Final Target (16 page)

T
hey only had eyes for each other,” Mickey told Gage when he slid into the Volvo outside Heathrow Airport after his Swiss Air flight from Geneva. “Two could’ve followed them right into their Guernsey hotel room and they wouldn’t have seen her.”

“How’d they spend the day?”

“They got themselves a room at the Old Government House Hotel in St. Peter Port,” Mickey said, “then met with a lawyer at LaFleur & Sedgwick. They finished the day with a late dinner on the waterfront. Two said the owner greeted Matson like a regular and kissed the lovely Alla like she was his own daughter.”

“Trust me. He doesn’t want a daughter like her.”

“Oh no.” Mickey’s head swung toward Gage. “Don’t ruin an old man’s fantasy.”

“Her pop is a crime boss working out of Budapest. She may have fingered my friend and the Fitzhughs.”

Mickey sighed. “So the beauty is a beast.”

“That’s all the more reason Two has to stick with them.”

“She’s gotten the best training the British Army can provide. She’s like a chameleon. If she can’t, no one can.”

Gage spent the next morning in his hotel room reading and responding to e-mail updates from investigators in his office, all the while grateful that he’d been able to recruit men and women with the judgment both to manage their own investigations and to understand how much Gage needed to know in order to manage the firm.

When Mickey arrived for lunch, he reported that Two had followed Matson and Alla from Guernsey to Lugano.

“And get this,” Mickey said, as he held up his forkful of Mediterranean chicken in the Park Lane Brasserie. “Alla was using a Panamanian passport. Two saw it, but couldn’t see the name.”

“Which means she could evaporate any time.”

Mickey nodded, then washed the chicken down with a sip of beer. “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

“Research two UK companies. Why don’t you finish up here and I’ll get the information my office sent.”

Mickey grinned. “And the papers you stole from Fitzhugh’s house?”

Gage looked over and winked. “Those, too.”

By 4:40
P
.
M
. the Companies House clerk was alternately glancing at the clock and at Gage. A few more minutes and she wouldn’t have to accept any more file requests, and could gather up her coat and purse in preparation for her escape from the fortresslike repository of the histories of the two million companies registered in the UK.

Preoccupied with the clock, she didn’t see Mickey sliding in just under the wire. “Thanks, darling,” he said, after she accepted the file request. He could see in her smile that she found him too cute to get annoyed at.

Mickey’s cell phone rang. He answered it, then walked over to where Gage sat before a monitor examining scanned corporate filings and financial statements. “Two has an update.”

Gage took the phone and stepped outside the building.

“I think I better break it off,” Two said. “I’ve been around them too long.”

“Where’d they go today?”

“They spent about a half hour at Banca Rober and about an hour at Barclays. Now it looks like they’re on the way to the airport. I’ll probably get burned if I follow them in. They had ‘good job, well done’ looks on their faces when they left the last meeting so they may be on their way back to London.”

At 8:30
P
.
M
., Gage received a call from Hixon One at Gatwick. “The lovebirds have landed.”

F
aith was waiting curbside when Gage walked out of the international terminal at San Francisco Airport the next afternoon, a few hours after Matson’s flight had landed. Gage gave her a kiss, then climbed in.

“How’s Jack?” Gage asked as they drove away.

Faith’s quick smile gave him most of the answer.

“The tube is out of his throat,” she said. “He’s alert but has a hard time talking. They moved him from SF Medical to UCSF this morning. He really wants to see you. Courtney was hoping you wouldn’t be too jet-lagged.”

“It’s not too bad. Knowing Jack came out of the coma made it easier to sleep on the plane.” Gage glanced at the dashboard clock. “Let’s stop by the office on the way.”

“That reminds me. Alex Z asked me to pass on a message. He said you’d be annoyed when you got it. A U.S. Attorney named Peterson called about Jack.”

Gage felt his fists clench. Burch was barely out of a coma and Peterson was already pouncing.

“Alex Z was right.”

“Who’s Peterson?”

“The guy who wants to put Jack in jail.”

“Jack ’n Jail.” She glanced over at Gage. “Is that a new game in the U.S. Attorney’s office?”

“Apparently.”

Faith handed over the number and Gage punched it into his cell phone as she eased her way around the cars stacked up along the curbs in front of the domestic airlines.

“This is Gage.”

“Graham.” Peterson’s tone was jocular. “I heard you’ve been in London.”

Gage didn’t rise to it. “Nothing new in that.”

“How about a little sit-down?”

“Depends on how you found out.”

“From Devlin in the Serious Fraud Office.”

“If you agree not to tell Matson, then we can meet.”

“No problem. How about my office at 10
A
.
M
. tomorrow?”

“How about mine? I don’t want anyone over there putting the same two-and-two together like I did.”

Gage disconnected.

“How come you didn’t ask him what he wanted to talk about?” Faith asked.

“Because I already know—and because he might’ve told me, and canceled the meeting. I want to see his face when he tries to scare me off. I need to figure out whether he has Matson in his pocket, or it’s the other way around.”

Faith merged into the freeway traffic heading north toward San Francisco.

“Sounds like you and Peterson know each other.”

“We do. He’s okay, just too ambitious for his own good. Always thinking about how cases will play in the
media. And this one would be big. Jack goes from road-rage victim to international crook. I can already hear the six o’clock lead:
In a stunning turn of events…
”

“You think you can get Jack out of this?”

“I don’t know. I’m still at the edges. The only thing that’s clear at the moment is that all the cops and crooks in the case have an interest in making Jack look guilty.”

“Can I see some ID?” the officer on duty asked Gage an hour later as he and Faith approached Burch’s room in the critical care unit at the University of California Hospital.

Gage extended his folding ID case.

“Graham Gage?” The officer smiled. “Spike’s friend?”

Gage nodded.

“He came by a little while ago. Talked to Burch.” His smile faded. “Sorry there hasn’t been much progress in the case.”

“You’re keeping him alive, that’s good enough. Thanks.”

Courtney hugged Faith and Gage, then used the push button control to raise Burch’s bed a few degrees. A myriad of plastic tributaries spread out from Burch’s bruised arms. He held a pillow against his chest to allow him to cough without exploding his still-healing sternum. An oxygen mask covered his nose. His lips were chapped.

Despite the devastation, Gage felt his heart lift as he leaned over the bed. “How are you doing, champ?”

Burch pulled the oxygen mask away from his nose. “Been…better.”

Courtney put it back, then pointed to the oxygen level on the monitor. “When it gets to ninety-five percent, they’ll take it off.”

“Too dry,” he said, squeaking out a smile. “Like dead…dingo’s…donger.”

“Now, Jack,” Courtney said, reddening.

Gage took his hand. “It’s okay, I’m not sure we qualify as polite company.”

Burch pointed at his breastbone. “Maybe…someday…we can…compare…bullet…wounds.”

“I was twenty-five years younger. It bounced off.”

Burch smiled, then coughed, gripping the pillow against his chest.

Gage patted Burch’s shoulder. “I think we better let you take it easy.”

“Wait.” Burch looked at Courtney. “The photos.”

“The lieutenant came by with photographs of possible suspects,” Courtney said, “but Jack didn’t see the man who shot him. Their heads were all too round or blockish. Jack thought the men in the photos all looked Russian.”

Burch nodded, then his eyelids lowered and he drifted off to sleep.

Courtney held her forefinger to her lips, then pointed toward the door. They followed her into the hallway.

“I’m not sure Jack got a good enough look at the man,” Courtney said. Her resigned tone told Gage that she had no hope Jack would ever be able to pick the shooter out of a lineup. “He just got a glimpse of a thin face and a gun in the man’s left hand. That’s all.” She peered up into Gage’s eyes. “The man who shot him will always be out there, won’t he?”

Gage reached his arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right if Jack can’t identify him. I’m going at it from another direction.”

P
eterson and Zink arrived ten minutes early for their meeting with Gage. He met them in his first floor conference room, bringing with him photos of Gravilov and the other gangsters who had met with Matson, the files he’d taken from Fitzhugh’s cottage, and records he’d collected at the Companies House in London—ready for a little show-and-tell.

“I don’t think you can get your friend Burch out of this one,” Peterson began. “He went too far.”

“Based on what?” Gage kept his voice flat. He wanted to provoke Peterson into laying out his case, not into an argument.

Peterson grinned, then settled back in his chair. “You show me yours and maybe I’ll show you mine.”

Gage crossed his forearms on the desk and fixed his eyes on Peterson. “All Burch did was act on a referral from a big name in venture capital. I looked at records in London. Granger and Fitzhugh dummied up an appraisal for a failing company in Dublin, then flipped it to SatTek for three million shares. That was Granger’s big payoff.”

Peterson glanced at Zink, who clenched his teeth. “I’m still working on it.”

Gage hit his punch line hard. “Fitzhugh was Granger’s guy, not Burch’s.”

Peterson sat forward “You got it wrong.” He nodded at Zink. “Show him.”

Zink lifted a briefcase from the floor. He pulled out a file and slid it toward Peterson.

“These are Burch’s phone records from two months
before
Matson went to see him for the first time,” Peterson said. “There are six calls from Burch to Fitzhugh. Every wheel has a hub and Burch was it. Fitzhugh was Burch’s guy.”

Peterson was on a roll. He couldn’t wait to show the rest of his.

“Burch put Fitzhugh in the middle of the fake product sales to Asia, then put him in the middle of the offshore stock sales—and there’s more on the domestic side.”

Gage threw up his hands. “You’re not claiming he brought in Kovalenko?”

Peterson slapped the desk. “Bingo.” He then flicked his head toward Zink, who slid over another file while smirking at Gage. Peterson withdrew the top page.

“These are the State of Nevada records for Kovalenko’s companies. Chuck Verona is the registered agent. Kovalenko even has his name on a couple.”

Peterson withdrew another sheet.

“These are all the companies Verona is the agent for. A bunch of them were set up by Burch. Like the one that owns Kovalenko’s car.” Peterson grinned. “For that one, Kovalenko is the president, secretary, and water boy. If that’s not enough, look at Burch’s phone records for September, last year. Right in the middle of the pump and
dump. There’s a call from Burch’s inside line to Kovalenko’s inside line at Northstead Securities.”

Peterson reached in again.

“This is Burch’s brokerage account statement. He bought a hundred thousand shares of SatTek at two bucks, then dumped it like all the other insiders at five. He cleared a cool, crooked three hundred grand—on top of his enormous legal fee.”

“Then how do you explain the hits on Burch and Fitzhugh?”

“Burch wasn’t a hit. It was road rage. While you were wasting your time in London, another jogger was shot in the Mission District. Same MO. As for Fitzhugh and his wife? The London police say they did a little work for Russian organized crime. Zink looked through Fitzhugh’s files. There was nothing to connect SatTek to any of Fitzhugh’s Russian clients.”

Gage started to reach for his folder to show Peterson the photos he took of the Russians Matson met with in London, then hesitated. He hadn’t heard the punch line yet.

“And Matson can tie the whole thing together. Trust me. He’s given us everything he’s got and he’s been going out and gathering up more every day.”

Gage thought back on Matson’s route
.
London. Guernsey. Lugano.
Maybe he was putting the financial pieces together for Peterson. Maybe he was still trying to snare Granger. In the end it didn’t make any difference. Matson was Peterson’s boy, and Peterson believed Matson’s every word.

“One thing you don’t have is motive—”

Peterson flashed a palm at Gage. “We don’t need motive. The facts speak for themselves.”

“You may not,” Gage said, “but juries want to hear it—and Burch didn’t need the money.”

“Needing and wanting are two different things.”

“He gives away three times your salary to charity every year. He handles the money for a dozen international relief organizations—never a hint that he skimmed a dime.”

“Big fucking deal. What he does for charity is a sentencing issue. Maybe it’ll buy him a downward departure. Get him down to twenty-eight years instead of thirty.” Peterson jabbed a forefinger at Gage. “We both know why these do-gooders want to use him. It’s because he knows how to move money so corrupt governments can’t get ahold of it. We call it money laundering for a good cause. That’s why we look the other way.” Peterson smirked. “You think we don’t suspect what you two did in Afghanistan? Is there a federal crime you guys didn’t commit setting that up?”

A nightmare came to life in Gage’s mind: Burch being arrested in the critical care unit and Spike’s uniformed cop being replaced by a U.S. Marshal. Peterson had everything he needed: a paper trail, a money trail, and Matson to tell the story—and Gage hadn’t seen it coming. He didn’t look over, but he felt Zink grinning like a teenage punk who didn’t have a clue what was friendship, or grief, or tragedy. He clenched his jaws and kept his face expressionless. He wasn’t going to give Peterson the satisfaction.

“When will you indict him?”

“As soon as we can roll him into court. From what I hear he’s making good progress.” Peterson paused. Gage saw in his eyes that, at least for a moment, he grasped
what this meant to Gage. But the moment passed. “Sorry, man, you can’t win ’em all.”

Gage returned to his office after escorting Peterson and Zink to the lobby, each step accompanied by the anguish that Faith had been right: Burch’s rage against Courtney’s cancer had indeed expressed itself as greed.

But then two poem fragments spoke to him as he settled into his chair and gazed out toward the bay:
I was much too far out all my life…not waving but drowning.
And he wondered whether that had been Jack Burch from the beginning. Maybe that was why the memory of their first meeting came to him in the emergency room hallway the morning Burch was shot.

Maybe it wasn’t greed after all, but simply self-destructive recklessness.

Gage took in a breath, feeling the same unease that had troubled him along the Smith River twenty-five years earlier. He remembered watching a young fisherman walk past him into a cliffside café overlooking the river, his gait and earnest face announcing that his mind was too much on the water, his arms and back already feeling the tension of the fly line tight in the guides of a bowed rod.

“Watch out for the Oregon Hole,” Gage had warned him and pointed at three off-kilter crosses jammed into lava rocks atop the canyon wall. “Those rapids will beat you to death.”

Burch had glanced back over his shoulder, grinned, and answered without breaking stride, “Thanks, mate. I’ll take care.”

At midday, another moment of unease. Gage looking down from the cliff, catching sight of a slight shift
ing of Burch’s shoulders and hips as he dug his wading boots into the sandy river bottom. Then again, at sunset, with long shadows falling across the river. Gage slowing as he drove across the suspension bridge and glanced down into the gorge, wondering where was the fisherman whose mind had been too much on the river—and catching sight of flailing arms and a fly rod whipping the air.

Maybe that was it all along, Gage thought, turning away from the window and sitting up in his chair. Maybe that had always been Burch: not waving, but drowning.

Gage folded his hands on his desk, his duty—to Jack, to Courtney, and to himself—now framed both by memory and by the fear that instead of asking what and who and how, he should’ve been asking why.