Chapter Thirteen

At twenty minutes after one in the morning, Benjamin Reynolds sat comfortably in an armchair in his Georgetown apartment. He held on his lap one of the file folders the attorney general’s office had sent Group Twenty. There had been sixteen in all and he divided the stack equally between Glover and himself.

With congressional pressure, especially New York’s Senator Brownlee, the attorney general’s office wasn’t going to leave a single stone unturned. If the Scarlatti son had disappeared into a void, at least the AG men could write volumes explaining the fact. Because Group Twenty had touched—briefly—on the life of Ulster Scarlett, Reynolds, too, would be expected to add something. Even if it was nothing.

Reynolds felt a trace of guilt when he thought of Glover wading through the same nonsense.

Like all reports of investigations of missing persons, it was filled with trivia. Dates, hours, minutes, streets, houses, names, names, names. A record of the inconsequential made to seem important. And perhaps to someone, somewhere, it might be. A part, a section, a paragraph, a sentence, even a word could open a door for someone.

But certainly not for anyone at Group Twenty.

He’d apologize to Glover later that morning.

Suddenly the phone rang. The sound in the stillness at such an unexpected hour startled Reynolds.

‘Ben? It’s Glover—’

‘Jesus! You scared the hell out of me! What’s wrong? Someone call in?’

‘No, Ben. I suppose this could wait until morning, but I thought I’d give you the pleasure of laughing yourself to sleep, you bastard.’

‘You’ve been drinking, Glover. Fight with your wife, not me. What the hell have I done?’

‘Gave me these eight Bibles from the attorney general’s office, that’s what you did… I found something!’

‘Good Christ! About the New York thing! The docks?’

‘No. Nothing we’ve ever connected with Scarlett. Maybe nothing but it could be…’

‘What?’

‘Sweden. Stockholm.’

‘Stockholm? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘I know the Pond file by rote.’

‘Walter Pond? The securities?’

That’s right. His first memorandum arrived last May. The initial word about the securities—Remember now?’

‘Yes, yes, I do. So what?’

‘According to a report in the sixth file, Ulster Scarlett was in Sweden last year. Would you like to guess when?’

Reynolds paused before answering. His attention was riveted on the almost unimaginable amount of thirty million dollars. ‘It wasn’t Christmas, was it.’ It was a statement spoken softly.

‘Now that you mention it, some people might have looked at it that way. Perhaps Christmas in Sweden comes in May.’

‘Let’s talk in the morning.’ Reynolds hung up without waiting for his subordinate to reply or say good-night. He walked slowly back to the soft armchair and sat down.

As always Benjamin Reynolds’s thought processes raced ahead of the information presented. To the complications, the ramifications.

If Glover had made a valid assumption, that Ulster Scarlett was involved with the Stockholm manipulation, then it had to follow that Scarlett was still alive. If that were true, then thirty million dollars’ worth of American securities had been illegally offered by him for sale on the Stockholm exchange.

No one individual, not even Ulster Stewart Scarlett, could get his hands on thirty million dollars’ worth of securities.

Unless there was a conspiracy.

But of what kind? For what purpose?

If Elizabeth Scarlatti herself were a part of it—she had to be considered in light of the magnitude of the capital—why?

Had he misread her completely?

It was possible.

It was also possible that he had been right over a year ago. The Scarlatti son had not done what he had done for thrills or because he’d met unsavory friends. Not if Stockholm was pertinent.

Glover paced the floor in front of Reynolds’s desk. ‘It’s there. Scarlett’s visa shows he entered Sweden on May tenth. The Pond memorandum is dated the fifteenth..’

‘I see. I can read.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Do? I can’t do a damn thing. There’s really nothing here at all. Simply a statement calling our attention to some rumors and the date of an American citizen’s entry into Sweden. What else do you see?’

‘Assuming there’s a basis for the rumors, the connection’s obvious and you know it as well as I do! Five will get you ten that if Pond’s last communication is right, Scarlett’s in Stockholm now.’

‘Assuming he’s got something to sell.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘If I remember, somebody’s got to say something’s stolen before somebody else can yell thief! If we make accusations, all the Scarlattis have to say is they don’t know what we’re talking about and we’re strung up on a high legal tree. And they don’t even have to do that. They can simply refuse to dignify us with an answer—that’s the way the old lady would put it—and the boys on the Hill will take care of the rest—‘

This agency—for those who know about it—is an abomination. The purpose we serve is generally at odds with a few other purposes in this town. We’re one of the checks and balances—take your choice. A lot of people in Washington would like to see us out.’

‘Then we’d better let the AG’s office have the information and let them draw their own conclusions. I guess that’s the only thing left.’

Benjamin Reynolds pushed his foot against the floor and his chair swung gently around to face the window. ‘We should do that. We will if you insist on it.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Glover, addressing his words to the back of his superior’s head.

Reynolds shoved his chair around again and looked at his subordinate. ‘I think we can do the job better ourselves. Justice, Treasury, even the Bureau. They’re accountable to a dozen committees. We’re not.’

‘We’re extending the lines of our authority.’

‘I don’t think so. As long as I sit in this chair that’s pretty much my decision, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is. Why do you want us to take it on?’

‘Because there’s something diseased in all this. I saw it in the old woman’s eyes.’

That’s hardly clear logic.’

‘It’s enough. I saw it.’

‘Ben? If anything turns up we think is beyond us, you’ll go to the attorney general?’

‘My word.’

‘You’re on. What do we do now?’

Benjamin Reynolds rose from his chair. ‘Is Canfield still in Arizona?’

‘Phoenix.’

‘Get him here.’

Canfield. A complicated man for a complicated assignment. Reynolds did not like him, did not completely trust him. But he would make progress faster than any of the others.

And in the event he decided to sell out, Ben Reynolds would know it. He would spot it somehow. Canfield wasn’t that experienced.

If that happened Reynolds would bear down on the field accountant and get to the truth of the Scarlatti business. Canfield was expendable.

Yes, Matthew Canfield was a good choice. If he pursued the Scarlattis on Group Twenty’s terms, they could ask no more. If, on the other hand, he found different terms—terms too lucrative to refuse—he would be called in and broken.

Destroyed. But they would know the truth.

Ben Reynolds sat down and wondered at his own cynicism. There was no question about it. The fastest way to solve the mystery behind the Scarlattis was for Matthew Canfield to be a pawn. A pawn who trapped himself.