Information—twenty million dollars funneled through an obscure art gallery, in a way that had taken an expert hacker several attempts to find it. He'd bet the man sitting across from him had no idea it existed, and for someone who probably had a piece of everything that went on within his district, a percentage-take on twenty million, just for the privilege of doing business in Paris, came to a healthy sum.
It was a lesson he'd learned embedded in the Middle East—everyone always got their piece. It was just a matter of getting what you wanted or needed, in return.
And then there were the weapons. Did Captain Jack know about them? Was he part of it? Follow the money.
From what Anthony had told him, Captain Jack, whoever the hell he really was, controlled the underground of Paris—goods, services, some legal, many not. And the French authorities looked the other way because his enterprises generated capital, and he also controlled a vast army of enforcers whose job description was to protect his business interests. And business interests such as his had undoubtedly suffered terrorist activity that had hit the city. No one liked to lose money, no matter which side they were on.
“Information for information,” he replied.
Captain Jack exchanged an amused look with one of his guards. “What can you tell me that I do not already know about my city?”
“Twenty million US, possibly more, being moved through a local business.”
It was possible that Captain Jack already knew about the amount of money moving through the gallery. Then again maybe not. But it was a safe bet he didn't know about the weapons. Beside him, Anthony took a slow deep breath.
It was a dangerous game, trading information for information, or the promise of a great deal of money for information. He'd learned that in Afghanistan, working with local tribal leaders.
The enemy of my enemy...
Captain Jack's eyes narrowed. It was the only physical reaction, but from experience it told him what he needed to know, and what Captain Jack didn't know.
“How would you have such information?” Captain Jack casually replied, fingers drumming on the table top.
“I know people.”
Captain Jack leaned forward in his chair. His gaze met James' in slow appraisal.
“You are not from Paris. What people do you know?” He reached out and grabbed James' wrist. He stared at the tattoo of the sword that ran the length of his arm.
“The blade— a symbol of power and strength. Tell me, what are you a captain of?”
James sensed rather than saw Anthony's sudden uneasy movement.
He thought of the others with that identical mark, three of them, a team, a brotherhood, and that long weekend leave before that next mission when they had all gotten that identical tattoo.
On the teams there was no rank. It disappeared when you went out. There was only the man next to you, and the man next to him, a brotherhood. And then that last mission, and of the four he was the only one to come back alive.
“Myself,” he replied, holding onto the memory.
Again there was that quiet appraisal. Captain Jack released him.
“This is my city,” he explained. “I was born here, my parents before, and several generations before that. But there is an evil in Paris today, people murdered in the streets.” He made a sweeping gesture of the nightclub.
“In nightclubs, concert halls, sports arenas. There are those who bleed my city, and I don't like it. When my city suffers, the people suffer, and I don't like that. Now, tell me about twenty million dollars.”
Information for information.
He told Captain Jack what he knew, that someone was moving high numbers in his city, possibly in stolen artifacts. It seemed a natural connection—the gallery and stolen art, remembering the collection of looted artifacts they'd come across in the desert mountains on an early mission. He was dangling the carrot, a carrot that Captain Jack might profit from. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.
“There are large transfers of money,” he explained. “Several million at a time, twenty million over the past twelve months, all of it into an untraceable account.”
Captain Jack snorted. “And you just happen to have this information about these untraceable accounts.”
“I know someone.”
People like Captain Jack, who made their living in the shadows, relied on information. If someone lied, they were probably found in some back alley with their throat cut, or floating in the river.
The Captain nodded. “Twenty million. That is a great deal of money for someone who never has gallery showings in a gallery that is rarely open except to receive shipments. I know this, because I also know someone.”
