The Root of Money

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 Barry Zabell

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

For permission requests please contact Canoe Tree Press.

Published 2019

Printed in the United States of America

Canoe Tree Press

PO Box 867

Manchester, VT 05254

www.CanoeTreePress.com

This book is dedicated to my family: my parents, Mildred and Leo who guided and encouraged me; my brother Craig, whose love and friendship have been a constant in my life; and my niece Melissa, whose light shines like a brilliant treasure.

1

One stupid moment had marred an otherwise brilliant production of Macbeth at Nuits de Fourvière. As was the custom, theatergoers tossed their seat cushions in the air to mark the conclusion of the performance. However, one cushion struck the side of Ahmed Al-Malmasi’s face, drawing a thin line of crimson he permitted to find the collar of his white Brioni shirt. It was not lost on him that the play’s reflection of the corrupting power of political ambition had been presented at the Ancient Theatre of Fourvière, a Roman city built before Christ, the remnants of which had been converted to a contemporary attraction near his home in Lyon.

Al-Malmasi closed his eyes in the back of his black Bentley and let Shakespeare’s insight to mankind’s proclivity that so often resulted in bloodshed merge with his own perception of history and humanity’s fate—a fate he was pleased to hasten toward its final catechism. Unlike the bard’s three witches who foretold a brave general’s ascension to become King of Scotland, Al-Malmasi aligned his role with that of Lady Macbeth to encourage fruition of prophecy. He instructed his driver to play Mozart’s Requiem. It helped him think while reminding him that the composer perished before the piece was complete. Despite the prognosis of numerous doctors, Al-Malmasi did not intend to expire before his work was finished, coveting their equivocation of his longevity like the Holy Grail. As the road rushed beneath his car Al-Malmasi considered the journey toward his own finale, unyielding in his intention to remain on stage until his coup de grâce, a crescendo that would resound through posterity.

Spotlights of Al-Malmasi’s estate appeared as his cell phone chimed from his pocket. The man at the other end of the call was a longstanding operative entrusted with the surreptitious distribution of large sums of money. Thanks to the Americans, it was getting harder to move funds without detection and Al-Malmasi valued his agent’s skill at keeping his activities secret. In this instance, his agent’s situation report cited a delay in an operation’s execution.

Patience is a dream, gone with the morning. Al-Malmasi spoke with a trace of a British accept developed while studying at Cambridge University. You know the price of failure, he cautioned before disconnecting.

The automobile came to a stop along the east wall of his home, offering Al-Malmasi a direct path to a lap pool behind the house. He observed the sky clutching the last of the evening’s light as clouds brushed the tips of the distant Alps. A servant brought a glass of Pinot Noir and activated the pool lights, casting a supernal aura on its surface. Al-Malmasi inhaled the sense of home; a home he adopted in lieu of his birthplace on the Arabian Peninsula, a birthright he begrudgingly acknowledged once a year to ensure the continued flow of funds from a family trust. He was the royal second nephew of a third cousin or maybe it was the other way around; he did not know and did not care, detesting when some referred to him as The Saudi. Al-Malmasi picked a bloom of blue moon wisteria from a pergola and placed it in his lapel as he raised the glass skyward to toast his plan.

Jusque-là.¹

2

Tek looked at an email from his son: Not tonight dad. Sorry. Love You. His eyes carved away everything other than the last two words before deleting the message. He was sitting at his fifteen year old son, Jake’s desk. It was where Jake did homework, played video games and did whatever he did on the internet. Jake was a typical teenager, a good kid. But Tek thought he had a typical middle class suburban family until his wife, Victoria (never Vicky) left home, taking their savings and Jake with her. He ruminated about the night he came home late from work to find the house empty and a note taped to the refrigerator: In case you haven’t noticed, I’m gone! Two cell phones were on the kitchen table with another note saying Jake was with her and that she would contact him through his sister, Amy.

His forehead tightened as he wondered how it had gotten to this point. He should have been aware of it. She should have given him fair warning. Tek tried to see himself through a layer of dust covering the computer monitor before turning his vision inward. Maybe she did tell him. Above the desk was a photograph of the family on vacation in Rhode Island. Jake, who had just turned ten, was beaming as he dangled a handful of worms in front of Dooley’s Bait and Tackle. Victoria’s expression reflected either her sunburnt legs or the prospect of handling any fish that would be caught.

For the past few nights Tek and Jake had been Skyping at midnight. It was the one thing Tek looked forward to, maybe the one thing that kept him from sinking further into despair. He had to sell some of his prized sports autographs to buy a laptop for Jake to use during their nightly meetings, and asked his sister to send it to his son for his birthday, certain Victoria would not otherwise have let him accept it, especially if she knew it would be used for clandestine contact with his father.

Tek chastised himself for being oblivious to Victoria methodically draining their joint account and rebuked himself again for not knowing bills and notices about their mortgage and car payment had been ignored, eight months past due by the time she left. The remembered whine of a garbage pail shredder pursed his lips. Fortunately, International Asia Bank, where Tek was employed as a network security specialist and programmer, agreed to assume the mortgage and permitted him to repay them by monthly deductions from his paycheck.

He curled his shirt sleeve in his fingers and swept it across the computer monitor. Its new clarity contrasted with the other surfaces within his reach that had gone neglected. Bull, a black and white English Shepherd, sat at the base of the chair surrounded by candy wrappers. Amy rescued the dog hoping it would lift Tek’s spirit and give him something other than his own concerns to think about.

Tecumseh Sherlock had been born to Esther and Richard Carrier forty-three years ago. His father, a voracious reader, named his son (over the strenuous objection of his mother) after two of his favorite characters, real or fictional. His sister, Hester Amelia, hung the moniker of Tek on him when she was two years old and unable to command his full name.

Although he was the person most directly responsible for safeguarding International Asia Bank’s computer network, for the past weeks Tek’s purpose was to ensure that his nightly breach of their systems remained undetected while preserving the appearance that the bank’s security remained intact. Every workday morning he printed reports that enumerated instances of attempted or actual intrusions to the network and provided them to Grace Woo, the bank’s Chief Technology Officer, for review. The reports indicated only a few failed tries, each having been thwarted by Tek’s designed firewalls and systems, all of which were working properly. What no one anticipated was that the person entrusted with protecting their organization in this manner was not working properly.

For years, the government required financial institutions such as International Asia report various types of payments. Originally, regulations were limited to transfers involving cash, intended to assist law enforcement track drug cartels and other bad guys. After 9/11, all payments, whether cash was involved or not, became subject to enhanced scrutiny requiring banks become investigative extensions of the government. IAB was doing everything it was required by law to do, Tek having played an integral role in developing the programs that accomplished this. Although bank management was pleased by their systems’ performance and government regulators, who examined the bank’s processes regularly, had given them favorable evaluations, Tek was not satisfied. He wanted to go beyond what was mandated and take advantage of the bank’s full capabilities to analyze more data. He considered the bank management’s unwillingness to agree with him as self-serving, unpatriotic and potentially life endangering.

Emptiness or strain refluxed in Tek’s stomach as he accessed data he accumulated on the bank’s servers. For the next three hours he downloaded and studied information captured within the bank’s money laundering detection programs he had secretly modified. By 3:00AM, after numerous successive nights encamped in his son’s bedroom, Tek conceded that his gray matter was not performing optimally. Tomorrow would be an important day in the office and he needed rest.

It’s time to stretch our legs, Tek told his dog as he reached for a small spray can of air intended to clear dust from the keyboard. Instead, he blew it into each of his eyes to clear his own cobwebs. Bull followed him into the hallway and waited near a partially closed bathroom door as Tek remembered the confidentiality agreement and code of conduct he signed when he accepted his position at the bank. He had done so without reservation, not anticipating a circumstance that would motivate him to dishonor the trust of his employer. He considered the efficacy of this as he crumpled a yellow doily, a vestige of his wife, and tossed it in a basket in a cabinet beneath the sink, kicking the door so hard that it dislodged a bar of soap from its dish. He left it on the floor where it fell. Tek barely recognized himself in the mirror. His wavy brown hair looked like road kill and his ordinarily brilliant blue eyes were clouded and ruby rimmed.

We’ll be all right, he told Bull. I just have to get them to listen to me, one way or another.

After a nap, a shave and shower, Tek felt like he had slipped back into his own skin. He flipped his Dog Lovers calendar to Friday, needlessly reminding him of a meeting scheduled that morning, and selected his blue suit and a striped power tie from his closet.

Let’s hope I can make them see the sense of things today, he said more to himself than his dog. He almost sounded hopeful.

It was less than a five mile drive from Tek’s house to a Long Island industrial park that housed the bank’s technology center occupying ten thousand square feet on the fifth floor of an eight story building. Tek chuckled at how easily he had gained surreptitious access to the bank’s network. It was like locking your front door while leaving the back door wide open, which technically was what he had done. He benefitted from Grace Woo’s hands-off approach to the day-to-day operation. From Tek’s perspective she had fallen behind the technology curve around the time floppy disks went into the dumpster. He felt a twinge of guilt that Ben Landers, his vacationing colleague who was tasked with assisting him secure the bank’s networks, might have to answer some difficult questions if Tek’s activities were discovered. For both of their sakes’ Tek was taking every precaution he could think of, including again trying to convince the bank’s decision makers to see things his way. It was the reason he was not going to the technology center today. Instead, he would take the ninety minute train ride to Manhattan where IAB maintained its corporate headquarters, or what Tek referred to as the place where all the bullshit happens.

He scanned the top of his bureau. Hey Bull, did you take my badge?

The dog barked its denial.

Never mind, here it is. Tek picked the diamond-shaped plastic from his crinkled sheet and put it in a pocket of his suit jacket before going downstairs where his well-worn tan leather valise sat open on the kitchen table. Its latch had not fastened properly for years.

Got to make sure I have everything I’ll need, he told Bull as he walked his fingers through the contents of the valise. Oops, almost forgot. He took a wrapper containing a cream-filled devil’s food snack cake from the refrigerator and placed it in the satchel before giving the dog a fresh bowl of water and walking out the door.

Tek’s townhouse was one of eighty residences in a development that was new when his son was born. The complex included a swimming pool, bowling alley, several game and exercise rooms, as well as an eighteen-hole executive style golf course that meandered through the grounds. Tek reflected on better times, when he and Jake would simply step out from the sliding door in their hybrid living and dining room onto the tee of the fifth hole. It was a special time to spend together, laughing and exchanging good-natured barbs. He ached from Jake’s absence as he directed his car out of the complex.

The tracks of the Long Island Rail Road ran parallel to the road that fronted the grounds. It demanded an immediate decision—steer left or right—when he drove out of the development. With his thoughts still on his absent son, Tek automatically turned right, in the direction of the technology center. A quarter mile later he realized his mistake and made a U-turn so that the fence screening the train tracks was on his right as he proceeded to the station parking lot.

He had not spoken to his friends in weeks; their phone calls, email and text messages going unanswered. The only call he returned was from his sister who threatened to either call the police or break into his house if she did not hear from him. He felt guilty that Amy was so upset. He did not know what he would do if she had not been a conduit for messages from his wife. Messages he did not like since they did not include an explanation for her action or suggest the future of their family, if there was one. Tek found a seat in the corner of the last car of the train and opened his valise to review the papers with which he planned to make his case.

International Asia Bank was an amalgam of domestic and foreign financial institutions, maintaining five branches in the United States and twelve in other countries. Tek was confident that these numbers would support his proposal that because the bank was only tracking and reporting payments conducted at its domestic locations, expanding the procedure to include the entire group would add clarity to the movement of funds, shedding brighter light on any money laundering activity.

Although his stealthy activities only scratched the surface, he believed the information he had in hand reinforced his assertion. One month’s payments from six business and two personal accounts in the United States resulted in over five million dollars being transferred to three bank accounts in Jakarta, Malaysia and Hong Kong. Tek wanted to gather data relating to payments emanating from the bank’s overseas customers to determine if additional money was being transferred to common endpoints. The work, after some initial programming, would be minimal. He would do it on his own time if necessary. The only argument he heard against doing so was that it could create problems with government regulators. Tek scoffed at this argument, expecting the government would applaud their enhanced analysis and extend the requirement to other banks to match his initiative. Nonetheless, he understood a cogent argument may not be enough to succeed. The bank powers did not rise to their positions on the basis of altruism. He would have to play their game. Unfortunately, he did not know the parameters of the game, if there were any. He planned to chip away at resistance one person at a time, starting with Eric Kilpatrick, the Director of Compliance who would be Tek’s first stop when he arrived at the place where all the bullshit happens.

3

Perriman Girardi sat in his spacious office, sipping the last of the morning’s decaf while browsing the bold print headlines of the Financial Times. As Chief Operating Officer of International Asia Bank, Girardi occupied a coveted corner location on the executive floor the bank maintained in a fifty story tower a few minutes walking distance from Central Park. He stood six feet four inches tall but projected an even more imposing stature. His suits were handmade by a well-known haberdasher in London and his custom-made linen shirts came from a tailor in Shanghai. The breast pocket of his shirt was monogrammed with his initials and although he had been obtaining his suits and shirts in this manner for over twelve years he never had the need to alter his measurements. The center left hand drawer of his desk stored a variety of eye-catching cuff links that he rotated with purpose. At the age of fifty one, Girardi had been in his current position in the bank for eight years. As he looked up from the newspaper the bank’s Chief Technology Officer was sitting down at an oval conference table in his office.

Good morning, Grace. I wasn’t expecting to see you this early.

Grace Woo reorganized stacks of papers that covered the table, not hiding her curiosity of their contents.

Is there something I can help you with? Girardi asked matter-of-factly. Are you looking for something in particular?

I just want to be sure you and I are on the same page before we have our meeting later. Woo did not look up as she continued to help herself to his papers.

What page would that be? I think this is fairly straight forward and nothing that we have not heard or discussed before. Girardi’s tone was even, not revealing annoyance or impatience.

The Chief Technology Officer’s attire was as impressive as her colleague’s. Ten years Girardi’s senior, Woo bought her clothes at the top retailers in Manhattan and had them expertly tailored to flatter her petite frame. Woo placed the papers she was holding on the table and offered Girardi one of her practiced glares.

You know, our Compliance Director is going to be inclined to bend toward Carrier’s proposal, Woo said. You and I know doing so would not only result in unnecessary and unjustifiable expense, but could leave us open to problems with our regulators.

Girardi rose from his black leather chair. We’re just hearing this out today, he reasoned. At the core, I am in agreement with you. Let’s not invite worry needlessly, he said as he gathered his suit jacket from a hanger behind his office door.

Of course, you’re right as usual. Woo took several steps in his direction. As you are well aware, we have many critical initiatives going on and a very full pipeline. It would be imprudent to divert any resources that would result in delays. We’ve made commitments to the CEO and the Board and I, for one, do not plan on disappointing them.

Girardi excused himself as he made a right turn out of his office, expecting Woo would continue to help herself to his files.

A new Michael Godard print hung in Eric Kilpatrick’s office. Kilpatrick enjoyed the artist’s works featuring anthropomorphized olives in whimsical twists of everyday themes and language. He had come across the original artwork entitled Money Laundering in a shop in Las Vegas’ Venetian Hotel during a convention of compliance professionals, however, due to the prohibitive cost of the piece, he settled for the print that had been hanging in his office only a few hours before Girardi rapped his knuckles on the door.

Welcome back, Girardi said as he stepped up to the print.

Kilpatrick was pale and slender, with blonde hair that had thinned to near transparency. When he stood he was a head shorter than Girardi.

This is fantastic, Eric. I never heard of this artist before.

He’s a bit more current than the dark Renaissance painters you go for. I’ve seen his work at several galleries.

How was the conference? Girardi asked as he closed the door.

Pretty much what you’d expect. Kilpatrick busied himself looking through unopened mail that collected on his desk while he was away. A bunch of boring bankers discussing the latest government regulations. If this continues I’ll need to double my staff to keep pace.

I think we can count on things getting worse before they get better. Girardi scowled.

Kilpatrick did not look up as he scrolled through his incoming email, deleting those he determined did not warrant his attention. He reviewed his calendar and asked, Why are we meeting with Grace and Carrier today?

They want to discuss your new artwork. Girardi half smiled.

Kilpatrick turned his head to look at the Godard, prompting Girardi to clarify.

Carrier asked to revisit the idea of expanding the money laundering monitoring we do. I agreed to hear him out, but I don’t think he will tell us anything new. I’m not expecting to make any changes.

Kilpatrick bent his head in the direction of his new print.

Perry, I didn’t buy this because I think of money laundering as comical. It’s a very real and serious threat. We should give Carrier a fair hearing.

We will. He bent the corner of his jacket lapel toward Kilpatrick and tapped his lapel pins. Both of these are important to me. I have the American flag flying above our bank logo for a reason, but I think we can work in the best interest of both.

4

American covert agencies publicly referred to Ahmad Haqq bin Osman with the benign designation as a person of interest. In actuality, they regarded him as an accomplice to a number of terrorist organizations and drug cartels, assisting them with the clandestine movement of money. Despite Osman’s imperative for his activities to remain undetected, he sat in front of a large floor to ceiling window in Kuala Lumpur’s Mandarin Hotel’s Oriental Club that provided a breathtaking view of the Petronas Twin Towers that until recently were the tallest manmade structures on the planet.

Osman’s appearance suggested a frail man, barely one hundred and twenty five pounds. Those that knew him understood he was not to be underestimated in any respect. The trail of bodies he was responsible for was proof of the fallacy of the expression dead men tell no tales. Osman leaned forward to stir a tumbler of ice water perched on a rich mahogany table.

Has Matu lost his way again? he asked a large bodyguard standing beside him.

The man, a Samoan named Afu, reached beneath his long leather coat to adjust a short barreled automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. He probably locked himself in the bathroom again, Raja. The appellation was a term of respect normally reserved for those who were actually descendants of Malaysian royalty.

Osman regarded another menacing figure across the room who was dressed identically to his hulking colleague and brother whose attention had been drawn to the far side of the Club where Matu, a man larger than the siblings, was walking awkwardly fast. A laptop computer was almost invisible in his massive hand before he placed it on the table in front of his leader.

Osman twirled a neatly trimmed handlebar moustache below his generous nose while he waited for the screen he needed to appear. Looking over his shoulder, he repositioned himself so his back no longer faced the large window and selected a graphic icon of a globe sitting on a bejeweled saddle mounted on the back of an elephant, the logo of International Asia Bank. After logging into the online banking page, Osman navigated to a business account he had fabricated to facilitate anonymous movement of money and verified receipt of transfers from banks in Prague, Osaka and Ankara.

His movements were being followed by Swan, an extraordinarily attractive Burmese woman sitting at the corner of the lounge’s long bar. Her large, dark almond-shaped eyes were carved above high sculpted cheek bones, accentuating her perfect olive skin. Having skillfully deflected offers of drink, food and conversation, she excused herself from a persistent admirer, stood and straightened her tailored black skirt suit. Her glance summoned the bartender who quickly filled a tumbler with ice water that she accepted with a smile. Osman’s men watched her amble to his table and put the beverage on a coaster in front of him. Matu stole a closer look at her as Osman pulled the drink toward him.

You know what to do, Osman said.

Yes, Bapa. Swan spun on her heels and walked toward the exit leading to the hotel lobby.

Osman insisted she call him Bapa though they were not related by blood, the name reinforcing a deception he invented for himself from which he garnered a measure of solace. His feelings for Swan were complex, not unlike a serial killer toward their own family, a screen intended to hide his true nature and purpose. A decade ago Osman rescued Swan from a metal container transporting girls no older than sixteen to endpoints where they would be subjected to all manners of abuse. Swan was thirteen and Osman, owed a fee by a trafficker, agreed to accept her as payment. He arranged for Swan to be educated in history, economics, languages and an array of arts, in addition to special skills that would enhance her ability to assist his ventures. At times, her presence as his daughter permitted him to blend into situations where he might otherwise be precariously conspicuous. Her mastery of languages and ability to manipulate others, particularly by taking advantage of their base desires, served Osman well.

Nearly every pair of eyes in the lounge was fixed on Swan. Her beauty is a double edged sword, Osman thought. When she passed out of sight he stood and walked to a bank of elevators, his guards flanking him.

Anyone for tennis? Osman asked as a chime signaled an elevator’s arrival.

Swan strolled through the lobby, her heels creating tempo on the marble floor. Despite her desire to exit unobserved, she was aware of men and women coveting her, from her smooth ebony hair to the high-heeled metronomes on her feet. She inhaled the power of her sexuality, thinking about the day, half her lifetime ago, when a small dark man extended his arm to guide her from the suffocating heat of a cramped container. Although he saved her from horrors she could not imagine, Swan frequently wondered if she would have fared better if she had been left with the other girls.

A driver opened the door of a silver Mercedes waiting in front of the hotel, letting Swan glide into the backseat. Her thoughts turned to her assignment. It would be a short drive to the bank and she must execute Osman’s instructions perfectly.

5

Esther