Taking Stock (33 page)

Jean-Claude skimmed the Cessna dangerously close to the treetops with the rising sun at his back. A group of early hikers scattered from a clearing as if the plane was about to crash land in their midst. Backs turned, scampering away, none of them could identify the plane or its destination. Inside, Jean-Claude wondered why Herman had sent the men to kill Vincent. He knew almost nothing and he’d worked cheap. Whatever Herman’s reason, it was one less person who knew about the scam; one less potential blackmailer in their past. He hoped Herman wasn’t thinking the same way about him.

Jean-Claude circled low around the base of the last peak and followed the widest swath of treetops back to the farmhouse. He skirted the edge of a lake and aligned himself directly downwind from the makeshift runway. When he reached it, he descended below the trees and landed without rising or circling to make his approach. He touched down and his momentum carried him to the entrance of the barn where he quickly retrieved the tractor and towed the plane inside. In minutes, the canvas cover descended and hid the plane from view. To anyone trying to follow the craft, it had silently vanished mid-flight.

Jean-Claude lugged the heavy case into the second floor bedroom. Vincent’s murder still disturbed him, but he told himself he was better off. He wondered about the opportunity he’d missed with Marcus. He couldn’t imagine Marcus would ever find him, but a hint of doubt would have him checking the shadows for the rotund banker for years to come. Herman’s goons were a more immediate threat. They knew where he lived and they’d already proven they could slip inside without him knowing. He could come home any day to find them waiting. If he really wanted to be safe, he needed to get rid of Herman, but could he look a man in the eye and launch a bullet through him
?

He debated with himself as he stood in the closet and removed one of the trim boards. He stuffed the money from the briefcase into a hole just below the ceiling. Stack by stack the little packets fell between the wallboards and landed on dozens of others, completely hidden, safe for years to come. The two million he’d skimmed on each trip had filled six gaps between the wall studs. This was his reward for taking all the risk.  Herman would never know.

He went down to the cellar and stored Jean-Claude’s papers. He’d never had even a brush with the law as Jean-Claude. If he ran into trouble in the states, he could quietly retire here in anonymity. He removed a dense box of .45 cartridges and two sets of credentials from the safe. One driver’s license and passport identified him as Brad Perry, the other set belonged to Brad Foster. When everything was in order, he killed the power and dowsed the house with enough chemicals to kill the mice and insects for the next fifty years. No creature was going to make a nest of his retirement fund. As long as the house didn’t burn, the money would be there when he came back, no matter how long it took.

Brad pulled the tarp from the rented BMW and switched cars, covering the dented old Fiat in the garage.

Back by the barn, he prepared a test for himself. He set a bucket on a stump and backed up a comfortable distance, where he presumed he wouldn’t see the eyes of the man he was about to shoot. Brad lifted the gun, imagining Herman’s face on the pail and fired. He couldn’t see a hole from sixty feet away. Walking halfway up he could see the smooth, plastic surface was intact. The bucket was more than twice the size of a man’s head and he’d missed completely.

He stepped back for another shot, a little closer than the first. He steadied and fired again. Three shots sailed by and burrowed into the grassy runway. Brad walked closer, now only twenty feet from the bucket. He fired and the bucket jumped immediately, a triangular black hole poked in one corner. The bucket tipped over and rolled a few feet behind the stump. Encouraged, he fired again; a direct hit, punching a hole through the center. He fired rapidly, punching another hole, missing, and finally smashing half of the bucket away before the empty gun refused to fire. He replaced the clip with a full one and emptied it faster than before, barely waiting for the barrel to come level before firing. There was power in the loud steady reports. He wished he’d started practicing sooner.

He walked to the car and slowly pressed fresh bullets into the clips and stored the gun and ammunition under the seat of the Fiat. He locked the garage and hoped no one would discover it before he returned.

The BMW was a pleasure to drive after the rusty Fiat and the trip to meet the tour bus passed too quickly. He hung a camera around his neck to make the purpose of his trip self evident. He opened his wallet and removed everything except eight hundred in cash and the documents that identified him as Brad Perry. The border guard had sold him this passport and he’d used it to enter
Switzerland
nearly a dozen times. In all his trips to
France
, there was never a record of Brad Foster leaving the country until he returned home.

Brad purchased his ticket and climbed aboard the bus, choosing a window seat halfway back. A motley crowd filled the seats around him. A young couple, newlyweds judging by the shine of their rings and their faces, sat across the aisle. Teenage children in the seats ahead, chatted continuously with their parents in high-speed French that Brad couldn’t understand. Several older couples shuffled on board and finally Brad found what he was looking for. A young man, neatly dressed in blue jeans and a royal blue dress shirt, limped down the aisle looking dejected for an American on vacation. Brad nodded to the seat beside him and the man sat down. He would be Brad’s best friend until two minutes after they were through security.

Brad raised his hand as the young guy sat. “Hi, I’m Brad Perry.”

“I’m Charlie, Charlie Marston.”

“What are you doing out here by yourself
?
It’s no bustling tourist stop.”

“My father just bought a share in a local vineyard. We’re out here getting to know our new partners.”

“You moving here for good
?
”

“No, we have a winery back home. That’s where I’ll end up. My dad likes to tinker with small vineyards. He drags us along for company.”

“Sounds interesting. Not your run-of-the-mill job.”

“Winemaking’s more like a mill than you think.”

The bus wound its way out onto the main road and steamed along. “Which vineyard
?
”

Charlie pointed to a side road that led past Brad’s rundown house. “It’s about fifteen miles up on the mountain side.”

“The one with the huge stone barn with a spruce tree on one side
?
”

“It’s a hemlock. Pretty far off the beaten path for an American. You have a vacation place here or something
?
”

“I bought an old place a few years back.”

“Cool. Maybe we can meet for a drink.”

“When I said old, I mean really old. Not a place you’d want to visit. It was an old vegetable farm that went bust, a shack really. I’m going to knock it down eventually. I just haven’t gotten up the energy yet.”

“Let me know. Might be fun. I could use an excuse to get away from the vineyard for a few days.”

Charlie’s soft hands, neat hair and clean shaven face looked more at home in an office than a construction site. “You don’t look like the type for demolition work.”

“I don’t mind real work. I’d do it just for the change of scenery. Trust me. I’ve had winemaking rammed down my throat since I was ten. Anything different would be a pleasure.”

Charlie and Brad talked all the way to
Geneva
. Charlie invited any reprieve from the tedium of his father’s business and Brad promised to visit the vineyard and sample some of last year’s wines. When the passports were checked and the men walked off the bus, Brad’s mind returned to business. He’d never see the young American again.

Brad walked into a café, chose a window seat, and watched every face that passed. The café was nearly empty and the people on the street moved about with no apparent interest in him. It seemed the goons from the day before hadn’t followed him here.  

When the appointed time came, he paid his check, crossed the street and walked into a huge marble lobby. The richness of this place was a striking contrast to the farmer’s bank. Brad imagined the ill-gotten wealth of several dictators stored somewhere beneath the marble floors.

A man in a dark suit walked briskly to Brad and guided him across the lobby and into a small room. A serious-looking guard locked them inside. The transactions were completed in minutes and Brad relaxed for the first time in two days. He left the room with nothing to do but idle around until the return bus trip. The forty-five million in this bank was more than he could imagine spending, never mind the twenty in cash stuffed in the walls of his dilapidated place in
France
. Once he was free of Herman and
Eric
a, life would be grand.

He browsed the shops and imagined the things he’d do to keep himself entertained for the next twenty-five years.

Sarah arrived at the restaurant at
quarter to seven
, sat on the couch and watched dozens of guests make their way into and out of Avenue One for breakfast. She’d waited over a week for this meeting and she was anxious to get started even at this early hour. Her typed questions lay in the folder on her lap, ready for the biggest meeting of her career. Herman’s call had set it up. He’d gotten Brad to meet her here where she’d have his full attention. She’d make progress on her investigation today, the first steps forward since
Eric
a Fletcher stalled it weeks ago.

Brad strode in from Avenue de Lafayette looking pale and tired for someone just back from vacation. He flagged down a hostess who led them to an isolated table. Brad sat with his back to a solid divider.

The waitress whisked in, filled their coffee cups and rushed off.

Brad didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “What’s this about
?
”

“I wanted to talk about mutual fund transactions and security.”

“No, no, no. I didn’t come here to chit chat about IT. Herman asked me here because something’s wrong. I want to know what it is.”

“We’re concerned about some mutual fund transactions that may have been altered.”

He leaned in sternly “Let’s skip the hypotheticals. Tell me what you’ve found and I’ll try to help. I’m not going to play guessing games this early.”

Sarah’s face reddened. She’d heard about Brad’s Neanderthal behavior and came in expecting to outmaneuver him. Thirty seconds into the meeting she was cornered. She shouldn’t tell him what she suspected, but if she didn’t, she might as well get up and walk out.   

“I told you. We’re worried about mutual fund transactions. We think someone’s making unauthorized changes. I need to know how.”

The statement deflated Brad’s cocky attitude a bit. He crossed his arms and stared. It had to be a blow. It was his job to prevent this sort of breach and the accusation couldn’t be welcome. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t respond.

“If I told you I
knew
someone was getting in, what would you do
?
” Sarah asked. “Where would you start
?
”

He took off into a detailed discussion of the measures they’d taken to prevent data theft. His ego was stinging for sure. She listened politely as he bemoaned the access every young CSR had down on the nineteenth floor. No one could get in from the outside according to him. The SQL and web servers were locked down and audited by an outside security firm every six months. They’d never had a blip on those reports. He had no doubt the breach was coming from inside. He boiled it down to two possibilities: someone from nineteen making changes through the system or someone getting into the computer room and going around the system. He believed the problem was on nineteen.