When Ben got back to the office, he found two men waiting for him. They sat in the outer office reading magazines, while Darlene typed nervously on her computer. Ben could tell from their suits—off the rack—that they were government. He almost spun on his heels and walked out, but he didn’t. The truth was, he had—on the advice of his lawyer—a packed bag in a storage unit and a few untraceable millions offshore.
“Mr. Kipling,” said Darlene too loudly, standing. “These gentlemen are here to see you.”
The men put down their magazines, stood. One was tall and square-jawed. The other had a dark mole under his left eye.
“Mr. Kipling,” said Square Jaw, “I’m Jordan Bewes from the Treasury Department. This is my colleague, Agent Hex.”
“Ben Kipling.”
Kipling forced himself to shake their hands.
“What’s this about?” he asked as casually as he could.
“We’ll do that, sir,” said Hex, “but let’s do it in private.”
“Of course. Whatever I can do to help. Come on back.”
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?”