Blood Brothers (14 page)

“I haven’t checked your math, of course. I don’t see any other differences offhand.”

“Now let’s turn to page forty-three of Exhibit A. The word
Kostnader
at the top means ‘costs,’ right?”

“Yes.”

“The last item on the page says
‘Andre Kostnader.’
That means ‘other costs,’ correct?”

Karl forced a smile. “Your Norwegian is very good, Mr. Corbin.”

“Thanks. So your answer is yes?”

He shrugged as casually as he could. “Sure.”

“And this shows that Bjornsen Norge had ‘other costs’ of 400,983 kroner, right?”

“That’s what it says.”

“And page forty-three of Exhibit B shows a much larger sum for
andre kostnader
. To be exact, it’s 3,100,493 kroner larger. That’s the precise amount of the missing Cleverlad.ru account from page eighteen, isn’t it?”

Karl flipped back in the report. His hands shook as he held the document and he quickly put it down. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Would you agree with me that it looks as if what’s happening is that someone is trying to hide two things: the existence of the profits from the Cleverlad.ru account and what is happening to those profits?” Ben’s heart raced as he asked the question. If Karl had a good answer for this question, then Ben’s entire cross-examination would be an embarrassing dud.

“Objection, calls for expert testimony,” said Siwell.

“Overruled,” said the judge. “He’s the CEO of the company.”

Karl kept his eyes on the document in his lap. “No. Or, well, I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s going on here.”

“But if someone were skimming the profits out of the Cleverlad.ru account and wanted to keep the auditors from figuring that out, they could do it by hiding those transactions in the detail reports and then creating a fake set of reports for the auditors, right?”

Siwell stood up again. “Objection. The witness already said he doesn’t know what this document shows. This is just harassment. Mr. Corbin should save these questions for the company’s CFO.”

“Your Honor earlier commented that these were important documents and said that you wanted to hear the witness’s interpretation of them,” Ben responded. “I think Your Honor is entitled to an answer. I also think you’ll get a more accurate one if Counsel is prohibited from using objections to coach the witness.”

“Objection overruled. Mr. Bjornsen, do you recall the question?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I don’t know whether or not these two documents could reflect the scenario Mr. Corbin described. That really is a question for our CFO.”

“No further questions,” Ben said as he gathered up his notes and returned to his seat.

“I have a few questions, Your Honor,” said Siwell.

“Go ahead,” said the judge.

The attorney strode up to the podium. “Mr. Bjornsen, are you an accountant?”

“No.”

“Are you an auditor?”

“No.”

Siwell lifted up the two financial reports. “Did you prepare either Defendant’s Exhibit A or Exhibit B?”

“No.”

“Have you done anything to check the accuracy of either document?”

“No.”

“No further questions.”

Judge Reilly looked at Ben. “Any follow-up, Mr. Corbin?”

Ben shook his head. “I’m finished with him, Your Honor.”

“All right,” said the judge, “you’re excused, Mr. Bjornsen. That’s all for today. I’ll see you all here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Russian longshoremen unloaded the
Agnes Larsen
under the watchful eyes of Captain Kjeldaas. The cod went to a seafood factory that stood less than a hundred yards from Yuragorsk’s municipal pier. The boxes went into an unmarked white van.

The driver of the van handed the fisherman an envelope and turned and got into the van. Kjeldaas opened the envelope. “This misses one thousand dollars,” he objected, speaking in English, which was the lingua franca in Arctic ports. “The price we agreed was seven thousand.”

The other man leaned out of the van, his heavily tattooed arm resting on the window frame. “The time we agreed was six thirty. It’s eight.”

“The cargo came late to my ship, and we never talked about late charges.”

“You want to talk to George?” He opened the van door. “Get in.”

The fisherman frowned, and the leathery skin around his hard blue eyes creased into a thousand sharp wrinkles. “No, but we never talked about late charges.”

The driver shut the door and drove off without replying.

Yuragorsk’s waterfront district was a warren of narrow, crowded streets. Warehouses, fish markets, and factories jammed every block. Business owners often treated the pavement in front of their buildings as a loading dock or parking lot, making the streets nearly impassible in places.

The white van crept along, swerving around pallets of frozen cod and king crab, barrels of diesel fuel destined for fishing trawlers, randomly parked forklifts, and other obstacles. The driver applied the horn liberally but without malice, and eventually arrived at a featureless corrugated-steel-and-concrete building with a small sign over the door that read “Cleverlad.ru.” Only two things distinguished the building from the structures on either side. First, it did not reek of fish or spilled petroleum products. Second, a thick fiber-optic cable ran along one side of the building before leaping to a utility pole.

The driver turned his van into a narrow alley—really no more than a walkway—and drove to the back of the building. He backed up to the building’s loading bay, where another man, wearing gray overalls, waited. The driver parked and tossed the keys to the man in overalls, then went to report to the boss.

The ability to walk into George Kulish’s office was a rare privilege. It required clearance to pass through three layers of cutting-edge electronic security. The driver knew of only two people, including himself, to whom George had granted the right to pass through these defenses and step into the private elevator that whisked him silently to the top floor.

George’s office was a climate-controlled room that took up about a quarter of the top floor and had its own generator. Along one wall stood a floor-to-ceiling bank of servers, and a huge, U-shaped desk was crowded with a half dozen large flat-panel monitors. Behind the desk, in an ergonomically designed rolling chair, sat George. He was a small, thin man of about twenty-five, with gelled black hair. He wore black jeans, flip-flops, and a faded T-shirt bearing the spiked
Q
logo of the old Quake computer games. George’s eyes flicked back and forth among the monitors, and his fingers flew among the six well-used keyboards that lay in a semicircle around him.

The driver cleared his throat and George glanced up for an instant before returning to the monitors. “Hello, Pyotr. You brought the Bjornsen shipment?”

“Yes, it is being unloaded now.”

“Good. See that it is relabeled and repackaged at once. We need to send out forty-six orders of Vicodin by DHL tomorrow morning.” He glanced at another screen. “Make that forty-seven. We also need to ship a hundred and ten of those Perc-a-pops.”

“I will take care of it.”

“Good boy, Pyotr. Oh, before you do that, get me a double cappuccino from that new place down the block. They’re the only ones who make decent coffee around here.”

Pyotr didn’t like being “coffee boy” for anyone, particularly a skinny little Ukrainian kid whom he could kill with one punch. But he knew better than to do or say anything that might offend George. “No problem. Sugar?”

“Welcome home,” Gwen Bjornsen called from the kitchen. “Your timing is perfect! Michel is just putting the finishing touches on dinner.”

“Terrific!” Karl called back as he hung up his coat. “What is it?”

“Come and see!” called a man’s voice with the hint of a French accent. “I think you will like it.”

Karl walked down the hallway, his steps alternately echoing on the black Italian marble and hushed by the Persian throw rugs. He turned into the dining room and was greeted by a pleasant mixture of savory smells. The mahogany table was lit by three candles, and two places were set. Covered chafing dishes of various sizes sat on a small cart beside the table. Beside the cart stood Michel LeClair, the Bjornsens’ favorite chef. He used to work at the Lincoln Room restaurant, but now found it more lucrative to cook private gourmet meals for the wealthier members of Chicago’s aristocracy. “Let me guess,” said Karl, drawing a deep breath through his nose. “I smell beef and onions—no, probably scallions, and—” He heard footsteps coming up behind him and sniffed again. “And Chanel No. 5.”

He turned and saw Gwen carrying an open bottle of Stags’ Leap cabernet and two glasses. She smiled luminously, and her large green eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “Very good,” she said and kissed him. “Welcome home.”

“Walking through that door is always the best part of my day, particularly when I know Michel has been here.” He turned to the chef. “Are you ready for us?”

“Of course, of course. Please sit down.” Michel gestured to the table, and Gwen and Karl sat while he unveiled their dinner. To start, he had prepared a Mediterranean salad with walnuts, olives, and crumbled goat cheese. The main course, as Karl had guessed, was beef with scallions—filet mignon in wine sauce, to be exact. And for dessert, Chef LeClair had prepared a brandied crème brûlée based on a recipe known only to him. “Shall I serve you tonight?”

“Thank you, Michel,” said Gwen. “That won’t be necessary. Just let me know how long I can leave the steaks in the chafing dish.”

“They will be fine for at least twenty minutes. After that, the texture may begin to degrade. Have a good evening. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

As he left, Gwen poured them each a glass of wine. “So, how was your big day in court?”

“It couldn’t have gone better,” replied Karl with a broad smile. “I think I was really able to get through to the judge. Bert Siwell had some great PowerPoint graphics that added a nice punch to what I was saying. I think the judge has a much better understanding of the case now.”

“That’s great! Did Noelle’s husband cross-examine you?”

Karl swirled his wine and shrugged. “He did, but he didn’t score any points. Gunnar had loaded him up with a string of questions about the company’s financials, but they didn’t lead anywhere. I actually felt a little sorry for him by the end.”

“It’s funny you should say that,” replied Gwen. “I was just feeling sorry for Noelle this afternoon.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“I just found out that Emily Marshall asked Noelle to leave that committee I’m on at the Field Museum. I hadn’t said anything to Emily, of course, but it was awkward to see Noelle at meetings when her husband was saying such awful things about you in court. And it’s nice to know that Emily and the other board members value us. We’re lucky to have such good friends.”

“We are,” agreed Karl as he took a bite of his salad. “But it’s too bad that she’s being punished for her husband’s sins.”

Gwen took a sip of her wine. “Yes. Noelle is very sweet, but he’s a real disadvantage to her. Unfortunately, she’s pregnant, so it’s hard for her to do anything about it. Poor girl. I really do feel sorry for her.”