His intercom cracked to life.
“Two gentlemen to see you, Doug . . .”
On a Sunday? thought Doug. “Tell ’em to come back tomorrow.”
“They say they’re . . .”
“No time for that today, Darlene. Tomorrow please.”
His door swung open. Two clean-cut, middle-aged men in drab blue and gray suits stepped inside followed by his frazzled looking secretary. Doug frowned and gave them both the once-over.
“You heard of knocking?”
“Tom Healy,” said one of the men, flashing a badge. “FBI. My partner, John Zepeda. You have a minute?”
Doug recovered after a moment. “I’m a little busy, to tell you the truth.”
“We’d appreciate it if you found the time,” said Agent Zepeda. He and his partner pulled up chairs and sat in front of Doug’s desk. Doug tossed his pen down and sat.
“I’m pretty booked today, guys.”
“We’ve been assigned to the Merchant investigation,” said Healy, oblivious. “Like to ask you some questions.”
“You’re welcome to try. I may choose not to answer.”
“Do you know where Nick Merchant is?”
“No idea. Out of the country probably.”
“Really. Do you have something you’d like to share with us?”
“No, I don’t, but I’ve known Nick Merchant forever. I know him well enough to know he’s not sticking around
to face a bunch of trumped-up charges. It’s a bullshit charge, guys.”
“An innocent man usually sticks around to make sure his name is cleared.”
“Not if the deck’s stacked against him,” replied Doug.
“Have you been in contact with him?” asked Agent Zepeda.
“Not recently, no.”
“What’s not recently? A week, a day? An hour?”
“A few days.”
Agent Zepeda nodded as if he were expecting those very answers. He looked around the office and spoke to a wall. “Some very dangerous people would like to meet him, you know.”
“Makes me wonder why you’re not chasing those people.”
“We’re still trying to figure out who it is we’re chasing. A little cooperation on your part may help save your friend’s life.”
“I feel pretty damn sure he would insist on saving his own life. That’s the way he is.” Doug crossed his arms on his chest and looked at the clock. “Listen, guys, what do you want from me? I’m not hiding him in my closet, okay? I told you I don’t know where he is, and that’s the truth.”
The agents were professional. Cool, unemotional—robots with ties.
“We believe you,” said Agent Healy. “But keep something in mind. FBI brass really wants a break in this. If you think you can hide behind client privilege while you aid and abet, you better think again. Tread very, very carefully, counselor. You’re being watched.”
Doug studied both their faces, then forced himself to speak softly. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I admit I’m a good friend of Nick Merchant’s, but that doesn’t mean I’m aiding and abetting. I honestly don’t know where he is. I’m not covering things up here.”
Agent Healy nodded thoughtfully.
“There’s a probate hearing this Wednesday for Mr. Jacobs. You may want to think good and hard about whether you want to represent Merchant and Associates.”
“You guys are working off yesterday’s information. Merchant and Associates doesn’t even have a client anymore.”
“That could change, couldn’t it?”
Doug folded his hands on his desk. He cleared the nervousness from his throat. “So what happens if I
do
represent Merchant and Associates?”
“You’ll be getting more attention than you could ever begin to imagine. It won’t be the kind of attention you’ll like, either. Do yourself a favor: think about it.”
Doug stared at them hard. When he spoke his voice was steady and cold. “I’ve got a very full schedule today. If there’s nothing else, I’d like to get on with it.”
The two agents stood after an uncomfortable few seconds and placed cards on the surface of his desk. Doug closed the door behind them and slouched back into his seat. Something was troubling about this little encounter. He had noticed what looked like smirks as they were leaving, almost as if he had been the butt of some private joke he still didn’t get.
Ten in the morning in Brooklyn Heights. Kragen was relaxing at his kitchen table and reading about the latest travails of the Jets. They were headed for the bottom of the division again, and their latest savior was a rookie third-string quarterback, an undersized Ivy Leaguer with a weak arm and fast feet. It was enough to make him consider becoming a Giants fan. The phone was a welcome relief.
“About time,” he said to the caller. “What do you got?”
“We got a name. The car was rented by a Michael Collier. That’s C-o-l-l-i-e-r. Paid cash. The girl who helped
him said he was about six feet, one-ninety, two hundred pounds, full head of black hair.”
“That’s our man. He write anything else on the papers?”
“Just an address in Des Moines—1612 Edison Street. We checked it already—no such street.”
“Surprise, surprise. Give me an hour to run the name. We’ll get him.”
Lawrence Castleton and Richard Borg sat like zombies in the conference room of General Inquiry and tried to suppress their anger. The coffeemaker was gurgling in the corner, ignored. Their stomachs were in no condition for caffeine. Castleton squirmed in his chair and cleared his throat noisily. A cue to their guest to get on with it.
“The FBI appreciates your cooperation in the Jacobs matter, gentlemen,” said their guest, adjusting his glasses. “You’ve saved us a great deal of embarrassment.”
Castleton frowned. As if he cared what they did and didn’t appreciate.
“Who in your firm was privy to the Jacobs matter?”
Borg leaned back. He usually was his boss’s spokesman, but now he just didn’t give a damn. Let the old man answer for once.
“Myself,” Castleton finally said. “My chief investigator. And two of our field people.”
The guest nodded. He walked casually to the large window facing Wilshire. “You may be curious to know how our investigation into Nick Merchant is proceeding.”
Borg couldn’t hold back any further. “We’re more curious as to why he was even allowed to proceed on the Jacobs matter in the first place. The FBI didn’t seem to mind too much that he was involved—”
“That’s right,” piped in Castleton. “And this is after you threw your weight around with us. We’ve cooperated with the Bureau’s wishes. Why’s a criminal like Merchant given favors?”
The visitor turned back to them. “We’re not cutting him any slack now, are we?”
Castleton grunted and jabbed a finger at him. “Nick Merchant was given a free hand to track the Jacobs heirs while my company was ordered off the investigation. I demand an explanation.”
“I’ll need to consult with my supervisor on that,” came the reply. “I can tell you that we’re now looking for Merchant in fifty states, and I guarantee you he will not profit from the Jacobs estate. Is there anything you know that may help us find him or Alex Moreno?”
“What could we possibly know?” asked Borg.
“We’re an honest company trying to go about our business,” added Castleton. “We stay away from crooks like Merchant.” He leaned forward, full of fight now. “I intend to consult with our attorneys to see what our legal recourse is here. I’m not taking any more of the Bureau’s intimidation tactics. You go ahead and tell your friend Mr. Arminger that for me.”
The stranger nodded. He had no intention of doing that. He didn’t even know who Mr. Arminger was.
The conference room door noiselessly opened, and a short, stocky man unrecognized by Lawrence Castleton and Richard Borg stepped inside.
“Who the hell are—”
Castleton fell silent as he noticed the large handgun in the newcomer’s hand. He swiveled violently in his chair, back to their surprise guest. He too now held a similar weapon.
“What is this?” whispered Borg.
The two men raised their weapons and took out Castleton first, the bullets entering his chest and back almost
simultaneously. Borg was too shocked to even beg for his life as the weapons were then trained on him. The bullet from the right entered his head, the one in front tore through his chest. Both heir hunters were dead by the time their bodies slumped to the carpet. Without a word, the killers exited quietly to the hall, closing the conference room door behind them. They walked by the stunned receptionist and hurried around the corner to their car.
Kragen tapped his finger patiently on his kitchen table and held the phone. He wasn’t going to let the skinny man upset him. The little prick wasn’t worth it.
“Why are you calling me?” demanded Cimko.
“Need a little guidance. I think we got ourselves an alias here on your man, but there’s just one small problem. . ..”
“What is it?”
Kragen grabbed the slip of paper and leaned back in his chair. “The name’s Michael Collier. The problem is there’s fifty-nine Michael Colliers coming up on our computer.”
“What am I supposed to do about that?”
“I’m getting to that, sweetheart—”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
“Sure thing. Two of these fifty-nine Michael Colliers have San Francisco addresses—”
“So check those out first, Kragen. What’s there to think about?”
“One of ’em just flew to Switzerland.”
Five seconds of silence.
“If your question is should you follow him,” said Cimko softly, “my answer is yes. Immediately.”
“You got it. The only thing is it might take a day to get hold of firearms over there.”
“Improvise, dammit. Get the job done any way you can and be quick about it.”
“You’re picking up the tab on the flight, right?”
“Yes, I’m picking up the tab on the flight. Book the damn thing.”
“We’re on our way, sweetheart.”
A
T FIVE MINUTES
to takeoff, Nick grabbed his briefcase and emerged from a bathroom stall near international departures at Philadelphia International Airport. For half an hour he had holed up in there—thirty long, nervous minutes. Airports were generally the most watched locations on earth when the law was looking to nab a fugitive. He could only hope his choice of Philadelphia’s air hub would throw the FBI off his track.
He checked himself in the bathroom mirror. His beard was barely two days old, but dark, giving him an older, more serious look. An appropriate effect, he thought. He hated facial hair and the accompanying itchiness, but now the unfamiliar look was a comfort. Each passing day, another millimeter of growth, another bit of distance from his usual appearance.
Outside, the line at Gate 72 had dwindled to nothing. He walked quickly through the airport concourse, half expecting rough hands to grab him at any moment. Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten. He reached the boarding tunnel and hurried through it. He threw a quick, nervous look behind himself. All clear. Safe and sound—until the next flight.
In the cabin, the crush of boarders had found seats, and he made his way down the center aisle. A quick wave of a hand caught his eye. He slid into the row, sitting in the middle seat to the left of Jessica’s window seat. He
allowed himself to relax a bit as the plane soon taxied into position on the runway. Powerful engines began to accelerate, and the plane sped down the runway, finally lifting off and arcing upward to the sky.
“You feel okay?” she asked.
“I feel wonderful,” replied Nick, forcing a smile. “Why do you ask?”
“You look pale.”
“Something I ate, I guess. I’m fine.”
She nodded, obviously not buying it. The skeptical look on her eyes made Nick wonder what thought she wasn’t sharing.
He turned to the books Alex had checked out of the Schenectady library. One was a traveler’s guide to Switzerland, the other a handbook on Swiss banking. He had a good amount of brushing up to do during the long hours of flight time ahead.
The classifications of the Swiss banks were detailed and rather confusing. The three prominent banks in Switzerland were Union Bank of Switzerland, the Swiss Bank Corporation, and the Swiss Credit Bank. Jessica’s bank box was held at Hahn and Konauer, a bank Nick could only assume was one of the two dozen or so private banking institutions. The address he had was on the Place Bel-Air, Geneva’s principal financial boulevard, according to his traveler’s guide.
Two interesting facts stood out as he read. One, most of the private banks as a rule refused to handle accounts of less than one hundred thousand dollars. Two, unlike the incorporated and cantonal banks, the private banks were not required by Swiss banking codes to publish their balance sheets. Estimates from the previous year placed each of their holdings in the realm of 250 to 750 million Swiss francs. The Swiss banking authorities readily admitted the true figures could be far beyond the estimates.
He removed his portfolio and glanced at Jessica. Her head was tilted to him, eyes closed. He looked beyond her out the window. The endless spread of the North Atlantic, a cold black carpet as far as the eye could see. This would be the first time he had traveled abroad not looking for a client—a strange feeling.
He pulled a few of the Jacobs banking documents. Of the dozens of letters taken from the Jacobs home, Alex had spotted a clear pattern. Ninety percent of them belonged to four particular Swiss banks—two in Zurich, two in Geneva. He read the names: Droz & Cie. Burg and Blaus. Alban-Witz. Gubelin & Cie. He closed his eyes and could almost see their dark iron and concrete vaults, gloomy accommodations for decades-old secrets held captive in cold metal drawers. The Von Rohr lockbox held one of those secrets. Or perhaps it held nothing, a little dust and stale air. He prayed that wasn’t the case.
He lowered his seat back and closed the shade.
The flight attendant came by an hour later and asked them if they wanted drinks. Nick declined the urge for a cocktail and checked his watch. They were still several hours away. He dropped his head back. He was tired of reading, tired of sitting. He was tired of running. Geneva would be the first time in days he would be taking the offensive. He needed to regain a feeling of control. It was the only way to have any hope at all.