The Scam

“The only reason I’m going to bring him to your door and not to prison is because the State Department doesn’t want this episode ever coming to light,” Houlihan said. “But if I were you, I’d let him know he just used the only get-out-of-jail-free card he’s ever going to get.”

  “I will,” Kelso said.

  “We’ve got to get moving.” Burns looked at his watch again. “We need to catch a flight to Guantánamo. They’re holding a plane for us at Vandenberg.”

  Houlihan and Blake each picked up two suitcases and carried them back to the chopper. Kelso watched them go. He’d have to crack the whip on his boiler room full of poverty-wage workers in the Philippines and get them to send out twice as many scam emails as usual. He needed to generate as much cash as he could before the workers realized there was no paycheck coming, stripped the place of anything of value, and walked out on him.

  Kelso turned to Burns. “When will I hear from you?”

  “You won’t. If it all goes well, your grandson will show up at your door. If it doesn’t, you’ll see him on the news being perp-walked in Havana. Either way, this meeting never happened. The U.S. government was never involved. Are we clear?”

  Kelso nodded. “Thanks for your help.”

  “It’s what you pay your taxes for.”

  Actually, Kelso didn’t pay his taxes, because he had no legitimate income to declare. It was one more reason he’d paid the outrageous bribe to the Cubans.

  Burns jogged back to the helicopter and climbed in beside the pilot. The chopper lifted up, veered off over the Pacific, and headed north toward Vandenberg.

  As the sound of the chopper receded, Kelso heard a car coming up the driveway. He walked around to the front of the house to see who it was. A black Lincoln MKT with livery plates came to a stop, and a lanky guy in a loose-fitting tank top, board shorts, and sandals hopped out of the backseat with a big smile on his sunburned face. It took Kelso a second to realize it was his grandson Ernie.

  “Wow, what an amazing trip,” Ernie said. “Thanks for sending the limo, Grandpa. How did you know when I was coming back? Did the contest guys call you?”

  The enormity of what this meant hit Kelso like a sucker punch in the gut. He staggered, leaning on the house for support. Ernie rushed over, grabbed him, and held him upright.

  “Grandpa, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  The helicopter came back and circled low over the house. For a moment, Kelso couldn’t breathe. All he could do was gasp for air and look up into the sky. How could I have been so stupid?

  They couldn’t fly the fake State Department helicopter into LAX, so Willie flew to Culver City and landed on top of a parking structure for the DoubleTree hotel. From there Jake took the hotel’s airport shuttle to his terminal, and Nick and Kate flew back to the apartment on Sunset. They unloaded the suitcases onto the rooftop, and Willie took off again. This time heading north, on her own.

  “Where’s she going?” Kate asked.

  “To a vacant farm up in Ojai that belongs to the IRS. She’ll repaint the chopper and keep it under wraps until we need it again.”

  “We’re keeping it?”

  “Why not? We bought it.”

  Pull out my fingernails, Kate thought. It would be less painful than babysitting Nick Fox.

  “Okay, we can hold on to it for a while, but only if Willie gets herself a valid pilot’s license,” Kate said.

  “You need to stop thinking so much like an FBI agent,” Nick said.

  “I am an FBI agent.”

  “Yes, but you’re a criminal when you’re with me. The law is for people who have nothing to hide. The purpose of a genuine pilot’s license is to identify you, prove you have met all of the legal requirements to fly an aircraft, and hold you responsible for your actions. We don’t want anyone to know who we are, or what we’ve done.”

  “Okay, I get that, but she’s had lessons, right? I mean she didn’t just get into the helicopter and take off, did she?”

  “She’s spent hours with a certified instructor. She’s absolutely qualified to fly that aircraft.”

  Nick picked up two of the suitcases full of cash and headed toward the elevator.

  “Don’t bother,” Kate said, carrying her suitcases toward the stairwell. “It’s out of order.”

  “No, it’s not.” He pushed the call button. “I wanted to discourage realtors and squatters from encroaching on my privacy. And I thought it would be inspiring to see you all sweaty and breathing heavy.”

  “I wasn’t sweaty and breathing heavy.”

  “I noticed,” Nick said. “If you put those suitcases down and let me have my way with you, I could get you there.”

  “Good grief. Are you flirting with me?”

  “Honey, my intentions are way past flirting.”

  “Your intentions could get you a knee in the groin.”

  Nick grinned. “At least your mind’s on the right body part.”

  Kate gave a grunt of feigned disgust and stepped into the open elevator. She was an FBI agent, and sleeping with Nick, a wanted felon, was a line she wasn’t willing to cross. She’d already crossed so many lines, helping Nick swindle and steal and stay out of prison, that she often wondered what made keeping Nick at arm’s length so important to her.

  Nick reached past her and slid a key card into the control panel, and the elevator descended. A moment later the elevator doors opened into the penthouse foyer. The penthouse had floor-to-ceiling windows and a terrific view of the Los Angeles basin. Carl Jessup stood at the window, watching the helicopter fly off. There was a thick file folder under his arm. Nick and Kate walked in and set down their suitcases.

  “That looks a lot like a U.S. government helicopter leaving here,” Jessup said, turning around to face them.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Nick said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t dare argue with you about that,” Jessup said. “You’re the expert on that subject.”

  Jessup had the tanned, weathered face and sinewy body of a man who’d spent his fifty-some years outdoors, working a field or raising cattle, but it came from genes, not experience. He’d been in the FBI since he graduated from college.

  “What brings you here, sir?” Kate asked.

  “I asked myself the same question a few times as I was going up those stairs,” Jessup said. “Damn near had a heart attack.”

  “The elevator is working now,” Kate said. “You won’t have any issues with it going down.”

  Jessup cut his eyes to Nick. “So what have you done with the million dollars you took from us?”

  “I turned it into five million in less than a week.” Nick gestured to the suitcases. “Not a bad return on our investment.”

  “The goal of our clandestine operation isn’t to make money,” Jessup said.

  “But it doesn’t hurt,” Nick said.

  Jessup frowned and shifted his gaze to Kate. “Who was the target of this swindle?”

  “A con man named Stuart Kelso, a major perpetrator of the grandparent scam,” Kate said. “He tricks old people into sending him money to get their grandchildren out of desperate situations. Kelso doesn’t deserve our sympathy, sir.”

  “He won’t get any from me, but that’s not the issue,” Jessup said. “How did you get him to give you five million dollars?”

  Nick smiled. “I ran the grandparent scam on him.”

  “Of course you did,” Jessup said. “I’m sure you thought it would be great fun.”

  “It was,” Nick said.

  “You aren’t supposed to be running cons for fun anymore,” Jessup said. “You’re supposed to be doing it to put very bad people in prison. All you did was take Kelso’s money and make a fool out of him. He’ll just go back to hustling old people out of their Social Security checks.”

  “Check your email,” Nick said. “You’ve got an important message from your daughter.”

  Jessup used his phone to browse his email. “She says that she’s in Budapest, her wallet and passport
have been stolen, and she needs me to wire her two thousand dollars right away. Where did this email really come from?”

  “Kelso’s boiler room in Manila, where he’s got a dozen Filipinos who send out emails to hundreds of grandparents every month using information gleaned from Facebook,” Nick said. “One of my associates hacked into Kelso’s computers last night. He sent out emails like the one you got to the U.S. attorney general, all nine justices of the U.S. Supreme Court, and the police chiefs of every major American city. Each email is embedded with digital breadcrumbs that lead directly to Kelso’s boiler room. I’ll bet you five million dollars that Kelso will be in handcuffs within forty-eight hours.”

  Jessup nodded, not so much with approval than with grudging respect. “I’d wager that it’ll be closer to twenty-four hours.”

  Kate was relieved. Jessup’s comment was the closest thing to his retroactive approval that they were going to get. Probably best not to mention the newly acquired helicopter at this time.

  “Since you’re in a betting mood, you’ll like your next assignment,” Jessup said, handing Kate the file folder under his arm. “We want you to take down Evan Trace.”

  Evan Trace was the forty-year-old owner of Côte d’Argent, the Las Vegas casino where the generation of celebrities who’d never known a world without The Simpsons did their gambling, partying, and general debauchery. He was a dead ringer for Brad Pitt, a resemblance he played to the hilt in a series of stylish commercials for Côte d’Argent. He’d made himself the new, hip face of Vegas.

  “Trace’s boutique casinos in Las Vegas and Macau are laundromats for terrorists, mobsters, drug lords, street gangs, and despots who want to wash their dirty money,” Jessup said. “They turn around and use that clean cash to do all sorts of nasty things, like buy weapons, bribe politicians, and finance terrorist attacks.”

  “It’s simple, really,” Nick said. “You walk into a casino with some money, buy a bunch of chips, and gamble for a while. Then you hand over the chips that you have left to someone else, say the owner of a vintage Ferrari you want to buy, and he cashes them in. That’s it. There is no record that ties you to the transaction. Your money has been washed.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re speaking from experience,” Jessup said.

  Kate set the file on the massive coffee table. “I know he is. I’ve seen the Ferrari.”

  “Playing baccarat is a much more entertaining way to move cash than working with crooked bankers, crafty accountants, and shell corporations,” Nick said. “And you get free drinks while you’re doing it, too.”

  “I get why you do it,” Kate said. “But I don’t see what’s in it for Trace.”

  “He gets whatever a player loses gambling and a five percent skim at the cashier’s cage when the chips are cashed in,” Jessup said. “Plus he makes some very powerful friends.”

  “It seems so easy,” Kate said. “I’m surprised that more casinos aren’t doing it.”

  “That’s because we closely watch what goes on here, or at least we try to,” Jessup said. “But nobody’s watching in Macau.”

  “Why not?” Kate asked.

  “There are thirty-five casinos in Macau, and combined they generate forty billion dollars annually in gambling revenue,” Jessup said. “The Chinese government takes forty percent of that in taxes.”

  “That’s their skim,” Nick said. “Not counting the kickbacks and bribes the casinos pay to local cops and government officials.”

  “That’s a lot of incentive to look the other way,” she said.

  “And they do,” Jessup said. “In Macau, ninety percent of the gambling revenue comes from whales: super-rich gamblers who’ll bet millions of dollars in one night. We know from our surveillance that most of the whales that gamble at Côte d’Argent are laundering money for al-Qaeda, ISIS, and other terrorist groups who target Americans. That makes Trace a criminal and a traitor. He has to be stopped. But the U.S. has no jurisdiction in Macau, and the Chinese government won’t help.”

  “Seems like a job for the CIA,” Nick said.

  “The White House won’t let them touch it,” Jessup said. “They won’t take the risk that U.S. spies might get caught sneaking around in Chinese territory.”

  “But you don’t mind risking us,” Nick said.

  “You’re a fugitive, wanted for crimes in a dozen countries, and she’s the FBI agent you seduced into bed and into a scheme to rip off Trace’s casino,” Jessup said. “That will be an easy story to sell if you get caught.”

  “Nick hasn’t seduced me,” Kate said.

  “Not for lack of trying,” Nick said.

  “It will be a tawdry scandal,” Jessup said. “But not one that will deeply embarrass the United States.”

  “It will deeply embarrass me,” Kate said.

  “So don’t get caught,” Jessup said.

  —

  After Jessup left, Kate read through the file on Trace while Nick emptied the suitcases of cash onto the coffee table and counted the money.

  She briefed Nick as she went along.

  “Trace got his start in the gambling business running a small Indian casino in the desert outside of Palm Springs,” Kate said. “Then, six years ago, he bought an unfinished Vegas condo tower, which had stalled midway through construction because the builder went bankrupt. Trace converted it into a 350-room hotel and casino. When he opened up, he hired beautiful young women and hard-bodied young men to hang around his topless pool as eye candy.”

  “That beats a high-seas pirate battle outside the hotel or a huge fountain of dancing water,” Nick said, stacking the money on one side of the vast coffee table as he counted it. “It’s also a lot cheaper.”

  “He also invites celebrities to stay for free,” Kate said. “Especially the ones likely to get into trouble and make tabloid headlines.”

  “Saving him a fortune on publicity. Either he’s a tightwad or he was improvising because he was strapped for cash.”

  “To lure in customers, he offered winning slot machines, bargain buffets, cheap rooms, and very strong drinks. People came in droves. But what really put him over the top were his TV commercials.”

  “Never saw one,” Nick said.

  “They were inescapable.”

  “I was too busy running from you to watch TV.”

  “Here’s the one everybody knows.” Kate powered up Nick’s laptop, went to YouTube, and played one of Trace’s commercials. Nick watched it over her shoulder.

  The commercial was set late at night. The colors were so washed out that the picture was almost black and white. Trace walked down the Vegas Strip in a rumpled Armani tuxedo, his bow tie undone and collar open, and dragged on a cigarette, sucking every last molecule of nicotine out of it. He trudged past the erupting volcano, the Eiffel Tower, the New York skyline, all rendered seedy and crass in the harsh shadows, while he spoke to the camera in a voice made raw from a long night of smoking and drinking.

  “What a f—king joke,” Trace said.

  The obscenity was muted, but it didn’t really make a difference. It was obvious what he’d said.

  “You won’t find an authentic experience here. Not on this street. Not in these places.”

  Trace turned the corner, off the Strip, and there was Côte d’Argent, a slim black tower, untouched by gaudiness or pretense. He opened the door and looked straight into the camera.

  “Gambling. Partying. No f—king gondolas.”

  The obscenity was lost in the bells and coin clatter of a slot machine paying off. He took one last drag on his cigarette, flicked it into the street, and walked into the casino. The commercial ended.

  “That’s their slogan,” Kate said. “ ‘No freakin’ gondolas.’ ”

  “Catchy,” Nick said.

  “He put it on T-shirts, hats, and coffee mugs,” Kate said. “The first two years that Côte d’Argent was in business, Trace made more money off his branded merchandise than he did from his hotel.”

  Nick went ba
ck to counting stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “If we really want to learn about Evan Trace and the inner workings of his casino, we’ll need to take a trip to Vegas. Be a couple of whales.”

  Kate could see where this was going. “We are not going to gamble with the government’s money.”

  “It’s not the government’s money. It’s cash stolen from Stuart Kelso.”

  “By the FBI.”

  “Illegally,” he said.

  “For the greater good,” Kate said, thinking that was kind of lame, but it was the best she could do to justify their actions.

  “Fine. We’re gambling with this money for the greater good,” Nick said. “And for the free drinks.”

  “Will the buffet be free, too?”

  “It’ll definitely be comped.”

  “Let’s do it,” Kate said.

  Nick and Kate were on a private jet headed to Las Vegas. It had taken two days to organize, but Nick had needed the extra day to set up their fake identities as Nick Sweet, international entrepreneur, and Kate Porter, his executive assistant. It also gave Jessup time to wipe their real identities from various law enforcement databases and temporarily replace them with their new ones.

  Nick wore a gray, impeccably tailored Tom Ford suit with a white shirt and blue silk tie.

  Kate wore a skin-tight red Herve Leger bandage dress. It had a plunging neckline, cap sleeves, and a skirt that was so short, there was almost no way Kate could get up from a chair without making everyone her gynecologist. Nick had picked it out for her because she had nothing like it. Kate’s closet was mostly full of tank tops and jeans and her FBI windbreaker.

  Kate picked an almond from a small bowl of heated nuts. “I don’t get it. Nick Sweet and Kate Porter. Why are you a dessert, and I’m a beer?”

  Nick looked across the aisle at her. “Would you rather be the dessert?”

  Kate ate the almond and thought about it. “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I’d rather be a morning glory muffin.”

  “Hard to fit that on a passport,” Nick said.

  Kate nodded. “What exactly is the job of an international entrepreneur?”