Andrew Gross - Reckless

“Not a bad rate of return,” Hauck mused cynically.

“I guess. VRV turns out to be a shell company based out of the Bahamas. It was set up about a year ago. The principals are all a bunch of local functionaries, lawyers, local officials, designed to shield what it does. Block anyone checking into who controls the funds.”

Hauck had had some experience with this kind of hocus-pocus while trying to track money flows in the Grand Central bombing case.

“But the Antiguan government is cooperating. There’s a new banking transparency around the world.” She pulled another page out. A corporate document. VRV letterhead. “This is one of the articles of incorporation. It’s a power of attorney. Granted to an Edwin Cahill, Esq., a lawyer there. Check out the grantee…”

Hauck took the document. The signature was scratchy at the bottom. But it clearly read Dieter Thibault. “So that’s how he paid him. Donovan.”

Naomi’s eyes shone in confirmation. “I suspect we’ll find a similar pattern when we dig into the affairs of Marc Glassman. But right now we don’t have the time.”

“So how do we find out where the eight mil originated from?”

“Here’s a start.” She placed another photocopy out on the tablecloth. “According to the Caribe Sun Trust, it came by way of wire from the Bank of Nova Scotia in Canada. A firm named Crescent Bay Partners. Crescent Bay is a real estate holding company, investing in plush resort properties-you know, these partial-ownership franchises. It has properties in Mexico, Costa Rica, all throughout the Caribbean. Legitimate properties. Just the kind of thing Dani Thibault looked to put together.

“On the surface, it looks like a standard real estate investment-except at five times the price. Its financing is pretty murky. It seems to come from a variety of sources, some rich Europeans, also some investment funds out of the Middle East. The funds in question seem to have been filtered through the KronenBank in Lichtenstein.”

Hauck raised his eyes. “KronenBank. Didn’t Thibault work there for a stint?”

“He did,” Naomi said, nodding, “and this is where it starts to get good. You remember I told you about the Bahraini businessman that investment manager in London was overheard talking to? Hassani?”

Hauck nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, he has his own investment portfolio as well. A private partnership out of Dubai. It’s a large source of funding to private equity groups-here in the U.S. and in London. Ascot Capital.”

Naomi slid a fastened document across the table to Hauck. He put down his coffee. It was photocopies of a marketing brochure for Ascot. The first pages listed Hassan ibn Hassani among the many company directors. Others were recognizable names from finance and business, even an ex-U.S. president.

On a separate page, listed among the many companies Ascot maintained investments in, was Crescent Bay Partners.

Naomi’s face seemed to glow with pride. “I can’t quite prove Donovan’s specific eight million came from there, but it ties Thibault to Hassani and thereby to al-Bashir in London. We’re onto something here, Ty…” She tapped her finger on the pamphlet. “We tie what went in to what went out, we have a plot that leads straight to a conspiracy. One way is to pierce this transfer of funds all the way back through Lichtenstein.”

Hauck let out a breath. “Which would take time.”

“And having to show cause,” she added skeptically, “when we don’t know anything right now. And that gets the rest of the whole frigging world involved. Not to mention the bankers in Dubai and Lichtenstein would just say our issue is with those back in Canada or the U.S., not them.

“The other option…” She met Hauck’s gaze. “The other option is to see what we find with Thibault. He knows where the money came from. Who orchestrated the funds. You ready?” Naomi’s eyes gleamed in anticipation.

Hauck got up. “Let’s just hope he’s here.”

They decided the best approach was to stake out the address they had for the only person in Novi Pazar with a name that matched that of the AstraBanca account holder.

An “M. Radisovic” was located on Zinak Street, a winding road on the outskirts of town. The embassy in Belgrade had cooperated without Naomi’s divulging too much and found that the address matched the one on record with the bank. They didn’t have a clue what Maria Radisovic looked like. They didn’t even know for sure if she was, in fact, related to Thibault. Had her husband died and she reverted back to her family name? Had she re-married?

The location was a drab five-story apartment building with an interior courtyard centered around a nonworking stone fountain. An iron front gate was open. Novi Pazar was a small town and security didn’t seem the main concern. It was a damp May morning. People rode by on bikes on their way to work; old men in drab clothes and tweed caps gabbed on the street; teenage boys went by in Nikes and American sports jerseys. Teenage girls were going to school in jeans and sweatshirts like girls in any American town.

Hauck and Naomi went up and looked at the tenant board. A buzzer with a handwritten card next to it had an “M. Radisovic” on the fourth floor.

“Ready?” Hauck asked with a wink of support.

Naomi nodded back. “Let’s go.”

They went inside and climbed the wide staircase to the fourth floor. The paint was chipped, the stairs asphalt and worn. There was a tiny elevator. They found Maria Radisovic’s apartment near the staircase at the end of the hall. They heard a dog barking.

A noise came from above them. Two people, a man talking loudly in Serbian, his teenage daughter chattering right back at him. They came down the stairs and passed Hauck and Naomi on the staircase, greeting them with a quick “Dobro jutro” as they passed. Good morning. Naomi waved back politely.

They agreed Naomi would take the first shift. A woman there would attract less attention. She took a seat on the stairs, hidden from view but still in sight of Maria Radisovic’s apartment. It was just after eight A.M. They had each other’s cell numbers already programmed into their phones.

“I’ll be right outside,” Hauck said. “Call at the first sign.”

“Talk soon.” Naomi winked. She took out a tourist guidebook to act as cover. “At least I hope so.”

Hauck headed back down the stairs and perched himself near a tobacconist’s shop across the street. He called back upstairs to check the connection. It was fine. He settled in. No telling how long it would take. While the high-tech wheels churned ceaselessly back home, all there was to do here was wait.

An hour passed. No one came out. Who knew if M. Radisovic was even related to Thibault? If Thibault was even there? He found a USA Today at a newsstand and read through. Twice. Around 9:20, he called upstairs. “Anything happening?”

“Nothing,” Naomi replied, disappointed. “Just people coming down the stairs, staring at me. I think I’m starting to look suspicious. Wait a minute,” she suddenly said in a hushed whisper. “The door just opened…”

Hauck held on-Naomi covering the phone-as maybe thirty seconds passed. Finally she came back on. “A woman just left. Definitely not Thibault’s mother. Too young. Around forty. She has dark hair. She’s wearing a red nylon parka and a white beret. She should be coming out any second…”

Hauck stepped around the corner, hiding himself from view. He saw the woman come through the gate, start to walk along the sidewalk. “I have her.”

“Wait for me,” Naomi said, excited. “I’ll come down.”

“No, you stay there,” Hauck said. “There might be someone else inside. I’ll stay with her. I’ll let you know if it leads anywhere.”