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Rapp smiled. When it came to national security and secrecy the Brits could move five times faster than the Americans. “Do we know if he’s on the island?”

“According to customs . . . yes.”

“I’m in,” Dumond announced, raising his hands in the air as if he’d just won an Olympic medal.

“Where?” Butler asked.

“First Caribbean Bank.”

“Impossible.” Butler looked nervously back toward the door. “How did you do that so fast?”

Rapp leaned in and waved off Butler’s question. “If you really want to know, maybe you guys could take a walk on the beach later.”

“But . . .” Butler tried to press the question.

“No,” Rapp said, knowing where it would lead them. Butler was a techie at heart. “You two will start talking about all of your trapdoors and back doors and portals and hashes and injections and my eyes will glaze over and then I’ll get a headache. So you guys can go over all that later. For now,” Rapp said, turning all of his attention back to Dumond, “I want to hear about the financials of Adam Farhat.”

Dumond was the ultimate multitasker and had never stopped typing. “Sweet mother of Jesus!” he announced with his eyes still fixed on his laptop.

“What?” Rapp asked.

“He has over thirteen million dollars in this account. Almost ten of it deposited this week alone.”

“That would make sense,” Butler said. “Payments for the drugs.”

“What else?” Rapp asked.

“Looks like he runs some kind of coffee import company.”

“What about payments? Where has he been sending money?”

“Other than this hundred thousand dollar debit, which was probably to General Scumbag, there’s nothing. Only deposits.” Dumond squinted at the screen and pecked at a few keys. “He also has a safety deposit box.”

Butler’s phone started ringing. He glanced at the caller ID and then answered. “Hello.” He listened ten seconds, his eyes growing a touch more alert by the second. “And we have people in place?” He listened again for a few seconds and nodded enthusiastically. “Good. I’ll be back to you shortly.” Butler set the phone down and said, “Apparently Mr. Nelson just got off the phone with his superior at the bank.”

“And?” Rapp asked.

“One of his more important clients would like to access his safety deposit box this afternoon.”

“Is that normal for a Saturday?” Rapp asked.

Butler shrugged as if to say who knows. “These banks all make exceptions for their better clients.”

“Where’s Nelson right now?”

“Leaving his flat. We assume on his way to the bank.”

Rapp looked at Butler for a long moment and then without saying a word both men stood.

Dumond looked up. “Where are you guys going? Our sandwiches just got here.”

“Bring it with,” Rapp said. “You can eat in the car.”



THE match was a blowout. McLean was up 14–1 over their hated rivals the Langley Saxons. The difference this year was Rory Nash and everyone knew it. The thirteen-year-old had eight of his team’s points. Nash watched intently as Rory sliced through the Saxons’ defense. Any other game he’d be on the bench at this point, but McLean’s coach wanted retribution for last year’s blowout. Langley had one big defender whom Nash had been watching all game. He had reminded his son before the game to keep an eye out for him. The kid was a head taller than every other player on the field and was known to lay out at least one opponent per game. As Nash looked out on the field Rory was moving from right to left cradling the ball. He sliced between two defenders and it looked as if the big kid from Langley was finally going to get his shot at Rory. At the last second,

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