He turned to lead them into his office, caught Darlene’s eye.
“Get Barney Culpepper up here.”
He led the agents into his corner office. They were eighty-six stories up, but the tempered glass shielded them from the elements, creating a hermetic seal, a sense that one was in a dirigible, floating high above it all.
“Can I offer you anything?” he said. “Pellegrino?”
“We’re fine,” said Bewes.
Kipling went to the sofa, dropped into the corner by the window. He had decided he would act like a man with nothing to fear. There was a bowl of pistachios on the sideboard. He took a nut, cracked it, ate the meat.
“Sit, please.”
The men had to turn the guest chairs to face the sofa. They sat awkwardly.
“Mr. Kipling,” said Bewes, “we’re from the Office of Foreign Assets Control. Are you familiar with that?”
“I’ve heard of it, but honestly, they don’t keep me around for my logistical know-how. I’m more the creative thinker type.”
“We’re an arm of the Treasury Department.”
“I got that part.”
“Well, we’re here to make sure that American businesses and investment firms don’t do business with countries our government has deemed off limits. And, well, your firm has come to our attention.”
“By off limits you mean—”
“Sanctioned,” said Bewes. “We’re referring to countries like Iran and North Korea. Countries that fund terrorism.”
“Their money’s bad,” said Hex, “and we don’t want it here.”
Ben smiled, showing them his perfectly capped teeth.
“The countries are bad. That’s for sure. But the money? Well, money’s a tool, gentlemen. It’s neither good nor bad.”
“Okay, sir, let me back up. You’ve heard of the law, yes?”
“Which law?”
“No, I’m saying — you know we have this thing called laws in this country.”
“Mr. Bewes, don’t patronize me.”
“Just trying to find a language we both understand,” said Bewes. “The point is, we suspect your firm is laundering money for — well, shit, just about everyone — and we’re here to let you know we’re watching.”
At this, the door opened and Barney Culpepper came in. Wearing blue-and-white seersucker, Barney was everything you’d want in a corporate attorney — aggressive, blue-blooded, the son of the former US ambassador to China. His father was pals with three presidents. Right now, Barney had a red-and-white candy cane in his mouth, even though it was August. Seeing him, Kipling felt a wave of relief — like a kid called to the principal’s office who rebounds when his dad arrives.
“Gentlemen,” said Ben, “this is Mr. Culpepper, the firm’s in-house counsel.”
“This is a casual conversation,” said Hex. “No need for lawyers.”
Culpepper didn’t bother shaking hands. He leaned his backside against the sideboard.
“Ask me about the candy,” he said.
“Pardon?” said Hex.
“The candy. Ask me about it.”
Hex and Bewes exchanged a look, as if to say I don’t want to. You do it.
Finally Bewes shrugged.
“What’s with the—”
Culpepper took the candy cane out of his mouth, showed it to them.
“When my assistant said two agents from Treasury were here, all I could think was — it must be fucking Christmas.”
“Very funny, Mr.—”
“Because I know my old racquetball buddy Leroy Able — you know him, right?”
“He’s the secretary of the Treasury.”
“Exactly. Well, I know my old racquetball buddy Leroy wouldn’t send agents down here without calling me first. And since he didn’t call—”
“This,” said Hex, “is more of a courtesy call.”
“Like where you bring over cookies and say welcome to the neighborhood?”
Culpepper looks at Kipling.
“Are there cookies? Did I miss the—”
“No cookies,” says Ben.
Bewes smiles.
“You want cookies?”
“No,” says Culpepper, “it’s just, when your friend said ‘a courtesy call,’ I thought—”
Bewes and Hex exchange a look, stand.
“Nobody’s above the law,” says Bewes.
“Who said anything—” says Culpepper. “I thought we were talking about dessert.”
Bewes buttons his jacket, smiling — a guy with a winning hand.
“A case is being built. Months, years. Sanctioned at the highest level. And you want to talk about evidence? How about you’d need two tractor trailers to haul it all to court.”
“File a suit,” said Culpepper. “Show a warrant. We’ll respond.”
“When the time comes,” said Hex.
“Assuming you guys aren’t parking cars in Queens after I make a phone call,” said Culpepper, chewing on his candy cane.
“Hey,” said Bewes, “I’m from the Bronx. You wanna call a guy out, call him out. But make sure you know what you’re buying.”
“It’s so cute,” said Culpepper, “that you think it matters the size of your dick. ’Cause, son, when I fuck someone, I use my whole arm.”
He showed them the arm, and the hand attached to it, at the end of which a single finger was raised in salute.
Bewes laughed.
“You know how some days you come to work and it’s a drag?” he said. “Well, this is gonna be fun.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Culpepper, “until it goes in past the elbow.”
* * *
That night at dinner, Ben was distracted. He reviewed his conversation with Culpepper in his head.
“It’s nothing,” Culpepper had said, dropping his candy cane in the trash after the agents left. “They’re traffic cops writing bullshit tickets at the end of the month. Trying to get their quotas up.”
“They said months,” Ben responded. “Years.”
“Look at what happened to HSBC. A fucking wrist slap. You know why? Because if they gave them the full extent of the law, they’d have had to take their banking license. And we all know that’s not gonna happen. They’re too big to jail.”
“You’re calling a billion-dollar fine a wrist slap?”
“It’s walking-around money. A few months’ profits. You know that better than anyone.”
But Ben wasn’t so sure. Something about the way the agents carried themselves. They were cocky, like they knew they had the high card.
“We need to close ranks,” he’d said. “Anyone who knows anything.”
“Already done. Do you know the level of nondisclosure paperwork you have to sign to even work the front desk here? It’s Fort fucking Knox.”
“I’m not going to jail.”
“Jesus, don’t be such a pussy. Don’t you get it? There is no jail. Remember the LIBOR scandal? A conspiracy worth trillions with a t. A reporter says to the assistant attorney general, This is a bank that has broken the law before, so why not be tougher? The assistant attorney general says, I don’t know what tougher means.”
“They came to my office,” Ben had said.
“They took an elevator ride. Two guys. If they really had something it’d be hundreds of guys, and they’d walk out with a lot more than their dicks in their hands.”
And yet sitting in a corner booth with Sarah and Jenny and her fiancé’s family, Ben couldn’t help but wonder if that was really all they’d walked out with. Ben wished he had videotape of the meeting so he could watch his own face, see how much he’d given away. His poker face was usually top-notch, but in that room he’d felt off his game. Did it come through in the tension around his mouth? A crinkle in his eyes.
“Ben?” said Sarah, shaking his arm. From the look on her face, it was clear a question has been thrown his way.