"You actually trust it to someone else?"
"Of course. To a bank, in fact."
"A bank?"
"There is no other way," Alena answered. "Suppose I require a rental car, or a hotel room. I would need a credit card, one that is not only legitimate but also matches the identity I am using. A trustworthy banker can supply all of that."
"How does that work?"
"The majority of my money is in a trust with a safe and very private bank, and there is a man who handles the accounts for me. That man receives instructions from me to do certain things."
"Like?"
"If I need a credit card, I tell him to authorize an account payable from my trust in the name I require. If I am renting a storage unit in, say, Queens, he is told to write a check to the firm on the first of every month until ordered otherwise. Like that."
"So this person theoretically knows who you are, he could be used to find you."
"He knows the identity of the holder of the trust," she replied. "He has only met that woman on two occasions. He is well paid, Agent Fowler, extremely discreet, and he has ascertained enough about how I make my living to remain careful."
He stopped focusing on his notepad for a moment to look at her. "You threatened him?"
"I never have needed to."
I spoke up. "Does Oxford use the same procedure? A banker and a trust, like that?"
"Not the same, but almost certainly similar."
"How much money do you think he has?" I asked.
She considered, adjusting her weight slightly and frowning down at her left leg. "Probably more than I do. I'd guess – and this is only a guess – in excess of twenty million dollars."
"How often do you think he contacts his banker?"
"Fairly frequently. Certainly he makes contact whenever a payment is expected, in order to confirm delivery."
"Do the people who have hired him, do they know who the banker is?" Scott asked.
"No. They would be asked to transfer the money to dummy accounts and the like. The banker then handles the rest."
"So the contractor or contractors can't contact Oxford through the banker?"
"No, though whoever has hired him, they must have a way to contact him, and vice versa. In most instances this would give him power over them, but not here – if he is tied to a government agency, working with someone in Langley, say, then he is their employee, beholden to the organization."
"Is there a direct line of contact?" Scott asked.
"I'm not certain I understand your question."
He adjusted his glasses, trying to find a way to rephrase. "Say someone at the CIA decided to bring Oxford in, to use him for this job, to kill you and Atticus and Havel. Is that person the same one who actually made contact with Oxford, negotiated the deal, things like that?"
She started shaking her head. "No, no, that would not happen. In a private contract, yes, A hires me to kill C, and either A hires me directly, or A uses a contact, B, and B hires me. But that can be traced back. With a government job one thing is universal – there is always insulation. The person or persons who gave Oxford the job, who have set up the accounts with which to pay him, they will not be the same people who decided to hire Oxford in the first place."
"So how do you find the source, where it started?"
"You don't. You can't."
Scott looked over to me, then to Natalie, then back to Alena. "I can't accept that."
"Agent Fowler, that has nothing to do with anything," Alena said. "We are not talking about a hiring that started with an individual. We are talking about a decision of policy. Oxford will be funded until he completes the job. Or until he becomes more of a liability than an asset to the people who wish to use him."
"And he becomes a liability when?"
She smiled. "When he allows a book to be written about him."
It got laughs from both Scott and Natalie, and it made her smile a little brighter.
"Is that the only way?" Scott asked.
"There are others. If Oxford were to begin blowing up buildings in Manhattan, if he began killing people without due caution, if his behavior became erratic, the contracting party would have to sever the relationship. Anything that would cause them embarrassment, that would do it, if used properly. The information I have given you will have the same effect."
Scott scribbled quickly on his pad, then looked at me. "How embarrassing would it be if you paid a visit to Gracey and Bowles?"
"Depends how we did it," I said. "If I contact them and ask for a meeting, they're likely to say sure, how about someplace dark and deserted at four in the morning, and why don't you bring that lovely lady friend of yours. And then they'd tell Oxford where to expect me."
"But if I contact them, ask to meet, and you arrive with me?"
"That'll give them pause."
"And then we tell them that we know about, say, the prime minister of Moldova, or a certain military officer in Africa."
Alena coughed softly. "That is precisely what you should do."
"The result being they'd leave you two alone?" Scott asked.
"Ideally."
"Is that likely?"
"They will stop. Whether or not Oxford will, too, that is another matter entirely. Either way, it would force an action."
"What kind of action?" Natalie asked.
"They might cancel the contract, call him off altogether. They might put the operation on hold, although that seems less likely. They might attempt to buy Atticus off, bring him into the fold, encourage him to sell me out. There are any number of choices."
"I won't sell," I said.
She looked at her crutches propped against the table. "I know."
When Scott's cup had been emptied for the seventh time, I refilled it from the pot and then set another to brew. The smell of the coffee was strong, just a little burnt, and I was surprised that I didn't want any. Alena and Scott were still talking, and I was feeling stiff after all the sitting, so I headed down the hall to the foot of the stairs, where I used the banister as a makeshift barre and did some stretching. Natalie came and shut the door from the kitchen, leaned against the wall, watching me. She tried to stifle a yawn.
"You can go to sleep," I told her.
"Not quite yet." She rubbed her eyes. "What is that, ballet?"
"Yeah."
"She taught you ballet?"
"No, that would have taken eight or nine years."
"Russian school," she noted.
"Well, obviously."
"I took lessons when I was a kid." Natalie moved from the wall around to the stairs, sat down on the third step, still watching me. I went through a couple more motions, trying to get loose. The ballet wasn't as effective as yoga, but it helped. "Bridgett said you'd gone diesel. I didn't believe it until I saw you."
"Is diesel a bad thing?"
"Hell, no." She tapped my hand where it rested on the banister, getting me to look at her. "So, are you going to tell me what's going on between you two?"
"Me and Bridgett?"
"I've got the you-and-Bridgett part figured pretty well. The defining moment was when she blew into my office and called you a brainwashed fool and a fuckin' son of a bitch, to boot."
"She'll divorce you, too, she finds out you're helping me."
"Maybe so, but she's probably more inclined to cut me slack."
"Meaning she'd call you a fool and omit the brainwashed part."
"That's my thinking. So talk to me about you and Alena."
I stopped stretching. "It's kind of like working with you, actually."
"I think I'm flattered." She cocked her head. "Is that all?"
I sighed. "Why is it that everyone thinks I'm sleeping with her?"
"I'm not sure everyone does. I don't. I didn't. But if I had, it would be because you're a heterosexual male who has never showed an aversion to sex, and who spent a large amount of time with a not-unattractive woman who conceivably held a position of great power over you. And because it's not beyond the realm of possibility. And because I have a dirty mind."