The Red Syndrome (28 page)

"They may or may not buy it, but I'm sure they'll be very interested in
how I managed to link the money transfers to Zhukov. You and I both
know that there was nothing on the money-transfer documents to suggest Zhukov was behind them."

Eric wasn't deterred; as always, he had an answer, satisfactory or not.
"That's part of the information you bargain for. Tell them that if you
could get it, anyone else who was motivated enough could also obtain it."

"I wouldn't buy that answer, and neither will Zhukov," I said, suspecting that Eric hadn't done his homework before coming here.

The man was exhausting my patience. It was obvious that he was trying
to see how far I could go without letting my famous temper take over. I
didn't give him that pleasure; I kept my big mouth shut.

"Let's see what we have here," Brian stepped in, sensing my mood.
"Sling and Dewey, a bogus company, was incorporated in New South
Wales, Australia. It had two shareholders: another bogus Australian company and a Seychelles international business company. Sling and Dewey
then opened a bank account in the Seychelles, right?"

"Right so far."

"Next, Sling and Dewey asked the Seychelles bank to draw checks
made out to Eagle Bank of New York, totaling sixty million."

"Not exactly. Some of the money came as cash. See the FinCEN report."

"Okay, ignore the cash deposits for a moment. But significant amounts
were deposited in the New York Eagle Bank through these bank checks."

"Right again."

"Now, do you know who physically went to Eagle Bank to make the
check deposits?"

"No."

"Ivan Dimitrov," volunteered Eric.

"Who is he?"

"One of Zhukov's soldiers."

"How do you know that?"

Unexpectedly, Eric was willing to answer a question that revealed a
source. "Simple. The teller at Eagle asked Dimitrov to endorse the backs
of the checks."

"And he did?" That amazed me.

"Apparently, the teller verified that he was a signatory for the account
of Sling and Dewey, and wrote Dimitrov's name and address below his
signature on the back of the checks."

"Why? That's not the normal practice."

"In these circumstances it was standard procedure, because the checks
were drawn on a Seychelles bank and not on an account the Seychelles
bank had in a New York bank. Therefore, what Dimitrov did was not `a
deposit' in the true sense of the word but a `submission for collection.'
Eagle Bank simply acted as a collection agent for Sling and Dewey. Only
if the funds were indeed cleared would Eagle Bank credit Sling and
Dewey's account. To show that the money would be directed to the designated account, there had to be an endorsement of a signatory of the
account holder," Eric said.

"I know that much," I retorted. "Eagle Bank couldn't endorse it itself,
because under certain circumstances it could be held as a surety, a guarantor for the amount of the check, if it bounced. Eagle Bank would be
stupid to do that without knowing whether the check was good."

"Exactly. When Eagle Bank, in the normal course of business sent the
checks to the issuing Seychelles bank for collection, it exposed Dimitrov's
name and address to the Seychelles bank employees, or anyone else who
had access to the banking information - like me. And voila!" Eric concluded with a rare smile. I'd never seen him so self-satisfied.

"Why did Dimitrov sign?" I asked.

"Apparently he wasn't told about the sensitivity of the deposits. He was
told to deposit checks and he did. The teller told him to sign and he did.
We checked him out. He's one of Zhukov's chauffeurs."

"So how does it link Zhukov to the account?"

"The address on the back of the check is Zhukov's. It's a single-family
town house, and Zhukov is the only tenant."

"Too circumstantial," I said. I know you're a lawyer, you never let
people forget it, but try to think outside the envelope for once; we're not
in court."

"Once the checks were sent back to the issuing Seychelles bank with the
endorsement, you were able to get the name and address on their back.
You quickly discovered through a simple reverse check of the address on
Google that Boris Zhukov lives there, and only Boris Zhukov."

"Okay, that's how I explain to Zhukov how I got the info. But how do
you know that Dimitrov endorsed the checks?"

"Through a search in the bank," reminded Brian.

"Wouldn't Zhukov suspect that I obtained the information as a result
of the search? That would immediately paint me as a federal agent."

"Unlikely. The search was at the bank's archives and was not directed
in particular at either Eagle Bank or Zhukov's companies' accounts. I
don't know if Zhukov knows about Fazal. It is possible that Zhukov's role
ended when the money arrived at Eagle Bank. Furthermore, nobody at
the bank knows why the FBI searched their premises. An FBI agent 'accidentally' told them it had to do with telemarketing fraud. The real purpose has been concealed."

"Fine. Now how do I react if they want to see the checks? Suppose they
pay, then what?"

"I'm giving you copies of the checks."

"You mean you have them?"

"Yup," said Brian in satisfaction. "Look." He handed me six photocopies. "We made copies from the bank's copy. When a check is sent
overseas for collection, the sending bank keeps a photocopy of the
check. We got that. But obviously you tell them you got it from a cooperating bank employee in the Seychelles. Once you've shown them the incriminating evidence, I think they'll be committed to retaining your
services."

"I'll sound like a sleazeball, like everyone else in the industry," I said.

"That's exactly the impression we want you to give," said Eric. "You can't
be a straight arrow. That could make them suspect a sting operation."

"There's another problem," I said. "I was attacked in Stuttgart by two
thugs, probably from Zhukov's organization. If Zhukov comes here with
any of them, they'll recognize me immediately." I told them about the
bug in my coat.

"Nothing to worry about," said Eric. "We know who those guys were:
just local hooligans hired to rough you up to frighten you. They're not
members of Zhukov's gang. He outsourced the job to locals." He turned
to the young man standing next to him. "Martin will give you some toys."

Martin, who'd been quiet all this time, gave me a toolbox-sized carton
and meticulously went over its contents with me, giving me step-by-step
operating instructions for each gadget.

"You're checking out of your hotel tonight. Do not leave a forwarding
address," said Eric.

"I never do. Where am I going?"

"To the Excelsior Hotel."

That piqued my curiosity. "How will they find me? We agreed to meet
at the Promenade Hotel, didn't we?"

"You're leaving them a note. You must be out of your hotel immediately,
before they're able to arrange a watch on you. Here's the note you're
leaving behind." Eric handed me an unsealed envelope with a note written
on Promenade's guest stationery: "I moved to the Excelsior Hotel. Please
call telephone number 0491 r5 41 41. Neil McMillan."

I made a mental note to leave an identical message for Laura. "Is my
new room comfortable?" I asked.

"Very, and well equipped. Here is your new room key."

I put the key in my pocket. "You mean equipped electronically?"

"Sure," said Martin. "State of the art, undetectable, and untraceable.
Therefore, we want you to suggest holding the meeting in your room.
We're positioning eight armed CIA special task agents in two adjoining rooms, four in each. If they determine that you're in danger, they'll
intervene."

"And if Zhukov or his men request another location?"

"Stall," said Eric, "and call me again at the same number."

After our meeting I went straight to the reception desk of the Promenade
and checked out, leaving my note to Zhukov behind at the desk.

An hour later I returned to the Promenade's lobby, waiting for Laura.
The fact that Eric wanted the meeting to take place in my room would
complicate things. How would I explain Laura's presence? I'd have to
keep her in another room, or a different hotel. This vacation was going to
be expensive. But I hadn't yet factored in the benefits in the profit-andloss column. At noon, she arrived. Red-cheeked, with her red hair curled
and waved, and just one carry-on bag, Laura looked stunning in tight
jeans and a tee.

She beamed as soon as she saw me, and gave me a peck on the lips. I
let out a deep breath. "Welcome to France."

"Shall we go up to the room? I need to freshen up."

"There's been a small glitch. I had to check out and move to another
hotel, and there could be a problem if we stay at the same place, so I think
you should stay here."

Her face dropped. "You mean not only separate rooms but also separate
hotels? You should have told me earlier." There was a distinct tone of disappointment here, with a bit of passive anger.

"I'm disappointed as well, but I have a meeting in my room in a few days.
There are a lot of preparations and your presence will be difficult to explain."

"Another girlfriend?" she asked sardonically.

"No. I'm meeting some bad people and you should be kept out of it." I
looked at her face. "But," I added, "we have three whole days to have fun
together. So it doesn't really matter if we stay in separate hotels."

"I guess I have no other choice." She followed me to the desk, filled in
the guest card, and received a key to her room.

"I'll wait here," I said.

Half an hour later Laura returned wearing another tee with white jeans
and a baseball cap. "I'm hungry. Let's find a good place to eat."

We took a cab to the old port. We found a small bistro that catered to
fishermen. I had always wanted to taste the Marseilles version of bouillabaisse. Now was my opportunity. "Go ahead," said Laura. "I'll share anything you're having."

When the piping-hot bowl was brought to our table, it was worth the
wait. It was heaped with jumbo peeled shrimp, plump mussels, sea scallops, sea bass fillets, and sliced leeks, white and pale green. I tasted it cautiously. The mix of flavors also included dry white wine, saffron, fish
fumet, roasted garlic, tomato juice, Pernod liqueur, and a little parsley. Half
a loaf of crispy French baguette and a carafe of wine completed the meal
perfectly. We didn't talk shop. Whether Laura had finally acquiesced to
my gag orders, or maybe had other things on her mind, I didn't know. She
told me about her childhood and college, and I listened courteously. One
thing that became clear as she told me parts of her personal history was
that Laura was a results-oriented person, and a smart woman. A bit inexperienced, maybe, but clearly driven in life by a one-word agenda: succeed.

"So what's the plan?" she asked.

"Take it easy for two or three days," I said, thinking how it would feel
to finish the unfinished business I had with her from New York.

She smiled. "I mean business ... what are you doing here?"

"As I said, I'm meeting a bad character."

"Does it have to do with our case?"

I took a sip of wine. "Yes. Let's forget work for these days, let's just have
fun."

"Dan, I'm curious, tell me: Who is he and why are you meeting him?"

"Laura, you're better off not knowing, for your own good."

"Okay, then tell me why you're meeting him. No name, just the reason."

"I want to do business with him."

"What sort of business?"

"Laura!" Her persistence unnerved me.

"Okay, okay, what do you want to do now?"

"Feel like being a tourist? We can go to the Basilique Notre-Dame-de-
la-Garde. I read that the views are spectacular from the top-four hundred fifty feet up."

Laura's pinched face said No, thanks.

"How about the fish market? We can just stroll there, it's very close. We
can get fresh sea air, see the yachts and fishing boats. There are some nice
sidewalk cafes facing the port. Later, if you change your mind, we could
still climb the southern bank to the basilica and get a panoramic view of
the city."

"I'd like that," she said. We walked a few blocks, just looking at the
stores and the people. The sea breeze was lightly blowing, bringing the
familiar scent of seaweed and sea salt. I love that smell. It reminds me of
growing up in Israel, near the Mediterranean.

The old port was actually small and looked cramped between the surrounding modern buildings, some of them high-rise. Although the
atmosphere should have been a perfect catalyst for creating the right
mood between us, it didn't. We walked aimlessly for a while, until Laura
said, "I'm tired. I need an espresso."

There was no shortage of restaurants, bars, and nightclubs to choose from.
We went into a cafe that gave us a vantage point to watch the small sailing
ships in the harbor, as well as the drunks staggering from the bar next door.

Laura sipped her double espresso while I closed my eyes to smell the sea.

"Dan, did you do anything other than sunbathing in the Seychelles?"
came the unexpected question.

I opened my eyes. "Yes, basking in the sun is pretty time consuming."
I smiled. "I also talked to people, nothing much. I think management
wanted me out of the picture for a while. I don't think they appreciate my
unconventional initiatives."

"You mean they exiled you?"

"In a sense. At the beginning I thought I was being asked to do something for the case; you know some of the money moved through the
Seychelles. But very quickly, I discovered that the effort to unravel the
Seychelles connection was complicated by politics, so it was abandoned."

It was time to stop being so candid with Laura. Need-to-know basis
means need to know, and she didn't need to know. This was the first time
I had bluntly lied to her, my co-worker. But in this case, at last and at
least, I was following the rule to withhold information.