Before the Fall(44)

Beside her, Jenny was going on about Shane’s parents—Dad fixed up old cars. Mom liked to do charity work for their church—and Sarah tried to focus, listening for red flags, things Ben would need to know, but her mind wandered. It struck her that she could buy any of the art in this room. What was the most these pieces by young artists could cost? A few hundred thousand? A million?

On the Upper West Side, they’d lived on the third floor. The condo on East 63rd was on the ninth. Now they owned a penthouse loft in Tribeca, fifty-three stories up. And though the house in Connecticut was only two floors, the zip code itself made it a space station of sorts. The “farmers” at the Saturday farmers market were the new breed of hipster artisans, championing the return of heirloom apples and the lost art of basket weaving. The things Sarah called problems now were wholly elective—There are no first-class seats left on our flight, the sailboat is leaking, et cetera. Actual struggle—they’d come to turn off the gas, your kid was knifed at school, the car’s been repossessed—had become a thing of the past.

And all of this left Sarah to wonder, now that Jenny was grown, now that their wealth had exceeded their needs by a factor of six hundred, what was the point? Her parents had money, sure, but not this much. Enough to join the nicest country club, to buy a six-bedroom home and drive the latest cars, enough to retire with a few million in the bank. But this—hundreds of millions in clean currency stashed in the Caymans—it was beyond the boundaries of old money, beyond even the boundaries of what was once considered new. Modern wealth was something else entirely.

And these days—in the unstructured hours of her life—Sarah wondered, was she staying alive now just to move money around?

I shop therefore I am.

*



When Ben got back to the office, he found two men waiting for him. They sat in the outer office reading magazines, while Darlene typed nervously on her computer. Ben could tell from their suits—off the rack—that they were government. He almost spun on his heels and walked out, but he didn’t. The truth was, he had—on the advice of his lawyer—a packed bag in a storage unit and a few untraceable millions offshore.

“Mr. Kipling,” said Darlene too loudly, standing. “These gentlemen are here to see you.”

The men put down their magazines, stood. One was tall and square-jawed. The other had a dark mole under his left eye.

“Mr. Kipling,” said Square Jaw, “I’m Jordan Bewes from the Treasury Department. This is my colleague, Agent Hex.”

“Ben Kipling.”

Kipling forced himself to shake their hands.

“What’s this about?” he asked as casually as he could.

“We’ll do that, sir,” said Hex, “but let’s do it in private.”

“Of course. Whatever I can do to help. Come on back.”

He turned to lead them into his office, caught Darlene’s eye.

“Get Barney Culpepper up here.”

He led the agents into his corner office. They were eighty-six stories up, but the tempered glass shielded them from the elements, creating a hermetic seal, a sense that one was in a dirigible, floating high above it all.

“Can I offer you anything?” he said. “Pellegrino?”

“We’re fine,” said Bewes.

Kipling went to the sofa, dropped into the corner by the window. He had decided he would act like a man with nothing to fear. There was a bowl of pistachios on the sideboard. He took a nut, cracked it, ate the meat.

“Sit, please.”

The men had to turn the guest chairs to face the sofa. They sat awkwardly.

“Mr. Kipling,” said Bewes, “we’re from the Office of Foreign Assets Control. Are you familiar with that?”

“I’ve heard of it, but honestly, they don’t keep me around for my logistical know-how. I’m more the creative thinker type.”

“We’re an arm of the Treasury Department.”

“I got that part.”

“Well, we’re here to make sure that American businesses and investment firms don’t do business with countries our government has deemed off limits. And, well, your firm has come to our attention.”

“By off limits you mean—”

“Sanctioned,” said Bewes. “We’re referring to countries like Iran and North Korea. Countries that fund terrorism.”

“Their money’s bad,” said Hex, “and we don’t want it here.”

Ben smiled, showing them his perfectly capped teeth.

“The countries are bad. That’s for sure. But the money? Well, money’s a tool, gentlemen. It’s neither good nor bad.”

“Okay, sir, let me back up. You’ve heard of the law, yes?”

“Which law?”

“No, I’m saying—you know we have this thing called laws in this country.”

“Mr. Bewes, don’t patronize me.”

“Just trying to find a language we both understand,” said Bewes. “The point is, we suspect your firm is laundering money for—well, shit, just about everyone—and we’re here to let you know we’re watching.”

At this, the door opened and Barney Culpepper came in. Wearing blue-and-white seersucker, Barney was everything you’d want in a corporate attorney—aggressive, blue-blooded, the son of the former US ambassador to China. His father was pals with three presidents. Right now, Barney had a red-and-white candy cane in his mouth, even though it was August. Seeing him, Kipling felt a wave of relief—like a kid called to the principal’s office who rebounds when his dad arrives.