Puzzle by Nora Phoenix

 

1

In the background, phones were ringing, and people were talking, the occasional burst of laughter drifting into his office, but Ryder was focused on his work. Sipping his coffee, he was going through the spreadsheets he’d created the day before, as always double-checking for potential errors.

His office was small, and considering it was set up for two people, he’d probably have to share it at some point, but he loved it. The window was in the perfect spot, allowing for natural light but not causing any glare on his screen, and his room was located all the way at the end of a long hallway, minimizing the number of people who dropped in randomly.

The only person who stopped by all the time was Branson, and judging by the rapidly approaching footsteps, he was about to pop in for his good-morning check-in. In the four weeks since he’d worked for the CIA, Ryder hadn’t been able to dissuade the man from that habit, no matter how clearly he communicated his annoyance.

Ryder was by nature and temperament a patient and peaceful man, but if Branson called him Ry one more time, he’d bash him over the head with his keyboard. Well, maybe not with his keyboard. He’d need that to do his job. The heavy brass lamp on his desk, then. It looked plenty sturdy to do some damage, though Branson’s head seemed so thick it probably wouldn’t even make a dent.

“Good morning, Ry…der,” Branson said, flashing that irritatingly sunny smile of his. “You look like you’re plotting murder.”

As much as he disliked him, Ryder had to admit that Branson Grove was damn good at reading people. He’d unfailingly called him Ry when he walked in since Ryder had started working here, but one look at Ryder’s face today had him changing course. Fascinating how the man seemed to sense he’d reached the end of Ryder’s patience.

“Good morning,” he said, biting back a sigh.

“Donut?”

Branson held out a Dunkin’ Donuts box, flipping it open. He had Boston Kreme donuts. Branson wasn’t playing fair, was he? It hadn’t taken him long to discover Ryder’s weakness for sugary treats, especially if they contained chocolate. Every time Ryder had wanted to throttle him, Branson had averted his intentions by offering snacks. Between that and his brown puppy eyes, Ryder had a hard time holding on to his irritation.

That Branson was way too good looking didn’t help either. His checkered dress shirt was molded tightly around his muscles, showing off the perfect lines of his biceps and chest. And Ryder had no doubt that the man had a six-pack hidden underneath. He looked like a classic jock, one of those annoying, overly muscled assholes who had tried to make Ryder’s life hell in high school. Not that they’d ever succeeded. Ryder simply hadn’t cared enough about their opinion to let their stupid remarks get to him, and once they’d realized that, they’d quickly moved on to another victim. In other words, Branson Grove was hot as fuck. Ryder wasn’t sure of Branson’s sexual orientation, though. Not that it mattered.

“I’ll take one. Thank you,” he added, if only because his parents had instilled manners in him. He’d had to force himself to use them with Branson, but he’d made his folks proud so far. Then again, he always had…and it hadn’t been hard.

“My pleasure.”

God, Branson was so…happy. In itself annoying, but especially at eight in the morning, when Ryder was still working on his first cup of coffee. He needed at least two to be fully awake, three before anyone should even attempt a conversation. Couldn’t a man wake up in peace anymore?

Branson magically made a napkin appear and handed it to Ryder, who took it and used it to take his donut out of the box. He set it on his desk, then turned back to his screen.

“Don’t forget to eat it.”

He frowned at Branson. “What?”

Branson gestured at the donut. “Make sure you actually eat it.”

“Of course I will.”

“You mean, like two days ago, when you finally realized you were hungry at three p.m.?”

Ryder’s cheeks heated. “I was focused on my work.”

Branson’s smile was gentle. “I know. Just make sure you eat it sooner, okay? You get grumpy when you haven’t eaten.”

“Hangry.” Ryder cleared his throat. “The correct term is hangry.”

“I’m not worried about labeling it correctly as much as I am about preventing it. For both our sakes.”

Ryder didn’t look at him. Even more annoying than Branson’s stubborn cheerfulness was the fact that he was often right. Frustratingly often. “I will.”

“Good. Let me catch up on my email and study the reports from the night shift, and then I’ll check in with you, and we can talk about where we’re at.” Branson checked his watch. “Nine okay for you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

That would allow him time to finish the brief for the legal team on the access he needed from the Central Bank of the United Arab Emirates. Once that was done, he’d call Corey, the FBI’s forensic accountant, to hear about his progress.

Branson must have left at some point, though Ryder hadn’t noticed, too immersed in his work. After double-checking his report for Legal, he sent it off. There, done. His eyes fell on the donut, still sitting on his desk. It would have to wait a little longer. He could hardly eat while on the phone with Corey.

“Gimme one sec,” Corey said as he picked up the phone.

“Sure.”

The rapid clack-clack-clack of a keyboard made him smile. Ryder had switched the standard-issued keyboard for his own—with the approval of his supervisor, obviously. He preferred the mechanical keyboards that had a distinct clack whenever you pressed a key over the quiet ones that were common here, especially when putting in numbers on the numeric keypad. His brain somehow kept track of the sounds, knowing when he messed up. He wasn’t even sure if he heard it was the wrong sound, if the rhythm was off somehow, or what it was, but he’d know before he even looked at the screen. Apparently, Corey was the same.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Corey said. “Sorry, I was entering tax return numbers and didn’t want to have to start over.”

“No problem. Just wanted to check in with you to see if you had any news.”

“I do.” Papers rustled. “The IRS has sent Kingmakers the official notice that they’re being audited. The good news was that Kingmakers’ last tax return actually had some unexplained irregularities and differences compared to previous years, so the IRS didn’t have to search for an excuse.”

“Good. Less chance of them getting suspicious.”

“Are you familiar with how the IRS audit process works?”

Ryder smiled, even though Corey couldn’t see it. “I worked for the IRS as an auditor and later a forensic accountant, so yes, I know all the ins and outs. Who are you working with?”

“Marcia Lopez.”

“Oh, she’s the best. I worked with her on several cases. She’s one of my mentors, actually, and the person who recommended me to the CIA.”

“I’ve found her extremely pleasant and professional to work with, so that matches my experiences.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. I’ve gotten access to Kingmakers’ bank accounts and credit card statements over the last ten years. I’ve only started to go through them in detail, but I did flag all travel expenses to the Middle East in that time period. Since much of their work was for the US government in Iraq and Afghanistan, there could be a legitimate reason for visits to countries like Bahrain, Qatar, Pakistan, and the UAE, but I’ve compiled a list of all expenses and dates. That way, you can cross-reference with whatever you find on Hamza Bashir and Al Saalihin. I’ll send it to you in a minute.”

“Perfect. I look forward to that list. We’re especially interested in anything that involves Qatar, Oman, and the UAE, specifically Dubai and Abu Dhabi.”

“Oman? I wasn’t aware the investigation had links there.”

“As of now, we don’t, but it’s a quick drive from Dubai across the border into Oman, and on that side of the country, Oman consists of nothing but desert, so quite easy to do business with no one noticing.”

He was merely repeating what Branson had told him, of course. He’d done his due diligence and had performed a thorough orientation on the area, talking to several specialists and analysts to get a good picture, but Branson’s knowledge was encyclopedic. Then again, he was also fluent in Arabic, which made it easy for him to use different sources than English ones. Ryder had tried to learn French once upon a time, but his brain didn’t do well with languages.

“Gotcha. I’ll pay specific attention to those.”

“I’ll also send you a list of the critical transactions so you can look for those on your end.”

Together, Branson and Ryder had made an overview of all suspicious big transactions, like the payment for the assassination, payments to the bombers’ families, and more. It would help both Corey and Ryder in knowing what time periods to focus on initially.

“That’d be helpful. That was it for me. Anything else?” Corey asked.

“Nope, all set. Next week, same time? We can always reach out if something comes up.”

“Sounds good to me. Talk to you later,” Corey said, then ended the call.

God, Ryder loved working with people who were as task-oriented as he was. Corey didn’t chitchat, didn’t need to talk about the weather or sports or any of that shit. They both got to the point, exchanged information, and bam, done. It would save so much time if everyone were that efficient.

A ding alerted him to a new email. Corey had sent over the promised list of dates and expenses. Ryder inspected them, going slow to allow his brain time to match them to whatever information it had already stored. He’d feed the information to his software, which would automatically look for patterns, conflicts, and matching data, but his initial review often revealed the first anomalies.

He focused on expenses from 2014. The Pride Bombing had been in 2015, so the year before would have been a crucial period for preparation. Basil King and Kurt Barrow, the owners of Kingmakers, had purchased plane tickets from Washington DC to Dubai with Emirates for a trip in September 2014.

He checked all expenses in that month. They’d reserved two rooms in the Jumeira Beach Hotel, and a quick check showed that it was close to the Palm Jumeira, the famous island in the shape of a palm tree. Dutch water engineering at its finest, since it had been two Dutch firms who had reclaimed that land from the sea. Ryder’s father, an engineer, had talked about it a few times. How anyone dared to live on what had once been water was beyond Ryder, but that was a different matter.

He narrowed his eyes. King and Barrow had spent two nights at the Jumeira Beach Hotel, then another two…but one night between the two remained unaccounted for. Where had they been that night? He combed through their bank accounts and credit card records. Good god, this company used fifteen different cards and five business checking accounts in the US alone. Besides those, they had a slew of other accounts in different countries. As if they wanted to make it as difficult as possible to track their activities.

It took him an hour, but then he’d found it. One credit card had a charge from Mezyad Border Post, and when he searched for that name, the result made his heart skip a beat. They’d paid 320 dollars for two tourist visas for Oman, which would allow them to stay there for a maximum of thirty days. They must’ve crossed into Oman right after.

If Branson’s deduction based on Hamza Bashir’s clothing was correct and he was from the UAE, he wouldn’t need a visa to travel to Oman. They would’ve had to meet somewhere, though someplace where two white Americans could stay for a night and rendezvous with an Arab man without too much suspicion. Where was for Corey and Branson to find out, while Ryder would need to trace the payment for that hotel, so he put it on his list. If they had made some agreement at that contact, money would’ve likely changed hands in the weeks after.

Hmm, another trip in December 2014, this time to Qatar and for just Basil King. Had he met with Bashir there? Ryder checked all payments, his frown increasing as he put all transactions side by side. Plane ticket, hotel in Qatar for one night, a withdrawal of fifteen thousand dollars in total from their various bank accounts, and then nothing for three days. No payments, nothing. Radio silence. The payments started again three days later with a charge for a different hotel in Qatar for one night and the day after, a flight to Iraq, where King spent four days before flying home through Bahrain.

Ryder leaned back in his chair, taking a sip from his coffee. Oh, yuck. He winced at how cold it was. He put the cup back down and pushed it away from him, his eyes never leaving his screen. So for three days, Basil King had gone offline, not spending a dime on his cards. The large withdrawal suggested he’d paid cash, but that was highly unlikely for a reputable business like a hotel or an airline. No, one paid cash if one wanted to fly under the radar. So where had he gone? Where could he have traveled from Qatar with that amount of money?

Ryder made some notes to discuss with Branson and added the dates to his own list of things to check for. He rubbed his hands. God, he loved his job. Untangling puzzles like this was such a challenge. His eyes fell on the donut that was still on his desk. Oops. He’d better eat that before Branson would see it and get on his case again. The man seemed to take some perverse pleasure in confronting Ryder with his flaws.

Wait, what time was it? He checked his watch. Huh? How could it be past noon already? And hadn’t Branson said he’d stop by at nine? Had something come up? He could’ve at least let Ryder know. He’d have to meet Branson in his office, then. With a sigh, he stuffed half the donut into his mouth and grabbed his laptop. Please let the man keep it short. Ryder had more to do.