Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

CHAPTER 20

Ray Kovalenko sat in his office in the American embassy on Grosvenor Square in a state of rapt horror, reading and rereading the CAT scan report. He’d arranged to get the scan three days after learning that his best friend, Andy, whose birthday was only two days after Kovalenko’s own, had been diagnosed with metastatic cancer. Liver, lungs, pancreas, colon. And Andy had felt fine! Jesus, your whole body could be going south and you wouldn’t even know until it was too late.

Even as Kovalenko commiserated with Andy, he was looking up the number of his Harley Street internist. He insisted on a scan despite the doctor’s opinion that a full body scan not only subjected the patient to unnecessary radiation, but often produced ambiguous results. False positives and the like, which could lead to unnecessary procedures.

Kovalenko’s follow-up appointment with the internist was not for a few days, but a copy of the report had arrived from the imaging center in the morning mail. He took one look at it, felt the color drain from his face to his shoes, and got on his cell phone to Harley Street.

“I’ve got calcified granulomas in my lungs!”

“Not to worry-”

“Not to worry?! What about this nodularity on my liver! Is that supposed to be good?”

“Well,” the internist said, “not ‘good,’ but-”

“And a lesion! I’ve got a lesion on my kidney!”

“Yes, well, it could be anything.”

“Anything?!”

“Or nothing. CAT scans are like that,” the internist told him. “They show everything and, most often, it doesn’t amount to much.”

Kovalenko’s stomach tightened into a ball. And stayed that way.

All day.

The FBI’s Legal Attaché program consists of fifty-three offices around the world, staffed by more than a hundred and fifty special agents, one of whom was Ray Kovalenko. Each Legat (or Lee-gats, as they were called) was part of the country team within the embassy.

Kovalenko’s most important mission was to work with the CIA and British intel agencies to “prevent, mitigate, and investigate terrorist attacks.”

The phone buzzed. And again. Reluctantly, Kovalenko put aside the CAT scan report (mild atherosclerosis of the thoracic aorta!) and picked up the telephone.

“Yes, Jean?” He’d asked her to hold his calls. “I hope this is important.”

“It’s Berlin. Mr. Spagnola. He said it was urgent.”

On top of his anxiety over the CAT scan, Kovalenko had a hangover, a nagging throb behind his eyes that the word “urgent” seemed to propel into a new pain level. And it was just a couple of glasses of red wine! He cleared his throat, pushed the button on the phone, and forced his voice into friendly mode. “Joey, heyyyy. What can I do you for?”

“Remember the guy the BfV took down?”

Kovalenko blinked. If he moved a certain way in his chair, he got a pain in his lower back. Probably the lesion.

Kovalenko remembered. Sighed. Bobojon Simoni. Who could have been a gold mine. And the Germans screwed it up. “What about him?”

“Turns out, Simoni was like a switchboard for one of the al-Qaeda groups, posting ciphered messages on eBay,” Spagnola explained. “One of their people needs a surveillance report on the White House? A wire transfer, or a recipe for ricin? All they had to do was check out the Korans from Akmed’s Books.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m not. Anyway, I got half a dozen wire transfers in front of me. One of them’s on your watch.”

Kovalenko picked up a pen, and began to make notes. “Which one?”

“Looks like Mr. Simoni was feeding an account at the Cadogan Bank-”

“Cuh-dugg-in,” Kovalenko corrected.

“What?”

“It’s the Cuh-dugg-in Bank, not the Cad-aggin Bank. Cadogan was-”

Spagnola cut him off. “Whatever! It’s a bank on St. Helier – and don’t tell me it’s ‘Sont El-yeh,’ ’cause I don’t really give a shit! I got enough problems – I’m being sabotaged in my own house… by my own troops. Y’know what I mean?”

Kovalenko did not.

Spagnola took a deep breath. “St. Helier,” he said. “That’s Jersey, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, so… surprise, surprise! No name on the account,” Spagnola continued. “All we got is a number. December 20 – twenty-five grand arrives. Via Bobojon Simoni, from an account associated with an offshoot of al-Qaeda.”

“Which one?”

“They call themselves the Coalition of the Oppressed of the Earth.”

“Never heard of them,” Kovalenko said.

“Salafi jihadists,” Spagnola said. “Same old shit. They want to go back to the seventh century.”

“They want to go back to the Stone Age, but they’re using the Internet – eBay – to distribute money?” Kovalenko shouted. “It’s an outrage. Where’s the ideological consistency?”

“Technically, it’s the Agricultural Age.”

Kovalenko sighed. “And what is this particular agent of the Great Satan supposed to do?”

“Well,” Spagnola said. “I already told you the account is at the Cuh-dugg-in bank, St. Helier. Twenty-five K shows up on December 20. Numbered account.” Spagnola dictated the number. “You need to find out who holds that account. And where he is now. ASAP. Get back to me.”

Spagnola hung up.

Kovalenko sighed. Jersey. While not actually British (in fact, Jersey was closer to France than it was to England), the Channel Islands fell under Kovalenko’s jurisdiction because they had a constitutional relationship with the U.K. Not unlike the relationship between the U.S. and Puerto Rico.

Banking was big business in the Channel Islands, but after 9/11, bank secrecy was not as impenetrable as it once was. He could at least hope for a bit of cooperation. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d give up the name on the account.

Kovalenko thought about it and decided that he’d handle it in person. If he “rang them up,” he had a feeling he’d be playing phone tag for days.

But how did you get to St. Helier? He buzzed Jean.

Ten minutes later, she called him back. “About St. Helier, sir?”

He’d been trying to seduce Jean, but so far she’d been impervious to the old Kovalenkan charm. His invitations to “have a drink” had so far been turned down. Probably a lesbian. And you had to be careful these days. No physical contact. A friendly hand on the arm and you were laying yourself open for a lawsuit. What a world.

“Yes, Jean.”

“How much of a hurry are we in?”

We? Wasn’t that chummy. Maybe she wasn’t a dyke, after all. “It’s urgent.”

“Well, there’s a flight from Gatwick. Orrrr… we could have you there in about an hour by helicopter.”

“Perfect. Let’s do that, then.” One of the bonuses of being in the antiterrorism business these days was that no one had to stint. Five years ago, a helicopter would have been out of the question, but now, no one would blink an eye. And that was good, because with the chopper, he could be back in time for his Pilates class. He’d only recently come to know how important it was to maintain core strength. If you let it go, sooner or later you’d face a whole cascade of musculo-skeletal problems. Which he did not need.

One thing he disliked about helicopters was the noise. Buckled into his seat, it was like being inside a vacuum cleaner. Terrible for your ears. He made a mental note to buy some of those earmuffs – the Princess Leia type that airport workers wore. Guys who ran leafblowers, construction workers, carpenters – they warranted ear protection, but not the FBI’s legal attachés, who were on the front line of fighting terrorism. He looked out the window. Above, a leaden sky; below, the gray and choppy sea.

“Guernsey!” shouted the pilot, nodding toward a landmass on the right.

Then he tilted his head to the left and screamed “Jersey!” Soon, they were yawing toward the painted cross on the helipad and then they were down. Kovalenko ducked under the rotors and ran toward the black Mercedes that was there to meet him. (Jean was a marvel, lesbian or not.)

The banker, Jonathan Warren, was forty and handsome in that fragile British way. He wore a suit that was definitely “bespoke.” Tasseled loafers. Manicured nails. “Refreshment? A drink perhaps…”

“I’m all set,” Kovalenko said.

A faint whiff of citrusy aftershave wafted toward him as Kovalenko eased himself into a leather club chair. “Is this an official inquiry?”

Kovalenko didn’t reply. He simply reached into his breast pocket and removed the small leather portfolio that held his identification. He flipped it open with a flick of his wrist and slid it across the desk.

Warren studied the ID without touching it. Then he nodded his head slowly. “I see…” A frown creased his features. “It’s just that, well, you’re an American.” Warren shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Another brilliant smile segued into pained speculation. “If you don’t mind…” He picked up the telephone receiver.

“If you’re reaching out to Five-” Kovalenko began.

“Oh, I don’t think we need to bother the spooks. I’ll just call my director.”

Kovalenko leaned back in his chair. He enjoyed exerting his power, enjoyed the unease he could inflict, especially on a huffy little prick like Warren. Just look at this room – all smoked glass and polished wood, elegant pen-and-ink sketches on the walls. An Aeron chair. The vast expanse of Warren’s desk was occupied by a single blue iris in a slim, cut-glass vase and an iMac. Kovalenko thought of his cluttered metal desk, his battered filing cabinets.

Across from him, the little prick was explaining the situation to someone with more authority. “Yes, all right, I understand…” He turned to Kovalenko. “I’m happy to say we can accommodate you.” Bright little smile. “Up to a point.”

“And what point would that be?”

“If I could see the account number?”

From his breast pocket, Kovalenko pulled out the plain white index card on which he’d printed the account number. He handed it to the banker.

The banker tapped a few keys on his computer keyboard, opened the drawer of his desk, extracted a gold pen, and scribbled on Kovalenko’s index card, which he then handed back.

Kovalenko looked at it: Thomas Aherne & Associates.

“I’ll need an address,” Kovalenko said.

“You understand: This isn’t the account holder,” the banker said. “That, I can’t disclose. But Aherne and Associates are the registered agent. Which means they get all the mail, handle the inquiries. I’m sure they’ll be happy to help you.”

“Of course they will,” Kovalenko told him, “but I’m not asking them, I’m asking you.”

“I understand that, but… protocols aside, I don’t actually have the information you’re after.”

“You don’t know who you’re in business with?” Kovalenko asked.

Warren ignored the question. “A number of our clients have arrangements like this one. Their affairs are handled by registered agents.” He tapped a few keys and a printer whirred into action.

Kovalenko looked at the paper handed to him.

THOMAS AHERNE & ASSOCIATES

210 COPE STREET

DUBLIN, REPUBLIC OF IRELAND

“Ireland,” Kovalenko muttered.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?” Warren asked.

“No,” Kovalenko said. “If you’ll let me take a look at the account history – deposits, withdrawals – I’ll be on my way.”

The banker shifted in his chair. Winced apologetically. “No can do, I’m afraid.” Suddenly, he brightened. “Unless, of course… you’ve letters rogatory?”

Kovalenko pursed his lips, and groaned inwardly. The FBI had no right to discovery in foreign countries, so the banker was correct in suggesting that letters rogatory would be necessary to compel the release of evidence. Which meant that it was almost impossible. Letters rogatory required fourteen steps, and each step required the attention of a lawyer or judge. Letters rogatory. The idea made Kovalenko woozy. It could take years. He sat up in his chair, and glared at the banker. “This is an antiterrorism investigation.”

Warren blinked, but was otherwise unmoved by the information.

Kovalenko would appeal to MI-5 as soon as he got back to London. But he probably wouldn’t get anywhere. Asking a Jersey bank for an account holder’s name, Kovalenko realized, was like asking a priest for a transcript of someone’s confession.

“I’m sorry,” Warren said, breaking eye contact. “I’m afraid it’s just not on. Our laws-”

“Your laws protect criminals and terrorists,” Kovalenko hissed. He could feel his face reddening, his blood pressure climbing. He tried to calm down, to “center” himself, but it wasn’t working. It occurred to him that this was just the kind of thing that triggered heart attacks.

The helicopter lifted off the pad, and swung away from the ground. Kovalenko watched the island dwindle beneath him. These offshore banks, he thought, are criminal enterprises. If he had his way, every corporation on earth, and especially the banks, would be “transparent.” That would put a stop to a lot of crime, including terrorism. Just that one step. The only reason for bank secrecy was to wash money, hide money, or steal money. Put an end to funny money and you’d go a long ways toward putting an end to funny business.

He forced himself to relax. Belly breathing, long on the exhale. At least he had the account number and, even more important, the name of the registered agent. That agent would have received any and all of the correspondence relating to the account, including transaction records. Either the agent forwarded the information to his client, or he held it for him.

Kovalenko hoped it was the latter. But whatever the agent had, Kovalenko would get. Because, in Ireland, they knew a thing or two about terrorism.