience in command.

“Full throated, Ms. Burke. No holds barred. Spill the beans. We await the drama. Do play on.”

She nodded, swept her vision around the table, and found sympathy in every set of eyes. Relief washed over her. She closed the lid of her laptop. She didn’t need crib notes. The facts were in her head. She cleared her throat and began.

“The money was moved around from bank to bank to bank. You’d think ... well, you’d think from the trouble they went to, that whoever was behind it was playing a game of hide-and-go-seek. But frankly―” She glanced around the table. All eyes were riveted on her.

“Go on,” Frances encouraged her.

“It’s been easy to follow the money trail.”

“And you think this means ...?”

“They wanted us to find it.”

Frances’s eyes shot toward Eric, who slid his vision over to another man—Mark Privett—head of the Enforcement & Operations Division, the team focused on global terrorists and overseas insurgents.

All of forty, Mark was soft-spoken, slim and trim, rusty-haired, and quietly observant, the kind of man who stayed in the background and did his job with quiet efficiency. In many ways, his department was the heart of the agency since it oversaw the collection and maintenance of worldwide data. With an engineering background, he knew his stuff backwards, forwards, and inside-out, and was the go-to man for making the data engine work at full capacity and without disruptive glitches.

Even while holding his eyes on Cordelia, Mark hadn’t said a word. With a purposeful folding of his eyes, he gave her the signal to go on.

She did. “Other than being shuffled between several Grand Cayman banks, the funds were also wired back to the States. Specifically to the bank account of Sintex Manufacturing, Incorporated, a tool-and-die manufacturer in Kansas City with a single officer and no employees. Sintex has filed no tax returns, exported no products, and lists no customers. In other words, it’s a holding company through which the funds were dumped and almost immediately transferred offshore. Several weeks ago, millions of dollars were transferred through Sintex to banks in Belize, Cyprus, the Isle of Man, and Switzerland. A sum of fifty million and spare change.”

Everyone sat back, expelling collective sighs and exchanging calculated looks.

“A business front for purposes of placement, layering, and integration,” Frances said.

“Money laundering,” Cordelia acknowledged, knowing what it meant, and also knowing a cartel accountant must be behind it. In fact, his name was all over the official documents. “I know it’s an insignificant amount, relatively speaking, but with a twist.”

“Enter the vanilla name wrapped inside a manila envelope,” Eric said.

Cordelia nodded.

“Leading you to certain suppositions, such as ...?”

“Transferring the blame to an innocent party. A stooge.” She let this sit for a while before going on. “Illegal entities usually hide behind IBCs and bank trustees to shield the true owners. This account was held in a single man’s name. John Jackson Finlay. At first I thought he must be a hedge fund manager dodging taxes. Or a known criminal. Or the head of a suspected crime syndicate. Or the crooked officer of a domestic corporation or privately held company. Or associated with an international conglomerate. But I couldn’t trace him anywhere. No former domiciles or voter registrations. No credit cards or bank accounts other than the ones attached to these transactions. No work history. No arrest record. Not even a passport.”

Cordelia believed in what she was doing. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be working in Washington or for MonCom. Instead, she’d be back in Chicago, employed as a certified public accountant on Wacker Drive and gunning for a partnership in ten, fifteen years. She chose to be here. The work was important, more important than signing off on corporate annual reports. Dangerous forces were at work, had always been at work, and would always be at work. And since money always drove the engines of crime, corruption, and terrorism, the Monetary Compliance Network was a crucial tool in fighting those dangerous forces. She wasn’t raw. She understood with grinding pessimism that fallible individuals comprised every government agency, including MonCom. She also understood people. No matter how high their motives, they didn’t always do the right thing for the right reasons. Righteousness for the sake of righteousness often moved like a ship in the night, unaware of the turbulence lying just ahead, and incapable of making a timely course correction. It was the groupthink that bothered her most, the tacit agreement of the quieter voices against the one or two louder ones. Since the cowardice of expediency could lead the ship of state toward moral decay, she feared a lone analyst wielded little influence against an entrenched power structure.

She forged ahead anyway and with a thrill of eagerness said, “I found him. I found John Jackson Finlay.”

Frances raised her eyebrows and said a nearly indistinct, “Oh?” She glanced around the table. Everyone except Taggert was just as clueless.

Cordelia was feeling triumphant, almost giddy with excitement. With a sober voice she said, “John Jackson Finlay was adopted at the age of twelve by his mother’s brother and his wife.

They still hadn’t made the connection.

“His name was legally changed to John Jackson Coyote, but he goes by Jack.”

Frances took an expectant pause. Slowly she nodded at the irony before saying a staid, “Go on.”

Cordelia ran through the bullet points of Coyote’s biography. Prior to being arrested for murder, his only brush with the law was for speeding violations. Other than having a Native American heritage, he was just an ordinary hard-working guy whose technical expertise earned him a respectable salary.

The vacuum whisked out of the room, bringing in fresh air along with a keen buzz of expectation. Time flitted by. The ticking of a distant clock marked out nearly a minute before Frances spoke again. “I believe a joint meeting with HID is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” She swept her eyes around the table. “Do you think we can get the ear of Salazar?”

Eric shook his head. “Best bet is Brandon. We should also rope in Camilla Howden. You’ve met them, haven’t you, Cordelia?”

“She hasn’t had the pleasure,” Taggert said.

“High time she did.”

Frances hadn’t spoken the phrase national security, but it was the usual reason for bringing in the Homeland Intelligence Division. Cordelia had been aware of the agency but didn’t know much about them until connecting the man with the vanilla name to Jack Coyote. She studied up. To her, the word homeland conjured up images of Nazi Germany, racial superiority, and world domination, memes that eventually doomed the Third Reich. HID had come into being two administrations ago, just another bureaucracy among thousands. Whenever awkward situations came up that couldn’t be handled inside normal channels without scrutiny, the Firm—as they liked to call themselves—took up the slack. It made sense even if bordering on impropriety. Extraordinary times required extraordinary measures, and what better way to take care of extraordinary problems than by tapping an agency little known by the public or the press.

“I’ve met Blake Prendergast,” Frances said. “He’s senior liaison officer with the FBI. Let’s see if I can draw anything out of him. In a casual way. Without raising red flags.” She turned toward Eric. “Anything to add?”

“Can I ask a question?” Cordelia said. “What’s going on? Why is this find so important?”

Eric turned toward Frances and let out a ponderous sigh, shaking his head afterwards, a gesture of surrender. If Cordelia was going to be of any use, there was only so much they could keep from her.

“You’ve heard about John Sessions?” Frances asked. “HID’s deputy director of their Technical Bureau.”

Cordelia slowly shook her head, fearing the explanation.

“No, you wouldn’t have. It’s being kept quiet until his remains have been officially identified.”

“Remains?” Cordelia asked, already in disbelief.

“Late last night, he jumped off the roof of HID headquarters. Making things even more interesting, he was Jack Coyote’s supervisor. With a layer in between. Liz Langdon, I believe her name is.” She looked toward Eric and Mark for confirmation.

“What’s your verdict?” Eric asked. “Jumped or pushed?”

“Hell, he didn’t jump.” Frances turned toward Cordelia. “We might want to send you abroad. Do you have a problem with that? Personal conflicts. Family obligations?”

“None, but―”

“But what?”

“Are we going to show HID our hand?” Cordelia asked.

“They aren’t the enemy.” Frances smiled cattily, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Then it’s settled. We’ll give them a briefing of our findings and see how they react. I’ll let you do the honors, Ms. Burke. Today’s best. Call it a fire drill. They’ll be none too happy having us bang down their door today of all days, but let’s see if we can rattle some cages.

“And Russia?” Cordelia ventured. “How exactly does that fit in?”

“Russia,” said Frances said, “always fits in one way or another. But let us say that we’ve detected a dramatic increase of cyber warfare directed against key departments, and the signals point toward our old foe.”

“If I can interject,” Taggert said, his eyes sliding sideways. “Cordelia has a flight to Kansas City first thing tomorrow. She’s meeting with the accountant who set up the shell company.”

“And you think he’s the cartel accountant?” Frances asked.

“Wouldn’t you?”

As soon as she returned to her soft-sided cubicle with its arrangement of personal items that were supposed to give it a semblance of hominess, Cordelia called Liz Langdon, filled her in on the vanilla name wrapped inside the manila envelope, and requested an emergency meeting between their two agencies. “Today would be best. I’m heading out of town tomorrow.”

Langdon was more than interested in her findings. She told her she would get back to her within the hour. “You’ve heard about our associate? John Sessions. He―” She couldn’t go on.

“May I offer my ... our ... condolences.” Cordelia tried to sound sympathetic. “This must be a trying time. I wouldn’t have called on a day like today, but time is of the essence. For you as well as for us.”

Langdon took a moment to compose herself. When she spoke, her voice was strained but disciplined. “I’ll inform my people and get back to you with a time.”

When Cordelia hung up, she realized something. From here on out, she wasn’t going to get a hell of a lot of sleep.