The first legislation to combat such flagrant laundering required a bank’s customers to fill out a “cash transaction report” for every deposit or withdrawal over the sum of ten thousand dollars. The cocaine cowboys quickly found an easy way around the mechanism. “Smurfing,” or what was currently referred to as “structuring,” involved sending a few loyal soldiers to a legion of banks, each man depositing the sum of nine thousand nine hundred dollars. Flying low under the radar, so to speak.
Subsequent legislation placed the onus on the bank to know its customers. Efforts were made to train bank tellers to be on the lookout for activities that might tip them off to a client’s criminal activities. More effective enforcement tools were constantly being invented. In instances where a rash of illegal activity was noted in a specific neighborhood, law enforcement agents were able to issue geographic transmitting orders, or GTOs, lowering the reporting requirements in that area to amounts as low as seven hundred dollars.
But Chapel had learned that drug traffickers and career criminals were easy targets. You knew who they were. You knew what they did, and when they did it. Mostly, you knew that sooner or later they had to use financial institutions to get at their dough.
A terrorist was much harder to find. The reason was simple: They moved their money before they committed the crime. Until then, they were invisible.
“Nothing on Bertrand Roux,” said Bonnard, after what felt like an eternity but was only two minutes.
Sarah read aloud Roux’s address, his driver’s license, and his phone number. Each time, the response came back negative.
“Reverse the phone number,” said Chapel. “Read it off backward.”
“Pardon?” said Bonnard.
“It’s an easy trick. Guys do it all the time when they need to put down a fake number. Humor me.”
Sarah had lowered her eyes and a grim smile had taken control of her lips. He could read her mind as if it were his own. The numbers won’t lead us where we need to be. We need bodies. Warm bodies. At that moment, Chapel felt a shiver of dislike rattle his spine. He wasn’t certain what bothered him most. Her cool disdain. Her detached pessimism. Or just the way she was able to divorce herself from the events, while he hung on every word.
“Eh, voilà!” shouted Giles Bonnard.
Chapel rocketed from his seat, but Sarah had beaten him to Bonnard’s side. “You’re bloody well kidding,” she said.
“I am not. Let’s see here.” Bonnard pointed to the screen. “A suspicious activity report filed June sixteenth of last year at the St.-Germain-des-Près branch of the Bank Montparnasse. The account belongs to Mr. Albert Daudin. The telephone number listed on our documents is the same you gave me. I read you the teller’s words. ‘Between nine and nine-thirty on the morning of Thursday, June sixteenth, Mr. Daudin entered the bank three separate times. The first time he was a customer at my window and withdrew four thousand five hundred euros. The second time, I did not see him. Later, I learned from Geneviève Droz, my colleague, that he had withdrawn also four thousand euros. The third time, he came to Yvette’s window (Yvette Pressy works next to me) and he withdrew again four thousand euros. When I spoke with my colleagues, we learned he had always used the same account.’ That is all.”
“What’s the threshold for reporting requirements in France?” Chapel asked.
“Five thousand euros,” Bonnard answered. “Clearly your man did not want to attract any attention.”
“Do we know what the balance of the account was?”
Bonnard searched the screen. “Doesn’t say. You’ll have to speak with the bank.”
Chapel scratched his chin. He knew he should be pleased, but the actions didn’t mesh with the discipline Taleel had shown before. Only an amateur would risk going into the same branch three times in a half hour. Bank Montparnasse had offices all over town. All Taleel had to do was jump a taxi ten blocks and he would have been safe. “June sixteenth,” he said. “What was going on then? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Last year? June?” Bonnard shook his head with disgust. “Of course you don’t remember. You don’t live in Paris. Me, I remember. I live outside of the city. I don’t have a car. It was impossible to get home. I had to sleep at the office three nights in a row.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t get home?” Sarah asked, but as Bonnard began to explain, a light went on behind her eyes and she began to murmur, “Yes, yes, yes.”
“A transportation workers’ strike,” Bonnard was saying. “The entire city was shut down. No Métro. No bus. That day the taxi drivers joined their brothers in solidarity. You have never seen such traffic. Your friend, Mr. Daudin, or Mr. Roux, or Mr. Taleel, whatever he called himself, he was in a hurry, and he was too lazy to walk. Case closed. Hold on while I check the name Daudin, maybe we find him somewhere else.” Bonnard typed in the name, then sat back, hands locked behind his head.
The two minutes passed in agonizing silence, all of them too keyed up to say a word.
“Nothing,” Bonnard announced to a chorus of groans. He printed out a copy of the suspicious activity report and handed it to Chapel. “This helps?”
Chapel eyed the sheet, committing to memory the name of Albert Daudin and account number 788-87677G at the Bank Montparnasse. Was it another dead end? Another of Taleel’s elaborately constructed Chinese boxes? Chapel didn’t think so. This was the one no one was supposed to find. A mistake born of desperation. They had their golden thread. Now all they had to do was pull and watch Hijira unravel. “Yeah, Giles,” he said. “It helps. Big-time.”
Chapter 20
The doors to Mortier Caserne slammed behind Leclerc, and he swore audibly. “Merde.” He kicked the toe of his boot into the rutted concrete drive once, very hard. “Merde,” he said again, turning his head to direct the epithet at the massive oak doors.
Rafi Boubilas would not talk. The owner of Royal Joailliers had a lawyer, and the leftist bitch was promising to stay at her client’s side until either he was charged or he was released. When Leclerc had told her to sod off, that she would stay with Boubilas as long they allowed her and not a minute longer, she’d laid into him with a torrent of abuse. It was a screaming match, and as usual, the woman involved won. “J’accuse!” she wailed, a latter-day Zola with her red beret, Chanel bag, and cell phone at the ready.
It was nearly seven o’clock. Leclerc walked along the sidewalk beneath a row of century-old elms. The evening sunshine warmed the leafy canopy and dusted the air with a comforting, soporific hue, but did little to brighten his mood. If he had his way, they’d jail the loudmouthed broad with her client in La Sante and let her get a taste of real prison life. A six-by-nine-foot cell with dripping walls, a metal toilet that backed up every time you took a crap, and food that would sicken a cockroach. Leclerc would be free to speak with Boubilas as he saw fit, and that would be that.
His motorcycle sat parked a few yards away. Zipping up his leather jacket, he threw a leg over the black Ducati Monster. He checked the choke and his hand came away greasy. The bike needed a wash. Just then, a thought came to him, and he was surprised he hadn’t had it earlier. “Shoot first, ask questions later,” Admiral Owen Glendenning had said. Fine. It was agreed. Leclerc would take him up on the offer. Target number one would be Monsieur Rafi Boubilas, owner of Royal Joailliers, drug dealer, conspirator of terrorists, and world-class scumbag. The bitch wanted him released. Tant mieux. Leclerc pulled out his cell phone.