Dollar Down (4 page)

I almost wished I hadn't known. Artistry opened yet
another dimension for me to fall into, lost in the mystery and
fathomless depth of Sabine's spirit. I crushed her to me. She
gasped and replied with her own cinch of arms.

The next morning, I went to see the woman Trevor's
secretary had identified as his romantic interest. If she was
hiding any knowledge of where he was, I figured a surprise
visit would unnerve her enough to make a slip. After a
twenty-minute interview, I was convinced she knew no more than I
did.

I'd like to do the same with Mumby, but he was in
London. I'd probably need a digitized ID tag and a blood test
just to get through the front door of a private investment bank.
After our phone conversation, I couldn't pose as a potential
customer.

I ran through a list of things I'd covered and things that
were pending. Considering that I was into my fourth day here,
both lists were embarrassingly short. I tried to shift into lateral
thinking, but my mind kept drifting back to the corrupted, or
more likely encrypted, files I'd copied from Trevor's computer.
Sabine had said the system administrator might be able to help
or might know someone who could. I called her about it. She
suggested the three of us have lunch.

I hoped he could decipher the files. What I knew about
encryption could be written on a matchbox, but I'd read
somewhere that the ancient Data Encryption Standard was
fifty-six bits. A computer that could crack that level of
encryption in one second would take one hundred and forty
trillion years to crack the current standard. That should be a
good while after the universe blinked out. I didn't have that
long.

Sabine and the computer expert met me at an eclectic
café whose menu ranged from couscous to salmon
paté to steak and fries. Pastries and seafood sat in an
ice-chilled glass case in front of the shop's windows. An opened
bottle of wine was set on the table, house service. Water had to
be ordered.

"Our little conspiracy is growing quite fast," said
Sabine. "I thought it best to tell our system administrator what
we were doing."

He held up his hands. "No one will hear it from me. I
see secrets every day. It's my job. If Trevor used our office's
encryption program, all I need is access to his computer. We
use the same encryption key throughout the office. Consultants
can create as many private decryption keys as they want, but
they'll all show up on a point-and-click interface."

"That doesn't sound very secure," I said.

"The issue is protecting data transmitted through
networks to a client or other office in the firm, not physical
security inside the office."

That made sense. If anyone broke in, they could read
reports on paper. Sensible or not, when we got back, none of
the keys he tried worked on the Trevor's scrambled file.

When he went back to regular work. I started going
through Trevor's papers. I'd checked two drawers of a
five-drawer file cabinet when Sabine stopped by to tell me she was
ready to leave. I asked her if I could stay until I finished.

"What are you looking for?"

"I'm not looking
for
anything, but I'm looking
at
all that's here. Sometimes you can see clearer with a
blank mind."

She opened her purse and tore a chit off a pad. "You
can use this for a taxi. The company's phone number is on it."
She slipped the chit into my shirt pocket. "Wake me when you
get in. It's Thursday. I go home tomorrow evening."

I didn't wake her. I never left the office. It was 5:45 a.m.
before I finished. Among the stacks of paper and drawers that
I'd checked were three items that caught my attention. One
was a printout of the list of dates and percentages that I'd
found earlier on Trevor's computer.

The paper version, was annotated with handwritten
equations. Each equation was marked with a number that
appeared to correspond to a date on the chart. The second item
was a printout of a receipt for an online transfer of twenty-five
thousand euros to Mumby's investment bank in London.

The third was a bag of chocolates. They didn't last long.
I'd skipped dinner.

Sabine woke me when she opened the door. My head
was lolling on the back of the chair. My mouth was open, pretty
sight.

"Did you pull an all-nighter?" She smiled like an
indulgent fraternity mom.

"I dozed off maybe about six." I swiped my hand across
my chin to check for drool. Thankfully, it was dry, but it felt like
it was sporting steel bristles. "I need to clean up."

"Use the taxi chit to go to the flat. But before you go,
Trevor's secretary said you received a phone call. She didn't
want to disturb you. You might want to check with her
first."

I tried to tell Sabine about Trevor's receipt and charts.
She said she wouldn't have time to look at them today, but that
she would next Monday for sure.

The call was from Gavizon. He sounded sleepy.
"Cervantes left this afternoon on a flight to London, if you're
curious. Besides his role as enforcer, he apparently is also an
adviser to PDVSA. That's why he was with your people in
Paris."

"I already know that."

"So why are you paying me a bonus to tell you what
you already know?"

Good question. I'd meant to ask why was Cervantes an
adviser, but I hadn't said so. I made up for the oversight. "Is
Cervantes an oilman?"

"No, he's a thug with connections. I expect his portfolio
comes directly from President Maduro. He's probably calling
the shots in whatever the real PDVSA people are doing. It's a
nationalized company, so ultimately Maduro's in charge."

"Thanks, Jorge. The check is in the mail."

"Whoa, Mick. Don't you want his agenda?"

I'd slipped again. "Uh huh."

"He's meeting a Saudi. I'll fax his name and
incidentals. He's the only person anyone seems to know. He
has ties to the emirs, but he isn't one of them. There are also
ties to Aramco, but he is not an employee. I hope that's useful.
It might not sound like much, but I had to call in a personal
favor, a big one, to get it. I'd say I'd call back if I find out
anything else, but I don't think there's much more I can dig up.
My contact in Maduro's office was nervous about giving me
that. The Saudi will be traveling with two Venezuelans, I'll fax
their photos and names, too.
Buenas suerte
,
amigo
."

"Hey Jorge, don't you want to hear about your
bonus?"

"I was afraid you'd forgotten."

"Fifteen percent."

"
¡Que tacaño!
Make it
twenty."

No matter what I paid for Jorge's information, it would
be worth a lot more if I knew what it meant. I decided to make
another push for a bit of Sabine's time. I waited ten minutes
outside her office for her to get off the phone. When she did, I
asked if there was any way the firm could check on a Saudi
who might be connected with the study. It was a long shot, but
it might help find Trevor.

"We have an office in Dubai. I'll check there and with
Tel Aviv. They might know something. I'll call you if I hear from
them."

I went away regretting that I had bothered her.

Neither of my grandmothers ever let me leave them
without a hug and a kiss, which was probably the only thing of
real value that I ever learned from anyone. I wish I had
remembered that lesson when I said good-bye to Sabine.

I went back to the flat, showered, shaved and rested.
Later I brewed coffee and sliced up a baguette, cheese and a
pear. While I ate, I checked Trevor's charts again. The numbers
and symbols looked like equations, but they meant nothing to
me. They used symbols that I didn't know. A few letters could
have been constants, or variables or abbreviations. In any case,
I had no hope of figuring them out on my own.

The receipt for the money transfer didn't correspond
to any of the dates. The best prospect for figuring it out was a
notation on one entry: "Bizet's theory." I remembered a Bizet
from Trevor's notebook, and checked it again. Philippe Bizet
was listed, along with his address and phone number.

I stored the name in a mental file, and spent the
weekend thinking of what I would do if I had my former
company's resources. Each of those thoughts was a wedge
hammered into my self-esteem. I was just past sixty. Even so, I
was still strong as a boar and had harbored delusions of taking
on the world when I'd hung out my shingle: Mick Sanchez,
Globe-Trotting PI.

Cases like this weren't meant for a one-man shop. The
only case I'd ever handled for Global Risk single-handedly was
the work I'd done for Trevor. Even then, he'd had the answers.
All I supplied was proof. I'd planned to have a long
heart-to-heart talk with Sabine. We needed to reassess what I saw as
dwindling prospects for success.

Then came Monday.

When I got to her office, Sabine's secretary told me
that she had died at home Sunday afternoon, while her
husband was out. She didn't know the cause, but considering
the suddenness, she assumed it was a stroke or a heart
attack.

I've heard people say they can compartmentalize their
minds as though it were possible to seal away grief in a mental
cupboard for later nibbling, like snacks of poignant nostalgia.
It's never worked for me. Sabine's death bled throughout my
psyche and fed a rage that had no better target than myself.
She had expected me, and I'd missed our night together. If I'd
gone, maybe things would have been different.

It was an absurd sense of guilt, but one I couldn't
shake.

I looked for another target to rail against, but all I saw
was a spiritless void.

I wanted just to leave. There was nothing more for me
to do in Paris, but there was a complication with my temporary
employment at Winchell Associates. Loose ends like that could
strangle a man. Besides, my walking away might leave an
undeserved question mark on Sabine's career. I called
Alexandra. She said a partner from the London office was
coming in to take over the study. She would be spending the
morning with him, but would set aside time for me in the
afternoon.

I showed up at two o'clock.

When I asked for her, Alexandra was meeting with the
new partner in Sabine's office. I headed for the door, but she
stepped out before I got to it and shunted me into her own
office.

"Sabine's replacement is Ian Graham, from London.
He's been a partner about six years. He has been passed over
twice in elections for director. If he misses the next round, he'll
have to leave the firm. This is an up-or-out organization. The
study is probably his last chance to show he can produce an
extraordinary success that might get him elected to a
directorship. No one else would willingly step into a situation
like this."

She clasped her hands and pressed her thumbs
together as a crease worked its way across her forehead. "He
may seem harsh when you talk to him. He asked me what your
role was, but I said you should explain it. You can say what you
like, but he might not want to keep you on to find Trevor."

I smiled. I hadn't expected her to be concerned about
my welfare. "I'm leaving anyway. Trevor's why I came. Sabine
was why I stayed. The only reason I'm here now is to clarify
why Sabine brought me into this."

Alexandra looked relieved. "There's one other thing.
The managing director, Marcel Gatineau, also wants to hear
your story. I expect him to supervise the study, at least for a
while. Before we go in, I want to warn you again. They may
sound abusive."

If these people were that concerned about
harsh-language trauma, they must have lead sheltered lives. "No
problem," I said.

When we went in, Graham was standing straight as a
rod, feet close together. He'd just taken a memo from a
business analyst. He didn't give Alexandra or me a glance as he
read it. He looked at the analyst when he finished.

"You signed this 'I.G.' "

The analyst looked confused. "My name is Isaac
Goldberg."

"I don't mind your being Isaac Goldberg. You may not,
however, be I.G. I use those initials. Find another way to sign
your name, at least until either you or I are no longer employed
at this office."

The analyst's face flushed. He mumbled that he
understood. When he'd gone, Graham acknowledged my
presence." Mick Sanchez, why hasn't anyone I've contacted in
the Houston office heard of you?"

"I've never been there."

"But you seem to be employed there."

"The operative word in that sentence is 'seem'."

"Then I am quite curious to hear your story. As is Mr.
Gatineau."

Graham led the way to the boss's nook, while I nursed
strong doubt that I was doing Sabine's reputation any good by
coming here.

Gatineau's office was as richly decorated as Sabine's
had been spare. Paintings covered the walls. There was a
marble bust on a pedestal to the left of his desk. At first, I
couldn't tell why it seemed out of place among the classic
works. Then I realized that the figure's lapel was modern.
Another look at Gatineau and I realized the bust was of him. He
followed my eyes and glanced toward it. For a moment, I
thought he was going to ask me how I liked it, but why would
he care?

"How do you do, Mr. Sanchez," was all he said.

I shook his hand, soft flesh, firm grip. He was about five
feet five or six. Graham and both I stood half a head taller. He
had a modestly round physique and pudgy face, but there was
nothing soft in his manner or eyes.

We sat at a lacquered table with carved legs and inlay
on the surface. The chairs were embellished with hand
carvings.

Despite his diminutive stature, Gatineau exuded the
confidence of command, unlike the posturing Graham. I gave
them the whole story, or at least as much of it as I thought they
needed to know.