Alex wanted an investigation. She got one.
“Mintz. Hold up.”
Mintz stopped a foot shy of being clear of the room. “Hi, Bill.”
Bill Barnes was in his media best: blue suit, white shirt, red tie with the American flag prominently displayed. “Where you been?”
“Out running down some more info on Luc Lambert.”
“Who? Oh, Shepherd. That’s right. I forgot his real name for a second. Who you talk to?”
“The Agency.”
Barnes shook his head. “Take forever.”
“Had to try.”
“’Course you did.” Barnes tucked a file beneath his arm and took up position a bad breath away. “What’s Alex up to?”
“Guess she’s at home. Resting.”
“I’ve tried her phone a bunch of times. Keeps going to voice mail. She won’t answer my texts, either.”
“She’s probably sleeping.”
Barnes raised an eyebrow. “We talking about the same Alex?” He leaned closer, as if they were two buddies sharing a secret. “Come on, Mintz. You can tell me. What’s she doing? No way she’s at home sleeping. What’s that Alex is always saying? She’ll sleep when she’s dead?”
Mintz met his gaze and winced, hating to say what he was about to say. “Between you and me, she’s not doing so hot. Losing Malloy knocked the wind out of her sails. I think she needed a couple drinks.”
Barnes smiled cruelly. “Figures. She talks a good game with that crazy picture of Hoover and the battering ram on the floor, but in the end she’s still a woman. I knew she’d buckle.” He chuckled. “Maybe you should take her some chicken soup.”
“I’m sure she’ll be okay,” said Mintz. “Anything new here?”
“Got a lead on those AKs. Shipped originally to China, then exported to their great ally, Venezuela. No idea how they got here.” A call came in on Barnes’s phone. He gave Mintz a thumbs-up. “Good talking, Bar. Keep up the fine work. Don’t count on Langley. Bunch of hard-ons.” He began his conversation, then stopped abruptly. “If you do talk to Alex, tell her I phoned London. They’re checking up on those firms right away. Should have an answer by Friday. Monday latest.”
Mintz gave a thumbs-up in return and continued toward his desk, making sure to close the door to Alex’s office before he sat down so he wouldn’t have to work with J. Edgar Hoover’s damning gaze aimed at his shoulders. Barnes was right about the picture. It was weird.
The phone rang. It was Alex’s line. “Mintz speaking.”
“I’m looking for SSA Forza.”
“She’s not in right now. Can I help?”
“Am I speaking to Barry Mintz, tall, red-haired geek? Couldn’t get laid if he was starring in a porn movie?”
Mintz slumped. “That would be me.”
“It’s Neil Donovan. How the hell are you?”
Mintz bucked up. Donovan had run the Bureau’s organized crime unit out of 26 Federal Plaza as well as heading up the SWAT team before leaving a year ago. He was a bona fide stud and everything Mintz aspired to be. “I thought you retired.”
“Me? Never. I’m in Mexico now. Running intel ops down here. Dangerous as all get-out, but damned interesting all the same. You got a sec?”
“Sure thing.”
“I got a call I thought I should pass along to you guys. I already communicated with headquarters, but I wanted to get it into your hands stat. Might be something, might be nothing. Got a pen?”
“Shoot.”
“One of my contacts at Juárez Airport touched base last night. Said he had some interesting folks passing through passport control. About twenty or so men and women arriving from South America, all of them carrying brand-new Portuguese passports.”
“Portuguese? You’re sure?”
“Dead sure. Apparently they were young, fit, and a couple were real tough guys. Funny thing was that none of them were speaking Portuguese.”
“No? What, then?”
“English. But not American English. Foreigners’ English. Not only that, these guys were met at the gate by two big shots. One was a general in the Federales and the other some kind of spook from the DFS, the Mexican security service. Real scary types. Anyway, they were crowing about the group being a team of athletes.”
“Athletes,” repeated Mintz, writing down Donovan’s words verbatim. “From Portugal.”
“Small problem, though,” Donovan went on. “None of the passports had an entry visa for Venezuela or any kind of stamps. We’re talking virgin travel docs. My guy’s a smart guy. He takes notice and memorizes a couple of the passport numbers. I ran them through the Portuguese embassy down our way. Turns out the passports were stolen from the consulate in Macao a month ago.”
“Macao…near Hong Kong?”
“Former Portuguese colony, now a gambling mecca. That’s the one.”
Mintz read his notes, then asked, “Did your guy get an exact count on the number of passengers with these stolen passports?”
“Think so-let me check. Yeah, he did. Twenty-three.”
Mintz grabbed his inventory of equipment seized at Windermere. Halfway down the list was an item, “New York City Maps 18-24.” Scratch Luc Lambert. “Twenty-three. You sure on that?”
“Yeah.”
“And where exactly did they fly in from?”
“Air Mexicana Flight 388 from Caracas.”
Mintz underlined the name of the city. Then he wrote one word next to it: Venezuela.
60
One last shot.
Jack Steinmetz, owner of the Steinmetz Fund, with over $30 billion under management, billionaire ten times over, poster boy for Wall Street excess, lived in the famed San Remo Apartments on Central Park West. His place in the city was one of his smaller residences. Four floors and 15,000 square feet overlooking the park. The elevator opened. Steinmetz stood waiting, arms open, smile on his face. Sixty, trim, and tanned, he looked like everyone’s favorite uncle. Looks were deceiving. Jack Steinmetz, or Jack the Ripper, as he preferred to be called, was not a nice man, and he had four failed marriages, five kids in rehab or recovery, and six former business partners, all of whom were engaged in litigation against him, to prove it.
“Bobby, it’s been too long.”
“Jack, good to see you.”
Steinmetz drew him close for an embrace as if they were long-lost brothers. “Tough times. Sorry about the bad news.”
“It’s all right. My father and I weren’t close.”
“I wasn’t talking about your father. I meant your fund. Word on the street is that you’re going belly-up. Yeah, and about your father-just imagine I said all the usual things. Condolences, sorry, whatever. What the hell happened, anyway?”
“I know about as much as the next guy. The investigation is ongoing.”
“I’d thought you’d have a direct line to the scene, what with Alice being an agent.”
“Alex.”
“Whatever. She’s a good-looking piece, ain’t she? Wouldn’t have minded a little of that myself. You’re divorced, right? I’m not stepping on any toes. I’m getting a little sick of Miss Russia. Had to leave her up in Jackson Hole with Sumner and Larry. Give her a chance to find the next meal ticket.”
Astor ignored Steinmetz’s comments. He’d been the same loudmouth twenty years ago when Astor was starting out and Steinmetz was being feted in the press as “king of the LBO.”
“It’s not Alex’s show,” Astor said, nonplussed. “The Bureau’s serious about keeping things locked down.”
“TV says the car went berserk, like that thing Hasselhoff used to drive-”
“KITT.”
“That’s the one. Me, I think it was the driver. The Secret Service guy went postal.” Steinmetz laughed at his joke. “Well, it’s not all bad. Maybe we’ll get a Fed chair who knows what he’s doing. Charlie Hughes had his head so far up his ass he could tickle his tonsils. Always calling for higher capital requirements. The problem isn’t too much leverage, it’s not enough. I used to put down three billion and buy a company for thirty. Now I need to pump in eight or nine up front. I don’t have to tell you what that does for returns. Of course, I’m not hanging it out there in the wind like you.”