Kipling puffed, nodded.
“With boys you worry, will they ever leave the house?” said the man. “Find their way. In my day they kicked you to the curb the minute you hit voting age. Sometimes before. Adversity. It’s the only way to make a man.”
“That what happened to your nose?” said Kipling.
The man smiled.
“You know how on your first day in prison they say find the biggest guy and kick his ass? Well, like anything else, there are consequences.”
“That’s—you’ve been to prison?” said Kipling, feeling a tourist’s thrill.
“Not here. Kiev.”
“Jesus.”
“And later in Shanghai, but that was a piece of pie, compared.”
“Are we talking bad luck or—”
The man smiled.
“Like an accident? No, man. The world’s a dangerous place. But you know that, right?”
“What?” said Kipling, feeling a slight premonitory chill.
“I said you know the world’s a dangerous place. Cause and effect. Wrong place, wrong time. You could fill a thimble with the times in human history a good man did a bad thing without thinking.”
“I didn’t, uh, I didn’t catch your name.”
“How about my Twitter handle? You want to Instagram me?”
Kipling dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk. As he did, a black car pulled up to the curb in front of the restaurant and sat, idling.
“Nice talking to you,” said Ben.
“Hold on. We’re almost through, but not quite.”
Kipling tried to get through the door, but the man was in the way. Not blocking him exactly, just there.
“My wife—” said Ben.
“She’s fine,” said the man. “Probably right now thinking about dessert. Maybe have the meringue. So take a breath—or take a ride in the car. Your choice.”
Kipling’s heart was going a mile a minute. He’d forgotten this feeling existed. What was it? Mortality?
“Look,” said Ben, “I don’t know what you think—”
“You had a visit today. The party police. Se?or Buzz Kill. I’m being obtuse deliberately. Except to say—maybe they spooked you.”
“Is this, like, a threat scenario or—”
“Don’t get excited. You’re not in trouble. With them maybe. But not with us. Not yet.”
Kipling could only imagine who us meant. The realities of the situation were clear. Though he had always dealt with factotums and middlemen (white-collar criminals at best), Kipling had made his bones at the firm by exploiting previously underutilized revenue streams. Revenue streams that—as his visit from the Treasury agents only reinforced—were of an extra-legal nature. Which is to say, in plain English, that he laundered money for countries that sponsor terrorism, like Iran and Yemen, and countries that murder their own citizens, like Sudan and Serbia. And he did it from a corner office in a downtown high-rise. Because when you deal with billions of dollars, you did it in plain sight, creating shell companies and disguising wire-transfer origin points six ways from Sunday, until the money was so clean it might as well be new.
“There’s no problem,” Ben told the man in the turtleneck. “Just a couple of young agents getting overeager. But upstairs from them we’ve got things locked down. At the level where it matters.”
“No,” said the man, “you’ve got a few problems there too. Changes in executive policy. Some new marching orders. I’m not saying panic, but—”
“Look,” said Ben. “We’re good at this. The best. That’s why your employers—”
A hard glare.
“We don’t talk about them.”
Ben felt something electric run down his back and pucker his asshole.
“You can trust us, I’m saying,” he managed. “Me. That was always my pledge. No one’s going to jail over—because of this. That’s what Barney Culpepper says.”
The guy looked at Ben as if to say, Maybe I believe you, maybe I don’t. Or maybe he was trying to say, It’s not up to you.
“Protect the money,” he said. “That’s what matters. And don’t forget who owns it. Because, okay, maybe you cleaned it so good it doesn’t connect to us, but that doesn’t make it yours.”
It took a second for Ben to translate the implication. They thought he was a thief.
“No. Of course.”
“You look worried. Don’t look like that. It’s okay. You need a hug? All I’m saying is, don’t forget the most important things. And that’s the following—your ass is of secondary importance. Only the money matters. If you have to go to jail, go to jail. And if you feel the urge to hang yourself, well, maybe that’s not a bad idea either.”
He took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one between his lips.
“Meanwhile,” he said. “Get the flan. You won’t regret it.”
Then the man in the turtleneck walked to the waiting black sedan and got in. Kipling watched as it pulled away.
Chapter 17