which tasted terrible. As soon as Vincent was seated, Xavier got down to business.
He needed to “borrow” Alex Lopez’s phone number for the few minutes it would take for the bank to ring and satisfy Lopez’s security requirements for the transaction. He wrote the number of the new phone line he’d set up on a sheet of notepaper, along with the exact time he needed the swap to take place, and slipped it across the table. “I need twenty minutes exactly, no more.” Any longer and it was possible Lopez would understand that his telephone line had been hijacked.
He slid an envelope across the table. It contained a substantial amount of cash. Half now, half when the job was done.
Xavier unlocked the door of an empty apartment with a pleasant but distant view of San Francisco Bay. The young actor he’d hired to impersonate Lopez followed him into the cramped sitting room and leaned against the wall while Xavier picked up the receiver of the cheap phone he’d previously had installed and dialed Vincent’s extension. After a short conversation, he set the phone down.
Minutes later, Vincent rang back. The switch had been made. Lopez’s phone was still active, but he would be operating on a different number for twenty minutes. Lopez would be able to call out, but all of his incoming calls would be directed to Xavier’s phone. Xavier had twenty minutes, and counting.
Xavier set the receiver down, then picked it up again and dialed. He checked his watch as he waited for the first person to pick up: two-fifteen. The next few minutes would be an interesting and intricate dance. Success depended on the precise timing and the greed of the people he had paid.
Dennison paced the floor of Lopez’s study, avoiding his cold stare and Vitali’s raw impatience. He checked his watch—two twenty-five—and resisted the urge to jerk at the collar of his shirt. The temperature was in the nineties, but that wasn’t the only reason he was sweating. They were waiting for a call from a source in the FBI, and confirmation about a two-year period Esther Morell had spent overseas.
Frowning, he tried his contact’s number again and received the same reply. Johnson was away from his desk, which he already knew, since he hadn’t been able to reach him for the past half hour. Johnson had driven to a pay phone to make the call, and if Dennison were in his shoes, he would do the same. There was no way he would use his office or his home phone to pass on information that could be incriminating, but that kind of logic didn’t help Dennison where Lopez was concerned.
He set the phone down. Almost immediately it rang.
He snatched up the receiver and hit the speakerphone function. “What took you so long?”
Johnson’s voice filled the office. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past fifteen minutes. Your line’s been engaged.”
Dennison frowned. It was possible Johnson had tried to call at the same time he had been calling him, but that only amounted to a couple of minutes over the past half hour. They hadn’t had any other incoming calls. He should have gotten through.
Lopez spoke. “What have you found out?”
Johnson hesitated, no doubt put off his stride by the different voice. “Uh…all the records I have show what we already knew, that she worked as a banking executive mostly around the L.A. and San Francisco areas, but for two years while she was overseas she worked for a big international banking conglomerate. The reason we had trouble getting a job description was that she was never on their payroll. She set up her own consultancy company and billed the bank. The money was paid to a numbered account in Switzerland. No income was ever registered under her name or reached U.S. shores.”
Johnson’s voice flattened out as he repeated the information he had received from his source in Bern. Like he’d said, Esther Morell hadn’t been involved in day-to-day banking, she had been contracted by Bessel Holt to investigate their client base. Apparently, she had a photographic memory and a knack for research, with particular regard to South America. He could also confirm that Esther had been instrumental in blocking a number of offshore transactions out of South America, including a substantial movement of funds by the Chavez cartel. “And get this. She used to date le Clerc. As in Xavier le Clerc.”
Dennison’s stomach did an odd little flip-flop. Some agents talked endlessly about their “gut.” They would have a hunch about this, an instinct about that. As far as Dennison was concerned, human desires and sheer greed, along with good information, were a much more reliable map to follow than some airy-fairy premonition, but suddenly the weird feeling he’d had all day that something was wrong made sense.
Le Clerc’s name wasn’t big here, but it was legendary in Europe. He was a coldly efficient thief who had done the unthinkable: collapsed a Swiss bank that had refused to disclose or release funds allegedly belonging to Jewish families that had survived the Holocaust. Simultaneously, he had engineered a bank heist that had removed certain items from the vault and safe-deposit boxes, all of which were said to have belonged to Nazi political leaders and war criminals.
Lopez terminated the call, cutting Johnson off in midsentence. He handed the receiver to Vitali. “Check the account.”
The whiplash command jerked Vitali out of his seat. “There’s no way we’ll get access to her Swiss—”
“Not her account. Mine.”
Six
Esther parked her car outside Rina’s school, slotting into a space beneath a shady tree. She slipped dark glasses on the bridge of her nose and strode to the school’s office. The brief flash of her reflection in the glass doors told her that outwardly she looked cool and collected, despite the steamy heat, but ever since Xavier had rung with a bogus message from the school that Rina was unwell—the prearranged code for her to get out of town—she had been a bundle of nerves.
When she had left the house she had followed Xavier’s instructions to the letter. It seemed ridiculous to place her trust in him, but his precise list of what to do—and what not to do—had helped. As soon as she had hung up, she had informed Carmita that she was driving into town to pick Rina up from school. Xavier’s logic was that it was best to construct a story that allowed her to stay within the bounds of normality, so that if she was being followed her movements wouldn’t be perceived as out of the ordinary until the last moment, when she took the turnoff to San Jose and the airport.
She had changed into a lightweight linen pantsuit and stepped out of the house, taking with her only the things she normally carried, her handbag and briefcase, nothing that would signal that she was leaving town. The previous evening she had placed a suitcase of clothes and personal items in the trunk. They were due to fly out in just over an hour in a chartered private jet, not a scheduled flight. She had taken the precaution of also booking a regular flight, though, just in case anyone checked the airports.
The receptionist consulted the school timetable, then found someone to escort her through manicured gardens to Rina’s classroom. After making excuses to Rina’s teacher for removing her from class a few minutes early, Esther hurried Rina out to the car. An internal clock told her that everything was taking too long. The holdup at the office had been longer than she’d anticipated, then Rina’s class had been at the far end of the school grounds, taking more precious time.
Rina dumped her schoolbag in the backseat and strapped herself in. “What’s wrong?”
Esther shot her a glance as she pulled out of the school gates and turned in the opposite direction than they usually took, frowning as she noticed the huge bank of clouds that had rolled in off the sea. It was early in
