Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

Anselm went to his office and found a file. He took it into the humming workroom. Inskip was reading an airline passenger list.

‘When you’ve got a moment,’ said Anselm.

‘This’ll keep.’

Anselm sat down and wrote the name ‘Joseph Elias Diab’ on Inskip’s pad. ‘I need a US Army service record. National Archives and Records Admin database. They run something called CIPS, Centres Information Processing System. To get what’s called a NARS-5 record, you need a user ID and a password. Users are federal agencies. And you can only access the record groups used by the agency you represent.’

‘Naturally,’ said Inskip. He looked at the ceiling and rubbed his chin stubble. ‘Just sticks in the mind does it, this sort of stuff?’

‘Veterans Affairs are easiest. They’re allowed to see most things.’

‘I’m going to need some handholding here.’

Anselm found what he was looking for in the file. He wrote it on the pad. ‘The procedure’s here. Carla did this one a couple of months ago.’

‘Perhaps she could do it again?’

‘She’s busy. And you need to learn. The problem is the agency’s password changes every ninety days. No indication when this one was issued. Could be outdated. Very likely. Then you start from scratch.’

‘I love scratch. What’s the US Government’s view on such invasions?’

‘On conviction, death or worse.’

‘Ah, choice. The American way. With or without fries?’

Carla rolled into view, rolled from behind her partition on her chair. She was looking at Anselm, her head back, pale forehead free of hair, an unlined expanse of skin.

‘Falcontor,’ she said. ‘When you’re ready.’

He went over.

Carla had pages of notes in her clear, spiky handwriting.

‘It’s complicated,’ she said. ‘But what we seem to have is Serrano’s business accounts going back to 1980. There are many, many transfers into the main one.’

‘From?’

‘What you would expect. Caymans, Panama, Hong Kong, Netherlands Antilles, Jersey, Liechtenstein, Andorra, Isle of Man, Vanuatu. The black money places.’

‘Big money?’

‘In total, yes, millions. But many are small, a few thousand. Lots of regular transfers. A possibility is that he has set up accounts for clients and pays himself fees from them. Then there are loan accounts.’

‘Loans to Serrano?’

‘Yes. One of them is called Falcontor. Big money-forty million dollars, thereabout, in big amounts. Six million dollars three times, one of seven million. All from a bank in the Antilles over two years. But others as small as 250,000 US. My experience says these will not be genuine loans.’

Anselm studied her. ‘No?’

‘No. The bank, well, to call these paper constructions banks is nonsense, the bank is owned by a blind trust in Hong Kong. It is very likely Serrano’s own trust, his own bank. He pays interest on these loans-that would be strictly for tax purposes, a precaution. His place of permanent residence is Monaco, I doubt whether he has ever been audited anywhere. So. He lends himself money and pays himself interest. And he also makes loans.’

‘Loans? From Falcontor?’

‘No. There are transfers from Falcontor. Big sums. No details, just dates and amounts. I gave up on that and then I thought about it again and I thought these are probably internal bank transfers, so I looked for a password, tried a few dozen obvious ones, you can get lucky. And then I tried the name Bergerac.’

She looked at him, she was smiling a small, pleased smile, she wanted to be asked.

‘Bergerac?’

‘People like their names, they often look for ways to use them.’

Anselm got it. ‘Cyrano de Bergerac.’

Carla laughed, he couldn’t remember her laughing, it was a real laugh, deep. ‘Correct,’ she said. ‘I tried it. It didn’t work so I ran the anagrams. Raceberg opened the door. I got the account number. And the dates and amounts, they match.’

Anselm smiled and shook his head. He felt her delight, her pleasure lifted him. He knew the buoyancy of the moment when intuition intersected with luck. The lift-off. He wanted to put out a hand and touch her, complete a circuit.

He didn’t.

‘That’s clever,’ he said. ‘That’s very clever.’

‘Amazing luck.’

‘The clever are luckier.’

‘In some things.’

She held his eyes, and then she said, ‘It’s called Credit Raceberg. It makes loans.’

‘Not real loans either?’

‘I would be surprised. Astonished.’

‘The borrowers?’

She shrugged. ‘Banks and account numbers. But some of the banks, well, if we can’t open them we should be in another type of work.’

‘I’ll tell the client what we’ve got.’

‘More in perhaps an hour.’

‘I’ll say that.’

Anselm went to his office and rang O’Malley. ‘We’re on our way with the inquiry,’ he said. ‘Another hour or two. We should meet.’

‘I’ll bring some Polish beer. Anything else you’d like? From Poland, I mean? I have your pickled…’ O’Malley had his injunction.

‘Like that, is it? Just some ballbearings. I’ll call you.’

Forty-five minutes later, Carla was at his door, uneven on the sticks.

‘I can come to you,’ he said and he regretted it. He put fingers through his hair. ‘That was not something I should have said, was it?’

She smiled. ‘I’m not sensitive about being the way I am. Also, I like the exercise. Come and look.’

…LONDON…

The man on the phone ended the call and stood up.

‘Mr Palmer,’ he said, ‘didn’t expect you so soon.’

Palmer nodded to him, went to the corner window. Outside, the day was the colour of pack ice, low cloud, a wind tearing at two flags on a rooftop. He looked down at the river, slick and grey as wet seal fur. A feeble sun came out for a few seconds and caught the oil streaks.

‘Where’s Charlie?’

‘Just stepped out. Get something to eat.’

‘Call him.’

‘Right away, yes.’

Palmer waited, eyes on the river, listened to Martie make the call.

‘Charlie, Mr Palmer’s here.’

He put the phone down. ‘He’ll be here pretty soon.’

Palmer turned, looked at Martie. Martie returned his gaze for seconds, then he looked down, touched the collar of his blue shirt.

‘Not the best run of operations this, would you agree, Martie?’

‘No, sir. Ah, yes, sir. Not the best, no, we’ve had some…’ ‘Don’t say bad luck, Martie.’

‘No, sir.’

‘These contractors.’

‘Agincourt Solutions. Carrick knows the boss. Ex-army, ex-MI6.’ Palmer looked at him for a while. What to do with clowns? ‘That’s like saying ex-Mossad,’ he said. ‘There’s only Mossad and dead. Why’d they shoot this guy?’

Martie stopped running his tongue over his teeth under his upper lip. ‘Well, it’s the back-up man, he’s there if something goes wrong with the handover. He says the guy just got to the top of the escalator, looked at him, dived at him, he fired. Instinct.’

‘Instinct of an arsehole,’ said Palmer.

‘Yes, sir.’

Palmer turned back to the window. In the building next door, on the third floor, he could see a man moving down a long white table. It was a restaurant. The man was putting out the cutlery, the implements flashed like fresh sardines. He had the precision and economy of a casino dealer.

He heard the door close. Martie coughed.

‘Mr Palmer, this’s David Carrick.’

Palmer turned. Carrick was medium-height, pale smooth hair, in a dark suit. He was going to fat but he held himself like a gasoline pump.

‘Any other contractors you’d like to recommend, Mr Carrick?’ said Palmer. ‘Any other old friends?’