Chapter 85 - Voices from Across the Atlantic
As the Peugeot careened down the northern slope toward the glittering expanse of the Strait of Gibraltar, my satellite phone chimed again. The signal was weak, skipping through European relay towers, but Patrice’s caller ID flashed clearly.
I tapped the speaker button and wedged the device against the dashboard.
"Myrna! Thank God," Patrice’s voice crackled through bursts of static. "Where are you?"
"Heading north toward Tangier," I shouted over the roar of the wind whipping through the shattered rear window. "Roland is two hundred yards off our rear bumper. Tell me what's happening in New Hampshire."
"The FBI field office executed a search warrant on Caleb’s residence an hour ago," Patrice said, her words clipped and professional. "They found five hundred thousand dollars in bearer bonds hidden in the drywall behind the boiler. Caleb broke immediately. He’s singing everything he knows about Roland’s dummy corporations."
"And Tori?" I asked, bracing myself against the dashboard as Lind swerved to avoid a slow-moving agricultural truck.
"Tori is hysterical," Patrice replied without sympathy. "She tried to tell the federal agents that the money was yours—that you were using their basement to launder overseas funds. But Caleb wouldn't back her up. He showed them the text thread where Roland promised them the deed to your property if they kept you out of the country for two weeks."
A wave of cold certainty washed over me. All the drama on my doorstep at dawn—the red folder, the four crying grandchildren, the luggage dumped in my hallway—had never been about a family vacation to Japan. It had been an orchestrated eviction. They needed me out of the country so Roland’s repo team could enter the house without a tenant present, seize Arthur’s safe from the cellar, and legally foreclose under Caleb’s forged power of attorney.
"Patrice," I said, my voice steadying to iron. "I’m transmitting the ledger's final index numbers right now. Dump them directly into the federal grand jury filing in Boston."
"Send it," Patrice urged. "If those numbers hit the federal register, Roland's diplomatic protections in Europe vanish instantly."
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Behind us, the leading Land Cruiser struck our rear bumper with a deafening jolt of twisted metal.
***
