The Roubaud Connection Read online

  “I heard it described as the ‘working man’s Bitcoin’.” Francine walked into my viewing room and stood next to Vinnie. Daniel walked past them and walked straight to the back of my room. I was grateful.

  “Hawala was the first manner in which money changed hands without changing hands,” Colin said.

  “Huh.” Manny scratched his stubbled jaw. “I’ve heard of that. It has been used by terrorists to get funding from Western countries to their home turf.”

  “It’s still being used,” Daniel said. “A lot. It is estimated that around four hundred million dollars is moved through the system each year.”

  “Holy mother of all.” Manny looked at Colin. “Explain the system. Without a history lesson and poetry.”

  “You’re such an arsehole.” Colin exhaled loudly. “You want to send money to Vinnie who is in Russia.”

  “No, I don’t.” Manny scowled.

  Colin ignored him. “But you can’t or don’t want to use banks or any financial transfer institutions. So you come to me, a hawala broker, and give me the one million dollars.”

  “Yeah, baby.” Vinnie’s smile widened when Manny’s scowl deepened.

  “Along with the money, you give me a password.” Colin waited until Manny nodded impatiently. “I call my counterpart Francine who runs her hawala brokerage in Moscow. I give her the amount and password. In the meantime, you’ve called Vin and given him the password and Francine’s address. He goes to Francine, gives the password and she gives him his million dollars. Both Francine and I will take a small commission which is usually less than the banks charge.”

  “And now my man owes Franny a million bucks,” Vinnie said.

  “Since hawala is entirely based on an honour system, she knows I’m good for it.” Colin smiled at Francine. “I’ll settle the debt at a later date or it will balance out through hawala payments coming from her side and paid out by me.”

  “Hassan would die before he reneges on a debt.” Vinnie crossed his arms, all humour gone from his face. “He told me his business is built entirely on trust and the use of his huge network of connections.”

  Colin nodded. “The vast majority of people using the system are hardworking civilians sending money to their relatives. In some parts of the world, it’s really the only way to transfer money legitimately. Even aid organisations use it because it’s the only functioning institution in certain areas. And it’s fast.”

  “It’s not quite as anonymous as cryptocurrency, but it’s definitely one of the safest ways to move money across borders.” Francine was standing next to Daniel, her tablet in her hand.

  “It makes sense that this would be the way Adèle paid for her drugs and stolen art.” Colin turned back towards the monitor and stared at the enlarged photo. “Not that we can tell anything from these.”

  “Who’s Hassan?” I asked Vinnie.

  “I’ve known him for many years and he has the deep respect of the Arabic and Indian communities.”

  “Then don’t just sit there.” Manny fists tightened until his knuckles turned white. “Get us a meeting with this criminal.”

  Vinnie’s risorius muscles pulled his lips into a sneer. “And this is why I think you should stay the fuck away from Hassan. He’s a good man. People trust him. Much more than they trust the police. With all the hate against immigrants, they will lose faith in Hassan if you go in there guns blazing.”

  Manny’s face turned red, the vein on his forehead becoming more pronounced. His lips thinned and he inhaled sharply. Colin got up. “Dan can come with us while you cool down.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Vinnie gave Manny an insincere smile and took his phone from his pocket. He got up and walked into the team room.

  Manny glared at his back, then turned his anger on Colin. “I hold you personally responsible.”

  Colin laughed. “For what? It’s not my fault you’re such an arse.”

  “Doc?” Manny focused on me.

  “Yes?”

  He threw his hands in the air. “Bloody hell.”

  Daniel laughed. “I’ll make sure the interview with Hassan is on the up and up, Manny.”

  “You bloody better.” Manny stomped out of the room. Francine followed, teasing him about sexy angry men.

  It exhausted me, so I looked back at the photos, but ten minutes later I was in Colin’s SUV, my analysis of Adèle’s charts yet again interrupted. Daniel and Vinnie were sitting in the back and Colin was navigating the large vehicle around a parked delivery truck. For a moment, I allowed myself to think about the senselessness of driving large vehicles in narrow European streets. But my mind was gripped by the many mysteries surrounding Adèle’s business.

  I hoped Hassan would be able to give us more context to the receipts we found in Adèle’s basement. Vinnie had been completely truthful when he’d said Hassan was a ‘good guy’, but I’d seen the deception when Vinnie had avoided giving Daniel a forthright answer to the question of the lawfulness of all Hassan’s dealings.

  Colin turned the SUV into a street off the main road. We were in a district known for large outlet stores. My eyes widened when he parked in front of a Persian carpet store. I’d been so absorbed in my concern about Manny and thinking about the case, I had not listened to the directions Vinnie had been giving Colin.

  We got out of the SUV and I looked at the other cars parked in front of the store, all high-end vehicles. Daniel was staring at a red sports car. “Who drives a Ferrari when it’s minus five and the roads are full of snow and ice?”

  “People with money, dude.” Vinnie pulled the zipper of his thick jacket all the way to his chin. “Come on. Hassan is waiting for us.”

  I followed the men into the warm store and blinked. In my travels, I’d been in a few Persian carpet stores and most times had left as soon as I’d entered. The chaos of the rugs piled on top of the other without any regard for lining up the edges had been too much for my mind. This large store was a surprise.

  It looked more like a gallery exhibition than a rug store. Dark wooden floors gave the store an upmarket feel, the hidden ceiling lights adding to the impression. Strategically placed spotlights were aimed at the exquisite rugs hanging against the walls like paintings. Lining the walls were neat piles of rugs, organised according to colour and size. Even the price tags hanging off the sides of the rugs were aligned. This was a place where I could spend time.

  “Vinnie!” A rotund man rushed from the back of the store, his arms open. “You rascal!”

  “Hassan.” Vinnie’s smile was genuine and wide.

  As Hassan neared us, I noticed that he favoured his right leg and had dark rings under his eyes. His joy to see Vinnie lifted his cheeks and crinkled the corners of his eyes in a true smile. Vinnie walked into Hassan’s open arms and lifted him off the floor in a strong embrace.

  Hassan’s laugh sounded through the large space and he slapped Vinnie on the shoulder. “Put me down, you big child.”

  Vinnie lowered Hassan gently and turned to us. “Hassan, these are my very good friends. The pretty boy is Colin, the cop is Daniel and this is my best friend Doctor Genevieve Lenard.”

  “Welcome! Welcome!” Hassan shook Colin’s hand, then Daniel’s. “A cop?” He narrowed his eyes, not letting go of Daniel’s hand. “You bringing trouble to my house?”

  “No, sir.” Daniel lowered his head not to tower over Hassan as much. “We’re hoping you can help us.”

  Hassan stared at him for a few seconds before another genuine smile deepened the wrinkles in his face. He let go of Daniel’s hand and turned to the back of the store. “Ali! Bring us tea. A lot of tea.”

  “Sure, boss.” A lanky man in his late twenties jumped up from a heavy wooden desk and hurried to the left of the store.

  Hassan turned to me. “I hope you will enjoy my tea, Doctor. It’s Moroccan mint tea, specially imported.”

  “I—”

  “We would love to try it.” Colin took my hand and squeezed.

  I suppo
sed now was one of those times when polite lies were socially important. Academically, I understood the concept of diplomacy and its social importance. Rationally, I considered these lies to be silly and not relevant to our reason for being here. But I’d learned that my rational approach didn’t build easy rapport with strangers. Not like Colin and Daniel were currently doing.

  “Follow me. We’ll go to my office and you can tell me how you think I can help you.” Hassan limped to the right side of the store and we followed. He opened an ornate wooden door next to a particularly beautiful rug.

  I stopped. This rug had swirling motifs and minuscule lines that defined the contrast between the vibrant array of colours. At the centre of this Persian rug, the lines exploded in a familiar pattern, one that always soothed my mind.

  “A woman with superb taste.” Hassan sighed happily. “This is a late twentieth-century Persian Tabriz rug. Personally, I love the kaleidoscope effect.”

  I found it calming. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Indeed.” Hassan took a step back to make space for his young assistant carrying a heavily laden tray into the office. “Our tea is ready. Shall we?”

  I nodded and followed him into his office. Again I was surprised. It was in complete contrast to the traditional and classical feel of the store. Bleached wooden floors, a glass and chrome desk and two modern cream leather sofas created a loft interior finish. The seating area was arranged on a large Persian carpet, so light in colour it looked like it had been left in the desert sun for years. The only bold flash of colour was an abstract painting of geometric shapes on the wall behind his desk.

  Hassan waved us to the sofas as his assistant placed the tray on the glass coffee table in the centre. He sat down in the only wingback chair and made a show of pouring tea from a beaten silver teapot into the glass cups. He waited until Vinnie, Colin and Daniel took their tea, then raised an eyebrow and looked at me. “You’re rejecting my hospitality?”

  “No. I’m merely not accepting the tea. It should not be viewed as a personal affront.” I so deeply loathed the rituals of social niceties.

  “Personal affront.” Hassan stared at me for a few seconds then turned to Vinnie. “These people are your friends?”

  Vinnie nodded. “And I trust them with my life.”

  “Even the cop?” Hassan’s risorius muscle contracted slightly to form a small sneer as he glanced at Daniel.

  “These are people who care deeply about those who can’t protect themselves.” Vinnie’s micro-expressions and his tone indicated that there was history behind his statement. “These are good people, Hassan. We’re not looking to jam you up.”

  Hassan stared at Vinnie, then turned to me. “How can I trust you won’t jam me up if you won’t show me enough respect to drink my tea?”

  “I don’t have any jam.” I knew this was some euphemism, but I didn’t care to figure out its ridiculousness. Nor did I feel the need to justify myself. “You’re not showing me respect by accepting my decision to forego the tea you offered.”

  Hassan blinked a few times, then leaned back in his chair. “You know, I never thought about it like that. Huh.” He turned to Vinnie. “You keep strange company, Vinnie.”

  “Good company.” Vinnie winked at me. “Jen-girl here is the best in the world when it comes to reading people’s body language. She uses her superpowers to help people.”

  Hassan glanced at me, his expression softening slightly. “So what do you need from me?”

  Colin got up and showed the screen of his smartphone to Hassan. “We think this might be yours.”

  His eyes widened in a typical display of recognition, but he quickly schooled his features. He made a show of narrowing his eyes as he took the phone from Colin. He stared at it for six seconds before looking at Vinnie. His reluctance to admit to anything and assist us was clear on his face.

  I thought about his nonverbal cues and the show of pride he’d exhibited when talking about helping people. I moved to the edge of the sofa. “Somebody is killing young people.”

  “Genevieve.” Daniel’s soft warning was accompanied by an expression I’d come to recognise when he was trying to convey censure.

  I ignored him and turned back to Hassan. “We found those receipts in the home of the first victim. The other victim is part of a small community for people usually on the fringes of society. They did nothing to deserve the brutality they suffered before they were murdered.”

  “We fear for the lives of the other people in this community.” Colin took my hand. “That’s why we’re here. We’re trying to prevent anyone else from being murdered.”

  “The motherfucker tortured them, Hassan.” Vinnie’s soft words didn’t hide his anger.

  Hassan swallowed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he pointed at Daniel. “What about him?”

  “Dan is good people.”

  “I’m not here for any other reason than to find this killer and stop him.” Daniel looked straight at Hassan. “Anything else happening in this space is for another day.”

  Hassan looked down at the phone in his hand. He shook his head, sadness pulling the corners of his mouth down. “Ellie is dead?”

  “Élodie?” Daniel had been quick to remember Adèle’s pseudonym for her drug business. “Yes.”

  “What a loss.” Hassan’s grief was genuine. “She was such a smart young woman.”

  “How long did you know her?” Colin asked.

  “Do you mean how long did I do business with her?” Hassan pushed himself out of his chair and walked to a wooden filing cabinet, the same bleached colour as the floors. It took him less than twenty seconds to find what he was looking for. He walked back with a blue folder and handed it to Daniel. “She first came to me about four years ago.”

  “To send money?” Daniel looked up from the folder, one eyebrow raised.

  Hassan smiled. “Look, I knew she wasn’t sending money to family or friends. That girl was as Arabic as Vinnie.”

  “It says here the first time you sent money for her was four years and five months ago.”

  “Sounds about right.” He reached for his cup of tea and took a sip. “I never asked who she was sending it to. It was enough money to make me wonder, but in the beginning not enough to make me worried.”

  “And then she started sending a lot.” Daniel blinked at the folder. “Three hundred thousand euros?”

  “You’ll see that’s only the last six months or so.” Hassan put his cup back on the coffee table. “By then, Ellie had been here once a month, every month and I’d grown to like her. She was funny and had wonderful positive energy. She was also very respectful of my culture.” He looked at me. “She always drank my tea.”

  I studied his expression. “You were suspicious of something.”

  “I was.” He nodded. “A few months ago, she sent money to Brussels. The first and only time she sent money in the EU.”

  “Brussels.” Colin looked at me. “Belgium. Johan Klein.”

  The artist who’d painted the Roubaud painting in Jace’s flat.

  Hassan was watching us closely. “This is bad. Really bad, right?”

  “You know or suspect something.” I nodded when I registered his expression. “What do you suspect?”

  He put his cup on the coffee table, his lips pulled in a tight line. “After the first three hundred thousand, she kept sending similar amounts, but not once a month. It became more infrequent and didn’t have a pattern. Not like the monthly amounts she’d sent before. Then last month she sent—”

  Daniel whistled softly. “Nine hundred and seventy-five thousand euros.”

  “I wanted to ask her, but she begged me not to. She looked scared and excited. Like something good was going to happen, but with a lot of risk.” He pressed his lips tightly together. “But this made me very suspicious. I did a bit of research and discovered that she sent this money the day after a big heist in Iran. Thieves raided a museum of our cultural heritage and sold it to Ellie. That was it
. I was going to tell her that I wouldn’t send any more money for her again. Not for stolen art.”

  “But drugs are okay?”

  Hassan ignored Daniel, but I’d seen his micro-expression of distaste. I wondered what motivation was strong enough for a successful businessman who was proud of helping his people to be a part—albeit indirectly—of drug trafficking. Especially if he viewed it with such contempt.

  “Well, then.” Daniel smiled. “Can you at least tell us to whom or where she sent the money? The receipts we found don’t have any of that information.”

  “I don’t know the recipient.” Hassan pointed at the file. “The only information I have in there is how much was sent and to which hawala broker. The senders and receivers can keep their identities secret if they choose.”

  “I suppose the broker is one of the numbers on the receipt.” I had looked at each one and hadn’t seen any names, only numbers.

  “Correct.” Hassan glanced at the folder. “I don’t have to look to know that she sent the money to Tehran.”

  “Iran.” Colin narrowed his eyes. “Vin didn’t tell us. Are you from Iran?”

  Memories immediately softened Hassan’s expression. “I was born in Shiraz.”

  “Ah, the city with the most amazing museum.” Colin looked at me. “The Pars Museum is an octagonal building where royal guests were hosted during the”—he looked back at Hassan—“the Zand dynasty, right?”

  Hassan’s pleasure at Colin’s knowledge was evident in his genuine smile. “Indeed. It also has a display of almost thirty handwritten Qurans and many magnificent paintings by our most famous Persian artists.”

  “And it’s been mostly untouched.” Colin’s lips tightened. “Your country has suffered so much art looting already.”

  “It’s a travesty.” Hassan’s gnarled index finger tapped hard on his knee. “We’re losing our history. Just last year three heritage workers were shot by these... these thugs. The heritage workers were investigating reports of looting at a heritage site when they were ambushed. Horrid. Just horrid.”

  Colin and Hassan continued talking about the many artefacts that had been stolen during the numerous wars and invasions. I wasn’t paying close attention.