Jeffery Deaver - Edge

“But if you’re a federal officer now you couldn’t’ve been convicted of a felony.”

“Turned out that Freddy was in Texas to investigate cases of Border Patrol officers robbing and assaulting illegals. So, instead of a defendant I became a witness. Helped get four convictions.”

“And the illegals?”

I gave him a smile. “Somehow I forgot where I’d taken them.”

“Good for you.”

“I finished up a degree or two and started teaching. But I couldn’t quite get that weekend out of my head. A few years later I called Agent Fredericks and he put me in touch with some folks at Diplomatic Security in Washington-State Department-and I signed on and spent a few years with them, protecting our people at embassies and foreigners in the U.S. Eventually I didn’t want to travel so much. I’d heard about the outfit I work for now. Joined them and I’ve been there ever since.”

Ryan finished assembling the material to send to Westerfield. It looked to be about two hundred sheets cluttered with numbers and charts that were incomprehensible to me.

“Perfect,” I told him.

“Ask you a question, Corte?”

“Sure.”

“How many of your principals you told that story to?”

I answered honestly. “None.”

He grinned. “How much of it’s true?”

“The whole shebang,” I said.

CLAIRE DUBOIS CALLED just before 9:00 a.m.

What she had to tell me was illuminating.

And discouraging.

I took down the information and went into the kitchen, where the table, covered with a yellow gingham cloth, was littered with breakfast: bagels, cream cheese, jam. Both of my principals were drinking mugs of coffee. Joanne was sitting at a laptop, staring intently at the screen. She gave me a quick look of greeting but returned immediately to the computer.

“Where’s Maree?” I asked.

“Still asleep,” Ryan said.

“I’ve just heard from Claire,” I told them grimly. “It’s not your other case.”

The detective asked, “The Clarence Brown scam… I mean, Pamuk?”

“He’s not the primary.”

“But he has to be,” Ryan said, dismayed.

“I thought so too,” I said. “But it’s not a Ponzi scheme. Pamuk’s business is legitimate.”

“But the fake companies, the fake name… how can it be legitimate?”

“His name was legally changed. And all the doing-business-as certificates have been duly filed. It’s true the investments were made through shell companies but it seems that’s not a crime. Pamuk’s outfit is financially solid. The books are solid. It all checks out.”

Ryan asked, “What about the people who wanted their money back? Pamuk kept stalling.”

“Some of them have been paid. The others will be in the next few days. We got information from Interpol Economic Crimes. They were in contact with forensic accountants and securities people in London, New York, Paris and the Grand Caymans. They put the company through an X ray.”

Ryan laughed sourly. “I tried for weeks to get the international boys to talk to me. The French never even returned my calls. Neither did anybody in Georgetown. You carry more weight than us D.C. gumshoes, it looks like.”

I remembered the cop’s sour characterization of his status in the department.

Small potatoes …

Joanne lifted her head, showing modest interest, but returned to the computer. I wondered what held her attention so raptly. She couldn’t go online so it had to be files stored on the hard drive.

I continued, “Here’s what happened. Pamuk sends his investors’ money to the Middle East, through dozens of shell corporations registered in America, Europe and Asia.”

“Right. To fund terror operations, you were thinking.”

“No. It’s all real equity and debt investing. He did it that way because he honestly feels that Arab companies are solid ways to make money but he knows that Americans might be reluctant to invest in them. Patriotism. And some of the stockholders over there wouldn’t be too crazy about knowing that their fellow investors have beer and pulled pork for dinner and go to church on Sunday. So he set up layers of shell companies. If you dig deep enough, you’ll find the details.”

Ryan sighed.

I continued, “If somebody wants their money out early, it takes longer than with a U.S. fund because of the layers of corporations and the laws overseas. It’s time-consuming but completely legal. Nobody’s been robbed. In fact, the return on investment beat the Standard and Poor’s Index by four percent this year.”

“No crime, no reason to hire a lifter.”

“Right.”

“Goddamn it,” he muttered. “Dead end.”

So there we were. One of the best lifters in the business was after Ryan Kessler. It wasn’t because of his two major active cases. And it wasn’t the administrative work he was doing.

Game theory accounts for both unknowns and knowns in the equation. You don’t know how the dice will fall, what card will be the next you pick up or are dealt; you don’t know what strategy your opponent will select for the next move.

Your trembling hand sometimes makes you move in error.

But one thing you always know is who your opponent is, what goal he seeks.

This game, though, was different. I didn’t know the opponent-only the playing piece, the knight or rook: Henry Loving.

And I didn’t know the object of the game.

Were we playing bridge, Arimaa, backgammon, Go? The Game of Life? Poker?

Unknowns, complete unknowns.

Ryan Kessler massaged his bad leg and stared at the painting above the fireplace, more fat horses with skinny legs. “Maybe it is one of the smaller cases. I didn’t think so but that could be it. The identity theft or the credit cards.”

Then a voice behind us, Joanne’s, said firmly, “No, it’s none of those.”

Ryan and I both turned to her.

“I’ve got the answer,” she whispered, looking up from the computer and waving at it contemptuously. “It’s not Ryan that Loving’s after… It’s my sister. He’s after my goddamn sister.”

RYAN WAS FROWNING. “Maree? It can’t be her. Her last name isn’t even Kessler.”

Joanne looked my way. “Did anybody actually see the phrase, ‘Get Ryan Kessler’? In that email you were talking about?”

I asked, “The go-ahead order? No. But it said ‘Kessler’ and gave your address.”

Joanne countered, “Which is how you’d describe where Maree’s been living.”

I considered this. “True. But why do you think it’s her?”

She nodded at the computer, her sister’s. “Mar left it out here last night.”

I remembered seeing it when I’d come back from Garcia’s house.

Joanne said, “I wondered if Andrew was behind this. I wanted to see if there was anything in her saved emails that suggested that.”

Her husband glanced my way. “Andrew. Is that possible?”

I said, “No, we checked him out. I had my associate look into him as soon as I heard his name mentioned. In the car, on Saturday? Remember, I told Maree she should call him? I did that to capture his phone number. Claire checked him out. He’s clean-from our perspective. He’s got some assault charges, two battery domestic abuse counts a few years ago. Some restraining orders. But he has no connection to Henry Loving.”