Daniel moved his hand quickly under his jacket, reaching for the gun that he carried for just such moments. But Rosa thrust her hand roughly after his, momentarily deflecting his grasp and minimizing any possibility that he might defend himself.
At the same time, the newcomer, quickly and professionally, reached across the table with a small snub-nosed handgun. He pressed it right to Daniel’s chest and he pulled the trigger.
The gun erupted with an ear-splitting bang. It was barely audible above the noise of the restaurant, though diners at some tables started to look around.
Daniel’s face showed shock, then outrage. Then all that dissolved with accelerating pain. The bullet had smashed the sternum at the midpoint of his chest. The gunman followed his advantage with a second shot. Another powerful bang. He squeezed that one off so quickly and accurately that it passed directly through Daniel’s heart.
The woman braced his body and steadied it so that Daniel didn’t tumble. Instead, with a helpful little push, Daniel slid forward, his body slumping onto the table as if he were drunk.
The gunman pocketed his weapon and rose to his feet. Rosa did the same. They used their hands to shield their faces and moved quickly to the door. Only as they were going through it did they start to hear a commotion behind them. Loud agitated conversation built into shouting.
Several seconds later young Irène came to the table to see what was wrong.
She saw the shattered brandy glass under Daniel’s lifeless head. She saw his unfocused eyes and his blood mixing with the cognac on the table.
Her hands flew to her face and she started to scream. The evening manager, a fit young man named Gerard, rushed over. But by this time, Daniel’s two acquaintances had disappeared into the dark side streets and alleys.
They were gone into the icy night, leaving their victim behind.
TWO
As the same cold midwinter gripped the eastern United States, Alexandra LaDuca sat at her desk in Washington DC, at a few minutes past nine in the morning. Her desk, and her job, was at the main building of the United States Department of the Treasury on Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street.
She pondered the fraudulent document before her, received via the US mail by a citizen who had brought a complaint to the Treasury Department. It was not that Alex hadn’t seen thousands of similar pitches, and it was not that she hadn’t heard sob stories from people who had been similarly swindled. And it wasn’t that such chicanery so violated her sense of decency and fair play.
No, what bothered her most was that anyone would be so venal as to make a living through such outright crookery… and that any victim would be gullible enough to fall for it. The correspondence was on a fancy letterhead:
FOREIGN REMITTANCE DEPARTMENT
CENTRAL CREDIT BANK OF NIGERIA
TINUBU SQUARE, VICTORIA ISLAND
LAGOS, NIGERIA
There was the first duet of lies. There existed nowhere on the planet, Alex knew, any such department or any such bank. She sometimes wondered if Lagos existed, other than in her own bad dreams. But she knew Lagos did exist because she had spent a couple of weeks there a year earlier investigating a similar fraud. The only success of the previous trip had been in what hadn’t happened. She had successfully avoided getting killed.
The scam continued:
Dear Sir/Madam,
IMMEDIATE CONTRACT PAYMENT CONTRACT #: MAV/NNPC/FGN/ MIN/009 / NEXT OF KIN FUND/ US$16.3M
From the records of outstanding Next of Kin Fund due for payment with the Federal Government of Nigeria, your name was discovered on the list of the outstanding payments who have not yet received their funds.
We wish to inform you that your payment is being processed. We will release said funds to you immediately as soon as you respond to this letter. Also note that from records in my file your outstanding payment is US$16,300,000. Kindly reconfirm to me the followings:
Your full name.
Phone, fax and mobile number…
Yeah, sure. Sixteen million bucks in an offer as phony as a unicorn with a three dollar bill on its nose. She simmered. She had seen enough of these to last a lifetime.
Alex LaDuca, at age twenty-nine, worked as a senior investigator with a little-publicized agency of the US Treasury: the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, or FinCen. The agency enforced laws against domestic and international financial crimes that targeted US citizens and corporations. She was actually a special agent of the FBI but on loan to FinCen to combat international financial fraud.
Her boss was a stocky little man named Mike Gamburian from Boston. His office featured a mural of a triumphant Fenway Park in October of 2004, a moment when the Red Sox finally won something. The New York employees who worked for him, in grudging good humor, claimed the mural created “a hostile work environment.” Aside from that, Gamburian was a genial fellow and not unpleasant to work for.
Alex was one of FinCen’s shrewdest investigators, as well as one of the toughest. She was also the youngest to have “senior” status. And she didn’t lack for assignments. With the proliferation of the Internet, fraud had gone global and high tech. Financial fraud was a growth industry.
The shameless scam continued…
As soon as this information is received, your payment will be made to you in A Certified Bank Draft or wired to your nominated bank account directly from Central Bank of Nigeria.
You can mail me on my direct email address…
Yeah, Alex thought, shaking her head. Don’t even try to phone because a phone call can be traced. She skipped ahead. It was signed,
Regards,
Dr. Samuel Ifraim
Executive Governor,
Central Credit Bank of Nigeria
(CCBN)
Right. Sure. A fake name with a fake doctorate. And the “CC” in the CCBN might just as easily stand for Crooks and Criminals.
The scam was known at FinCen as a 419, named after a widely unenforced section of the Nigerian criminal code. Millions of these stinky little con jobs circulated across the globe each year, most emanating from West Africa.
They were all the same. They claimed that due to certain circumstances-disbursement of will proceeds, sale of a business, sale of cheap crude oil, a winning email address in an Internet lottery, or something similarly unlikely-a bank needed help to transfer this money to the lucky recipient’s account in the United States. If the recipient assisted them he or she would be entitled to a percentage of the funds.
If contacted, the scam artists would request thousands of dollars for various costs that were required before the lucky winner got the share of the funds. Of course, the victim’s payment went through but-surprise-the transfer of riches never happened.
The scam was as widespread as it was shameless. In 2002 the US Department of Justice had gained a court order to open all mail from Nigeria passing through JFK airport in New York. Around seventy-five percent had involved scam offers. Much of it even bore counterfeit postage.
And then there had been her nightmarish trip to Lagos the previous year. A mission from the United States Treasury had sought to present evidence that much of the swindling was being done with the apparent complicity of the Nigerian government.
The hosts in Lagos didn’t take well to that theory. While the Americans were meeting with representatives of the government, their hotel rooms were sacked and trashed. Their clothes were taken, their suitcases slashed, and death threats scrawled on the walls. Of five staff cars used by Treasury representatives and belonging to the US Embassy, three were stolen and one was chopped apart with a chain saw while their meeting was in progress. A fifth blew up, killing their Nigerian chauffeur.