“Payments on the loan?” Miriam asked.
“Not a one.”
“Dixon’s credit report?”
Tom held up another printout. “The loan isn’t even mentioned. Apparently the bank never posted it to the credit bureaus.”
“So what you’re saying,” Miriam said, “is that Wesley Dixon got an unreported loan for a quarter of a million dollars from a major New York bank with no collateral, and he’s made no payments.”
“And has no fleet of big, shiny new Hummers,” Tom added.
“So where’s the money?” Miriam asked.
“Not in his personal accounts. And I can’t find it in his business accounts, either. Or in the militia’s. Or any record that a sum like that passed through any of those accounts. But I’m no bookkeeper.”
She’d picked up the scent, just as Tom had. The scent of prey. She reined in her excitement. “You know this is a long shot, Tom. It’s a hundred to one—hell, a thousand to one—that this means what we think it might mean.”
Tom nodded. “But if it does, we might just have found the money that paid for the hit on Grant Lawrence.”
“That’s a stretch,” Miriam said. “Eighteen months ago… Would someone plan an assassination attempt that far in advance?”
But someone might, she knew. Her pulse accelerated. If someone wanted to make sure all the trails were really cold, they might well plan that far in advance. And Edward Morgan was a lifelong friend of Harrison Rice, who was now the Democratic nominee for president.
“It’s a helluva stretch,” Tom agreed. “And it’s probably exactly what I said last night. Horseshit. This Morgan guy wanted to bail out his brother-in-law’s failing business, so he jimmied up a loan to slip Dixon some extra operating cash. That’s probably all it is, right?”
“If it’s even that,” Miriam said. “He probably got the loan for the Hummers, discovered his barn was about to collapse or some such crisis du jour, and had to spend the money on that instead. And he kept it off the books to dodge the IRS.”
“It’s horseshit,” Tom said.
“It’s absolute horseshit,” Miriam agreed.
There was a long moment of silence. She knew what he was thinking. She was thinking the same thing. Yes, this was probably a waste of time and Bureau resources. But then again, their entire assignment was probably a waste of time and Bureau resources. At least this had a vague hint of illegality. Banking and IRS regulations, sure, and probably an innocent, well-intentioned, charitable violation, at that. But it was still far more interesting than the rest of what they’d read. And within the purview of the FBI.
“So you’re going to run it down?” she asked, forcing herself to sound casual.
“Damn right I am,” he said. “Any luck on those videos?”
She glanced at her watch, and both brows lifted. “Listen, we need to go to lunch.”
“Now?”
“Sure. Then we’ll be ready to dig into those files again.”
He grabbed his suit coat and without another word followed her. Miriam never did anything without a reason.
Rome, Italy
Monsignor Giuseppe Veltroni sat on a stair at the Trevi Fountain, watching the tourists. They came in all sizes, great and small, all colors of the human rainbow, and speaking the babel of dozens of languages. At this time of evening, however, the fountain was even more crowded than usual. The most irritating thing was the tour guide using a megaphone to speak to his flock in Japanese. The Japanese didn’t bother the monsignor, but the volume did. It nearly drowned out the soothing sounds of cascading water.
He himself was clad like the rest, or nearly so, in civilian clothes of slacks, windbreaker and jogging shoes. The air was chilly for spring. While the tourists looked comfortable, the monsignor was not. A creature of the Vatican, he vastly preferred his cassock. Even a clerical suit was preferable to this open-throated shirt. He missed his collar and felt deceptive without it. But privacy was his primary concern in this public place.
A pigeon alighted beside him and cocked its head, indicating a demand as clearly as if the bird had spoken. “I’m sorry, little one,” the monsignor murmured. “I have no food.”
Moments later the pigeon departed, joining its fellows across the fountain, where a young boy was scattering bits of cannoli. The flocking birds alarmed the child’s mother, and she whisked him away, leaving a trail of pastry crumbs in their wake.
Monsignor Veltroni returned his attention to the fountain. Begun by Bernini, it had been finished by Salvi, who earned most of the credit for the fantastic beauty of Neptune riding a seashell chariot drawn by winged steeds. The monsignor especially liked the winged horses. They appeared to rise right out of the fountain itself along with the water, as if emerging from the sea, and to his mind they carried a message of hope. Out of the darkness and depths we shall rise into the light….
The monsignor very much hoped he would rise into the light, which was the reason he was sitting here on this hard marble step, surrounded by people who tossed coins into the fountain to ensure their return to Rome.
A man sat beside him, a dark man, weathered hard by deserts and the suns of many years. They were a contrast, these two, the monsignor soft and pale from his duties, the other hardened and darkened by his. Yet they were players in the same game.
“You have difficulties,” the man said in flawless Italian.
Veltroni wondered how many languages the man spoke, having heard him converse in no fewer than four. Rome was an international city, and this spot a tourist attraction, so Italian was as private as any language they might have used. Certainly no less so than English, Veltroni’s only other language of competence.
“You requested a meeting to tell me something I already know?” Veltroni asked.
“No,” the man said, shaking his head. “I requested a meeting to offer you my assistance.”
Veltroni let out a short, silent, derisive laugh. “Thank you, but no thank you. The Church prefers to handle such matters itself.”
“The Church,” the man said, “doesn’t even know about this matter. We both know your group is not recognized by the Vatican. I doubt the Pope knows you exist.”
“The Holy Father has many responsibilities,” Veltroni replied. “He cannot have his finger on everything.”
“We both live with secrets,” the man said.
“You more so than I, apparently,” Veltroni murmured, “as you seem to know all of mine.”
These meetings always troubled him for that reason. More than once had he tried to pry open the wall of stone that shielded Nathan Cohen, if that was indeed his name. He had found very little. Certainly not enough. The man beside him was too much of a mystery, placing Veltroni at a distinct disadvantage. In this game, information was power.
“Like you, I am but a humble man of God,” Cohen said.
That part might have been true, though Veltroni knew this man was no rabbi. He doubted the man was even Jewish, although he sometimes presented himself as such. Rabbis operated within the structure of the Jewish community, and while that structure was not as rigid as the Catholic Church, neither was it anonymous. For a while Veltroni had wondered if the man was Mossad—Israeli intelligence—but discreet inquiries had ruled that out, as well.
“You don’t believe me,” Cohen said.
It was not a question.
“No,” Veltroni answered. “But you already