The Devil's Banker

Chapter 27

The digital clock read 8:45 when Adam Chapel and Sarah Churchill finished examining the account records of Albert Daudin, aka Mohammed al-Taleel, at the Bank Montparnasse.

“Two steps forward, one step back,” said Chapel as he pushed his chair away from the table.

“What do you mean?” asked Sarah. “You wanted a lead, you’ve got it. I thought you’d be ecstatic. It’s the triumph you wanted. Paper over people. You even have me convinced. Bravo, Adam. You were right.”

“Germany.” He spoke the word with unabashed disgust. “The money was wired in from Germany.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“You’ve got no idea.” He shook his head, recalling the woes of a dozen previous investigations: the requests for information, the promises of cooperation, the neglected messages, the nasty missives that followed, the institutionalized lying. “America’s most closemouthed ally. We don’t talk to them and they don’t talk to us. Bilateral relations at their finest.”

“Come now, they’re not as bad as that. I’ve worked with the Bundespolizei several times.”

“Things have changed.”

Rubbing his forehead, he stared at the pile of account statements spread across the chrome and glass table. While the account had not proved to be the gold seam he’d hoped, it pointed an unequivocal finger in the right direction and brought them one step closer to Taleel’s paymaster.

On the first of every month, a numbered account at the Frankfurt Branch of Deutsche International Bank, a world-class financial behemoth with assets in excess of three hundred billion dollars, wired Mr. Daudin the sum of one hundred thousand euros and no cents. The statements went back three years without an aberration. Always the first. Always one hundred thousand euros.

As with Taleel’s account at the BLP, the money in the Montparnasse account was withdrawn primarily by ATM, according to a set schedule. The maximum daily limit was higher, however, set at two thousand euros. Until two days earlier, the balance of the account had stood at a healthy seventy-nine thousand and five hundred euros. Today it wobbled at an anemic five hundred. The remaining balance had been wired back to the Deutsche International Bank. Hijira was closing up shop. Endgame, just as Sarah had said.

Sitting on top of the stack were the original documents filled out to open the account. Two items had piqued Chapel’s curiosity. Daudin’s nationality, listed as Belgian, birthplace Bruges, passport number included; and his date of birth, the thirteenth of March, 1962. Taleel, though, had been twenty-nine and looked it. He could never have passed for a forty-year-old. The conclusion was inescapable. Taleel and Daudin were different people. Hijira had more than one operative in Paris. Was Daudin the man who had left the television on in Taleel’s apartment? Was he the man who had, in fact, retrieved the cash from Royal Joailliers? The questions fired a new urgency in Chapel. Immediately, he had phoned Marie-Josée Puidoux at the BLP to ask if Roux, too, was Belgian, and if he had indicated his date of birth.

“We need to get Halsey on the line,” he said to Sarah.

“Don’t be silly. Call Giles Bonnard’s opposite number in Berlin.”

“Germany’s not an Egmont country. They don’t maintain a financial intelligence unit. They’re real touchy about letting anyone look over their shoulders.”

In the early 1990s, despite the creation of many national FIUs, or financial intelligence units, it was clear that the specter of money laundering was growing in scope and sophistication. Criminals relied increasingly on cross-border transfers to spirit their booty from one corner of the globe to another. Too often, a single country working alone to isolate a criminal found itself unable to surmount the obstacles limiting the exchange of information between foreign law enforcement agencies. In 1995, leaders of the FIUs of five countries met at the Egmont-Arenberg Palace in Brussels to systematize the exchange of information between them-or, to put it in vulgar terms, to do away with bureaucratic bullshit that let criminals use the law against them.

Chapel dialed the chief of the Foreign Terrorist Asset Tracking Center from a landline. Waiting for an answer, he met Sarah’s eye and held it, daring her to reveal her true thoughts, her real emotions. She had dressed formally in a tailored navy suit and cream-colored silk top. Her hair fell loosely about her face, and she’d made a point of leaving it ruffled, a little wild. She might be a fashion editor who’d been pushing herself too hard or a socialite washed-out after a night out on the town.

Every glance awakened his frustrations with the slippery course their relations had taken. He wasn’t sure who she was, or what he was supposed to expect from her, or how, even, he was supposed to treat her. Was she a colleague, a rival, a would-be lover, or just a spy doing her job?

“Adam, this you?” It was Halsey, and his voice was pained with exhaustion.

“Sorry to wake you, sir. We’ve come onto something that might need your soft touch.”

“The sledgehammer is ready. What is it?”

“We’ve moved up the ladder a rung. We’ve identified a second player operating in Paris. He opened an account at the Bank Montparnasse under the name Albert Daudin. It looks like Taleel was sharing the alias to draw funds from the account.”

“Daudin. I’ll check out the name. What else can I do?”

“This guy Daudin was getting his money from an account at the Deutsche International Bank. A hundred grand a month’s worth. We’ve got the account number, the dates of the transfers, all that stuff. I’d like you to grease the wheels, see if you can convince our friends in Berlin to have a quiet word with DIB.”

As Chapel spoke, the door to the room opened and Leclerc slipped inside, no hello, no nod, no nothing. Taking a chair opposite them, he kicked one of his boots onto the table and shook loose a cigarette. Chapel turned toward the wall, putting a hand to his ear, though the connection was as clear as if Halsey were next door.

“The Germans are pretty tough on this kind of thing,” Halsey was saying. “Individual privacy’s a big deal over there. They don’t even let their own boys look at their citizens’ accounts. It’s verboten. I don’t know what good it will do, but I’ll have a word with Hans Schumacher and see if he can pull some strings.” Schumacher was a big shot in the finance ministry, a former commando with GS-G9 who was regarded as having his priorities straight, which meant that he followed the American line. Halsey coughed, and Chapel could imagine him padding from the bedroom to allow his wife her sleep. “Anything else you want to tell me now that you’ve gotten me up at two forty-five? What’s the FBI doing over there?”

“They’re going door-to-door, but so far they’ve come up empty. The guy’s a ghost. Get me a name.” Chapel hung up.

“Les boches,” said Leclerc, eyes focused on the lighting of his cigarette. His damp hair hung in his face, accentuating his pale skin, the iron black circles under his eyes. “We were too soft on them at the end of the war. We should have made them a worker state. An agrarian economy. No factories. No more army. Just cows, wurst, and beer.” He laughed thinly at his joke, exhaling flutes of smoke from his nostrils. “You want a name, Chapel. I have one for you. The Holy Land Charitable Trust. They’re in Germany. Berlin, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Who’re they?”

“Friends of Taleel’s. Maybe they do some business together at some point.”

“Are they funneling money to Hijira?” asked Sarah.

“You can say that.”

“Well done, Captain Leclerc,” she chimed. “Thank God, something other than a lousy bank account. Who’s the front man? Any idea?”

She’s playacting, thought Chapel angrily. Kissing our French colleague’s ass, even though she disliked the arrogant shit as much as he.

“No one has been found, Miss Churchill,” Leclerc said bluntly. “We’ve got nothing on them, as far as I know. It’s a name, that’s all. Like I said, a group Hijira did business with.”

“Where did you get the info?” Chapel asked.

“Sources,” said Leclerc.

“What sources? We’re on the same team. Maybe I’d like to ask him a few questions, myself.”

Leclerc didn’t bother to look at him. “Sarah, would you be so kind as to explain to Mr. Chapel that we are not playing cops and robbers. We do not bring our informants to the station.”

“It’s not a question of me corrupting your source,” retorted Chapel. “You traipse in here and drop a bombshell-you’ve located an organization that is doing business with Hijira-financing them to some extent, I presume-and you want me to leave it at that.” Before he was even aware of his actions, Chapel found himself out of his chair, advancing on Leclerc. “Come on, we’re waiting. Who, exactly, is the Holy Land Charitable Trust? What, exactly, is their relation to Hijira? And where, exactly, did you come by this information?”

Leclerc went on smoking his cigarette as if he hadn’t heard a word.

“You have an obligation to tell me!” Enraged, Chapel plucked the cigarette from his hand, but Leclerc was up before he could drop it in the ashtray. Kicking the chair behind him, he shoved Chapel against the wall. “Stay away. Understand?”

“I’m waiting for my answer,” Chapel said, grimacing as his shoulder cried out. Then it came to him where Leclerc had gotten his name. “I thought Boubilas wasn’t talking.”

Leclerc laughed bitterly.

“What else did he have to say?” Chapel pressed. “You expect me to believe that the only thing you got out of him was the Trust? How was he involved with Taleel? Brokering gems for them? Diamonds, I bet,” he mused, remembering the murders of the U.S. Treasury agents in Nigeria last month. “What else does he know about Hijira? Did Taleel have any associates? Friends? Come on. Tell us.”

Leclerc’s face darkened. Picking up his cigarettes, he walked to the door. “Just check them out. They have an account at the Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden. I don’t know anything more than that and neither does my source. And, by the way, I don’t think you have to worry about the German authorities forcing them to open their books. Thornhill Guaranty purchased the bank a year ago. That makes it an American company.” He pointed to the clock. “Hey, mon ami, you better get moving if you’re going to make your appointment. Almost ten o’clock. The Salpetitpierre Hospital is at the other end of town. You don’t want to be late.”

Without another word, he stalked from the room, leaving the door yawning behind him.

Leclerc threw his leg over the saddle of the Ducati, zipped up his jacket, and slid the key into the ignition. Chapel, he was thinking, you really must learn to close your mouth. He knew it was stupid to expect so much. Americans were a loudmouthed bunch in general, even when they spoke in whispers. A thought had yet to cross their minds that they did not feel obliged to share with the rest of the world. Turning the key, Leclerc started the engine, but a second later, he turned it off again. Inexplicably, he felt nailed to that very spot.

It isn’t right, a voice from a long-silent corner of his soul repeated.

Leclerc scoffed at it, but answered nonetheless. “I’m a soldier. I follow orders. That’s that.”

A soldier who cowers in the stairwell when the others charge.

“A smart one,” he answered, amazed at his conscience’s newfound temerity. “One who does as he’s told. I’m alive. They’re dead. Don’t confuse being foolish with being brave. Besides, who else could have found out about the Trust or Monsieur Ange?”

So why didn’t you tell them about him? Surely they’d be interested.

Finally, Leclerc had no more answers. He mumbled something about Chapel being an ingrate, but his words lacked conviction. He was looking for ways to hate the American, only to keep from hating himself. Chapel, who ran into danger without a backward glance. Chapel, who had every right to ask what Boubilas had said. Chapel, the accountant, who was every inch the soldier Leclerc should be. Suddenly, he raised his fist and crashed it down on his leg. The pain was welcome, if only to distract him from the lingering burn of Gadbois’s huge palm on his back. A swat on the back was the general’s ultimate compliment.

“You can give them the Holy Land Trust,” he’d said when Leclerc had met him at five-thirty that morning to debrief him about the Boubilas interrogation. “But that’s all.”

“They need to know the other thing, too,” Leclerc had protested. “You know, the other man. Maybe the agency has a line on him. He’s the boss. They’ve got to know.”

“No,” said Gadbois. “Ange is for us alone.”

“You know him?”

“Know who?” Gadbois shook his head, the old lion looking his age. “There is no such person.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. When you were as thirsty as Chapel, as desperate for a lead, it looked like a long, tall glass of water. The Holy Land Charitable Trust. The Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden. One more account. One more chance. He felt the currents tugging at him, yanking him east. Still, for a moment he resisted. Maybe because he disliked Leclerc so intensely. His unassailable confidence. His flagrant disregard for the rules of human conduct.

Sarah drove the Renault south through town, the traffic light, a cheery sun behind them. They crossed through St.-Germain-des-Prés and dashed past the Ile de la Cité. A bag of croissants sat between them, filling the car with a buttery, inviting scent. The mention of the bank in Dresden was no coincidence. First the DIB, then the Gemeinschaft Bank. Hijira was hiding in Germany. They didn’t just know the rules, they knew more. About the nasty interplay between governments. About the petty backbiting and adolescent uncooperativeness. Someone had made them privy to all the backroom secrets no one ever talked about.

Chapel was on the phone yet again, this time to a nondescript office building in Vienna, Virginia, home to the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, another unsleeping crusader in the unsleeping war.

“Hey, Bobby. This is Adam. I need you to run a search for me double-quick. The Holy Land Charitable Trust. Reporting financial institution is the Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden.”

“Know them well,” said Bobby Freedman, a twenty-five-year-old analyst full of piss and vinegar even at three-thirty in the morning. “Picked up by Thornhill Guaranty in an all-stock deal thirteen months ago, primarily to expand Thornhill’s private banking operations in Europe. A clean operation. Very white shoe, or white boot, or whatever it is they wear over there on the Elbe.”

“The Trust is anything but. It’s a conduit of funds to Hijira. Go all-out on this one. Even if the search comes up negative, get on to Thornhill and have them run up a set of account records along with the Trust’s opening docs. Give me anything and everything you got. If they so much as blink, call Admiral Glendenning and have him read them the riot act.”

“Roger that.”

Chapel had barely hung up when the phone chirped again. It was Halsey. “I got Schumacher on the horn. It’s a nonstarter. The presiding magistrate won’t hear about issuing a writ for the Deutsche International Bank without a hearing. We never had a chance. The judge is a lefty-a Green, no less. He sees a fascist behind every minister.”

“Didn’t you tell him about the video? What does he think we want the information for?”

“You’re going to show it to him yourself. He’s deigned to fit you into his schedule this afternoon at three P.M. There’s a flight leaving from DeGaulle at eleven. Frank Neff, the FBI legat, will meet you there and give you a DVD of the video.”

Chapel checked his watch and considered skipping the appointment with Dr. Bac. Awakening, he’d been met with a ferocious headache. His shoulder had stiffened. The slightest movement exacted a terrific revenge. Even so, he’d forced himself to forgo another Vicodin. It was more important to have all his wits about him at the bank than to avoid the worsening pain.

“I can’t make the eleven,” he said. “I’ve got to see a doc here about my shoulder. It got fried pretty bad.”

“You sure?”

Damn you, Chapel thought. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Okay. Hold on and let me check. Lufthansa’s got a flight at one that will put you into Berlin at two-thirty. We’ll have a car waiting. Pray that the plane is on time. We can’t afford to tick off this judge.”

Chapel hung up. “Step on it,” he said to Sarah. “We’ve got to be clear of the hospital by eleven.”

Sarah plunged her foot onto the accelerator. “What’s the occasion?”

“Get out your passport. We’ve got a plane to catch.”