Shell Game (30 page)

“Can you see anything?” she called into the hole.

“A bit,” came the muffled reply. “There's some light filtering through the opening. I'm just waiting for my eyes to adjust.” A minute later, he continued. “It's a cave, about twenty feet deep by eight feet high. And it seems to go farther back into the mountainside. I'm going to have a look.”

There was a few minutes of silence. Then Kelly's head poked out of the hole, and he dragged the rest of his body through, careful to stay on the ledge. He pulled himself up on his feet and brushed the dust off his clothes.

“We've got a winner. The first chamber is pretty big, but in behind it is a smaller series of rooms. We could set up a few gold-painted artifacts in one of the narrow entrances to the smaller chambers, then cover the rocks with tarps, and it would look like the room was jammed with treasure. We just need to be sure Brand can't see too well when he's inside, and that Ricardo gets him in and out really fast. In to see the treasure, out to make the call to transfer the money to the Mexican official's account. I doubt if a satellite phone could get a dial tone that deep inside the rock, so he'll have to come back out. Once he's made the call, it's just a matter of getting Ricardo and his men out before Brand catches on.”

“If he goes back in after he's made the call, can we trap him somehow?”

“Maybe. If we had some sort of metal bar we could wedge into the ground and secure from this side, he would be stuck. We'll have to get Ricardo down here to see what he thinks.”

“Christ, Kelly, this is scary,” Taylor said, glancing about. The location was dangerous, set on the side of an unforgiving mountainside, and their prey was wary and intelligent. Timing would be tight, almost to the second. Kelly would have to intercept the phone call to Brand's bank, record the account number and the password, then make another call to the bank to transfer the remaining funds to their account. That transfer and account would have to be completely untraceable. The odds of pulling it off, even if they
were
to get Edward Brand to the cave entrance, were marginal. The degree of difficulty staggering.

“I think scary is a mild word,” Kelly said. “Insane might be a bit closer.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-THREE

Ricardo Allende was completely focused on his task. He needed two men he could trust to work the con with the Americans. He needed the con to work. He had not been entirely honest with Kelly and Taylor about his motivation. Dangerous was good, and he was looking forward to pulling off the con. But his real motivation was money. Pure and simple. He desperately needed money. His business was floundering, due to a steady flow of cash going to his bookie every Friday. He had made a few bad choices on the horses, then compounded that with a disastrous series of bets on a handful of Mexican soccer teams. The tab was at three hundred thousand American dollars and rising quickly as the interest accrued. The hole was deep and getting deeper.

Then divine providence had dropped Taylor Simons and Kelly Kramer in his lap. How or why, he had no idea. He had learned many years ago to trust the Lord when He chose to smile on His loyal subjects. Although Ricardo knew he wasn't the most loyal—he hadn't graced the inside of a cathedral for almost ten years—he felt he was still in God's good books. What else could explain two Americans showing up with a crazy scheme that might just work, right when he needed it.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Taylor and Kelly would be in Oaxaca by now. He was far from his usual stomping ground of Zona Rosa, in one of the many low-to middle-class districts that make up the congested maze of Mexico City. He crossed Héroes de Granaditas heading north and made two quick right turns, pulling up in front of a four-story colonial-style apartment building. He locked his car and skipped up the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the second door on the right. There were no markings on the door. A moment later there was the sound of the latch sliding back, and the door swung open. The man was expecting him.

“
Hola
, Ricardo,” he said. He was fair skinned, about fifty-five and clean cut. Reading glasses hung on a cord about his neck. His body and face were lean but not muscular, the mark of a man with either a high metabolism or a perpetual lack of pesos to buy fattening items at the local supermarket. His name was Adolfo and his metabolism was normal.

“Good morning, Adolfo,” Ricardo replied. He followed the older man into the apartment. It was small and very basic—a kitchen table with two chairs and a solitary couch facing an older RCA color television. The set was turned off, and the room was quiet except for the neighbors fighting next door. The woman's voice was shrill and carried through the wall like it didn't exist.

“They don't like each other much,” Adolfo said, sitting on the couch and pointing for his guest to follow suit. Adolfo's space was small, but it was clean.

Ricardo sat. “How are things? I haven't seen you for, what, a month or more?”

“Almost two months,” Adolfo said, crossing his legs and smoothing his dark pants. His clothes were as clean as his apartment and well pressed. “You didn't sound like this was a social visit when you called. What can I help you with?”

Ricardo cleared his throat. “This is going to sound a little off the wall, but I need you to help me relieve an American of some money.”

Adolfo grinned. “You always know how to make me smile.”

“Got any coffee?”

“Of course. Give me a minute to brew some.” He disappeared into the tiny kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two cups of freshly ground dark roast.

“Thanks,” Ricardo said. His friend made the best coffee in Mexico City. He sipped the liquid, the taste sweet on his tongue. “I've got a proposition for you. It might be dangerous, but it could also be very profitable.”

“I'm listening.”

“I'll skip the preamble, but the gist is that I've worked a deal with two Americans who want to take another
gringo
for a substantial amount of money. They're offering a modest amount just for trying, whether they get any money or not. But the payday goes up quite a bit if they're successful.”

“What sort of money are we talking about?” Adolfo said, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Ricardo.

Ricardo waved away the cigarette. “I quit.” He sipped the coffee and smiled. “Christ, you make excellent coffee.” Another sip, then, “Two thousand American dollars just to say yes. Fifty thousand dollars if they hit the mother lode.”

Adolfo's eyes grew considerably. “Fifty thousand?”

“Fifty thousand. Minimum. Could be more.”

Sweat beaded on his brow and he dabbed at it with a neatly pressed handkerchief. “What is it that I have to do?”

“I need someone to pose as a high-ranking government official. A man who wants money for turning his head when some artifacts go missing from the Monte Alban ruins near Oaxaca City.”

“That's it?”

“That's it, but it could be dangerous.”

“How dangerous?”

“The American they're trying to scam is a violent man. If he smells a rat, we could be in big trouble.”

“We? You're there as well.”

“I would think so, yes. My job is to get the
gringo
to Monte Alban to meet with you. Then you demand a certain amount of money for turning a blind eye. He pays you electronically by transferring the cash to an offshore account. You disappear. Quickly. Then so do I before he realizes what has happened.”

“And we keep the money.”

Ricardo nodded. No sense muddying the waters with the absolute truth. And if Adolfo knew that the half million dollars that was being wired was simply fodder, he may want to try and keep it. That would leave a trail back to him. Ultimately back to all of them. No, it was better if Adolfo thought the half million dollars was the goal. It kept things simple.

“When do you need me?”

“The Americans I'm working with are in Monte Alban now. I think they want to move quickly. Perhaps just into the new year.”

“For fifty thousand dollars, I can be very flexible.”

“Like a gymnast.”

“Yes,” Adolfo said, grinning. “More coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Ricardo leaned back into the couch and looked around the tiny room. There were a few pieces of bric-a-brac, none of it worth more than a few pesos. It was depressing. But what wasn't depressing was that he had the first of the two men he needed to work the con. And the most important. He had seen Adolfo in action many times over the years. The man was a natural liar. Not that that was a bad thing—there was just a time and a place for such things. This was an ideal time. None better.

He had one of the two, one more to go. The second man would be easy—the one to watch Edward Brand on his yacht in Puerto Vallarta. Things would come together quickly. He needed them to. Or he'd be facing his bookie with no money in his hands. A dangerous thing to do, especially in Mexico City.

Adolfo returned with fresh coffee, and they talked about the details. Ricardo watched his friend get more and more animated as they discussed what was involved, and he realized that although it was dangerous, it was possible. One thought ran through Ricardo's mind again and again as they talked.

Ten percent of fifty million.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FOUR

The thirteenth floor of 450 Golden Gate Avenue was quiet on Sunday morning, one day before Christmas. Only one man was in the San Francisco offices of the FBI, and he was hunched over a computer watching the results of his request to the Bureau's mainframe. A series of characters scrolled across the screen, and he smiled. Taylor Simons was still in Houston. In the last twenty-four hours she had used her credit card twice. Once at a women's boutique, the total damage just over three hundred dollars. There was a charge for eighty-seven dollars at Charley's 517, a popular Houston steak and seafood restaurant on Louisiana Street.

Brent Hawkins killed the screen and initiated another program. The logo for a Cayman Islands bank appeared. He clicked on Internet banking and input his account number and password, then held his breath as the system pulled up his balances. A slow smile spread across his face as he read the numbers. Edward Brand had finally deposited the eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars they had agreed on. Those funds brought his balance to just over one-point-five million. Not bad for a government employee. Then the image of Alicia Walker, dead in her bathtub, flashed through his mind. It wiped the smile from his face. He closed the link to the bank and signed off.

Outside the FBI offices, the December air coming off the bay was cold. He buttoned his coat against the chill and walked briskly to his car. Once he was out of the wind, he placed a call to Edward Brand's cell phone. It rang a few times, and then Brand's distinctive voice came over the line.

“Simons is still in Houston,” he said after they had exchanged hellos.

“Good. I don't trust that woman. Keep watching her.”

“That's not a problem.” There was a brief silence. “Thanks for sending the money.”

“You earned it,” Brand said.

Again, the image of Alicia Walker's bloated face, floating in her bathtub flashed through his mind. “Sure. I earned it.”

“Kelly Kramer, Taylor's friend in Washington. What's he up to?”

“No idea. I'm only watching her credit cards.”

“Maybe we should keep an eye on him as well.”

“I told you, Edward. That's dangerous. You mess with anyone tied in with the NSA or the CIA and you've got problems. These guys have resources you can only dream about. You start putting tracers on them or their lives, and they find out. And once they know you're watching them, they want to know why. Watching Kelly Kramer is a very bad idea.”

“Okay,” Brand said. “But I don't like that Taylor Simons is tied in with him.”

“He worked for her. That's it. They were friends. You met Kramer when you were setting Taylor up. You know what he's like. He's a geek. A numbers guy. Harmless.”

“Don't ever label people as harmless, Brent. Because that's how you get bit in the ass. No one who works for the NSA is harmless.”

“All right. I get what you're saying, but you've got to believe me when I tell you that spying on this guy in any manner is really bad business. We leave him alone unless we see him and Taylor linking up again.”

There was a total silence, and Brent Hawkins swallowed heavily as he realized he had just told Edward Brand what to do. That wasn't something that rested well with Brand. He was a man who made decisions, not took orders. He was wealthy and ruthless. Rich enough and crazy enough to give some faceless person a lump of money and a picture of an FBI agent in San Francisco who had stepped over the line. Hawkins thought seriously about retracting the last statement, but didn't. Brand hated weak people almost as much as he hated being told what to do. Dealing with Edward Brand was like walking down the center line on a busy highway.

“If you think leaving Kelly Kramer alone is the best thing to do, then that's what we'll do,” Brand finally said. His voice was curt.

“I do, Edward,” Hawkins said, perhaps just a bit too quickly.

“Don't lose track of Taylor Simons.”

“I won't.”

“Good-bye.”

The line died, and Brent Hawkins closed his cell phone. Jesus, how could he be so stupid? Pissing off Edward Brand was beyond dumb. It was suicidal. He started his car and pulled away from the curb. Home to no one. No wife, no kids, no life. Maybe he should retire, buy a little place down south, somewhere in the Caribbean. Live the quiet life. Walk to the local bar each day and sip Coronas in the shade, watching the waves come in and talking with the locals about nothing. Maybe. He'd give it some thought.