Last Chance to Die, Noah Boyd [most read book in the world TXT] 📗

it hit him. He dropped everything and headed for the shower.

18

The flight attendant asked Vail if he wanted anything to drink. He smiled absentmindedly and said no. Checking his watch, he looked out the window. They were crossing Lake Michigan, and he could finally see Chicago’s ice-covered beaches. The white-and-gray bleakness swept under them, and his thoughts returned to Kate. The one good thing about something as catastrophic as Kate’s arrest for treason was that it reduced everything around it to a level of insignificance. Whatever problems there were between them, real or imagined, they would have to wait. Right now her freedom was the only priority.

The thing Vail admired most about money was its way of leading to the truth. Stories could be faked and lies told, but when money was introduced into the equation, honest answers had little choice but to rise to the surface.

While the three-quarters of a million dollars the Bureau had already wire-transferred to Calculus’s designated account in Chicago was a drop in the bucket for the Russians, it was still seven hundred fifty thousand dollars American, and chances were that some enterprising soul wasn’t going to just let it sit there unclaimed. Even dishonestly gained money had a way of tracing itself back to the truth.

Since he no longer had to worry about Calculus’s Chicago “relative” warning him that the FBI was trying to discover anything about the account, Vail could now go to the bank and ask direct questions. Once the plane landed and he collected his luggage, he took a cab to his apartment. He dropped his bags inside and, after spending a half hour clearing the snow off his truck, drove to the Lakeside Bank and Trust in downtown Chicago. It was an eight-story building on LaSalle Street.

Vail flashed his credentials and asked to see the head of security. A few minutes later, a gray-haired man in his late fifties walked toward Vail. Although Vail had never seen him before, his smile was one of familiarity, causing Vail to check the man’s hands. He was wearing an FBI ring made from a twenty-five-year service key. Vail stood up and smiled back. “Steve Vail,” he said, extending his hand.

“Les Carson.” He shook Vail’s hand. “I know a lot of the guys from the Chicago office. Are you new here?” There was the slightest edge of suspicion in Carson’s voice.

“Can we go somewhere a little more private?”

“Sure, my office.” Carson led him to an elevator and then to an office on the third floor.

As soon as Carson closed the door, Vail said, “Actually, I’m out of headquarters, working a special for the director. And it’s extremely confidential.”

“I’m sorry, Steve, can I see your creds?”

Vail took them out and handed them to Carson. He looked at them for a moment, running his thumb over the embossed seal at the edge of the photo to verify their legitimacy before handing them back. “Why is there something familiar about your name? What other offices have you been assigned to?”

“I was in Detroit for three years, but that was a long time ago.”

“That’s it. You’re the one who was fired during that cop-killer investigation the year before I retired.”

Vail smiled. “Sounds like me.”

“And now you’re back, and at headquarters?”

“The director asked me to come aboard to handle this one case.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I did it once before, and it worked out. No one was supposed to know about it.”

“What do you do when you’re not on the Bureau clock?” Carson asked.

“I’m a bricklayer. I actually live here, on the Northwest Side.”

Vail could see that Carson was questioning the plausibility of his background. “And what exactly is it that you need, Steve?”

Vail took out a slip of paper and handed it to Carson. “In the last week, there have been three deposits wired into that account, each for a quarter of a million dollars. I need all the information available about whoever it belongs to.”

Carson fell back in his chair. “Come on, Steve, you know that banking information is impossible without a court order. I could lose my job.”

“I can get the director on the phone if that would help. It’s a matter of national security.”

“If you got Jesus Christ himself on the phone, I couldn’t help you, and I’m Catholic. I like it here, and I really doubt I’d like being sued. And as far as it being a matter of national security, do you know how many times I used that line in twenty-five years?”

“Les, this is extremely important. And I don’t have time for a court order. Besides, I can’t let the local U.S. Attorney’s office know about the specifics of the case.” Vail could see that the real problem was Carson’s suspicions about him and his story. It was understandable—a stranger was asking him to risk his job on his word alone. He would have been crazy to agree to chance everything for someone he didn’t know he could trust. “There’s got to be some way you can help me.”

The appeal didn’t seem to register with Carson. He was studying Vail’s face. After a few seconds, he pulled open a file drawer behind him and took out a thick folder. He started flipping through the pages inside. He found the one he was looking for and held it up as though placing it side by side with Vail’s features. After studying it for a few more seconds, he looked back at Vail and his mouth curved upward into a smile of discovery. “This is a flyer another bank distributed statewide. It seems last year they had a robbery that went bad, and more than two dozen customers and employees were taken hostage. Then a lone male customer overpowered the two robbers and threw them through the bank’s windows. When everything quieted down, the man had disappeared into the crowd. They said he was dressed like a construction worker, and the bank was on the Northwest Side. He was never identified. That’s why