came across, turning the ones on their stomachs over so he could examine the faces.
“What the fuck? What the fuck?” His equilibrium had shattered at the bitter taste of Pyrrhic victory. They had won everything, but had lost the only prize any of them cared about: Arian Xhafa.
Jack and Alli were examining a laptop computer, twisted out of shape by the explosion and resultant fire, when Thate began screaming.
“Tell me! Tell me!”
Jack ran over and pulled him away from a badly wounded guerilla. There was spittle on Thate’s face; he was virtually frothing at the mouth. For his part, the guerilla slid to the floor. His body was a mass of deep burns and his face was bloody and distorted out of all proportion.
Paull tried to hold the kid back, but he just shook the older man away. Jack looked at Alli and she went over and took Thate by the arm. It was a restraint, the only one he would tolerate at the moment. He gave the guerilla a venomous glare over her shoulder.
Jack squatted beside the guerilla. He could see at a glance that his wounds were mortal. “What’s your name?”
One bloodshot eye stared back at him. “Bek … Bekir.” The other eye was swollen closed, so heavily bruised it looked like a fist.
“Where is Arian Xhafa?”
“He isn’t here.”
Jack sat back on his haunches. He gave Thate a querying look, but the kid was still livid with rage.
“Give me five minutes with him,” Thate said.
“The poor bastard doesn’t have five minutes,” Jack told him. “Besides, what can you do to him that hasn’t already been done?” Turning back to Bekir, he said, “Where is Xhafa? Where did he go?”
“In … into the wind.” Bekir’s mouth was red and black, the lips so distorted it was unclear whether even his mother would recognize him. “He left a little while ago.”
“How little?” Jack pressed.
“Twenty minutes, maybe fifteen.”
“Christ, we just missed the fuck,” Paull said.
Bekir started coughing. His condition was clearly declining rapidly.
With time running out, Jack tried another tack. If Bekir couldn’t solve the mystery of where Arian Xhafa went, maybe he could solve another mystery. “Bekir, were you here when the American unit tried its assault?”
Bekir nodded. His eye could not stop rolling in its socket. He must be in terrible pain, Jack thought. But it was too late to do anything to save him.
“For God’s sake help him,” Alli said from over Jack’s shoulder. “Give him water, at least.”
“His lungs are filling,” Jack told her. “He’ll drown in even a tablespoon of water.”
He returned his attention to Bekir. “How did Xhafa defeat the American unit?”
“Fast.” Bekir’s voice was thick with phlegm and blood. “Very fast.”
“Not like with us.”
The one eye stared at him.
“See, this is what I don’t understand.” Jack edged closer. “I know you had sophisticated weaponry, but so did the American unit.”
Bekir’s eye stared at Jack for what seemed a long time. Then his lips moved, as if of their own volition, and the voice came out, hollow as a drum. “The weaponry helped. How could it not? But Xhafa had an edge that meant the Americans’ certain death.”
Jack’s insides went cold. Then he felt Paull leaning closely in.
“And what was that?” Paull said.
Bekir’s lips curled up into a smile, which began another coughing fit that produced a prodigious flow of blood from his mouth. When he calmed somewhat, he spoke. “He knew they were coming. He’s got an American informant.”
“That’s a fucking lie,” Paull said dismissively.
Jack rocked back on his heels. “Bekir, my friend, here’s my problem with what you claim. Even with his newfound money and links to international arms dealers, Xhafa is unlikely to have that kind of political or military connection. Very, very few people do.”
There was a peculiar light in Bekir’s good eye, and Jack knew he was preparing himself to die. During the interview, his breathing had become shallow. Now it was irregular. Blood drooled out of one ruined ear. And yet he was determined to persevere for at least one more moment, at least long enough for him to deliver his farewell message.
“Then whoever is funneling money and arms his way is one of those elite people.”
JOHN PAWNHILL smiled a magnetic smile that momentarily caused Naomi’s knees to feel as if they’d turned to jelly.
“How may I be of assistance?”
“Agent McKinsey and I are investigating the murder of Billy Warren, a loan analyst at the bank.” For any number of reasons, the torture aspect of Billy’s murder had not yet been made public.
“Yes, I’ve been through some of his work.” Pawnhill gestured. “Very talented young man. Pity he’s no longer with us.”
“We need to see the files that were taken from his office.”
“By all means.” Pawnhill went to the table and, counting out stacks, slid one to a spot in front of an empty chair. “Knock yourself out, Agent Wilde.” He nodded as she sat down. “If you need any deciphering, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Believe me, I won’t.” She pulled the first folder off the top of the pile and opened it. “Are these in alphabetical order?”
“No,” Pawnhill said. “They’re in chronological order with the latest loan on top.”
The others hung back, but there was no conversation from behind her. She scanned the documents inside the folder, then set it aside and picked up the next on the pile. This process went on for perhaps forty minutes.
Pawnhill pointed. “That particular loan was never consummated. Mr. Warren discovered a problem with the applicant’s financials.”
Naomi ran her finger down the sheet. “Did he often find such problems?”
“No, he didn’t.” This from Evrette. “When it comes to its loan applicants, the bank employs a rigorous vetting process.”
Naomi turned a page. “But sometimes—like here—something slips through the cracks.”
“Well, no system is foolproof,” Evrette admitted. “That’s one of the talents that made Mr. Warren so valuable. He could sniff out even the faintest whiff of an applicant’s shaky finances.”
“What about off-the-books loans?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Evrette came around into her line of vision and she could feel McKinsey take a protective step close behind her.
Naomi gave him a steady look. “I think you heard me, Mr. Evrette. Did Billy Warren discover any off-the-books loans that hadn’t been reported?”
“This is preposterous. Of course he didn’t.”
Pawnhill intervened. “Agent Wilde, if I may, had there been any such machinations I and my team would have found them.”
“But—and correct me if I’m wrong—you’re not finished with your forensic audit.”
“Almost,” he said. “But not quite.”
“Hmmm.” She tapped her fingertip against a line on the page. “Then perhaps you can explain to me why this company—Gemini Holdings—showed up in one of Mr. Warren’s case files on his computer.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” Evrette said. “He was just doing his due diligence. The loan was denied.”
“I see.” Naomi nodded. “But what’s curious was that Mr. Warren continued to follow the activities of Gemini Holdings after he recommended that their loan application be turned down.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Evrette said.
