Cries of the Lost (30 page)

W
E
WAITED
until Joselito and Mirsada were well on their way to Clear Waters Resort and Casino in Connecticut, Natsumi’s alma mater, before breaking into his apartment. Little Boy’s go-to breaking and entering specialist was a soft-spoken guy in a nice suit, with a briefcase, who met me in a restaurant about a block away. It was midday, and the place was filling up with the lunch crowd. We shook hands, but he didn’t share his name. I gave him the address and he instructed me to stay put until he called sometime in the next hour. He said when I got to the building, I could just walk in, since the access control system would be disabled. At the apartment, I could also walk right in, but should lock the door on the way out.

“Best break-in is the break-in they don’t know about, or can’t figure out,” he said, then left me.

A half hour later, he called. “Not so easy, not so hard,” he said. “Come over anytime.”

“How do I pay you?” I asked.

“I invoice Little Boy,” he said, “he send you a bill. Central processing.”

Everything happened exactly as he said it would, with no sign of tampering, but I wasn’t surprised. Little Boy set very high standards.

Joselito’s apartment looked as if he’d had some help decorating. The motif was basic Manhattan bachelor of respectable, though not excessive means. Leather couches, lamps with black lampshades and brushed-nickel bases. Art on the walls, none of it Goya or Velázquez. Glass coffee table with a few neatly placed coffee table books, one filled with black and white erotic photography.

His computer, a PC, was in the bedroom. I sat at the desk and surveyed the simple array of keyboard, screen, CPU and external hard drive. The first thing I did was unscrew a little service door on the back of the CPU and stick a compressor mic like the ones I used in Italy inside the housing. I was able to use the smallest possible receiver, since it only had to travel as far as Joselito’s own wireless router. Then I turned on the system and inserted a boot disk written for that model computer and operating system.

The boot disk had an application you wouldn’t think could be legal, since the first thing it did was tell the computer to boot up the rest of the stealth operating system, giving me complete command of the machine’s data, including the keys to the wireless access.

I plugged in an external hard drive with two terabytes of memory and started copying everything—all files, folders, applications, photos, music, videos, movies, along with the operating system itself.

While this went on in the background, I stuck a flash drive in another USB port and downloaded monitoring software, another entirely legal application. Used by corporate security departments, the application lived deep inside the operating system, undetectable, where it could record and transmit everything that happened on the computer. So as Joselito worked, all keystrokes, emails coming in and going out, web pages opened and closed, user names and passwords entered, photos looked at and music played would show up on a dedicated PC back at our hotel rooms, in real time, without Joselito ever knowing a thing.

An hour later I left the apartment with Joselito’s cyber life—past, present and future—fully secured.

I
WAS
tempted to contact Mr. Etherton at First Australia in Grand Cayman, but there wasn’t much more he could tell me, and he was already terrified enough. I had all the same information he’d released to the kidnappers, and since most of it was contrived and no longer of any use, not much could be made of it.

There was only one item of concern, a lockbox account in Delaware the embezzled funds had flowed through on their way to the Caymans. With that account in hand, the right people would be able to follow the money laundering scheme all the way back to Florencia’s insurance agency.

“Oh, crap,” I said out loud, as an electric jolt of revelation shot through me. “Damien Brandt.”

“What?” Natsumi called from the other room.

“I just had what an old client of mine called a ‘blinding glimpse of the obvious.’ ”

She came in the room. “About what?”

“When Brandt was killed I naturally assumed people from the same crowd who murdered Florencia were responsible. That would be bad. This is worse.”

She sat down on the bed, and I went on.

“In the letter from Joselito to Domingo he referred to various friends. He’s not only a forensic accountant, he used to work for Interpol and the Guardia Civil. Not hard to imagine he’s got contacts all over the place with whom he can exchange information.”

“Including the FBI?” she asked.

“Why not? Very useful in his work in corporate security, financial branch. Information is the fuel that runs international policing, and national security. He’s well positioned to have learned about the Grand Cayman account, and has the skills to trace it all the way back.”

I explained he’d have to employ some subterfuge to get by various security systems and confidentiality policies, but if I could do it, a professional like him surely could as well.

“Especially if he’s willing to kidnap, torture and murder,” said Natsumi.

“Not him personally, I’m willing to bet. He’s way too valuable to risk that kind of work. He gets the intel, then the VG sends in the shock troops.”

“So what are they after?” she asked.

“The money.”

She cocked her head and allowed a little of her Japanese composure to slip from her speech. “In other words,” she said, “they’re after us. Everybody’s
after us
.”

“How often do you get consensus between groups of murderous underground Europeans and the FBI, both domestic and international?”

“You forgot the State of Connecticut and certain elements of organized crime.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“So what do we do?”

“Call Little Boy, then drive to Albany.”

I told Little Boy, on speakerphone so Natsumi could join in, that I’d successfully hijacked Joselito’s computer and heaped praise on his B&E guy.

“Runs very successful apartment security company over in Astoria,” he said. “You can see why, eh?”

“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes
,” said Natsumi.

“I need time to go through his data, so there’s not much else for you right now, though I’d like to keep Mirsada on the case.”

“No problem there, Mr. G. She’s havin’ a blast. Likes the Basque guy. She’d slit his throat without hesitating, of course, but doesn’t mean she can’t like him.”

“Fair enough,” said Natsumi.

T
HE
NEXT
morning we drove north after rush hour had crested. The day was cool and sunny, and traffic on the Palisades Parkway light to moderate. I enjoyed being back on American roads, though I retained the habit of frequently checking the rearview for maniacal European drivers bearing down from behind.

I was wearing a brown-haired wig, full beard, horn-rimmed glasses and a fake nose. And a three-piece suit. Natsumi was appearing as her own self, since we decided she should stay in the car when I visited the New York Department of State, Division of Corporations, State Records and Uniform Commercial Code.

I’d called ahead the day before and was assured by a Mrs. Blakely that if I presented myself at her office at One Commerce Plaza in Albany, she’d be happy to provide copies of up to six Certificates of Registration per day.

“Only need one, but thank you very much for your help.”

“It’s what you pay me to do.”

One Commerce Plaza was a tall, late-twentieth-century office tower in the shape of an H. Even in a town filled with architecture of little distinction, the building had achieved a remarkable glass-walled blandness.

Natsumi took the car so she could find a coffee shop somewhere to go online while she waited for me. The security guard in the lobby took my name and called Mrs. Blakely, who had to be reminded of the call the day before, but eventually let me come up.

Inside a double set of glass-panel doors was a long, high counter where mostly well-dressed people were bellied up talking to the staff on the other side. At either end were wall-mounted paper trays stuffed with forms. A Take A Number dispenser controlled the queues. It looked like I had about ten people in front of me. I spent the time reading posters with severe warnings and declarations, not a please or thank you in sight.

As a researcher, I’d spent a lot of time in places like this, so I was comfortable with the environment and the people who worked here, which contrary to everyone’s assumption, aren’t as reflexively hostile as their reputations contend. Mrs. Blakely being a good example.

“Yes, sir,” she said, with an eager smile, “I do remember the call well. Once you reminded me.”

I wrote the name United Aquitania on a slip of paper and handed it to her. She disappeared into the back and was only gone for a few minutes. She smacked two sheets of paper on the counter.

The name of the registered corporation was United Aquitania.

The address was on Spring Street in Soho, NYC.

The official representative of the corporation who signed the Certificate of Registration was Florencia Zarandona.

B
ACK
AT
the hotel, I committed all my time and attention to Joselito’s computer. The effort was well aided by the standard search commands built into Windows 7 and other Microsoft applications.

Within minutes I located my first priority, email correspondence with the address,
[email protected]
.

Most of the back and forth concerned financial issues, reporting on the movement of funds, incoming statements, currency exchanges, all mundane and all in prose. No figures, and no mention of specific banks or account numbers, or individual names.

Well, I thought, no kidding. The guy was an expert in corporate financial security. He knew the hazards of email.

But I pressed on, working my way back through both the inbox and the sent folders, until an interesting chain started in Spanish with the subject line,
“investigatión americanos.”

Domingo:

Have you received current financials? Note increased expenses over prior year. Attributable to increase in eliminations Stateside. Ten versus five. Copies of authorizations available on request.

Joselito

Joselito:

Expenses approved. Next for elimination on the way by courier.

Domingo

There were more of these messages, all with the same sinister flavor. Then this:

Domingo:

Have received very important information. Please call.

Joselito

Then about a week later:

Domingo:

Have researched Caribbean facility. Will proceed as discussed.

Joselito

A few days after that:

Domingo:

Have determined the path. Will need authorization to use friends for nonstandard research.

Joselito

Joselito:

Authorized.

Domingo

Joselito was off his email for about a week after that, then it looked like he put in a day catching up. Most of the correspondence involved his corporate clients, written in flawless English, if you excuse the dopey business jargon. But then he took up again with Domingo: