“He’s my pal with FinCEN. I mean, if everything is on the up-and-up—”
“It is.”
“Cool.” She took out her cell phone. It was another bluff, but an effective one. There was no Max at FinCEN, but then, how hard would it be to report something like this to the Department of the Treasury? She smiled now, trying again to look a bit unhinged. “I got nothing else, so I might as well—”
“There’s no need for that.”
“Oh?”
“Dana . . .” He looked at the door. “I’m betraying a trust here.”
“You can explain it to me,” Kat said, “or you can explain it to Max and his team. Up to you.”
Bork started to bite on his manicured thumbnail. “Dana asked for confidentiality here.”
“To cover up a crime?”
“What? No.” Bork leaned forward and spoke softly. “Off the record?”
“Sure.”
Off the record. Did he think she was a reporter?
“Her transaction, I admit, is rather unconventional. We may indeed file an SAR, though I have thirty days to do it.”
SAR stood for Suspicious Activity Report. By law, a transaction of this size out of the country should require that the financial institution or individual notify the Department of the Treasury. It isn’t written in stone, but the large majority of honest institutions would do it.
“Dana asked for a little time first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Again nothing illegal.”
“Then?”
He looked toward the corridor. “You can’t tell Brandon this.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Dana Phelps specifically requested that no one, especially her son, know about her plans.”
Kat leaned in closer. “My lips are sealed.”
“I wouldn’t be telling you any of this—in fact, I shouldn’t be—but my job is also to protect my clients and my business. I don’t know what Dana would say, but my feeling is that she would not want her confidential wire transfer—one that her child should have never seen, by the way—scrutinized by the Department of the Treasury. Not because it is illegal. But because that could present a host of problems and attention.”
Kat waited. Bork wasn’t really talking to her right now. He was talking to himself, trying to find a justification to give her information.
“Dana Phelps is buying a house.”
Kat wasn’t sure what she was expecting him to say, but that wasn’t it. “What?”
“In Costa Rica. Five-bedroom beach villa on the Peninsula Papagayo. Stunning. Right on the Pacific Ocean. The man she’s traveling with? He proposed.”
Kat just sat there. The word proposed turned into a stone and dropped down some internal mine shaft. She could see it all—the gorgeous stretch of beach, the coconut trees (were there coconut trees in Costa Rica? Kat didn’t know), Jeff and Dana strolling hand in hand, a gentle kiss, lounging together on a hammock as the sun set in the distance.
“You have to understand,” Bork continued. “Dana has not had it easy since her husband’s death. She raised Brandon by herself. He wasn’t an easy kid. His father’s death . . . it really affected him. I won’t get into more details than that, but now that Brandon’s in college, well, Dana is ready for a life of her own. You can understand that, I’m sure.”
Kat head spun. She tried to push away thoughts of a life in a beach villa and concentrated on the task at hand. What had the last text Dana sent her son said again? Something about having a great time and a big surprise . . .
“Anyway, Dana is getting married. She and her new husband may even decide to move down there permanently. Naturally, this is not news she wants to break to Brandon over the phone. That’s why she’s been incommunicado.”
Kat said nothing, still trying to process. A proposal. A beach villa. Not wanting to tell her son on the phone. Did all that add up?
It did.
“So Dana Phelps, what, wired the money to the home owner?”
“No, she transferred the money to herself. The real estate transaction involves some complicated local issues that require a level of discretion. It isn’t my job to pry further than that. Dana opened a legal account in Switzerland and wired money from another account to fund it.”
“She opened a Swiss bank account in her name?”
“Which is perfectly legal.” Then: “But no, not in her name.”
“Whose name, then?”
Bork was working on that manicured thumbnail again. It was amazing how all men, no matter how successful, still have the little-boy insecurity in them. Finally, he said, “No name.”
She understood now. “A numbered account?”
“It isn’t as dramatic as it sounds. Most Swiss accounts are numbered. Are you at all familiar with them?”
She sat back. “Pretend I’m not.”
“Numbered accounts are pretty much just what you think—they have a number associated with the account instead of a name. This gives you a great deal of privacy—not just for criminals, but even the most honest people who don’t want their financial situations known. Your money is safe and secure.”
“And secret?”
“To some degree, yes. But not like it used to be. The United States government now can, and does, find out about the account. Everyone looks out for criminal wrongdoing and has to report it. And the secrecy only goes so far. Many people foolishly believe that no one knows whose numbered account belongs to whom. That’s ridiculous, of course. Select employees of the bank know.”
“Mr. Bork?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like the bank name and number.”
“It won’t do you any good. Even I can’t say for sure what name is associated with that number. If you somehow take out a warrant for information, the Swiss bank will tie you up for years. So if you want to prosecute Dana Phelps for some petty crime—”
“I have no interest in prosecuting Dana Phelps. You have my word on that.”
“Then what’s this all about?”
“Give me the number, Mr. Bork.”
“And if I don’t?”
She lifted her phone. “I can still call Max.”