“Yes, Jean.”
“How much of a hurry are we in?”
We? Wasn’t that chummy. Maybe she wasn’t a dyke, after all. “It’s urgent.”
“Well, there’s a flight from Gatwick. Orrrr… we could have you there in about an hour by helicopter.”
“Perfect. Let’s do that, then.” One of the bonuses of being in the antiterrorism business these days was that no one had to stint. Five years ago, a helicopter would have been out of the question, but now, no one would blink an eye. And that was good, because with the chopper, he could be back in time for his Pilates class. He’d only recently come to know how important it was to maintain core strength. If you let it go, sooner or later you’d face a whole cascade of musculo-skeletal problems. Which he did not need.
One thing he disliked about helicopters was the noise. Buckled into his seat, it was like being inside a vacuum cleaner. Terrible for your ears. He made a mental note to buy some of those earmuffs – the Princess Leia type that airport workers wore. Guys who ran leafblowers, construction workers, carpenters – they warranted ear protection, but not the FBI’s legal attachés, who were on the front line of fighting terrorism. He looked out the window. Above, a leaden sky; below, the gray and choppy sea.
“Guernsey!” shouted the pilot, nodding toward a landmass on the right.
Then he tilted his head to the left and screamed “Jersey!” Soon, they were yawing toward the painted cross on the helipad and then they were down. Kovalenko ducked under the rotors and ran toward the black Mercedes that was there to meet him. (Jean was a marvel, lesbian or not.)
The banker, Jonathan Warren, was forty and handsome in that fragile British way. He wore a suit that was definitely “bespoke.” Tasseled loafers. Manicured nails. “Refreshment? A drink perhaps…”
“I’m all set,” Kovalenko said.
A faint whiff of citrusy aftershave wafted toward him as Kovalenko eased himself into a leather club chair. “Is this an official inquiry?”
Kovalenko didn’t reply. He simply reached into his breast pocket and removed the small leather portfolio that held his identification. He flipped it open with a flick of his wrist and slid it across the desk.
Warren studied the ID without touching it. Then he nodded his head slowly. “I see…” A frown creased his features. “It’s just that, well, you’re an American.” Warren shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Another brilliant smile segued into pained speculation. “If you don’t mind…” He picked up the telephone receiver.
“If you’re reaching out to Five-” Kovalenko began.
“Oh, I don’t think we need to bother the spooks. I’ll just call my director.”
Kovalenko leaned back in his chair. He enjoyed exerting his power, enjoyed the unease he could inflict, especially on a huffy little prick like Warren. Just look at this room – all smoked glass and polished wood, elegant pen-and-ink sketches on the walls. An Aeron chair. The vast expanse of Warren’s desk was occupied by a single blue iris in a slim, cut-glass vase and an iMac. Kovalenko thought of his cluttered metal desk, his battered filing cabinets.
Across from him, the little prick was explaining the situation to someone with more authority. “Yes, all right, I understand…” He turned to Kovalenko. “I’m happy to say we can accommodate you.” Bright little smile. “Up to a point.”
“And what point would that be?”
“If I could see the account number?”
From his breast pocket, Kovalenko pulled out the plain white index card on which he’d printed the account number. He handed it to the banker.
The banker tapped a few keys on his computer keyboard, opened the drawer of his desk, extracted a gold pen, and scribbled on Kovalenko’s index card, which he then handed back.
Kovalenko looked at it: Thomas Aherne & Associates.
“I’ll need an address,” Kovalenko said.
“You understand: This isn’t the account holder,” the banker said. “That, I can’t disclose. But Aherne and Associates are the registered agent. Which means they get all the mail, handle the inquiries. I’m sure they’ll be happy to help you.”
“Of course they will,” Kovalenko told him, “but I’m not asking them, I’m asking you.”
“I understand that, but… protocols aside, I don’t actually have the information you’re after.”
“You don’t know who you’re in business with?” Kovalenko asked.
Warren ignored the question. “A number of our clients have arrangements like this one. Their affairs are handled by registered agents.” He tapped a few keys and a printer whirred into action.
Kovalenko looked at the paper handed to him.
THOMAS AHERNE & ASSOCIATES
210 COPE STREET
DUBLIN, REPUBLIC OF IRELAND
“Ireland,” Kovalenko muttered.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?” Warren asked.
“No,” Kovalenko said. “If you’ll let me take a look at the account history – deposits, withdrawals – I’ll be on my way.”
The banker shifted in his chair. Winced apologetically. “No can do, I’m afraid.” Suddenly, he brightened. “Unless, of course… you’ve letters rogatory?”
Kovalenko pursed his lips, and groaned inwardly. The FBI had no right to discovery in foreign countries, so the banker was correct in suggesting that letters rogatory would be necessary to compel the release of evidence. Which meant that it was almost impossible. Letters rogatory required fourteen steps, and each step required the attention of a lawyer or judge. Letters rogatory. The idea made Kovalenko woozy. It could take years. He sat up in his chair, and glared at the banker. “This is an antiterrorism investigation.”
Warren blinked, but was otherwise unmoved by the information.
Kovalenko would appeal to MI-5 as soon as he got back to London. But he probably wouldn’t get anywhere. Asking a Jersey bank for an account holder’s name, Kovalenko realized, was like asking a priest for a transcript of someone’s confession.
“I’m sorry,” Warren said, breaking eye contact. “I’m afraid it’s just not on. Our laws-”
“Your laws protect criminals and terrorists,” Kovalenko hissed. He could feel his face reddening, his blood pressure climbing. He tried to calm down, to “center” himself, but it wasn’t working. It occurred to him that this was just the kind of thing that triggered heart attacks.
The helicopter lifted off the pad, and swung away from the ground. Kovalenko watched the island dwindle beneath him. These offshore banks, he thought, are criminal enterprises. If he had his way, every corporation on earth, and especially the banks, would be “transparent.” That would put a stop to a lot of crime, including terrorism. Just that one step. The only reason for bank secrecy was to wash money, hide money, or steal money. Put an end to funny money and you’d go a long ways toward putting an end to funny business.
He forced himself to relax. Belly breathing, long on the exhale. At least he had the account number and, even more important, the name of the registered agent. That agent would have received any and all of the correspondence relating to the account, including transaction records. Either the agent forwarded the information to his client, or he held it for him.
Kovalenko hoped it was the latter. But whatever the agent had, Kovalenko would get. Because, in Ireland, they knew a thing or two about terrorism.
CHAPTER 21
It was all about which way you turned when you got on the plane. If you went left, you were on some kind of fast track, and if you went right, you were probably paying your own way.