“We may never know the real reason, but the fact remains that they did clean up. And instead of reinvesting that money, they’re cashing out. So Art’s big question remains: What else do they know?”

Hari tapped her fingers on the counter top as she stared at the two dark monitors.

Finally, she said, “We’ve got work to do.”

“Damn right. How do we divide it up?”

“I’ve got an idea…”

2

Hari worked out a system whereby she would ferret out the dates of large expenditures and Donny would match them with emails—both the deleted and undeleted kind—in and around the same date.

The deleted emails turned out to be the key. The foundation obviously didn’t want to leave a record of its cash investments, so it used deposits to and from intermediary banks to hide the transactions. But the deleted emails gave it all away when they mentioned the purchase target by name.

“So they bought Sirocco Trucking in Albany,” Hari said. “That was the last thing I would have expected.”

“Yeah.” Donny swiveled his chair back and forth. “Why a trucking company of all things?”

“Obviously they’re planning on shipping something—lots of something.”

“But what?”

“The ‘what’ will probably answer Art’s question. Keep looking.”

Hours later they’d determined only that the foundation had bought a distributor, but a distributor of what remained a mystery. Without a name, or address they remained in the dark.

“At least we know the trucking company,” Hari said finally. Her eyes burned from staring at the screen. “I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that whatever they’re shipping, its source will be their distributor.”

Donny gave her a frustrated look. “Big help.”

“After all this research, we’re left with two nagging questions: What are they shipping and to where are they shipping it? I can think of only one way to find out.”

“What? We’ve gone through all the emails and spreadsheets. What’s left?”

Hari rose and gave a single clap. “Road trip!”

“What? To Albany? That’s, like, a hundred-fifty miles.”

“It’s an hour flight, non-stop. I’ve done it countless times—United’s nine-thirty out of Newark. You’ve got the credit card. Get us seats for tomorrow morning. We’ll have Sirocco Trucking under surveillance by noon.”

MONDAY—MAY 15

ERNST

Belgiovene stepped into Ernst Drexler’s office at precisely 9 a.m. Ernst appreciated punctuality.

“You have work for me?” he said in a surprisingly deep voice for such a slim man.

He stood five-ten, wafer thin, with a small, blue-black mole in the center of his chin. No one seemed to know or remember his first name, or if he had one. Or if Belgiovene was even his real name. He was simply “Belgiovene,” though he insisted on everyone pronouncing the terminal vowel.

“It would seem so,” Ernst said. “Someone is threatening to do great damage to the Order. We would like to prevent that.”

No need for more specificity than that. Belgiovene would know exactly how Ernst meant for him to prevent that damage. His skill was in making murder look like an accident or suicide.