Bless the Child (34 page)

L
et me try this one out on you, Gino,” Devlin said, putting his heels on the desk in a weary, contemplative posture. He was tired, but alert. Garibaldi had seen the look often enough to know it meant he had something on his mind that needed a sounding board.

“What if this Maa Kheru business is
not
just a local bunch of jerks, playing dress-up in Halloween costumes? What if we’re dealing with an international cartel of some kind, that’s using Vannier’s banking network, and Sayles’s media clout and armament connections, and the power of many other really prominent people, to run a scam so big, nobody would be willing to believe it’s out there.”

“Like BCCI?”

“Exactly like BCCI. What are the two hottest tickets in the contraband world?”

“Armaments and drugs.”

“And we know Sayles’s family is munitions dealer to the world . . . and it’s beginning to look like Vannier’s foundation is hip-deep in drug laundry. So, let’s take a look at how it all might work.” He pushed back his chair and took his feet off the desk.

“Dictators and drug lords need someplace to stash the loot and someplace to launder it,” Garibaldi offered. Devlin nodded, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“And governments, need someplace to keep sub rosa funds for black ops . . . you can’t fund an Iran-contra deal out in the open, or topple some banana republic with overt tax payer money—so maybe you go to a guy like Vannier, and you let him do the paperwork.”

Garibaldi nodded, adding pieces to the puzzle. “And then those same governments, who need you for their own black ops, cover for you—so when anyone comes snooping to close, you just call in your CIA or MI5 buddies, and you let them take the heat off.”

Devlin took up the recital. “And meanwhile, you travel in very posh circles. The circles of corporate CEOs and rock stars, of Wall Street titans and mega millionaires. Big pocketbooks, big egos, big dreams of ruling the world . . .

“And what if, within the ranks of this very privileged enclave, there is a private and very elitist corps of heavy-hitters who have this quasi-religious nuttiness they subscribe to, where they’ve sold their souls to Satan, in order to achieve their goals.”

Garibaldi shrugged. “Not so impossible to believe, Lieutenant . . . let’s face it, anybody laundering Noriega’s and Hussein’s money has sold his soul to the Devil, whether he calls it that or not. So what’s a little ceremony, and some nice Halloween outfits, if it puts you in the inner sanctum of the guys who are really pulling the world’s strings?”

“And,
what if
there’s the added attraction of sex and violence and blood and guts and high drama—and what if it all seems to
work?
” “Devlin pressed the point. “The money and the power increase, the women and drugs are there for the taking, and all you’ve betrayed to get this dream come true is something you probably didn’t put much stock in anyway . . . like your soul.”

“Holy shit, Malachy,” Garibaldi said grimly. “You make this actually sound plausible.”

“Right,” Devlin said, with a rueful grunt. “Now all we have to do is prove it.”

Devlin picked up the phone and dialed a number he reserved for special cases. Harry Fisk was a good guy, despite being in the Bureau. He and Harry went back a while, to better and worse times, but he wasn’t a friend Devlin ever called in without good reason.

“Harry,” he said, when he’d gotten through the various baffles. “I need the lowdown on a couple of high-powered slimes, who may or may not be protected by your guys.”

Momentary silence greeted the statement, then, “I’m loose for lunch around 12:30. Does that place you used to take me to still make the best cheeseburgers in Manhattan?”

“Four stars in
Michelin’s,
” Devlin replied smiling to himself. Feds tended to be cautious on telephones; it was a good habit to get into. If you’d been a detective a long while, you’d crossed paths with the FBI enough for there to be a cautious exchange of information. The Bureau had computers that the cops did not; sometimes that alone saved a helluva lot of unnecessary legwork. And sometimes the Feds knew things that were not supposed to be known by local law enforcement. That, too, was a big time-saver. But Harry Fisk didn’t fall into such a category. He was a friend.

Devlin glanced at the clock, and saw there’d be just enough time to get to McGovern’s Bar and Grill.

Harry Fisk was a large man with thick wavy hair, the silver-white color of Phil Donahue’s. Tall, muscular, and far more dangerous than he looked, Devlin knew; recruited after Vietnam, Harry’d brought a number of special skills to his job at the Bureau. And he was considerably smarter and cannier than a lot of the boys who’d come to the Bureau from the straight-out-of-college recruitment cookie cutter.

“So what do you need, Malachy?” Fisk asked after a few preliminaries had been spoken. “And who do you think is protecting whoever you’re after, from what?” He had the amused jadedness of a man who has seen most human foibles up close.

“That reminds me of an old Belfast song, Harry,” Devlin said. “‘Whatever you say, say nothing, if you talk about you know what . . . for if you know who should hear you, you know what you’ll get.’” Harry laughed.

“Eric Vannier and Nicholas Sayles ring any bells?” Devlin asked quietly, even though there was no one in earshot.

“A carillonful. Why are we listening for these particular ding-dongs?”

Devlin told him judiciously edited pieces of information. Professionals made judgments based on who was asking, not on the details of why. And Harry Fisk was the ultimate professional. He shook his head as he listened.

“A laundromat for dirty linens,” he said finally. “If black ops uses them to any degree, they’ll be beyond your reach, Malachy. A lot of pretty seedy things go down, worldwide, that have to be financed from somewhere. The way it usually works is this: Somebody rich and ugly owns a bank, whose assets are guaranteed by somebody even richer. Usually the bank gets incorporated in Luxembourg, and then opens a main branch someplace where nobody enforces rules much. Say Abu Dhabi or Karachi or Nigeria. Then the word goes out to dictators like Noriega and Marcos, and to the drug cartels like the Medellins and to assorted groups like the PLO, and to hotbeds like Libya and Iraq, that not too many questions will be asked about how they came by their money, or where they wish to spend it.

“Next page in the banking manual, the word goes out to the CIA, MI5, the Mossad—and any other government agency with black ops potential—that the utmost secrecy will be maintained, that worldwide connections can be made, and that no regulatory agencies ever need apply.”

“It’s easy enough to see how the money rolls in, Harry,” Malachy said, “but exactly how is it disseminated, and how come nobody in legitimate banking seems to know what’s going on?”

Harry smiled a little. “Very Harvard Business School, Malachy—you diversify. You buy a big, fat shipping company here, and a fleet of planes there, and a chain of hotels somewhere else. You open up a branch in the Caymans, where anything goes, and you give a piss-pot full of money to legitimate charities—preferably those whose advocates have a lot of clout in government and banking circles. You purchase subsidiaries, even legitimate banks in several countries, so if anyone asks, you’ve got somebody like Clark Clifford on your board of directors.

“Last, but by no means least, you create your own black ops force, to deal with anybody who has second thoughts. You hire mercs—you call them bankers, but you train them for arms deals, bribery, espionage, extortion, drug trafficking, and interrogation.

“I’m not saying this is how
your
two boys are operating, Malachy, but given the givens . . . I’d say, there’s a good chance I’m not far off. I’ll see what I can find out for you, my friend, but if what you’re doing is really unofficial, you could get your ass hung out to dry, if you piss off the wrong evil-doers. And let me tell you straight, you’ll never bring them down. Not in seven million fucking years. You’ll be like the flea on the ass of an elephant—the insignificant dead.”

“It’s good to know you’re optimistic,” Devlin answered with a crooked grin.

“You want me to look, I’ll look.”

Devlin nodded. “I don’t need to topple the evil empire, here, Harry. I just need to dig up enough dirt to get the department involved, so I can give the bad guys enough
agita
to make them let go of one little kid.”

Harry Fisk shrugged. “Even in Nam, Malachy . . . you’ve always been a pushover where kids are concerned.”

“Ever know a cop who wasn’t, Harry?” Devlin asked. “Guys like you and me see a lot of shit go down . . . and there’s got to be someplace where we see the angels win.”

The longtime FBI agent smiled sardonically. “It’s always good to see a man of like mind, Malachy. I’ll get back to you before the end of the week.”

The
phone rang at Devlin’s apartment; the clock said 11:30. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, reading a book.

“Malachy? Harry,” the voice said. “Watch your back, kid. This may be bigger than I thought.”

“What’ve you got, Harry?” Devlin was wide awake now.

“I don’t know yet, but it looks like the Israelis are on it, and maybe the Egyptians. There’ve been discreet inquiries inside and outside of channels. What’s going down here, Malachy? Is this kid the illegitimate heir to the Kaliph of Baghdad, or something?”

“Or something,” Malachy replied cryptically, and Fisk didn’t press for answers.

“You’ll hear from me when I know more.” Then a dial tone.

The Mossad, and Mohabarat, yet. It made sense, of course. The Egyptians would know about the prophecy, and the Israelis would know about anything the Egyptians knew.
Shit!
Devlin thought eloquently. These other players could only complicate his life.

He went to bed weighing whether it was getting time to rattle some chains. And if so, whose?

T
he doorbell’s persistent ring dragged Maggie up from her basement. She was tired, and her sweats were soaked, but an hour of practicing kicks and kata had cleared her head and focused her intent. With April 30th looming nearer, and no sign of help from the authorities, Mr. Wong’s teachings were beginning to look more practical than everybody else’s combined.

Devlin was standing on the outside top step, waiting. For some reason, he always looked younger to her than she remembered.

“Oh, Lord,” she said, breathless from the workout and the run up the stairs. “I look like nine miles of bad road. Was I expecting you?” She wiped the sweat from her face in a practiced gesture, and held the door open for him. Devlin thought she looked sexier than he’d ever seen her.

“No, you weren’t, he said affably. “But I decided to use some of the information I’d unearthed as an excuse to see you. You’ve been on my mind.”

“Hard to believe, considering the way I look at the moment,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Unless, of course, you’re turned on by sweat, like all those men in the sneaker commercials.”

“That all depends on who’s sweating and under what circumstances,” he answered with a grin.

“What’s the news you found?”

“It’s about Maa Kheru. There may be an expert out there . . . several people have remembered a reporter who made a career of following the thread of the supposed cartel for years. They say he was always trying to interest legitimate newspapers and magazines in all the data he’d collected on those bozos, but nobody would ever chance running his stories, because they libeled so many prominent men and women. Seems he dropped out of sight a while back, and nobody’s seen him for several years.”

“Eric, probably fed him to the Rottweilers,” Maggie said with a wry smile. “Do you think you can find out what the man knows?”

“First I have to find out who and where he is . . . then I can try,” Dev said. “I can also take you out to dinner if you don’t fight back too hard.” He gestured to her sweatpants and belted gi. Her face was flushed from the heavy workout.

“I have a better idea,” she countered. “I can make a decent omelet and salad, and since it’s Maria’s night off, we won’t have to fight for the kitchen. If you’re willing to go find a bottle of wine for yourself while I shower and pull myself together, you can tell me what you know about this reporter, without too many distractions. Okay?”

“Sounds nice,” he responded. She could hear some emotion underlying the words, and felt a pang of concern that he might have thought she was being forward.

“Maggie,” he said suddenly, “show me your dojo before you change . . . I’d like to see where you work out.”

Surprised by the request, she led him down the cellar steps, and Devlin was startled by the size and quality of the room constructed there. A heavy bag was hung from the ceiling, with a man-shaped punching bag next to it. A Wing Chun dummy dominated one corner and two well-pounded makiwara hung on the walls.

One side wall was covered in mirror, and a six-foot dancer’s barre stood in front of it. There were assorted free weights on the floor, with a weight bench next to the.

“I know professional boxers who don’t have setups like this to train in,” he said with a smile, and she nodded her head in acknowledgment.

“It’s my sanctuary, in a way. Like my library. But down here the phone doesn’t ring and I feel like a secret. You said you got a kick out of the martial arts you studied . . . you must know how it seduces.”

“I liked it a lot . . . especially the practical maneuvers—techniques like disarming and take-downs are useful in my line of work. But you need a lot of commitment to be any good at this stuff . . . and there were always other priorities higher on the list. I did love the philosophy, though.
‘Disperse in the face of superior force, as the mist before the dragon,’”
he quoted sonorously.
“’Coalesce in the center of weakness as freezing water splits a boulder.’”

Maggie smiled at him, charmed by his quirks.

“I’d really like to kiss you, Maggie,” he said, unexpectedly moving in so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, and the male warmth of his body. “But I think you’d disperse like the mist.”

Damn! He should have kissed me without asking,
she thought; now I have to decide. “I don’t know if I could handle that . . . “ she murmured, startled by her own response to him. “I don’t have the strength for anything except trying to save Cody, and God knows, I may not have the strength for that. But I sure as hell can’t fall . . .” She stopped, horribly embarrassed. Where had that slip come from?

“It’s nice that you think you might,” he said with an easy grin.

“Oh God! That’s not what I meant at all!”

“It’s okay. I could too.

“Now, you’re teasing me!”

“Maybe a little. I like to see you laugh. In fact I like to see you do a lot of things.” He smiled. “And I can think of a helluva lot more things I haven’t seen you do, that I’d very much like to.”

Maggie looked stricken.

“But not now,” he finished swiftly, then he reached over and touched her cheek with his fingers so lightly she barely felt it.

“No?” Maggie felt a little bewildered by him. Devlin always caught her off guard.

“Not tonight. Tonight I’d just like an omelet.”

She laughed aloud. He was very lovable when he was playful; it was hard not to be won over.

“I’m behaving like an idiot sixteen-year-old. Please forgive me, Dev. I’ve been out of the flirtation game for a very long time and I probably wasn’t all that good at it back then. I guess I’m pretty off balance.”

“Actually, you’re behaving like someone who has a lot on her plate at the moment and doesn’t need another course offered, just yet.”

She nodded, gratefully, and turned to go upstairs. But he took her arm, and turned her around her to face him. “I intend to be your friend, Maggie,” he said with quiet authority. “You’re so beleaguered right now, you need another pressure like you need a migraine. So that’s not what I’m here for.” She saw genuine concern in his expression. “But I
am
here. And I intend to stay here. In your life. You can take that to the bank.”

They ate supper and cleaned up after, and he told her all he’d learned. He’s so Irish in his complexities, she thought over dinner; brooding and melancholy, then merry in the face of the odds. “
Oh, the Great Gaels of Ireland, are the men that God made mad
,” Chesterson had said. “
For all their wars are merry and all their songs are sad
.” He was like that, but he was trustworthy, too, that lovely, overlooked word from the past. And he was more than that. Maybe quite a lot . . .

They took their coffee to the library and drank it by the fire, and he went home shortly before eleven o’clock, leaving Maggie confused by her own physical and emotional response to the man. Wanting to know him better . . . wanting him to
want
, too.