He’d changed somewhere along the line, Eve noted. Rather than his dress shirt and suit pants, he wore a black tee and jeans.
“He’s a signatory on what appears to be a business account, in Switzerland—he went classic there—for Cygne Rouge, LLC.”
“French for Red Swan.”
“Exactly. He has a second on Nevis under RS Productions, LLC. Both currently hold over two hundred million, and Iris Swan is also a signatory on both.”
“You had her, too,” Eve observed.
“Three times a charm. As money flows in and out,” Roarke continued, “these are clearly accounts set up to cover the expenses of running their business, and for channeling a portion of profits.”
“And it hooks them together on all this, nice and tight. The building. I need the building.”
“Copied to this unit.” Roarke stepped over, reached around Callendar, and brought a set of blueprints on-screen. “These are the official ones. As you see, there’s the lobby area on the main floor where customers would bring packages in for shipping. Offices for clerical work and so on. Storage area for packaging, boxes, crates. An underground garage for trucks, vans, other vehicles. The shipping area, the shipping dock. Offices on the upper floors, more storage, a conference room, employee locker room, employee break room.”
“That’s not right.” Eve just shook her head. “It’s too much room for offices, and it’s sure as hell not set up for holding abductees.”
“I agree. Far too much wasted space, termed here as future builds and projects. Considering the purpose we all believe the structure’s used for, and the deep pockets of that purpose, it occurred to me the work needed to utilize those upper floors, all really but the front—in both senses—could be done unofficially, without permits.”
“That won’t help me plan an op.”
“No, but this should.”
He brought another set of blueprints on-screen. The detailing, the use of space gave her a quick flash of her time in state schools.
“How’d you get this? I can’t—we can’t use data you got by hacking Devereaux’s files. Nothing we do from it will stick.”
“Do I look like this is my first day on the job?” Feeney pointed at his own face. “Remember who trained you, kid. We figured what we figured, and Roarke figured there had to be prints somewhere. Even off-the-grid, you gotta have a plan. Roarke does a little digging—not over any line—and pulls out the architect Devereaux likes to use.”
He held up a finger before Eve could speak. “I tagged up the PA—went to the top—called in a favor. We go back some. It took some doing—another reason we ran over some—but we got a warrant to cyber-search the files, and there it is. Clean. A defense attorney might squawk, but it’s clean.”
“Okay. Okay. The plans are ten years old. They’ve been at this awhile.”
“The building was originally a warehouse with offices on the lower levels,” Roarke told her. “I have those blueprints, but suffice it to say they used the basic footprint, reconfigured to their needs. You have the rooms where they’d hold the girls, four floors of those small rooms and baths with a break area on each, presumably for staff. These larger areas could be training areas, classrooms. You have a single elevator on each floor. No windows. Stairs with reinforced doors and alarms.”
“Main level,” Eve picked it up. “The delivery front lobby, its storage and work areas, access to the shipping dock and garage. A security hub. One floor up, studios, shower area, kitchen area, another security hub, classrooms. Big office at the end there, with a bathroom and an elevator—that’s going to be Beaty’s office. Lower floor, that’s the infirmary, sickrooms, cleaning supplies, employee locker rooms.
“Top floor,” she continued. “You’ve got windows there. They’ll be privacy screened, but windows. Big space. Living and dining areas, powder room, big kitchen, big bedroom and bath, home office, home gym, entertainment room. She lives there. Auntie’s got herself a nice penthouse apartment.”
She slipped her hands in her pockets. Whatever fatigue she’d felt had snapped away.
“The tunnels. Both sets of plans had tunnels running under, old ones, to be filled in, according to the official ones. But they didn’t do that. Where do they lead?”
“We have that, and can show you, but … McNab.” Roarke turned to him. “Your find.”