Yours was a passing remark. You speculated Rivers’s security came from having photographs of the grand and powerful. Which led me to wonder: what if, playing on the rabbi’s passion, our conspirator induced him to accept large donations, as anonymously as possible, to fund his vital and important work, on the understanding a significant portion would be returned secretly?”
“Money laundering!” Hamstein was beginning to enjoy it. Another quick cracking of a high-profile case. Good on the record.
“Precisely. The rabbi had a perfect end use—an organization in a very tricky part of the world, where records are sparse, and there’s a history of soaking up huge sums of money never to be seen again.”
Maggie was puzzled. “That would make it easy to arrange receiving the funds. But it wouldn’t conceal a kickback. That would require a local receiver …” She trailed off as she involuntarily turned to Zakaria.
Jackson crossed slowly to Zakaria. “And that man, or woman, would need a motive—other than money, because he had to be incredibly low profile.” He was now standing over the poor janitor, who trembled like a Colorado aspen. Jackson grabbed his arm, raised it so all could see the tattoo. “A very special mark. The mark Coptic Christians accept to profess their loyalty to their Church.” Before the janitor could object, Jackson continued sternly, “A Church suffering a genocide at the hands of Muslim extremists the length and breadth of Egypt. There is a desperate need for money to save those who wish to leave: bribes, visas, travel allowances.” He turned to the others. “Who, under those circumstances, would not be prone to helping what was presented as an innocent desire to spread peace?”
“I had no choice! I felt God had sent me the opportunity! Now …” Zakaria broke down in tears.
Jackson put a comforting hand on the weeping man’s shoulder. He turned to Pelachi and stared.
The Russian slammed his fist on the desk. “This is an outrage! I will have your job
Jackson looked at Hamstein. It was up to him now. He squirmed for a moment but then shook his head at Pelachi.
“Not for the moment, sir. I’d appreciate it if you could sit for a few more moments. Though I also think, this time, our colleague has jumped the shark.”
Pelachi, unsure of the meaning of that, slowly subsided into his seat. Quickly calm, he smiled graciously. “By all means continue. The story is fascinating—especially since I, of all people, have no need of another’s infrastructure. I could virtually rule the world if I wished.”
“Certainly that part of it which is for sale,” agreed Jackson. “But what of that which is not? Money derived from great secrets, vast sums, all feloniously obtained, all a threat even to our national security? Those proceeds would have to be hidden. Hence a foreign structure with which one arm of your empire had a slim, tangential connection? Your philanthropic arm, perhaps. Hence, the rabbi.”
If Pelachi was nervous, he now had it well concealed. “How fascinating. I’ll need to hear all your story before speaking with your superiors. So, please, do go on.”
“Thank you. Now, the problem was, once the rabbi was involved, he had, in Mr. Diamond’s imagery, photographs. Should his better angels reassert their grip on his spirit, or should he simply become frightened, the engineer of the plot would be threatened. Existentially. It would be his life—or Eliezar Burman’s.”
“I see,” cooed the Russian. “But you miss one thing: from where would such vast sums of money be derived?”
“Ah. At last we come to the elusive Mr. F. Edison. Except the code was not a name. It was a message: FED IS ON. Rivers was signaling his partner in crime that conditions were ripe to anticipate the Federal Reserve’s interest rate and skim millions—even billions—of dollars from the market in the hours before the actual announcement. I have no doubt when Mr. Hamstein’s FBI lab finishes with Gerry Rivers’s computer, they will discover he had developed a program to crack the Federal Reserve computers and read the announcement as soon as it was ready on the website—
Hamstein whistled under his breath. “Insider trading. Bigger even than anything Giuliani busted.”
Turner nodded. “And don’t forget the biggest money-laundering rap ever!”
Pelachi was finally betraying serious nervousness: nostrils flaring, ears back, jaw clenching.
The Sergeant-Major pressed the offensive home. “It had worked twice before. Dry runs. This was to be the killing. It would corner the market. All that was needed was for Rivers to find the posting code. Late in the evening, he found it. He was poised to read the announcement in time for sheer havoc. He sent the word to his master: Fed is on. That meant he would find the memo. But that master, Mr. Pelachi, would not know the contents until he read Rivers’s article online—the one in which he would give your always correct prediction. Except, my guess is, this time he’d make you incorrect so while others followed your advice, you could crash everything else. It’s also my guess it was why he was kept in his job despite obvious reasons for his dismissal. Easy to arrange when the company that owned the wire service that employed him was part of your impossibly complex empire.” Before Pelachi could object, Jackson explained, “A fact I discovered after a long afternoon scouring government records. My, but yours is an opaque empire. It almost eluded me.”
“Then why am I not on the phone this very minute placing orders?”
“Because neither you nor Rivers expected any man to put his conscience ahead of vast sums of money. When the good rabbi realized he could no longer aid and abet your crime, this particular caper had to be delayed until another infrastructure could be identified. In the meantime, the rabbi had to go. And you could trust no one else with the job. By the same token, you realized Rivers himself was a threat. And that all you needed was his program. No doubt you downloaded his files after snapping his neck. It was simply eliminating the middleman. Good business to your way of thinking.”
Pelachi was near the breaking point. “You go too far! You’re crossing the line of your own destruction!”
“Not once the FBI scours your computers.”
For the first time, Pelachi showed fear. Panic. He urgently appealed to the policemen. “Honestly! Do you really believe I would be prowling the streets late at night? That I would kill a man with my bare hands? I’m an old man!”
“Come, come. You know as well as I the means of murder used requires not strength but skill. Anyone trained—as you, I am quite sure, were—in the craft of the KGB could easily dispatch a man several times his strength.”
It was too much for Freyda. She loosed an involuntary yelp and broke down in wrenching sobs. Maggie immediately dashed to her, embracing her, offering comfort. Suddenly the mood changed from one of interest to something highly charged with great anxiety.
Pelachi leapt on it, challenged Hamstein.
“Look at this! This is an atrocity. Charge me or leave.” He turned to Jackson contemptuously. “You can prove none of this, sir!”
The Sergeant-Major waited for Freyda to calm, then replied crisply, “Yes. I suppose one might dismiss it all as pure speculative fantasy. But there is the matter of the eyewitness.”
Both policemen were startled. This was the first they had heard of it. Pelachi gulped. Hard. But he stayed on the offensive. “Ridiculous! You can produce no such eyewitness.”
“In fact, sir, I daresay he’s outside your door at this very instant.” Jackson nodded at Turner who, though puzzled, opened the door. And a familiar figure entered. The two officers were startled.
“P.K.! What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were legit nowadays!”
The confident P.K. of the prior evening was now carefully disguised with the scattered manner of a street person. “Oh, I am, Cap’n, Special Agent. Honest as the day is long. But there’s this girl, see, oh, such a delight, but you know how—”
“Get on with it, man!” Pelachi was red in the face.
“Well …” P.K. drawled on, feigning a slowness of wit that in no way deceived those who knew him but certainly had Pelachi’s attention. “… my girl lives down near that synagogue. I was going home about two in the morning. When I saw a man run from the synagogue. He was carrying a stuffed Hefty bag.” He looked directly at Pelachi. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”
“Insane! You’re all finished! Careers over! Now get out!”
But Jackson held his ground. “Are you sure, Mr. P.K.?”
“Certain. He’d stopped under a street lamp. I saw him plain, I did.”
