The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

“I wish I knew. The first thing I’d like to know is where they got the money to buy the farm in the first place. Jack tells me the Aari-Teg mosque had trouble paying their rent.”

“They paid for it with a cashier’s check for $1,550,000 drawn against the account of the Aari-Teg mosque, Clyde J. Matthews, Financial Officer, in the Merchants National Bank of Easton, Colonel,” Special Agent Harry Larsen said.

“Clyde, aka Abdul Khatami, is one great big mean sonofabitch,” Britton added. “He’s the head mullah of the Aari-Teg mosque. Before he found Muhammad, ol’ Clyde was in and out of the slam from the time he was fifteen. Mostly drugs, but some heavier stuff, too—armed robbery, attempted murder, etcetera. He was doing five-to-ten in a federal slam—for cashing Social Security checks that weren’t his—when he was converted to Islam.”

“Mr. Matthews’s account was opened six weeks before with six hundred in cash,” Larsen went on. “It was essentially dormant—two small checks to pay for gas, signed by Matthews, but the payee—same one, a gas station in Riegelsville—amounts and dates filled in by somebody else…”

“I think one might describe Mr. Matthews as being some what literacy handicapped,” Britton interrupted, in an effeminate voice, causing the others to chuckle.

“…until two days before the cashier’s check for the farm was drawn,” Larsen went on. “There had been a wire deposit of $1,950,000 from a numbered account in the Caledonian Bank and Trust Limited in the Cayman Islands.” He paused and looked at Castillo. “I don’t know if you know this or not, Colonel, but the Cayman Islands have stricter banking secrecy laws than Switzerland.”

“I did. Not because I’m smart, but because Special Agent Yung told me. He’s our resident expert in foreign banking and dirty money.”

“Our reluctant expert,” Britton said.

“He’s seen the light, Jack,” Castillo said.

“Did he see it before or after they popped him?”

“So,” Larsen went on, a touch of impatience in his voice, “our chances of finding out who owns that account are practically nonexistent. On the day the check to pay for the farm was issued, there was a second cashier’s check, for $59,805 .42, payable to Fred Beans Cadillac Buick Pontiac GMC. Inc., 835 North Easton Road in Doylestown, as payment in full for a Cadillac Escalade, a white one.” “Well, I’ve always said,” Britton said, in his effeminate voice, “if you don’t want to attract attention, get a white Cadillac Escalade.”

Even Larsen laughed.

“Is this guy intellectually challenged, Jack?” Larsen asked.

“He’s street smart, with a five-year postgraduate course in crime at Lewisburg behind him. He’s ignorant but not stupid. Dangerous.”

“And Matthews withdrew ten thousand dollars in cash,” Larsen said.

“I don’t know anything about this sort of thing,” Castillo said. “Doesn’t the IRS get involved in this some how?”

“Believe it or not, Colonel, there are a few nice IRS agents. I got most of what I have from one of them who’s a friend of mine.”

“Can he keep his mouth shut?” Castillo asked.

Larsen nodded. “They get notified whenever there’s a cash transaction of ten thousand or better. When Matthews took the ten thousand in cash, that gave my guy the in to go into the bank records.

“When I asked him if I suddenly had a deposit of nearly two million from an offshore bank, wouldn’t I have to answer some questions? He said I would. But I’m not a mosque. The Aari-Teg mosque, so far as the IRS is concerned, is a religious institution. Religious institutions do not have to identify their members or their donors. Or pay taxes.”

“Shit,” Castillo said.

“I’d say this whole suitcase nuke thing is absurd,” Larsen said. “Except for all that money…”

“And except for the fact that Abdul Khatami and his loyal Muslims helped the Holy Legion of Muhammad steal that 727,” Britton said. He turned to Larsen. “You know that story?”

“Joel told me,” Larsen said, smiled, and pointed at Torine and Castillo. “And that these two stole it back. You think this money came from terrorists, Colonel?”

“I have no goddamned idea where it came from,” Castillo said, bitterly, “but the terrorists are not stupid. Would they hand this clown two million dollars just because they like him or maybe to pull our chain when we heard about it? I don’t think so. But I don’t know.”

Swanson said, “Follow the money, I say, based on my wealth of experience and not having a clue how you’d actually do that. Larsen’s right about bank secrecy in the Cayman Islands.”

“What we have is a coded list of what we think are names and addresses we took from Lorimer’s safe,” Castillo said. “By now, the whiz kids at Fort Meade should have that decoded. And I have all of Eric Kocian’s notes about European involvement in the oil-for-food scam. There’s a CIA guy in Paris who knows a lot about these SADMs—”

“These what?” Larsen interrupted.

“Nuclear suitcases,” Castillo said. “The Russians call them ‘Special Atomic Demolition Munitions.’ This guy is already on his way to Washington. He may already be there. There’re two other CIA types in Buenos Aires who know something about them. We know now that one of the Ninjas was a senior Cuban spook.” He paused. “In all, a lot of disconnected information. All we can do is try to put it together.” He exhaled audibly. “Can we go get some breakfast?”

[TWO]