Ryan, who had come up with the ruse of misappropriated funds, had thought the banker might take this road, but McGee was way ahead of her.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Durkin,” McGee said, cocking an eyebrow as he removed another file, this time with DURKIN, PHILLIP written across the front of it. “Mr. Stevenson, how long have you been conducting transactions with Mr. Durkin?”
The banker was thrown off balance and was suddenly nervous again. “I don’t know. About six years?”
“Are you asking me, Mr. Stevenson,” McGee stated. “Or are you telling me?”
“I guess I’m telling you. That is to say, I am telling you.”
“During those six years, did you ever assist Mr. Durkin in setting up a personal offshore account for his own use in Grand Cayman?”
“No, of course not.”
“Zurich?”
“No.”
“Andorra?”
“I never did any private, personal banking for him.”
McGee ran his finger down an imaginary list in his Durkin file. “So no accounts then in Gibraltar, Grenada, Belize, or Vanuatu, either?”
“My God, he’s got that many personal accounts?”
“There’s a lot of money missing, Mr. Stevenson.”
The banker turned to Ryan and implored her. “Lydia, you have to trust me. Whatever money is missing, I had nothing to do with it. The Caring International account was drawn down and a new account was started.”
“New account for whom?” she asked.
“The same team. The only name I left off was yours.”
Bingo. “Did it ever occur to you that Durkin might not have been authorized to ask you to do that?”
Stevenson gaped at her. “Lydia, you guys came to me. I didn’t come to you. I manage a small community bank. One day a couple of CIA agents walk in, I think they’re here for a small business loan, and suddenly I’m being asked to serve my country all without leaving my office.” He paused for a moment. “My wife warned me something like this might happen. What have I gotten myself into?”
“Big trouble. That’s what,” McGee replied.
“Hold on,” Ryan said, intervening. “If what Erick is telling us is true, then the investigation should focus on Durkin.”
“It is true. It is,” the banker stated emphatically.
McGee looked skeptical and remained silent.
“What name is the new account under?” she asked.
Stevenson turned to his computer and brought it up. “They kept the same NGO structure, just changed the name to Hands of Peace International.”
“When did the account last receive funding?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Credit cards, wire transfers, it’s all feeding into that account?”
The banker punched a couple more keys. “Through a series of branch accounts, yes.”
Ryan looked at McGee. It was now time to give Stevenson a way out. “I think we know now how Durkin has been hiding the money,” she said.
“That doesn’t change Mr. Stevenson’s involvement,” he replied.
The banker started to protest, but Ryan held up her hand to quiet him. Turning to her partner, she said, “Bob, I think Erick has proven he’s willing to cooperate with us.”
McGee tapped the Durkin file against his thigh as he pretended to mull it over. “That might not be good enough.”
“Not be good enough?” Stevenson exclaimed. “What else do you want from me?”
“My biggest problem, Mr. Stevenson,” he responded, “is your safety.”
“My safety?”
“And your family’s.”
The banker’s eyes had gone wide again. “Why would we be in any danger?”
“Suffice it to say that since we began our investigation, banking in some parts of the world has become particularly dangerous. Especially if Phil Durkin is your client.”
“Oh my God. What am I supposed to do? What about my wife and my children? What if Durkin calls me? What do I tell him?”
“If Durkin calls you,” Ryan instructed, “just act natural. Handle whatever he asks for and that’s all. Be professional and be polite.”
“He’ll know I know something.”
“No, he won’t. Relax.”
“And my family? How are you going to protect us?”
“The only way we can help you,” said McGee, “is if you help us.”
The banker opened his arms. “I’ll give you anything you want. What is it?”
An hour later, they walked out of the bank with a cardboard banker’s box, which contained a paper trail a mile long.
“Now what?” McGee asked as they climbed into the Mustang and the first drops of rain began to fall on the windshield.
“Now that we know who’s putting the meat in the cage,” Ryan said as she put the key in the ignition and fired up the car, “it’s time to rattle it.”
Off in the distance, there was a low growl of thunder. It was matched by the throaty growl of the Mustang as Ryan pulled away from the curb and pointed the car back toward Fort Belvoir. She had already decided what they would do next. McGee was going to like it even less than he had her idea that they shelter in place at Brenda Durkin’s house. But as dangerous as this next step was, they had been left with no other option.
CHAPTER 34
BOSTON
MASSACHUSETTS
Patience had never been Harvath’s strong suit, but the SEALs had taught him well. He’d gone from a toe-tapping, I-want-it-all-to-happen-now immature kid, to a thoughtful, risk-assessing, mission-focused young man who could wait in the tiniest of hide sites or lie prone for days on end until the absolute right moment to hit his target. None of it was easy, and it often sucked, but he’d learned how to put the mission above himself and that had marked a watershed moment in his life. Never had he been prouder than when he had finally become a United States Navy SEAL.
On his first mission, it was immediately apparent why his SEAL instructors had been so incredibly hard on him and his teammates. When you were dropped far behind enemy lines and it seemed like one thing after another was going wrong and one piece of equipment after another was failing, you knew you would still accomplish your mission. Failure was not an option. And as the SEALs were famous for saying, the only easy day was yesterday.
At this point, there was nothing Harvath could do but wait. Cordero had submitted the wrist cuff to the Crime Lab Unit to have it fingerprinted and had asked them to get it done ASAP. They understood that Cordero was investigating a possible serial killer and promised they would get it done as quickly as they could.
In the meantime, patrol officers and FBI agents were canvassing and re-canvassing all of downtown, including the area around the Liberty Tree Building, Boston Common, and the Granary Burying Ground. Additional officers had been assigned to review all of the CCTV footage that they could get their hands on from the last forty-eight hours, including footage from the airport and train and bus stations.
Marcourt had been killed the same night she was taken. Based on her ears being removed, as well as those of Kelly Davis here in Boston, Harvath was certain it was the same person. He had to have gotten from Georgia to Boston somehow.
With Brittany’s description of the man who had assaulted her, as well as Agnes’s description of the man Kelly Davis had last been seen with, Harvath was hoping that they’d stumble across something—either on camera, or in the minds of people who might have seen him.
• • •
To their credit, the Boston PD and the FBI were keeping a lid on the details surrounding Penning’s murder, which Harvath was grateful for. Kelly Davis’s murder had been reported as a potential homicide of a young woman from South Boston. None of the details, other than her body being found in the Charles, had been released to the press.