“His official title is Permanent Secretary for Nigeria’s Federal Ministry of Petroleum—”
“Duly noted. What have they found?”
Lucios laid a sheet of paper on the desk before her, yanking a mechanical pencil from his breast pocket to use as a pointer.
“First off, he’s been receiving a lot more from Gradsek than we initially suspected—it just took them some time to run down the accounts he maintains under separate names.” He slid the tip of his pencil to indicate a block of numbers. “These are his total deposits from Gradsek for the last six months, spread over seven accounts. As you’ll see, they range between 2.6 to 3.7 million, depending on the month.”
“Beyond bribery,” she noted.
Lucios nodded. “Most likely, ma’am. I believe these figures represent a fixed percentage of the income from Gradsek’s oil and cocaine import business, paid to Malu in exchange for continued political top cover, as well as protection from the pirate and vigilante groups. The disparity is that Malu only accumulates a small percentage of it, roughly ten percent, and an additional fifteen percent gets distributed to outside accounts, which I presume route to terrorist and militant groups.”
She twirled an index finger to indicate that he should get on with it and asked, “And the other 75 percent?”
Lucios didn’t answer, instead shifting his pencil lower on the page and continuing, “Here, you’ll see his illicit withdrawals from the national bank. These range from 4.2 to 5.6 million each month. Again, not unusual for Nigerian politicians. What is unusual is that these withdrawals follow the same pattern. He keeps 25 percent, and transfers the remaining 75.”
“So three-quarters of his income from Gradsek and the national bank gets sent to...where, exactly?”
“A single recipient, ma’am. It’s an account in Mozambique, but the forensic accountants are still trying to penetrate their cybersecurity to see where the money goes from there.”
She frowned.
“Mozambique...why?”
“Roughly two trillion dollars are laundered globally each year, and Mozambique is number one on the list of major money laundering countries.”
Duchess felt a tic in her left eye as she processed the information, focusing on the one logical conclusion that emerged from her spinning thoughts. “So we’re talking what, six to nine million each month of income?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Seventy-two to over 100 million annually, of which 75 percent goes to Mozambique…”
“Correct.”
She looked at him blankly. “This seems indicative of a payout to someone who connected the pieces between Venezuela and Gradsek, who brokered and orchestrated the entire arrangement so he could profit…”
“I agree, ma’am.”
“So this means that Mozambique is—”
“Erik Weisz,” he finished for her. “Or at least, one of his bank accounts.”
Duchess went silent, pausing to draw a long breath before she said, “You’re sure about this?”
“It fits all the criteria. Based on the connections between the Uyghur resistance and ISIS in Syria, we’ve been looking for someone, or more likely a network, that’s bridging international connections on a scale we’ve never before seen. The organizations are all over, of course, but no one has ever pieced them together in such a manner to achieve global effects. I believe Erik Weisz used Malu as the touchpoint to link Gradsek, and thereby Russia, to an unknown contact in Venezuela. Weisz put this together, and now he’s reaping the lion’s share of the profit.”
She nodded. “Which is indicative of not only international reach, but the muscle to enforce the arrangement if necessary.”
“Which is in turn indicative of significant manpower, or at least influence over local groups capable of armed response. Extrapolate that to multiple countries, and I think—I assess—this could be bigger than we thought.”
Duchess wasn’t tired anymore, her pulse soaring with the news and, more importantly, her gut feeling that it was accurate. She wanted to order a full-court press into this issue, to begin personally typing a formal report of these conclusions. The sheer volume of payments made it inconceivable that she and Lucios were wrong on this, and she sure as hell wanted the intelligence community to be aware of the threat.
But she forced herself to take three steady breaths, tempering her initial response to the necessities of the present moment. She still had to disseminate the full reports from both Lagos and Maiduguri, to say nothing of supporting a ground team currently staged in Gwoza.
She spoke in a level tone. “I want all further information conveyed to me as you receive it. What else do you have?”
“Just one more thing, ma’am... the draft of Lagos intel dissemination ready for your review.”
“Is it comprehensive?”
He nodded quickly. “Venezuela, oil, cocaine, heroin, Gradsek and the Russian connection—it’s everything.”
“You ensured the source of the intelligence was safeguarded in every possible manner?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Recommended a random customs inspection on a key shipment to expose collusion between Russia assisting Venezuela in bypassing international oil sanctions?”
Lucios blinked. “Of course.”
“And did you,” she continued in a low tone, “emphasize in no uncertain terms that this report remains close-hold until Project Longwing’s involvement in Nigeria has come to a close, so as not to risk spooking the players and compromising our ability to action any late-breaking intelligence?”
“Absolutely, ma’am.” He procured a stapled packet from his folder and extended it to her. “It’s all right here.”
She snatched the packet from him, scanning the first page before flipping to a second, then the third.
Handing it back to him, she said, “Cleared for release to the seventh floor. How do we stand on the Maiduguri report?”
Before he could respond, the phone on her desk rang. She held up a finger to silence Lucios and brought the receiver to her ear.
A switchboard operator said, “ISA rep in Abuja.”
“Wait one,” Duchess replied, putting the call on hold and returning the phone to its cradle. Then she cut her eyes to Lucios. “The Maiduguri report?”
“The ledger photographs are on round three of translation. Once that’s complete, I’ll have the full assessment turned within two hours.”
“Then get back to work. Away with you, Lucios, and nice job.”
He pushed back his chair and rose, reaching for Malu’s financial assessment until Duchess slapped a hand atop the page and said, “Can I hang onto this copy?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Then Lucios was gone, strolling back to his workstation as Duchess lifted the phone and pressed a button on the console.
“Patch him through,” she said.
There was a click on the line and she said, “Duchess here.”
A familiar voice spoke with a New York accent. “Duchess, it’s Ben Bailey. Is Jo Ann on the line?”
“She’s on rest cycle. Any luck with monitoring Malu’s communications?”
He gave an audible sigh. “Not much. Most of his calls have been cleared as routine so far.”