The Devil's Banker

Chapter 5

“Romeo’s back.”

Santini’s hushed voice sent a current through Chapel. In an instant he was at the window, binoculars to his eyes. The same well-dressed man they’d observed thirty minutes earlier dawdling in front of Royal Joaillier’s sparkling store windows had returned. At first, Chapel was convinced that he’d stroll right past. He walked purposefully, one hand in his trousers, the other smoothing his hair. Just a guy coming back from a coffee break, he’d decided. A stockbroker stoking up his courage to make another hundred cold calls or a sales clerk taking five to iron the wrinkles from his smile.

Then Romeo stopped, and Chapel’s heart stopped with him. Directly in front of the entry to Royal Joailliers, Romeo did a little stutter step. For a long second he turned, which left him facing the jump team’s third-floor suite. Time stood still.

“Tell me you got the head shot,” said Chapel sotto voce.

“I got it,” said Leclerc from his assassin’s post at the window.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Got it.” Keck froze a close-up of Romeo and transmitted the still image to Langley for identification.

A dozen people had lit up their radar since they’d taken up their positions. Most had been women stopping to take a snapshot glance at the five-carat diamond rings, time enough for a wish, a glimpse of another life, before the less glittering pressures of the real world called. There’d been an older man with a dog who’d played with entering the store, and a young couple who seemed to be daring each other to take the plunge, but not a one had actually gone inside.

Staring at the screen, Chapel silently urged the man to enter.

An instant later, Romeo threw open the door to Royal Joailliers and disappeared from view.

“He’s in,” said Chapel. If he’d expected to feel relieved, he was mistaken. His stomach tightened and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. “Ray, did you get a look?”

“Went right by me,” said Gomez. “I’m guessing Lebanese, but he could be from anywhere in the Gulf. He’s no gutter rat, either. Wearing an eighteen-karat Rolex Daytona and his fingernails look like they’ve been spit-shined by a Marine.” Gomez was an Aramco orphan, the son of an oil executive who’d grown up in the cloistered compounds that foreign oil companies maintain inside the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. He was wiry, dark, and scruffy, and he spoke Farsi like a native. “He’s our guy,” confirmed Gomez. “He’s got the eyes, man. Burning a hole in everything around him. Listen, I’m outta here. Romeo gave me the full once-over. I’m charred.”

“All right, then. Come in, but nice and slow.”

“Adam, we’ve got a FaceIt confirm on your man.” It was Allan Halsey, and his voice was taut. “Checks out as Mohammed al-Taleel, native of Saudi Arabia, naturalized an American citizen in 1993. Mr. Taleel is wanted in connection with a 1996 London car bombing, the Khobar Towers case, and the murder of two Russian nuclear physicists in Damascus in ’97. Funny thing, though: Our records indicate that he drowned in a ferry accident crossing Lake Victoria in Kenya in 1999.”

“Then it must be his ghost that just walked in that store.”

“He’s our man. Take him down.”

Chapel stared at the storefront, at the throngs of tourists crowding the sidewalks. “Not yet,” he protested. “Let’s see where he takes the dough.”

“No chance,” said Halsey. “We can’t risk his getting away. We’re enforcement. We’re paid to arrest the bad guys. You’ve got a major player trapped inside a store two hundred yards away. I said take him down.”

Chapel bridled at the order. He thought of Khobar Towers, where a truck bomb had killed nineteen American servicemen stationed in Saudi Arabia and wounded several hundred others. He didn’t want Taleel to escape his just rewards. Add to that the London attack and the slaying of the Russians. Taleel was a nasty piece of work, all right.

“Do we have any word from Glendenning?”

“He’s shut down the operation on the other side. Now, do as I say.”

“Did we get him?”

“Adam, do as I-”

“Did we?”

“No,” admitted Halsey. “No prisoners were apprehended.”

Chapel choked back his frustration. It wasn’t good enough. Not after busting his hump to get inside the Islamic alternative remittance network. Not after sniffing the shorts of every halfway questionable charity in the United States. “Disrupt and dismantle” were the task force’s watchwords. So far, they’d arrested a dozen moneymen and frozen over a hundred million dollars in questionable assets. It was good work to be sure, but as yet they had no proof they’d impeded the functioning of an active terrorist cell. Finally they had a certified player in their sights, one caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and they wanted to take him down before they could put a finger on his associates or clamp down on his cell.

“Follow the money, Mr. Halsey. That’s the rule. Stop him now and we got nothing. One more smart-ass who won’t talk.”

“A bird in the hand, Adam. With the proper inducements, I’m sure Mr. Taleel will be most cooperative.”

“Arrest him and we’ve got no idea what he’s up to. Intel says he’s set to pick up five hundred G’s or more. Something’s got to be hot to risk that kind of transfer. Let me follow him. We’ll tag and mark him. He’s ours.”

“You need three cars and five or six guys on the street not to spook him. You telling me you can follow him in a city of six million people? All he has to do is take off his jacket and he’s gone. I won’t tell Glen Glendenning we’ve lost a major player.”

“Arrest him now,” said Leclerc, in his gravedigger’s voice. “I promise you I’ll find out everything you need to know.”

Chapel glared at him. “We don’t do things that way.”

Leclerc glared back. “Ah, you will, mon ami.”

“What’s he doing with the money?” Chapel demanded of Halsey. “Tell me that and I’ll arrest him. It’s like nine-eleven. You think if we stopped Atta the day before the attack, he would have told us what was going to happen? You think they would have canceled their plans? He’d have told us to go to hell and we’d have had no choice but to respect his rights, get him a lawyer, and wait until the goddamn towers went down to get after him. I say we wait. I say we see who Taleel’s delivering the money to. We can’t stop short on this.”

Suddenly the suite was too small. The ornate furnishings pressed in on him like a bad migraine. You could toss a football across the salon, but you couldn’t go two feet without bumping into some Louis XV chair, a froufrou sofa, or an antique oak secretary. Every nook had a Chinese vase. Every shelf, an ormolu clock. Every wall, a rustic oil painting. A chandelier hung in the entry and another dangled over the dining room table. And all of it-the couches, the carpets, the ashtrays, and artwork-was color coordinated in a sea of navy blue and ivory, with just a touch of maroon to remind you that the French still loved their royalty, even if they had led them to the chopping block in a tumbrel cart.

“Mr. Chapel?” It was a new voice that he recognized as Owen Glendenning’s. “Are you telling me that you can hang on to Taleel in all that mess?”

“Yes, sir, I can.”

“Those are pretty big words for your first time out.”

“I’ve got some good guys with me.”

“They trust you to run this?”

Chapel looked at Keck, who was listening to every word of their exchange. Keck raised a thumb and nodded his head. “You da man, Mr. C.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Chapel. “I believe they do.”

“All right, then. We lost one player today. Don’t lose another. Ghosts don’t make a habit of turning up in the same place twice.”

“Yes, sir.” And then Chapel was doing five things at once. “Ditch the coat and bring round the van,” he ordered Santos Babtiste. “And call in a second tail car.”

“Get to the service entrance, PDQ,” he commanded Ray Gomez. “Carmine, circle the other way. Calmly, now. Calmly.”

“Go, Kreskin,” cheered Carmine Santini.

“Keck, put your system on automatic pilot. You’ll ride in the second car. Be ready to hit the street at my mark.”

“And you,” Chapel said very quietly to Mr. Leclerc of the Sûreté, first name unknown. “Where I come from we like our prisoners alive, so please put away that peashooter and get on your feet.”

But the last word belonged to Keck. Keck with the spiky blond hair and elfin stature. “Hey, dude,” he said as they filed out of the hotel suite. “Three words.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Don’t fuck up.”

Mohammed Al-Taleel, aka Romeo, emerged through the tinted glass doors of Royal Joailliers fifteen minutes later. In his hand, he carried a scuffed leather briefcase, the tried companion of attorneys and academics around the world. He left the square along the same path as he had entered it, walking with the same brisk gait that Chapel had remarked on earlier. One more man about town in the world’s most cosmopolitan city.

“All right, Carmine, move in. Put a smear on Romeo. One chance, my man. Do not mess up. Tag him.”

“Tagging” referred to the act of depositing a trace of tritium on a subject’s person. Though invisible to the naked eye, the mildly radioactive substance could be tracked by a sensitive Geiger counter at distances up to five hundred yards.

Santini closed in on Taleel. As he passed, he nudged him ever so slightly, a shoulder glancing against the back, nothing more. Taleel never felt the applicator brush his trousers. Bingo, thought Chapel, you’re ours.

From the Place Vendôme, Taleel walked up the Rue de la Paix, turning left on Rue Daunou and passing Harry’s Bar, one of Ernest Hemingway’s favorite haunts when he’d lived in Paris in the 1920s. Keck followed at twenty yards, with Leclerc shadowing him ten yards farther back on the opposite side of the street.

By the time they reached the Madeleine, the sidewalks pulsed with a vibrant, swarming humanity. Chapel decided that blue blazers and tan slacks were a kind of French national uniform. From his position in the passenger seat of the postal van, he counted seven men wearing a similar outfit crossing the intersection at the Boulevard des Capucines. A small metallic box similar to a Magellan GPS rested on his lap. The backlit display showed a map of Paris. The blinking red dot above the Madeleine Métro station represented Mohammed al-Taleel.

“He’s hitting the Métro,” said Santos Babtiste. “Merde.”

“Ligne douze. Mairie d’Issy,” said Leclerc, already underground.

“Keck, pull back,” Chapel ordered. “Leclerc, it’s your turn to play shadow.”

“D’acc,” replied the Frenchman.

“I’m going in,” said Chapel, flinging the tracking device onto the seat.

Crossing the street, he hit the stairs to the Métro at a run. The underground was crowded and hot. White tiled tunnels led in four directions. It was a labyrinthine steam bath. The sign for Ligne 12 pointed to the right. Not stopping to buy a ticket, he jumped the turnstiles and dashed down the corridor toward the platform. At least, he’d picked up one worthwhile skill growing up in Brooklyn. Hustling down another flight of stairs, he rounded a corner to find the platform deserted and the door to the train closing.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, even as he rushed toward the train. As if by a miracle, the doors wheezed open and he slid into the car. At the next doorway, Leclerc retrieved a foot from the entry. Taleel sat ten feet away, paying the briefcase between his legs no concern.

A pro, thought Chapel, as he took a spot toward the rear that positioned Taleel in his line of sight.

Concorde. Assemblée Nationale. Solférino.

The stations passed in turn. Chapel swayed with the train’s rhythmic swagger. Don’t look at him, he repeated over and over, reciting the lines from his training manual. Live your cover. You’re a tourist from New York. You know better than to stare.

As new passengers came and went, the cars grew neither more nor less crowded. More than once, he felt Taleel’s eyes sweep over him. When the train pulled into the station at Sèvres-Babylon, Taleel stood and walked to the door. Chapel stood, too, taking up position inches behind the man. He smelled the Saudi’s cologne and noticed that he’d recently had a haircut. And, yes, Gomez was right: Taleel’s fingernails were shined to perfection.

The doors rattled open, and Taleel stepped out and walked down the platform toward the exit. Chapel followed. From the corner of his eye, he saw Leclerc’s diminutive form slink past and shuffle up the stairs.

And then Taleel did an odd thing. He stopped. Dead in the center of the platform. A rock in the midst of a fast-flowing stream. The exiting passengers walked past him, and Chapel had no time to react, no choice but to follow them. In a moment, he was ascending the escalator, sure he had blown the assignment, the light of day as punishing as his own tortured conscience.

“He’s staying put,” he said to Babtiste. “He’s still on the platform.”

“Montez. We have a clear signal.”

The van idled at the corner. Chapel climbed in and a second later, Leclerc followed suit. The three huddled close to one another, all eyes on the beacon. A minute passed. Then another. A tremor shook the van. A new train had pulled into the station beneath them.

“Which way?” Chapel asked, his eyes moving from Babtiste to Leclerc to the illuminated screen. Suddenly, the red spot began moving.

“Salaud,” said Leclerc. “Just waited for the next train in the same direction.”

They drove. The city took on a grittier feel. Gone were the monuments, the grand boulevards, the chic boutiques and the pricey cafés. This was the old Paris. The Paris of artists and immigrants and the hopeless poor. The streets were narrow and unloved, the buildings painted black with soot and grime. Every once in a while, Chapel caught a glimpse of the Tour Montparnasse, the tallest building in the city, looming before them like a mystical glass tower.

“End of the line,” said Leclerc as they pulled to a halt at a red light. Beside them in a beat-up blue Renault, Keck and Gomez nodded hello. Spurts of men and women exited the Métro as trains came and left. The red dot stopped moving. Taleel’s train had arrived. A few people trickled out. At their tail came Taleel. He crossed the street without looking around him. His gait slackened, the briefcase dangling at his side, and Chapel guessed he was on his home turf, relaxing, congratulating himself on a job well done.

“We’re close,” he said. “Let’s not spook him. We follow him in, let him get comfortable, count all his dough.”

“If he’s going home,” cautioned Babtiste.

It was Leclerc on the street, Santini playing his shadow. Gomez and Keck followed a block up and over, Chapel and Babtiste keeping in the rear. The city changed its clothing once again, the urban grit yielding to leafy roads lined with pleasant apartments. This part of town was called the Cité Universitaire, and true to its name, it housed thousands of students doing their course work at one of the French capital’s many outstanding academic institutions. Taleel turned down a broad avenue. As Babtiste edged to the corner, Chapel had a clear view down the road.

It was a landscape by Renoir. Century-old elms lined the street, the tallest branches providing a verdant canopy through which determined rays of sunlight penetrated, each marvelously accented, defined in shades of orange, yellow, and gold. Halfway down the block, a park began. Rolling grass hills cradled a fountain that shot a plume of water into the sky. Somewhere, a dog was barking, and for a moment, it all seemed to blur together in a collage of beauty and hope and the infinite possibility of a glorious summer’s day. Chapel knew that he’d been right to follow Mohammed al-Taleel, that his gamble had paid off, that they would capture Taleel, and maybe his associates as well, and that they-meaning the law enforcement communities of the Western nations allied against the new scourge of Islamic terrorism-stood a good chance of learning what Taleel was up to, and stopping it, then and there.

He heard the first shrill notes of the siren, and at first, he didn’t understand. He thought it was an ambulance passing a few blocks behind them. Taleel checked over his shoulder, a little nervously. But the acoustics and the Doppler effect were playing tricks on both of them. The source of the siren was in front of them, not behind. The assonant wail grew louder. At the end of the street, a French police car hurtled into view, shrieking to a halt at the next cross street. A second car followed, then a third, doors flying open, uniformed officers forming a phalanx, weapons drawn. Incredibly, Taleel ran toward them.

Chapel opened his door and jumped to the ground, even as he shot Santos Babtiste an uncomprehending glance. “You bastard,” he said. “You screwed me.”

“Never,” protested Babtiste. “I swear it. I told nobody!”

Chapel was running, Santini at his side, Gomez and Babtiste a step behind. Twenty yards ahead, Taleel cut across a strip of grass, the briefcase tucked under an arm, jaw pressed forward in divine concentration. He leaped a hedge, landed, and made toward the front entrance of an apartment building.

The battered Renault flew past, turned hard onto the sidewalk, and slid to a halt inches from the dorm entry. Keck half fell out of the driver’s side, picked himself up, and dashed toward the door, in perfect position positioned to cut off Taleel. Steps away, a frightened bystander hurried to escape the scene, his Scotty barking madly.

“Keck,” shouted Chapel. “Heads up!”

“What?” One hand in his jacket going for his gun, Keck collided with the pedestrian full-force and the two tumbled to the ground, the terrier on Keck in an instant, growling and nipping at his arms.

Taleel hurdled the two men, his foot catching Keck’s shoulder. Hitting the ground, he stumbled, his loafers slipping on the sidewalk, losing a second before he regained his balance and charged ahead.

Skirting Keck, Chapel saw his chance. Five feet separated him from Taleel. He wanted the Saudi outside, on the ground, where he could be subdued without the force of arms. With a last terrific stride, he threw himself at the Arab. His outstretched hand found a hip but his fingers closed too early. The hand slipped to the calf, Taleel still running, looking behind him, grunting as he kicked off Chapel’s advance, a loafer coming free as Chapel skidded across the sidewalk.

Flinging open the dormitory door, Taleel disappeared into a murky half dusk.

Chapel was there a second later. Pulling open the door, he slowed a beat, checking to see who was behind him. He met a straight-arm that propelled him against the exterior wall. “Not you, Kreskin,” puffed Carmine Santini. “This is the real thing. No guessing this time.”

“Fuck, man, you had him,” cursed Gomez, sliding in behind him.

Babtiste and Keck ran inside. A gunshot rang out. Stunned, Chapel drew a breath, needing only a second to decide that Santini was wrong, that he was ready for the real thing, too, whatever that was. He was inside an instant later, taking the stairs two at a time, his eyes trained above him.

“Arrêtez! Police!” Babtiste’s voice echoed through the stairwell.

The abrasive sound of wood splintering crashed through the hall, then a tremendous thud. The door was down. Chapel crested the stairs and took off down the hallway.

“Arrêtez! Bouge pas!”

Christ, they had him, thought Chapel.

“Jesus, man, shoot him! Kill the fucker!” said Ray Gomez.

“Ne fais pas cela, mec.” Babtiste’s resonant baritone. Don’t do it.

Reaching the door, Chapel had a clear view down the abbreviated hallway. Mohammed al-Taleel stood in the center of a neatly kept living room. A desktop PC sat on a laminate table. A window was open and a gentle wind caressed the curtains. On a far table, a television was on, broadcasting a bicycle race, and he thought, Who keeps the television on when he goes out? His eyes ticked to the right, taking in a poster of Madonna and the French singer Jean-Jacques Goldman.

All this he saw in the blink of an eye, before he fixed on the curlicue wire running from the briefcase Taleel held in one hand to the pistol grip he held in the other.

They were all around him. Babtiste, Santini, Gomez, and Keck.

“Du calme,” pleaded Santos Babtiste, hands patting the air, teeth bared in an excruciating grin.

Santini turned and saw Chapel. “Get back, Kreskin. Get the hell out!”

Taleel looked past him and met Chapel’s eye. His expression registered nothing. Not fear, not surprise, not anger. He was already dead.

Adam Chapel stepped back.

Then there was light, more light than he had ever seen, or knew could exist, and he was hurtling through the air, the searing wallop of a gargantuan’s punch striking him squarely in the chest. He was aware of being upside down, of smashing his head, of a tremendous weight falling upon him.

Then darkness.