“She only came into this during the past few hours. But if I had to guess, I’d say she’s working with Anan Wayne Howell.”
She’d read the transcripts from the intercepted phone calls and emails among Larks, Howell, and Kim. Though Kim had used an alias when communicating with both Americans, voice comparisons made at NSA confirmed his identity. Originally, Treasury’s plan had been to use this overseas trip as the perfect way to bring it all to a head since there would be no worries here about constitutional protections. Foreign intelligence operations ran on few to no rules. Just results.
“This is not good, Isabella. You know that, right?”
She hated failure, too. “Larks was killed for a reason. Kim had to have done it. Malone stumbled into this, and Kim tried to take him out by implicating him in Larks’ death. The good thing is, I don’t think Kim has the documents, either. So he’s probably in a quandary.”
“The documents, Isabella, that’s what we’re after. That’s all we care about. I’m sorry Larks is dead, but he chose to deal with the devil. He got what people get when they do that. We have to retrieve those documents.”
She was the only agent assigned to this mission. Everything rested with her. “I found the trail before, I can find it again.”
Silence filled her ear for a few moments.
“Okay, stay with it. But another agency is about to be involved.”
And she knew who. “The Magellan Billet?”
“That’s right. You’re all Treasury has there, Isabella. This has to be contained. Do what you have to do.”
The call ended.
Damn, she’d screwed up bad. But where before it was just Larks and Kim, now an assortment of new characters had entered the field. Too many for her to know for certain who was who, or what was what. She was flying blind, and that was never a good thing. Perfection. That’s what her boss wanted and that’s what she’d deliver.
Her father and grandfather had both worked for the FBI, her grandfather as one of Hoover’s trusted assistants. Law enforcement coursed through her veins. She could think of nothing she’d rather do with her life. That was one reason why she remained unmarried. Men had never interested her, and she wondered if that might be more significant. But women carried no fascination, either. Work, that was her aphrodisiac. Her record with Treasury stood unblemished, her arrest and conviction rate superb. She’d investigated major bank fraud, embezzlements, government corruption, and countless tax evaders. Many Treasury agents were CPAs and dealt more with accounting. Her training was all law enforcement. The old-fashioned kind. Legwork and brains, working together. That’s what her father taught her.
She was thirty-six, but looked older, which she actually liked. She worked long and hard and had been fortunate. People envied her, that she knew. Since day one she’d felt a pressure to succeed, and the results spoke for themselves. Some of the biggest tax evaders in U.S. history went down thanks to her. A few years ago she gathered most of the damaging evidence in the massive United Bank of Switzerland debacle, which led to sweeping changes in Swiss bank secrecy. No mistakes there. That operation ran perfectly. She hated people who cheated the government. To her tax evasion was a form of treason. Government existed to protect the people, and the people owed their allegiance. To violate that trust, to steal from it, was tantamount to declaring war. Right is right, her grandfather would say. That it was. When he retired, J. Edgar Hoover himself was there to shake her grandfather’s hand. A photo of that moment hung in her office back in DC. One day, when her time was done, a president might congratulate her in the same way.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” she whispered to her grandfather, who died before she was born.
She grabbed hold of herself and tried not to be agitated.
Across the building she caught sight of a younger man dressed in low-slung jeans, a collarless black shirt, and a pale jacket. He moved with the sinewy ease of an athlete and approached one of the Italian customs officials, flashing a badge. He was maybe late twenties, blond hair cut short, but shaggy on the edges, the face clean-shaven and warmed by a wide, toothy smile. He had a military look about him and was trying to gain entrance to the terminal, but the guard resisted. Eventually, though, he managed to make his way inside. Definitely American, and from the way he strutted in those boots, the Southern variety. Maybe even a little redneck. She knew the species, an odd offshoot of the American male.
The newcomer walked straight toward her.
“Ms. Schaefer,” he called out. “I’m Luke Daniels.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
He chuckled. “I see the reports were correct. You’ve got an attitude.”
She’d heard the talk about her. Twenty-two partners in eleven years. None stayed long, but none of them cared like she did, either. “What kind of badge were you flashing over there?”
“The kind that can save your ass.”
Interesting answer. Okay. He had her attention.
“I saw your cannonball earlier,” he said. “It was Anan Wayne Howell who shoved you.”
Now he commanded her full attention.
“I know where Anan Wayne Howell is right now.”
She said, “He’s the least of my concerns.”
“Actually, he’s the only lead you’ve got. Everybody else is gone.”
Intuitive, she’d give him that. But he could also be bluffing.
“I can point you the right way,” he said. “But it’ll cost you.”
To the Southern charm he added a grin, which annoyed her. But she kept her feelings to herself and asked, “Who has the pleasure of employing you?”
“Is that charm? I didn’t expect it. I’m told you’re not the most likable type.”
“Maybe I’m just choosy.”