antebellum [t. riddle]

xxii.

december 1944

"what is the name of the bank your father works with for gellert grindelwald?"

"banque fidele de marseilles." apollo beischel replied. the red-haired boy's voice did not match his appearance at all. he looked boyish and childlike, but he had the voice of a man who had been through hell. he spoke coolly, but there was always a small hint of condescension. the veritaserum had not managed to rid his voice of the strong personality that forced it's way into the words.

"who has access to this bank?" sicaria said tapping her wand against her thigh. the interrogations had started to get repetitive and boring, but occasionally, she'd have an interesting breakthrough like this one. normally on missions, they'd be a few weeks or less, but in this one, they'd given her no set time limit, and everyday she was starting to suspect that they planned on leaving her here for the whole year.

"grindelwald. his supporters, sympathizers, and the people he works with. most of the smarter ones use intermediaries so that they don't have any strings attached if the whole thing goes to shit."

"what kind of bank is it?" the book of french laws she had gotten from madam glinda sat in her lap as she interrogated the boy sitting before her. he fiddled with his wrist.

"more of a trading post than a bank, but they do hold vaults for important items. mostly, it's people sending their money into the bank, but then it goes through a global system. some go to lisbon then tokyo then back to london. others go paris to milan back to london."

she couldn't fight back a laugh. he'd just perfectly described money laundering, and where there was money laundering, there was tax evasion. 

"do all patrons know of the bank's connection to grindelwald?"

"yes. you have to have some sort of connection to even be let under the fidelus."

terrorism financing. check.

she made a whoosh motion with her hand and the book flipped through its own pages. she read over the juxtaposition of her rushed english scrawl in the margins to the tidy legislative text on the page. 

"does this bank provide or take loans?" she said as she read over a small passage about usurious practices. 

"yes." 

"do you know any of the interest rates?"

"they're less loans and more like debts and favors. i don't know if that happens in all the cases though." extortion?

"when did you first visit this bank?"

"1942. it opened in 1939." over five years of usage? racketeering: check.

"do you know what felony embezzlement is?"

"yes."

"have you seen and can describe any instances of embezzlement from your time in banque fidele de marseilles?"

"it has likely occurred but i cannot describe it."

"is banque fidele de marseilles a ponzi scheme?"

"no." 

"how many people know about this bank?" sicarias brow furrowed as she thought about how she had caused so many more breakthroughs in her three months of being here than macusa had done in a while. 

at the same time, she hated herself. she hated that she was breaking international law, and that she was exploiting teenagers, and that she was doing this all to save her own ass. but at the same time, she hated that she'd do it again, and again, and again, as long as it meant that on christmas day of 1945, she'd be free. she had turned into everything she hated about bureaucracy. she forced herself not to feel guilty about her situation, and instead placed the blame, and subsequently her resentment, on the face of Government Official.