Deceived (24 page)

Meg used a
pencil to point to the screen. "Okay, going backwards. He's powered down
his machine. Before that he's scrolling. Probably on some data base. Yeah, see.
He's on Internet, using a search engine. Looking for a name: "J. T.
Frasier'" Meg turned to Nick. "J. T. Frasier. I've never heard of
him, have you?"

Nick shook his
head, and Meg continued to scroll down. "How about John Li," she
asked.

"No,"
Nick confirmed again, making a mental note of both names.

"Well
Scott seemed to want to learn as much as he could about them. He did an
extensive search on each of them."

Nick said,
"Let's focus on the password for now. We'll go back through the commands
one by one later on and see how Frasier and Li fit into this."

Meg scrolled
down the page. "Okay, we'll be looking for a series of letters or numbers,
no more than six characters long. The floppy disk goes in his A-drive, so he'd
have had to access his A drive before inputting the password. So look for
either the characters or the A-drive command, and
—
"

"Meg?"

"Huh?"

"Scroll
back a bit."

She did.

"There. Stop."
Nick pointed to the screen, to six capital letters.
Y-U-N-N-A-N
.
They looked at each other. "I should
have thought of that," Nick said. "Give it a try."

Meg swiveled
from Scott's laptop to Nick's computer. After 'Password,' she punched in six
letters:
Y-U-N-N-A-N
. This time the
familiar window, "Invalid User I.D.," did not flash on the screen. Instead
the screen blinked, and a file directory appeared
.

They were in.

Li reached for
his phone, annoyed at being disturbed at such a late hour. "What is
it?"

The apologetic
voice was that of his special assistant. "Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Li. Mr.
J.T. Frasier's on the line. He says it's urgent."

"Have him
hold," Li said, after a moment's pause.

Li hung up the
phone and turned back to the brief biography on his desk, skimmed it for a
second time. A photo was attached: the chief executive officer of a regional
telecommunications firm. A tan, aristocratic man, smug in Li's estimation
.

Li's eyes traveled
from the photo to the four women standing silently in front of him. Each had
much to commend herself
—
all were young, twenty to twenty-seven, all were
beautiful by standards anywhere in the world, and all had excellent references.
Li's index finger flanked his nose as he compared and contrasted attributes. He
hesitated, then, the decision made, he lowered his finger deliberately twice,
pointing out two of the girls to the madam standing by their side.

His choices
were opposite extremes. The first girl had blonde hair and an athletic build;
she looked ripe and eager, with somewhat vacant eyes. The second, the oldest in
the group, appeared demure, intelligent, with a certain vulnerability. Both
displayed enough class not to be obvious.

The madam
smiled, no doubt pleased to be collecting double the fee she expected.

A married man
with no record of frequenting prostitutes, Li had no reason to believe either
of the two ladies would catch more than the chief executive officer's eye, but
as a good host
—
Li was throwing a party the following night for a small
group of Chinese and American businessmen
—
he prepared for every possible
contingency. Li underlined "moderate to heavy drinker, martinis," on
the biography. Enough drinks and even a happily married man's head might be
turned by an extraordinary figure
.

The chief
executive officer's file would go into a wall safe, with luck explicit videos
would follow. The women's hotel rooms would feature concealed cameras; the
women were experts on positioning their lovemaking for best effect. Li had no
immediate plans to use any resulting videos, but the chief executive headed a
powerful company, and having hooks in a such a person could prove useful. He
had collected many such videos over the years, a hidden pile of assets he had
withdrawn from only occasionally, but always to good effect.

J.T. Frasier's
was there. Li laughed to himself for misjudging the man so badly. Three times
he had hired women at least as attractive as these to seduce Frasier, and each
time they had failed miserably. A devoted husband, Li had concluded sadly, but
chance intervened to prove otherwise. Li had simply been dangling the wrong
bait.

He had realized
his error a couple of years back at a party he threw which J.T. Frasier
attended. Another of the invitees, a homosexual, had a predilection for young,
athletic men; Li had accommodated his tastes by procuring a well-proportioned
twenty-year-old for the evening. During the course of the party, Li had noticed
Frasier's eyes track the young man at odd moments. Idle curiosity, Li had
wondered, or something more?

Intrigued by
the possibilities, Li had pulled the young man aside and amended his orders. Aided
by alcohol, the seduction had been accomplished with relative ease. The evening
ended with the young man and J.T. Frasier spending a few hours in a hotel room
together. Frasier had eagerly submitted to a host of indignities, the young man
in Li's employ making good use of the toys and restraints at his disposal. All
filmed, most explicitly
.

A few days
later Frasier had received a copy of the video at his office
—
special
delivery. Li had waited a few days before making contact. How quickly the
captain of industry had been reduced to panic. Li had negotiated with a
desperate man, and knew things would go as planned
.

Fear of
ridicule: a powerful man's Achilles heel.

Li closed the
chief executive's file and put him out of mind
—
there had been dozens
like him in the past, there would be dozens more in the future. He looked back
at the women. Normally he would have tried out the two he selected, but this
evening he felt tired and the waiting call from J.T. Frasier annoyed him. He
waived his hand at the madam and she quickly shuttled the women from the room.

Li picked a
hand-rolled corona cigar from a wooden box on his desk. He sliced a neat
"V" in its end, then held a lighter to the tip. He drew the rich
smoke into his mouth and let its flavor swirl within, like a fine wine, before
exhaling. Only then did he again pick up his phone and press the flashing
button on his telephone.

"Mr.
Frasier," Li said, "I understand you have something urgent to
discuss."

"You kept
me waiting for
…
for almost ten minutes," Frasier sputtered.

"And you,
Mr. Frasier," Li replied stiffly, "have again chosen to ignore
protocol by calling me directly."

"It's an
emergency, dammit. We have a problem."

Such a
desperate, pleading tone
—
Li was not use to allying himself with so weak
a man. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe you made yourself very
clear the last time we spoke: you didn't like the way I solved your
problems."

"
…
It's
different this time," Frasier explained sheepishly. "There's no other
choice. It's Ford; he has a copy of McKenzie's disk
…
Tremont
Engineering's financials."

Li stopped
rolling the cigar between thumb and forefinger and swore to himself. He now
understood Frasier's panic. "How did he get it?" he asked pointedly.

"All I
know is he loaded the disk onto his office computer about an hour ago. I don't
know where he got it or how he got it."

"Is he
alone?"

"I don't
know that either, but on a weekend, at this hour, the GAO building should be
nearly empty. He hasn't called anyone
—
the phone line's been clear."

"What has
he learned?"

"He's
begun to shift through Tremont's financials but
…
I have no idea if he's
guessed their significance."

Li set the
cigar on the ashtray, pressed his hands together in a praying position, and
hung his head in thought. There was enough on that disk to take them all down. What
Ford had guessed or hadn't guessed was irrelevant now. He had seen the contents
of the disk
—
that alone sealed his fate. Li intended to say just that
when he stopped himself. Better, perhaps, if he took the opportunity to remind
Frasier of his station.

"What,"
Li asked, "would you have me do?"

"I
…
,"
Frasier started, then added hurriedly, "He can't be allowed to talk."

"And how
would you advise we stop him?"

Frasier paused,
then whispered hoarsely, "There's only one way. You know that."

"Are you
suggesting what I think, Mr. Frasier?" Silence greeted his question, and
Li tried again. "Mr. Frasier?"

"God help
me, just do it."

Li picked up
the cigar, puffed, and blew the resulting plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "
…
You
are at home?"

"Yes."

"Stay by
your phone. I'll need updates on Ford's activities, and perhaps the assistance
of those who work with you. And, Mr. Frasier?"

Frasier
grunted.

"Remember,"
Li continued, "what I do, I do at your request. I will, at some time, ask
for payment, and that payment will be of my choosing. Is that clear?"

"Just get
it done, Li," Frasier said, and with that the line went dead
.

Li spent the
next ten minutes considering alternatives, as, putter in hand, he tapped golf
balls at an overturned cup lying on the office carpet
.

Wipe your mind
of emotion and focus on the objective, he schooled himself. See the ball fall
in the hole. Head down, elbows locked, pendulum swing, Li mentally ran down the
check list. Ball after ball rammed home.

It was, as he
had learned, all a matter of the set-up, then the all important follow-through.

"We've got
to tell the FBI
…
somebody," Meg said, her face animated. She sat
directly to Nick's side behind his office desk.

Nick checked
his watch; it was just after three a.m. They'd worked non-stop since nine the
night before, but the time had passed quickly, almost unnoticed
—
both
rode a high. Seven hours and the pieces of the puzzle had fallen almost into
place. "I'm going to try once more."

He pressed
redial. Four rings and an answering machine clicked on. Nick listened to the
now familiar recording: "This is Carolyn Reed. Please leave a message at
the tone and I'll get back to you as soon as I'm able." He hung up
—
he'd
left two messages on her phone already, a third would serve no purpose
.

"She must
be out of town," he muttered.

"So what
do we do now?" Meg asked.

"I'm not
sure," he said, then rose from his chair and stood by the window. He
looked out on the dark street below, devoid of all activity. His mind swam with
facts, dates, figures. They painted an incredible picture, one he first
doubted, then debated, and now accepted.

"Either we
wait until business hours and try Carolyn again, or we go straight to the
Justice Department. Let's think about it awhile."

Nick continued
to stare at the street until he caught Meg's reflection in the window. All
night long he'd been conscious of her
—
her smell, her smile, and, the few
times they accidently brushed against each other, her touch.

"How are
you doing?" he asked.

She "I
don't feel tired, if that's what you mean."

"Good
—
it'll
probably be a long day."
And by the end of it would he be vindicated?
"Thanks,
Meg, for your help. Without you
…
"

Nick saw Meg
smile then brush quickly at her eyes with a hand. Did she care that deeply?

Nick stopped in
thought as a new reflection appeared above Meg's, standing in the doorway,
smiling blackly
.

Dennis.

Nick spun to
face him, his mouth dropping open.

Dennis spoke
first, ignoring Meg: "I'm surprised to see you here, Ford. Leave of
absence
usually means just that."

 Nick didn't
allow Dennis the satisfaction of an excuse; instead he countered, "At
three fifteen a.m. on a Monday morning, I'm sort of surprised to see you as
well."

Dennis
shrugged. "You're not the only one with too much work and too little time.
Once in a while an early start can't be avoided, though I might want to make it
a habit
—
this morning has already paid an interesting dividend." He
walked behind the desk, turned his head to view the computer screen. "What
are you two working on?"

Nick looked at
Meg. Neither had even considered calling Dennis with their discoveries, but
Dennis was now here, and how could they say nothing? Dennis would know about
everything soon enough; there was no reason to keep him in the dark, not any
longer
.

Nick and Meg
exchanged a quick nod, then Nick turned to Dennis. "I think you better
look at this. I've tried Carolyn at home for the last couple of hours but so
far I haven't been able to get her."

Dennis examined
the computer screen. "What is it?"

"The
Financials of Tremont Engineering," Meg said.

"Tremont
Engineering? From the Yünnan Project audit? We've already examined their
financials."

Nick shook his
head. "No. We examined a duplicate set of books. A phony set." Nick
pointed at the computer screen. "Now we've got the real thing."

Dennis drummed
his fingers on Nick's desk. "Where'd you get them?"

Nick started at
the beginning. "I got a call from Harry Sanders. From the
Washington
Sentinel
."

"Sanders?"
Dennis appeared puzzled for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. "Right,
Sanders. He called me a while ago, something about a tip?"

"A murder
with an m.o. similar to Scott's," Nick said.

Dennis snapped
his finger. "That was it. Sounded sort of far-fetched, as I recall."

And you sat
on the lead, didn't you, Dennis?
"Well it wasn't, not as it turned
out." As he had to Meg the night before, Nick recounted his activities of
the last few days: the sweatshop, Jing-mei, the manifest of the
Shansi
and the resulting trip to Norfolk, Kiajong Shipping, and the rooming house. "I
found a disk among Scott's things." Nick pointed at his computer. "That's
what was on it."

Nick expected a
rise out of Dennis, a lecture about conducting an unauthorized investigation. Instead
Dennis seemed oddly unnerved by Nick's news. He wiped the back of his hand
across his upper lip. "What have you found?"

"From what
we can tell, Tremont Engineering wasn't an ongoing concern. It was a front, a
conduit for laundering money for a smuggling operation." Nick paused,
letting the bombshell settle. Dennis's reaction
—
reserved
—
was a
bit of a disappointment
.

"Here,"
Nick said, "let me show you." He grabbed the mouse and scrolled up
the computer screen. Suddenly he stopped and pointed. "Look at this
credit, here. On April 3rd, a three hundred and fifty thousand dollar deposit. Received
from Smith Pettit under the subcontract. Okay, if we jump a moment"
—
Nick
opened another file on the disk
—
"to accounts payable, we see a
corresponding series of debits. The same day the money's received, almost all
of the money, over ninety percent of it, goes out in wire transfers."

"To pay
expenses, I'd assume," Dennis said.

Nick shook his
head emphatically. "I don't think so. Over three hundred thousand dollars
in expenses? Not payroll but
expenses
? And all paid out on the same
day?"

"It's
possible. Do you know where the money went?"

Nick played
with the computer screen, then pointed. "It's all right here. Fed wire
numbers, ABA numbers for the banks."

"You know
whose accounts they are?"

"One of
them," Nick said.

Dennis's eyes
went round. "Whose?"

"Mine."
Dennis drew back, obviously confused, and Nick explained. "Remember the
hearing? Whitford's accusations? Allegedly I've been tipping off a Hong Kong
business man, Chen Tao-tzi, telling him to short Smith Pettit stock. Chen
supposedly sent a portion of the profits to me. Whitford produced bank records
showing the deposits."

Dennis nodded.

Nick shuffled
through a pile of papers and held up a bank statement. "Here's a copy of
Whitford's evidence. An account in my name down in the Bahamas, with four
deposits over the last few months. Take the first, a deposit of $26,000 on June
27." Nick pointed again to the computer screen. "Now look back at
Tremont's financials. On
June 27
Tremont wired out
$26,000
. I can
trace
each
of the four deposits back to Tremont
…
dates and amounts
are identical."

Meg said,
"Nick was set up. For months money flowing from Tremont has been used to
establish the bogus deposits in his name. An insurance policy, I suppose. Ready
to be cashed in if he ever got too close to the truth."

Nick expected
Dennis to be incredulous, instead he seemed shaken by the revelations. "Set
up by who?" Dennis asked.

"Meg and I
have a few hunches." He told Dennis of finding the hidden file, the user
log, on Scott's computer, and Meg's thoughts as to how it got there. "Thanks
to the log, we know what Scott was doing before he was murdered. Primarily
researching two people, a J. T. Frasier and a John Li. You ever heard of
them?"

Dennis shook
his head. "No."

"We did
our own research. Wasn't hard to learn something about J.T. Frasier. He's head
of A-tek. You've heard of it I'm sure. Hi-tech company, microprocessors,
software. Does a lot government contracting, especially with the Pentagon. Guts
of smart bombs, guidance systems, that sort of thing."

Dennis nodded
sourly. "I'm familiar with the company."

"John Li's
a different story. We didn't come up with too much on him, just a few quick
mentions, but a friend of mine in the State Department was a bit more helpful,
once he forgave me for getting him up at one in the morning."

Nick grabbed a
fax off his desk. "John Li is a Chinese citizen of mixed Caucasian, Asian
blood. He founded a trading company in Hong Kong twenty years ago; it's become
very successful. Through numerous subsidiaries, Li owns controlling interest in
over two dozen companies, most of them involved in shipping
…
the import-export
business. One of those companies caught my eye
…
Kiajong Shipping."

Dennis stared
at Nick blankly, so Nick explained. "Kiajong Shipping is where the
Shansi
docked," Nick reminded him. "The ship Jing-mei came to America
on." Nick again read from the fax. "Now this is where it gets
interesting. Li has brokered numerous deals between American and Chinese
businessmen. Word is he has high-placed connections in Polytech, the arms
conglomerate controlled by the People's Liberation Army."

"So Scott
researched a couple of people, what of it?" Dennis asked sharply.

"Meg and I
have a theory. We can't prove it, not yet, but
…
It adds up,
Dennis."

"I'm
listening."

"Okay, we
know Chinese immigrants have been smuggled into this country through Norfolk,
at the shipyards of Kiajong Shipping. And John Li owns Kiajong Shipping. Therefore
I'm guessing John Li's involved in the smuggling. In fact, I'm guessing he's
behind it. Now if Li's expertise is moving things in and out of the country,
why assume his product is limited to Chinese immigrants? If Li smuggles people,
he'll smuggle anything, and I'm guessing he does."

"I'm still
missing the significance of all this."

Meg broke in. "Think
about it, Dennis. Scott told me he was going to light off fireworks, had
uncovered something incredible. Okay, we know he was researching Li and
Frasier. Li we're pretty sure is a smuggler, and Frasier, he runs a company
which manufactures cutting-edge arm components. Now what do you think the
connection is?"

Dennis shook
his head dumbly, leaving Nick to explain. "We think Li smuggles illegal
Chinese immigrants into the country, and smuggles hi-tech arm components out. We
think he gets those components from J.T. Frasier
…
from A-tek
…
and
sells them to China."

Dennis found a
seat and sunk onto it. "That's quite a leap."

Meg shook her
head. "We don't think so. Li has ties to the upper echelon of Polytech and
the PLA, remember? This whole thing makes sense."

"Back up a
minute." Dennis turned to Nick. "You started off talking about
Tremont Engineering's financials. I don't get the connection. How do the
financials, does the Yünnan Project, fit into all this?"

"Look,"
Nick said, "if I'm right, the government of China, the PLA, somebody, has
to pay off Frasier and Li, right? That's a problem. Wire transfers from China
can be a bit incriminating. So they need to launder the money. Send it through
a conduit, an ostensibly legitimate business, so it comes out clean. That's
what I think they did. Smith Pettit told us they were as good as
ordered
by
China to offer a subcontract to Tremont. And what was Tremont? Nothing. A dummy
corporation run by a puppet
—
McKenzie. Now why would the Chinese
insist
Smith Pettit subcontract out a sizable chunk of work to an incompetent design
firm?"

"I
wouldn't know."

"Don't you
see, Tremont's the conduit. As the Yünnan Project goes forward the Chinese make
payments to Smith Pettit. Smith Pettit in turn sends money, clean money, to
Tremont. And what does Tremont do with it? Most it wire transfers to Li and
Frasier
—
the payoff
—
and McKenzie keeps a share for his troubles. A
made to order money laundering scheme."

"Now the
kicker, Dennis," Meg added. "The Yünnan Project, all payments to
Tremont under its subcontract, are funded ninety percent by the Chinese and
ten
percent by
U.S.
taxpayers. Think of it. The taxpayers of this country
are
subsidizing
the smuggling of U.S. arms to the tune of ten
percent."

Dennis frowned.
"If you're right," he said skeptically.

"Simple
enough to prove," Nick said, "all we have to do is trace the wire transfers
from Tremont. They may jump around the country a bit, but eventually some are
going to end up in the pocket of Frasier, and some, maybe through the accounts
of Kiajong Shipping, in the pocket of Li. I'm sure of it. A few subpoenas, and
we'll uncover everyone involved. That's why we've been trying Carolyn. We want
to move on this, fast. We've been debating whether it's time to bypass Carolyn
and call the FBI directly or
—
"

"No,"
Dennis interrupted, shaking his head. "Carolyn's going to want be in on the
ground floor of this." He tapped an index finger against his temple. "I
know she was at a conference in Virginia
…
Look, let me go to my office,
I've got some phone numbers there." Dennis stood. "Give me some time
to track her down. Don't talk to anyone
…anyone…
until I get back."

Nick nodded. "Sure,"
he said as Dennis scuttled from the office.

Meg waited
maybe fifteen seconds before whispering, "Did you see that, he almost
turned white. You about to be a hero; I think that's made him sick to his
stomach."

Nick smiled. "If
I know Dennis he'll get over it. By the time he reaches Carolyn, he'll probably
be claiming half the credit, but who cares anymore? I feel pretty good right
now and nothing's gonna ruin that."