divorce decree from the State of Virginia. He’d also had extensive plastic surgery performed on his face overseas. Still, Vesper had asked herself, how had Leonforte passed the sophisticated vetting set up by Looking-Glass?
A little digging gave her the answer. During the time of Leonforte’s hiring the entire federal government was on one of its periodic austerity kicks. Squadrons of lower-echelon workers were laid off, including the vetting staff, who only worked part-time anyway. In their place, he hired National Security Services, an independent security vetting service. Scouring a maze of computer records, Vesper had subsequently discovered that NSS was a wholly owned subsidiary of Volto Enterprises Unlimited. No wonder Johnny Leonforte had beaten the elaborate security system. In effect, he’d cleverly short-circuited it: he’d been ‘vetted’ by his own son!
And still the pieces of the puzzle kept fitting together. Lew Croaker had told her how Nicholas Linnear, who was also working with Mikio Okami, had stolen highly classified computer data from Avalon Ltd, one of the most notorious international arms-dealing organizations, that showed hundreds of millions of dollars in payments to Volto.
And last year, Avalon Ltd had somehow gotten hold of Torch, an antipersonnel nuclear device shot out of a handheld rocket launcher that had been developed by DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Then she had unearthed the fact that Caesare Leonforte owned Avalon.
That someone had to have access to the most secret documents in Looking-Glass. Now that she’d unraveled the puzzle. Vesper had to admire how beautifully it was put together. Caesare put Johnny in place; perhaps he had been the one who provided Johnny his bogus bona fides as Leon Waxman. In return, it looked likely that Johnny gave Caesare the information he needed to infiltrate DARPA’s security system and plunder its riches. Now it looked as if Caesare was using Volto to launder and warehouse the enormous profits from illicit arms trading he made through Avalon.
Vesper and Croaker had had the white mansion in West Palm under surveillance for a week. During that time, she had made careful note of everyone who had come and gone: the suits, the sentries, the lawyers, the businessmen visitors, the gangster-type visitors, the party girls – and, interestingly, boys. Then there were the regular services: daily deliveries of rolls and bread from La Petite Bakery, fresh flower arrangements by Amazonia, twice weekly pool maintenance by Blue Grotto, weekly pest control, tree and lawn care, the list went on for two single-spaced pages.
Vesper’s thoughts snapped back to the present. She was sitting at a table in a trendy Palm Beach restaurant with Lew Croaker. Outside, along Worth Avenue, the heart and soul of Palm Beach, the inveterate shoppers needed something to stoke their second wind. In twos and threes, they staggered in out of the oppressive heat, shopping bags clutched between lacquered talons as long as finishing nails.
Vesper, preparing herself mentally, looked into the enormous mirror that ran along the side wall so she could keep an eye on the entrance without turning her head. The restaurant was ostensibly owned by a pair of enterprising Argentine brothers, dark and smoldering, who loved women more than they did business. Which was just as well, because they were a front. Il Palazzo was, in fact, owned by Caesare Leonforte – or, to be perfectly accurate, one of his subsidiary corporations.
Vesper crossed her legs, ordered another martini. She was heartstoppingly beautiful with cornflower-blue eyes and hair like spun gold, blunt cut, that hung over one side of her face. She wore a sleeveless Hervé Leger dress that showed her long legs – and every other part of her – to their best advantage. That was, she reflected, what a $3,000 outfit could do for you – make you look drop-dead sexy instead of cheap.
An hour ago, Croaker,
A little digging gave her the answer. During the time of Leonforte’s hiring the entire federal government was on one of its periodic austerity kicks. Squadrons of lower-echelon workers were laid off, including the vetting staff, who only worked part-time anyway. In their place, he hired National Security Services, an independent security vetting service. Scouring a maze of computer records, Vesper had subsequently discovered that NSS was a wholly owned subsidiary of Volto Enterprises Unlimited. No wonder Johnny Leonforte had beaten the elaborate security system. In effect, he’d cleverly short-circuited it: he’d been ‘vetted’ by his own son!
And still the pieces of the puzzle kept fitting together. Lew Croaker had told her how Nicholas Linnear, who was also working with Mikio Okami, had stolen highly classified computer data from Avalon Ltd, one of the most notorious international arms-dealing organizations, that showed hundreds of millions of dollars in payments to Volto.
And last year, Avalon Ltd had somehow gotten hold of Torch, an antipersonnel nuclear device shot out of a handheld rocket launcher that had been developed by DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Then she had unearthed the fact that Caesare Leonforte owned Avalon.
That someone had to have access to the most secret documents in Looking-Glass. Now that she’d unraveled the puzzle. Vesper had to admire how beautifully it was put together. Caesare put Johnny in place; perhaps he had been the one who provided Johnny his bogus bona fides as Leon Waxman. In return, it looked likely that Johnny gave Caesare the information he needed to infiltrate DARPA’s security system and plunder its riches. Now it looked as if Caesare was using Volto to launder and warehouse the enormous profits from illicit arms trading he made through Avalon.
Vesper and Croaker had had the white mansion in West Palm under surveillance for a week. During that time, she had made careful note of everyone who had come and gone: the suits, the sentries, the lawyers, the businessmen visitors, the gangster-type visitors, the party girls – and, interestingly, boys. Then there were the regular services: daily deliveries of rolls and bread from La Petite Bakery, fresh flower arrangements by Amazonia, twice weekly pool maintenance by Blue Grotto, weekly pest control, tree and lawn care, the list went on for two single-spaced pages.
Vesper’s thoughts snapped back to the present. She was sitting at a table in a trendy Palm Beach restaurant with Lew Croaker. Outside, along Worth Avenue, the heart and soul of Palm Beach, the inveterate shoppers needed something to stoke their second wind. In twos and threes, they staggered in out of the oppressive heat, shopping bags clutched between lacquered talons as long as finishing nails.
Vesper, preparing herself mentally, looked into the enormous mirror that ran along the side wall so she could keep an eye on the entrance without turning her head. The restaurant was ostensibly owned by a pair of enterprising Argentine brothers, dark and smoldering, who loved women more than they did business. Which was just as well, because they were a front. Il Palazzo was, in fact, owned by Caesare Leonforte – or, to be perfectly accurate, one of his subsidiary corporations.
Vesper crossed her legs, ordered another martini. She was heartstoppingly beautiful with cornflower-blue eyes and hair like spun gold, blunt cut, that hung over one side of her face. She wore a sleeveless Hervé Leger dress that showed her long legs – and every other part of her – to their best advantage. That was, she reflected, what a $3,000 outfit could do for you – make you look drop-dead sexy instead of cheap.
An hour ago, Croaker,
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