Smith swallowed hard. He had. Using the Grand Cayman Trust, notoriously lax in their oversight and regulations, enabled him to move and launder vast amounts of money without leaving a paper trail to Folcroft Sanitarium or him personally. The system had worked perfectly-until now.
"According to Chemical Percolators; they did not receive the wire transfer of funds," Smith said.
"According to our records, it was sent and received."
"Chemical Percolators is a very large, very reputable institution," Smith pointed out in a tone that could not be misinterpreted.
"Yet you chose our fine institution," the bank manager answered in a frosty tone.
"A mistake."
"Would you like to close out the remainder of your account, then?" the manager said in a thin voice. "All ... twenty-five dollars of it?"
"No. I will get back to you."
"Always happy to serve."
Smith hung up. He removed his rimless eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes. This was impossible. Money does not disappear en route. Then Smith realized that the money had moved electronically. In a physical sense, it had not moved at all. Only electrons, sent by computer and backed up by a voice confirmation, had moved.
Someone had raided the CURE bank account and, during the transfer, redirected and misappropriated nearly twelve million dollars in taxpayer funds.
That someone would have to be tracked down. Smith still had the matter at hand to resolve.
He would have to replenish the CURE operating fund.
OVER THE DECADES CURE operations had grown exponentially. Just as Smith had been forced to upgrade his computer system to its present state, so had his operating budget mushroomed. In the first decade of CURE, it had been possible to draw millions of dollars out of various off-the-books CIA, DIA, NSA and other Intelligence-community operating funds undetected because there was little or no congressional oversight on such black-budget expenditures once appropriated.
But CURE had one day outgrown the ability to do that undetected by its sheer voracious financial need. A blind had to be created, a federal agency whose mandated purpose was too important to ever be closed or suffer budget cutbacks, one with an annual operating budget vast enough that CURE could siphon off funds at will without arousing suspicion.
Smith normally moved funds from this agency by computer to the Grand Cayman Trust-a notorious haven for money laundering-to ensure absolute security. There was no avoiding it. He reached for the concealed stud that would bring his terminal humming up from his desk well.
Smith pressed the stud. Almost at once the intercom buzzed, and his secretary said, "Dr. Smith. There's someone to see you."
"I have no appointments this morning," said Smith as the desktop panel dropped slightly before it was to slide to one side.
"It's Mr. Ballard."
"Ballard? I know no-"
"He's from the IRS, Dr. Smith," the secretary said. Smith hit the stud again. The scarred oak panel reversed its mechanical course to return flush to the top of the desk and vanish from casual inspection.
"The IRS?" Smith said dully.
"Shall I send him in?"
Smith hesitated. Lips thinning, he said, "Yes." He did not sound enthusiastic.
The door opened and a balding pear of a man wearing bifocals entered, carrying an imitation-leather briefcase.
"Dr. Smith. My name is Bryce Ballard." He put out a pudgy hand.
"Is that your real name?" Smith said without warmth.
"No, actually it isn't."
"But you do claim to be with the IRS?"
"Here's my identification."
Ballard showed an IRS revenue agent's card that appeared genuine.
"I have reason to believe you are not who you say you are," Smith said flatly.
"You can check with my office," said Ballard. He waved toward the couch. "May I sit down?"
"Yes," said Smith, dialling the number the man gave him.
"Internal Revenue Service," a voice, announced. "Ask to speak with Mr. Vonneau," Ballard called over.
"I would like to speak with Mr. Vonneau."
"One moment, sir," a switchboard operator said crisply. Smith regarded the man Ballard. He looked harmless enough.
He might easily pass for an IRS revenue agent, but Smith had excellent reason for thinking him an impostor.
"Vonneau speaking," an unemotional voice said. "This is Dr. Harold W Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium, Rye, New York," said Smith. "I have a man in my office who claims to be here to audit me. He gave his name as Bryce Ballard, although he admits that is not his true name."
"Describe him, please."
Smith described Ballard in flat but accurate terms. "That's Ballard. As you know, Dr. Smith, IRS agents for their own personal protection are allowed to assume authorized pseudonyms."
"Then I am being audited?" Smith said in a disbelieving voice.
"You are."
"Impossible."
"Actually, we're auditing quite a number of medical facilities. Don't worry, you're in good hands. Ballard is thorough and, of course, fair."
"What I meant to say," Smith said, "is that I received no official notice of an audit."
"Give me your business-taxpayer identification number."
Smith rattled off the number from memory. There was silence on the line. Then Vonneau came back to say, "According to my files, the notice was sent out a week ago, and an appointment was arranged for today by telephone."
"I did no such thing," Smith said tartly.