The Black List (22 page)

They waited for her to explain.

“That was Lou. Apparently my clearance to talk to you comes straight from the director.”

Tex asked, “Anything else you need before you tell us what’s going on?”

“A tall beer might do it.”

“About a year
ago,” Eve began, “a cache of weapons and U.S. currency was found in a remote village in Africa by some CIA agents who were following up on some intel about gun runners,” which explained the photo of her and the gun dealers, Tex thought. “The money was being used to pay bribes to various officials to move certain individuals to the front of the refugee resettlement line. Because of the large amount of currency involved, they brought in the Secret Service to assist in the operation and to help with the documenting of serial numbers from the currency, which is when they found a couple bills with a ‘Where’s George?’ stamp. Out of curiosity, they checked.”

“ ‘Where’s George?’ ” Tex asked.

“It’s an educational Web site someone built that allows you to track the travels of paper money, as long as people are willing to enter the serial number and the location, then stamp it with the Where’s George? Web site address. From there it’s hit and miss that a bill will get located and tracked, more novelty than accurate reflection. Unless you get lucky. And in this case, we did. The bills in question came from an elementary school class that had collected pennies, converted it to paper currency, stamped it with Where’s George? as part of their school project, then proudly donated the money to the different charities they’d picked at random from various Web sites. Two of those bills ended up in that weapons cache in Africa.”

Tex thought about the odds. “Unusual, sure, but it could happen they’d end up together if donated together.”

“You’re right. Except that these kids only had one hundred dollars, and their donation consisted of a
single
ten-dollar bill to each separate charity. Ten charities. Ten bills. And two of them end up together in another country? That raises the odds considerably, don’t you think?”

“I see your point,” Donovan said. “So how did you make the connection to the charities?”

“Both charities are involved in the refugee resettlement program in some way. We couldn’t find anything on the other eight.”

“Are the charities real?” Tex asked.

“I think that depends on what you would consider an overhead cost,” Eve told them. “When all is said and done, they’re not charities, they’re contractors. The U.S. essentially pays them an exorbitant fee to bring the refugees in, with what seems like little regard for what is actually being done with the money. If we’re counting that they’re supposed to be nonprofit but making an exorbitant profit, then no, they’re not real charities. If you factor in that they’re doing what we pay them to do, bring in refugees, then yes, they’re real. We—or rather, the CIA and Secret Service—were less concerned with their overhead and more concerned with the how and why of the weapons and U.S. currency being found together, and what it was being used for. In other words, what was the end game?”

“And did you find that out?”

“We’re talking a mixed bag. The Do Gooders, who believe wholeheartedly in the refugee program, and the piranhas and scavengers who have discovered exactly how profitable it really is. And since many of the refugees come from one of the black-list countries, which have no agreements to turn over bank records to ensure the money isn’t being used for terrorism or criminal enterprises, where better to launder your ill-gotten funds?”

“A win-win for A
.
D
.
E.,” Tex said.

“The thing is, we believe Vince—”

“Vince?” Donovan asked.

“An A
.
D
.
E. employee who recently was killed in a car accident, coincidentally or not, right after this book of his and Marty’s came to light. He allegedly knew some of their funds were being diverted and were directly used to allow war criminals in through the refugee program. If that information got out, A
.
D
.
E. would be finished. No more Micah, no more profit.”

Tex could well imagine. “Hence the hunt for the book.”

“Exactly. But if the CIA found it first, we could find the link to at least
one
conduit that’s allowing the criminals into the country. There’s a list in there showing where they’re coming from. At least we think so.”

“So the CIA sent you after Micah and his Sticks to Bricks campaign?”

“Yes. We’d been tailing someone associated with the weapons cache and noticed his appearance at two of Micah’s documentary showings. A couple of eavesdropped phone conversations confirmed they were trying to negotiate an offer for their accounting firm to assist him with his charity. So we came up with the cover of my being a college student looking to volunteer to be Micah’s assistant free of charge as part of my marketing thesis, and began fielding the calls between him and A
.
D
.
E. in short order. It worked, since the A
.
D
.
E. contact—a man named Willis—was trying to convince Micah to work with them, and took me—the alleged college student—as an easier, more naive mark.”

“A mark for what?” Donovan inquired.

“To not see how they were manipulating Micah and funneling the money he brought in.”

“So how,” Tex asked, “did you get in bed with A
.
D
.
E.?”

She narrowed her eyes at his choice of words. “Maybe because they discovered that my Eve Sanders identity has some relatives back in the U.S. who have less than stellar reputations, which they tried to hold over my head as a way of controlling me and thereby controlling Micah. I’m sure they never expected an impromptu visit from a couple of my
uncles,
who told them exactly what would happen if they harmed a hair on my head, but it had the desired effect and then some. They let me handle all matters with Micah, then started to include me in the business end.”

“So you’re in the perfect position.”

“Too perfect. Micah’s documentary film took off and they’re raking in millions. My job now has become almost laughable, since my main goal in A
.
D
.
E.’s eyes as well as the CIA’s eyes is to keep Micah happy and producing, while A
.
D
.
E. rakes it in and CIA follows the money. I am, for all intents and purposes, an executive assistant.”

“Where would they be without you?”

“I’m not sure, but I have to wonder how many people have actually died
because
of me. And I’m helpless to stop it.”

“It can’t be your fault.”

She gave a cynical laugh. “You’ve never been so wrong. I have to live with the guilt for the rest of my life, knowing that if I hadn’t infiltrated A
.
D
.
E., found someone who was willing to look into a few things and document it for me, he’d still be alive.”

“Dorian?”

“Vince. Here in London. A solo car accident that I’m sure was staged. He’s the one who told me he was certain it was going on with a multitude of other charities, not only in the London office but the U.S. office where the charities are based. But he also said there was no way anyone at A
.
D
.
E. would ever be able to get out with the information. They’re very strict. Women carry clear plastic purses, and the few men who do have briefcases have to submit to having them searched. They deal in a lot of cash, so they justify the over-the-top security to make sure cash isn’t being smuggled out. If he was to document it, he’d have to find a way to do it so that he could smuggle it in and out without anyone knowing.”

“The book?” Tex asked.

“The book. Vince managed to put the evidence in a book. Which, as you’ve probably guessed, is why I was so frantic when I thought you were burning it.”

“And you don’t know what it says?”

“Only the vague bits I’ve told you, and I don’t even know that for certain. The morning Marty was killed, the way he held on to the briefcase, I would have sworn the book was in there. It wasn’t.”

“He mentioned something about a Kipling novel right before he died. He did not, however, say where it was.”

She eyed the charred remains of the book in the trash can. “We need to find it before Trip does. It’s bad enough that he’ll probably resort to his old ways and try to extort money from Barclay. But it may very well tell us the route used to smuggle Yusuf out of Africa and into the U.S.”

36

“How’s Sheila?” Sydney asked
when Carillo called her at Griffin’s office that afternoon.

“Buying a guide book as we speak. I can’t believe I let her talk me into staying.”

“Maybe it’ll be good for you. Relax a few days.”

“I did mention that Sheila’s with me, right?”

“Oh for God’s sake. Play tourist for a couple days. When’s the last time you’ve done that?”

“Never. How’s it going there?”

Sydney informed him about the command from the top to stop the investigation into the Redfern Group’s involvement with the refugees.

“If nothing else, it tells me you’re on the right track.”

“It’d be nice if I knew which direction that track was going.”

“Ask Scotty.”

“There’s got to be an easier way.”

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but your ex isn’t known as Mr. Fast-track-to-the-top for nothing.”

She sighed.

Carillo laughed. “What you need to do is find him another girl.”

“You know any?”

“I’ll check my little black book. Oh. Wait. Sheila burned it when we got married.”

“Like you ever had one.”

“Call him. If he doesn’t have the answer, he’ll know someone who does.”

Even Griffin thought the idea held merit when she ran it by him.

Telephoning her ex-fiancé was not something she looked forward to. Scott Ryan was a nice enough guy who, unfortunately, seemed to think that any call from her was a sign that there was a chance for them to repair their relationship. He didn’t seem to understand that they had grown worlds apart since those academy days when they first met. Whereas Sydney had no problem working out of the basement of Quantico, or even in some small field office away from the pomp and circumstance of the capital, Scotty thrived on it. He kept abreast of the political scene, knew every major politician on sight, whether he’d met the person or not, and if there was a function that could be attended involving said politicians, and a need for the FBI to be there, Scotty cleared his calendar.

She knew that Carillo was right, though. Scotty could at least point her in the right direction, so she called him.

“Sydney? How are you?”

“Great. Thanks.”

“I heard you’re going to be off for a couple weeks? Are you okay?”

Typical Scotty, knowing her schedule almost before she did. “I’m fine. But since I’ve got all this time, I thought maybe we could have drinks, catch up a bit? I was thinking of that grill we used to go to before I moved to San Francisco. On K Street.”

“Sure.”

“Say around five?”

“I’ll see you there.”

She hung up the phone. “This is not going to work out well.”

“He’s a big boy,” Griffin said, walking into the office just then.

“Every time I think he’s ready to move on, I find myself calling him to get something I need for a case. I’m starting to feel guilty.”

“It’s called networking.”

“I’ll tell myself that next time he calls asking me out again.”

“Or just tell him no. Then again, maybe it’s not Scotty who has the problem. Maybe you’re sending the wrong signals.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then stopped to wonder if she could really be guilty of that and not know it. “Definitely not. I think Carillo’s right. I’ve got to find him someone.” She looked at her watch. “So what are your plans for the night?”

“I’ve got a date with a pretty girl,” Griffin said. “Why?”

“We’re still on?”

“You’re not getting out of it that easy, even if you are going out with your ex first.”

Sydney made her
way through the crowded bar, figuring Scotty would be somewhere he could look out, see who was coming in. He had always enjoyed the grill, due to the chance of seeing and being seen by those on the same fast track. There were plenty of political aides and Washington insiders who came there to unwind after a long day at the office, and Scotty knew how to move about a room to take advantage of it. He was handsome, personable, knowledgeable, and most importantly—in this circle—knew exactly what people wanted to hear.

As usual, it was crowded at this hour, and it was no surprise to Sydney that Scotty was already present when she arrived. She did not, however, approach, since he was deep in conversation with someone at the bar. Animated conversation. From past experience—and yet another example of why any relationship they’d had was doomed—he wasn’t likely to notice her presence anytime soon.

She scanned the room, then saw Griffin at the other end of the bar. He turned, saw her, nodded. She walked over and he handed her a glass of red wine. “Hope I’m not being presumptuous. I recall you’re not a white wine sort of person.” He eyed Scotty, shaking hands with another man who walked up. “I should probably start making the rounds, see if I’m as good at networking as your ex.”

She sipped the wine, pleased when she tasted cabernet, full-bodied and smooth against her tongue, with a slight pepper finish. She watched Scotty, saying, “Don’t know about you, but I could never get used to this scene.”

They heard a feminine laugh, then, “It’s a love-hate thing.”

Griffin and Sydney turned to see who had spoken. The woman stood about two inches shorter than Sydney, early twenties, blond hair, sparkling blue eyes. She held up a glass of white wine as a greeting, saying, “Sometimes I can’t imagine working anywhere else, and sometimes I can’t wait to get out of here.”

Sydney empathized completely. “So are you a lobbyist? Politician?”

“Law student, actually.”