by Dick Couch
Garrett was interested in the money-laundering activities on Nevis, but it had nothing to do with drugs or tax sheltering. Funds from wealthy Saudi and questionable Arab charities had been finding their way to and through banks in Nevis with some frequency. Garret, AKR, and the people they worked for did care about these dollars; they cared about them a great deal. Garrett would have normally handled this matter with Klein himself, but at the last minute, he had decided to put it in AKR’s hands. Kelly-Rogers’s military résumé was extensive, and during their field training over the past several months, Garrett had come to respect his military and paramilitary skills. But this assignment was different; this was not quite the normal military situation. It called for a different use of force—different from that which Garrett and AKR learned in the service of their countries.
For the past three months, Garrett Walker, aka Thomas Lyle, operating under the nominal cover of the Smithson Trading Company, Ltd., had been moving multimillion-dollar chunks of money through Klein’s institution, the Leeward Bank. The transactions gave every indication of laundering activity, but a few quasi-legal concerns, such as offshore hedge funds, do move money in this fashion. Smithson Trading had willingly paid the transfer fees and internal surcharges without question, making Smithson a valued client. Klein’s bank asked very few questions but did require the name of a principal. Smithson, with offices in the Caymans and Zurich, had listed one Thomas Lyle as its chief operating officer. When Mr. Lyle sent word that he would be calling at St. Kitts and Nevis on a yachting vacation and would like to meet with Leeward’s managing partner, Mr. Klein was eager to accept. Martin Klein and his anonymous partners catered to the likes of the Smithson Trading Company, Ltd. Both Klein and Garrett had done their homework. Klein knew that Smithson had relationships with other shady banks, and had the ability to expand further on their business relationship. In reality, Guardian Services International operated Smithson and several other shell companies to launder money for no other purpose than to give the appearance that these companies had lots of money to launder. GSI, with its extensive intelligence liaisons, knew that Klein was German by birth but had grown up in Paris. He had moved to the French Antilles some twenty years ago. There he was indicted for bank fraud, but the charges were dropped for lack of evidence. From Basse-Terre on Guadeloupe, he moved on to Nevis and a more accommodating financial environment. GSI’s sources also revealed that Martin Klein was personally in debt, had been skimming from his partners for years, and had a fondness for young boys. GSI had provided Garrett with a complete file on Mr. Klein’s activities.
AKR had gone to Nevis several weeks ago to meet with Klein to set up this meeting. He had given Klein every reason to think he was nothing but a gofer—a kind of personal aide to Mr. Lyle, and perhaps someone who doubled as a bodyguard. Garrett lit a cigar, a Romeo & Juliette Churchill, but he did not offer one to Klein. They talked pleasantly for a while, about the hot spots in the islands and where the action was on St. Kitts. Then Garrett turned to AKR.
“Johnny, why don’t you get another rum tonic for our guest, and while you’re at it, feel free to mix one for yourself.”
“Yes, Mr. Lyle. Right away, to be sure, mon.”
He played the sycophant role so perfectly that, had Garrett not been so intent on holding Klein in a condescending gaze, he would have broken out laughing. But as Garrett held Klein with his eyes, he could not help but think what a slimeball this guy was. What they were about to do would not be pretty, but it was necessary.
“Lovely yacht,” Klein said looking around at the teak deck and tasteful appointment. “Do you have a captain or crew aboard?”
“They are ashore. I thought it best if we could speak privately this evening.”
“Excellent,” he replied, brightening at the prospect of talking business. He took the drink proffered by AKR with something of a dismissive gesture. “On behalf of the Leeward Bank,” he began, “let me say it is a privilege to be of service to your organization.” He lifted the glass in a toast. “We hope that this is only the beginning of a long and satisfactory relationship.”
Garrett tapped the ash from his cigar and regarded the Frenchman coldly. “Mr. Klein, we too look for a permanent and productive relationship, but our dealings may run along different lines than you might have anticipated. We will continue to do business as in the past, but we require some additional services from you personally.” Klein was now dripping with anticipation. “John, why don’t you lay out the special requirements we have for our friend Martin here.”
Kelly-Rogers pulled a chair close to Klein and carefully seated himself in front of him. He regarded Klein thoughtfully, as a physician might a patient to whom he must give some distressing news about his health. AKR’s demeanor and body language had taken on a whole different context; there was now an air of authority and transcendence about him. Johnny was gone. John, the man who had taken his place, was both commanding and formidable. This transformation was not lost on Klein; it made the hair on the back of his neck bristle. A feeling that something was wrong—terribly wrong—settled over him. Garrett rose, walked to the railing, and stood looking out to sea with his back to them.
“What my associate Thomas has told you is quite correct,” AKR began in a precise, educated British accent. The singsong island slang was gone. “We will, for your benefit, as well as for appearance’s sake, continue to move funds through your bank. But there is more. You will now respond to certain requests we may have from time to time about other clients who do business with Leeward.” Klein started to protest, but AKR placed a firm hand on his arm in a gesture of patience. “You see, we are not what you thought us to be. We are, for want of a better term, a reporting organization. We gather information and provide that information to our clients. Let me give you an example. We will provide you with a name or list of names which represent single individuals or organizations that use Leeward for banking services. If possible, we will even give you the names of other banks where they also do business. Your job is simply to provide us the information and passwords you use at Leeward in your dealings with these individuals.” Klein would have been out of his chair by now had it not been for the viselike grip that now held him in place. “And, so you more fully understand us and our new relationship, we are just as ruthless as we are well financed. Now, this is what you will—”
“Who are you?” Klein exploded. “Who do you work for?” He was sweating profusely now, but managing to control himself. “The Mafia? MI-5? The CIA? The drug cartels? It does not matter; what you ask for will do you no good. It will gain you nothing. The internal passwords and coding we use for our banking activity do not control the account; they are only for internal processing. The passwords for our private numbered accounts that allow for the access and transfer of funds are known only to our clients. I do not know or even have access to your password, the one with which you use to control your own account. You control your account, not me.” A look of frightened condescension passed over his face. “You see, your threats are meaningless. Even if I were to do what you say, it will gain you nothing.”
AKR gave him a tired, patient look and rose to his feet. He gave every appearance of resignation and indecision. Klein now had a look of triumph on his face. He had started to speak when AKR slapped him with an open hand, one that stunned more than hurt the banker. But the vicious backhand that followed had much more authority. AKR leaned on an arm of his victim’s chair with one hand and grasped Klein’s jaw with the other, pinching his cheeks so his lips gathered in a quiver and groped for air like a freshly caught bass. Garrett had now turned to watch.
“You arrogant piece of shit! You think we don’t know that? I ought to kill you right here and now. Nothing would give me more pleasure.” Garrett cleared his throat as he regarded his cigar, and Kelly-Rogers seemed to take hold of himself. “Let me continue,” AKR went on softly, switching to French, “and I want there to be no misunderstanding on this, so listen carefully. You will do ex
actly as you are told. If you do not, there will be serious consequences. We know of your homosexual activity. We know and can document, thanks to a cooperative Cayman banker, your personal financial difficulties. And your partners at Leeward may not be too understanding about the liberties you’ve taken with their money. On top of that, I will personally be very unhappy with you.” He released Klein, and a six-inch boning knife seemed to materialize in his hand where a fraction of a second earlier, there was nothing. “You see, I will return to this miserable little island, or wherever you are, and I will find you. And when I do, I will use this on you.”
The knife flashed, and a nick appeared in Klein’s chin. It was no more than a cut that might have come from mishandling a safety razor. AKR ran the flat part of the blade across the cut and brought the bloodied knife up before Klein’s eyes. Klein sat frozen, his eyes now wide with terror. AKR pulled his chair around so he could look more directly at the banker. He laid the knife on the table, and taking a clean handkerchief, he dipped it into Klein’s drink and dabbed at the wound. The Frenchman was frozen, afraid to move, so AKR took Klein’s hand and brought it to his face to hold the makeshift dressing in place. AKR sat back and cooly regarded the man over steepled fingers, a cruel smile fixed on the terrorized banker. Among the stench of sweat and fear was the sour, pungent smell of urine. Klein had soiled himself.
All the while, Garrett watched AKR. He felt he knew this man well, but this was the first time they had been on the job. This was the first time when it counted. AKR’s military experience was not unlike Garrett’s: both had seen combat; both had been wounded in action; and both had taken life. But that had been in uniform. Nothing in Kelly-Rogers’s background gave any indication that he had done something like this before. This was terrorizing, not soldiering. The British SAS was a very capable unit, but this activity was more in keeping with an intelligence special operations unit. So far it had been a compelling performance. But was it a performance? Clearly Klein felt he was now in the hands of someone who could kill for personal pleasure. The intensity of AKR’s actions alarmed Garrett. He had known several men, men with families who attended church regularly and who doted on their children who, when their blood was up, could become quite sadistic. Perhaps, Garrett thought as he watched the drama play out before him, there is some evil gene in all of us that, under certain conditions, overrules all humane consideration—something akin to a well-fed cat who will torture a mouse to death. GSI had no place, at least no place at this level, for anyone who genuinely enjoyed this sort of thing.
“Next week,” AKR continued in French, “a technician will show up at your office with a replacement monitor for your computer.” French wasn’t Garrett’s best language, but he could follow along. “He will make the installation and remove your existing computer monitor. It will function in all aspects like your normal monitor, but it will allow us an interactive link to your account base.” Suddenly AKR’s hand shot out like a snake’s tongue and lashed Klein across the face. It was not a hard blow, but quick and vicious. “Are you listening to me?” AKR growled. “Are you?” Klein nodded numbly. “You will touch nothing after the technician makes the installation. From time to time, a man, who will refer to himself as Mr. Lenze, will call you with a request for certain information. You will give him what he asks for, do you understand?” Klein again nodded, but again, the hand shot out and Klein’s head snapped back. There was now a trickle of blood seeping from one of his nostrils.
“Answer me!”
“Yes,” Klein managed in a barely audible voice. “Yes, I understand.”
AKR rose and towered over him. He genuinely seemed to be on the verge of losing control of himself. Klein cowered involuntarily, bringing his hands to his face.
“Do exactly as you have been told. Don’t give me a reason to come back here. If I do have to come back, I will kill you very slowly. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes,” Klein croaked, now nodding his head vigorously.
AKR gave Garrett a look of disgust. “Get him out of my sight,” he snarled, and with that he turned and walked to the rail near Garrett and looked out to sea.
Garrett helped Klein into the RHIB and took him ashore. He watched him closely on the trip in to the city dock. The man was clearly in shock. Occasionally he would glance at Garrett with a pleading look, but Garrett was careful to remain neutral.
“You must do as he says, you know,” Garrett said once they were on the dock, easing into the good-cop role. “I’ll do what I can to see that you are not compromised, and our firm will continue to move funds through your bank. Past that, it is out of my hands. If you do not do as you have been instructed, he will come back, and he will do exactly as he said he would do.”
“Yes, but can’t you—”
Garrett held up a hand to cut him off. “I can do nothing,” he said coldly, “and neither can you. You cannot run and you cannot hide. Your only option is to do exactly as instructed.” He then gave Klein a conspiratorial look and lowered his voice. “You must understand, he will look for any excuse to come back and carry out his threat. You must follow his instructions, or I can assure you that he will come for you. For God’s sake, Klein, do as he says or you’re a dead man!”
Garrett deposited Klein into a cab and gave the driver a fifty-dollar bill. He walked slowly to the dock without once looking back. When he climbed aboard the yacht and mounted the stern deck, he found AKR still by the rail, looking out to sea. They stood together silently for a moment before Garrett spoke.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.” He glanced at AKR. On his perpetually cheerful features was a look of sadness, one almost bordering on anguish. Garrett quietly went to the bar and poured them each a generous measure of scotch. He took the stairs up to the fly bridge and set the drinks on the cocktail table behind the control station. The sun was just above the horizon, and the wisps of high cirrus clouds strewn across the sky promised a spectacular sunset. AKR joined him a few moments later, looking a little more like himself. Garrett raised his glass.
“To soldiering.”
AKR forced a smile and nodded. “To soldiering.” They drank in silence for some time, watching the colors splash across the evening sky. AKR turned to Garrett, “What time does that plane leave tomorrow?”
“Zero eight thirty.”
AKR again nodded. He set the half-finished drink down and rose. “I think I’ll go take a long shower. See you in the morning.”
Garrett Walker and Akheem Kelly-Rogers, traveling under false documentation, flew from Newcastle Airport on Nevis to San Juan. They called the yacht brokerage and said the Ragtime was having engine trouble, and they were done with the charter. The brokerage company was only too happy to send a charter captain and mechanic to Nevis to retrieve the boat and pocket the $20,000 deposit—no questions asked. Two days later, Garrett and AKR were back at the GSI training facility on the island of Hawaii. For Garrett, flying into the Kona airport and making the drive up to the camp was like coming home—at least his operational home. He had been a warrior for well over twenty years. For most of that time he had been in uniform, the uniform of a Navy SEAL. Then home had been a Navy base, either Coronado, California, or Little Creek, Virginia. But home for a warrior, if he was a bachelor like Garrett, was usually a one-room apartment with very few personal belongings. The training and operational requirements of a Navy SEAL made for a lot of time overseas, and when you were not deployed and technically home, you spent a great deal of your time away from the house. In as much as Garrett could now call any place home, this facility on the side of Mona Kea was it. Given the dramatic isolation and quiet beauty of the camp, it was quite satisfactory.
Steven Fagan, GSI’s chief executive officer, was going over Garrett’s report when Garrett stepped into his office. Garrett had sent him the report from his Blackberry wireless handheld while they waited for connections in Miami.
“It appears as if you and Akheem had a successful trip.”
/> “We’ll know after the tech’s visit, but I don’t foresee any problems.” Garrett poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot that was perpetually brewing on the credenza. He sipped it carefully and made a face. It was a dark Kona blend and a little strong for his taste. He took a seat across from Fagan.
“Did you want Akheem in on this?”
“I don’t think it will be necessary,” Fagan replied. “I know he was anxious to get back to his men and see how their training is progressing.”
Steven Fagan was a quiet, understated man. He was about five-nine and a solid hundred sixty-five pounds, with good shoulders and thinning, wiry brown hair that still had something of a wave to it. It would be a slow process, but in the ten years it would take him to reach his early sixties, he would have more scalp than hair showing on top of his head. Yet on the sides and in back it would be as thick and rich as it was when he was in his twenties. He had soft hazel eyes and regular features. At first brush, one might peg him as an accountant or an insurance broker, or some nameless fellow you might sit next to in church. On closer inspection, there was a great deal more. People who met him briefly, even in a casual, social setting, came away from the encounter knowing there was something special about him, but if pressed to explain, could never say why. There was a quiet intensity about him, and he had an almost unconscious ability to get others to talk about themselves. But this was not uncommon for someone who had spent a career at Langley with his job description. At one time, Steven Fagan was considered one of the CIA’s most talented covert action specialists. He had concluded an exceptional career at the Agency. During his tenure with the Directorate for Operations he had orchestrated more than a few events in sovereign foreign nations that were favorable to American interests but had no fingerprints of American involvement. His current job at GSI drew heavily on that background.
