Epilogue
Eight months later
Angelo slowed to a walk, enjoying the colors of the brightening sky over the Mediterranean as he finished his daily run. No wonder Maji called this the magic hour. What he wouldn’t give to be able to share this with her. To share anything with anyone he knew. Well, not anyone. Just the handful that wouldn’t want him dead again.
Inside the marina, he strolled down the dock he called home for now, waving to a few early risers, who greeted him by his new name. And in the cockpit of his little sloop, there was the first of six newspapers he would read today. Three in English, one in Russian, one in Arabic, and one in the new language.
Attorney General Indicts Record Number of Suspects for Wire Fraud, RICO Violations, the front page of the New York Times announced. The article went into some detail about Operation Rolling Thunder, giving the FBI credit for painstakingly setting up the sweep, with dozens of agents working together across federal departments for over a year. The article was light on details about how they had managed to identify the suspects and gather enough evidence to issue indictments, after years of floundering to secure even a few. Typical. Not that it mattered—the Feds got more than they’d hoped for out of his work.
Iris’s series, released every few weeks over the fall and winter, was much more informative. The first article, published just a week after his funeral, capitalized on his death. The tabloids loved mob killings but never asked why the celebrity criminals killed each other. Iris intimated that her law enforcement sources confirmed that he was murdered for a program that improved organized crime’s already pretty sophisticated money laundering techniques. He had to hand it to her—she knew how to throw out a hook. The next story went into some detail about how big an issue electronic laundering had become and pumped up the volume by pointing out how little national governments and commercial banks were doing about it. A nice dose of righteous indignation, for anyone who cared. The third gave average citizens a reason to care, tying money laundering to specific cases of terrorist cell and training camp funding.
By the time the virus kicked in, and trillions of dollars got sucked out of illegal accounts overnight, the public had forgotten about Angelo’s death. Iris’s piece, “NGOs: Surprise Beneficiaries of Untraced Funds,” probably seemed a bit out of place in the series. But it was part of their agreement, and he appreciated the confirmation that the funds he’d worked so hard to remove from Khodorov’s and Sirko’s client lists were winding up where they might do some good. And he had chuckled a little at how flummoxed the banking authories were.
Funds show up with no source information in thousands of NGO accounts. Authorities are asking individuals or organizations who find unexpected electronic deposits to notify their banking institutions. What happens to funds with no known source? “This is an unprecedented situation,” admitted Steven Wright, Chairman of the FDIC. “The Attorney General and OIG are researching the matter. Money which cannot be returned to its sender may lawfully belong to the recipient, once standard protocols are followed.” The FDIC will be issuing a set of protocols for financial institutions to follow, to ensure that identification of the funds’ source has been attempted using all current technology available.
Iris had really come through, he had to admit. She’d kept publishing, even after the first attempt on her life, which she’d turned into a story that sounded likely to earn her a book deal. And the paper had just kept pumping out her articles, syndicating them to news outlets all over the world. Security at the office, and the editors’ houses, must be hellacious.
As much fun as the media was having, speculating about who the Digital Robin Hood had liberated all that money from, it really blew up when Iris outed him. As little as Angelo wanted his old face all over the internet again, it had to be done. She used the statement he had given her, carefully crafted to protect the team while explaining why a Benedetti would give his own life to take on global terrorism. News of Yuri Khodorov’s very public execution followed only days later. Angelo was relieved to hear nothing about Sander. Maybe he’d seen the tidal wave coming and used the last of Papa’s hard currency to buy himself a life raft.
Only the New York papers covered Gino’s indictment, a small matter overshadowed by the gravity of world events. The trial looked to go well, with Frank’s testimony, and Gino having to use a public defender like any other broke criminal.
Angelo reached across the cockpit and grunted when his shoulder screamed at him. Maji hadn’t lied when she said the scar removal process was worse than the burn itself. And his sinuses hurt whenever he leaned forward, thanks to the facial reconstruction. He wasn’t as good-looking anymore, but maybe a good man wouldn’t care so much. Of course, he’d have to master yet another language before then and get the whole life story for his cover ironed out before he could really date.
Where the hell was Sander now? Angelo looked at his shiny new laptop, then decided for the umpteenth time against opening it. He could find out so much, if he just went online. Not knowing how his mother, Maji, and Rose were doing drove him nuts, too. If he started hunting down any of them, he’d get carried away, maybe even leave a trail. No, he’d meant to be buried. And he would respect the risk Maji and the team had taken, against his orders, and stay gone. It was hard to be pissed at them on such a beautiful morning.
Rose sat front row center for Neda Kamiri’s lecture. She’d driven all the way to Berkeley for it, nearly three hours in traffic slowed by March rain. It was worth it. In the wings, stage right, she could see a petite figure in the shadows, fitted out in black from head to toe—black cap, neatly pressed button-down shirt, BDUs, and, of course, running shoes. Under the cap, no doubt, chocolate and caramel hair pulled back into a french braid. She couldn’t make out the look on Maji’s face, just waited for her to pause while scanning the crowd of students and older fans in the front rows. Rose nodded, and got a single nod back.
At the reception, she saw Maji keeping a watchful eye on the room, close enough to her mother to reach her but far enough away to see everyone else. Rose saw Maji speak into a lapel mike, glancing in her direction, and she looked around to see who might be on the other end of the invisible line. No one else in the room stood out. But then, they wouldn’t, would they?
“Hi,” Rose said, offering her hand. “I’m Dr. RoseMarie diStephano, from Bonaventure College. And you are?”
Maji took her hand. Her eyes had their old spark back. “Maji Rios, Paragon Security. Nice of you to drive up. Did you want to meet Dr. Kamiri?”
“May I? I mean, yes, I’d love to. But I’m a little worried I’ll start fangirling and embarrass myself.”
“Just be yourself. I’m sure she’ll appreciate meeting you.”
Rose smiled. “Maybe afterward, you could tell me how I did? Over coffee, or something.”
“Enticing as something sounds,” Maji said, her cheeks dimpling, “coffee’s all I can make time for.”
The café in the student union was a little crowded, but Maji could see all the exits. If they leaned in, they could hear each other fine. She just hadn’t counted on what seeing Rose again would do to her.
“Is this a safe place to talk?” Rose asked.
Maji made an effort to visibly relax. “Yes. And I’m on radio silent. If I run off…”
“I won’t take it personally.” Rose paused. “So, you’re working for Paragon?”
Maji shook her head. “Couple weeks pro bono. My school break, before I present my thesis.”
“Wow! That’s great. I’m happy for you. And that’s very generous for a student.”
Maji shrugged. “A couple weeks’ wages is enough to send one girl to camp next year. And what do I need it for? I’m getting ready to pay gift tax on five million. Aren’t you?”
“No,” Rose said. “I took the other option. I just couldn’t leave the money in my account, knowing where it might have come from.” She lifted one eyebrow. “And I recall you saying there was nothing you needed.”
“Nothing money will get me. But I thought I might enjoy Robin Hooding a little. Anonymous gifts to strangers, you know.”
“Now, that does sound like you.”
The twinkle in Rose’s eyes made Maji’s chest hurt. “It makes me feel closer to him,” she confessed.
Rose reached out and stroked Maji’s cheek. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. Surely now that we know what he was really up to, you understand why he didn’t tell us. Especially you.”
Maji inclined her head in acknowledgment. “I would have wanted to stop him. But if I did, you would have gotten hurt, for sure—killed. Probably your whole family.”
“That’s too hard a choice to ask anyone you love to make. And he did love you.”
“I know.”
They sat quietly a moment, sipping from the institutional white ceramic mugs. Not a very romantic reunion. But that was a good thing, right? Seeing Rose addled her brain enough, even here. Maji pulled an item from the back of her waistband. “I was going to send you this, but then Bubbles said you might be here, so…”
Rose felt the shape through the wrapping. “A book?” She ripped the shiny paper off with childlike anticipation on her face. She studied the cover of Vandana Shiva’s Monocultures of the Mind with a wrinkled brow, but when she opened the cover, she gasped. “Maji! It’s a first edition. And signed! Do you know how hard these are to come by?”
Maji laughed. “It’s easier if you know somebody who knows her. I know you lost several books in the fire, but that one was your favorite, right?”
In answer, Rose leaned across the table and kissed Maji on the cheek. Her eyes said she wanted to do more, but she sat back into her own chair again instead. “I have a conference to attend later this spring. Traditional foods and cultural preservation by American tribes. You think you might have time?”
“You need a translator?” Maji teased. “Or a bodyguard?”
“Neither. Just company.”
Real people time. With Rose. Oh, man. “Well, I never really know if I’ll be free when I want to be.”
Rose’s face betrayed her frustration. “If you don’t want to, just say so.”
“No—I do. But this is just what I tried to explain, before. I could make plans, and look forward to it, and at the last minute get called away. I don’t get to negotiate. If you retracted the offer, I’d understand.”
“You’ll make it, or you won’t. Je ne regrette rien.” Rose stood. “When I have my itinerary, I’ll send it, care of Paragon, US.”
Her teammate’s voice broke into the thoughts Maji struggled to put together. She keyed the lapel mike. “On my way.” She stood and told Rose, with genuine regret, “They’re moving out. I’ve got to go.”
Rose moved around the table and gave her a soft kiss on the lips—a mere whisper. “Stay safe.”
“You, too.” Maji turned and headed back to her team. She really should have said no to Rose’s offer, pushed her away and set her free to find someone who could make her happy. Too late, Rios.