And maybe some money can find its way into a confidential account in my name.
“The Caymans have more than five hundred banks,” Santos went on. “While financial markets everywhere have been melting down in the last few years, not a single one in Cayman went out of business. In fact, they were providing trillions of dollars in cash infusions to cash-strapped countries.”
Badde nodded thoughtfully as he sipped his Irish whisky and club soda.
“Let me ask you this . . .” Badde then began.
“Of course.”
“. . . where does Yuri base his?”
Santos raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. But I’m sure you’ll understand that we do not discuss anything about our other clients.”
Then why the hell did you bring him up driving here?
“It would violate our client confidentiality,” Garcia put in. “Which we’re sure you can well appreciate.”
“Not a problem,” Badde said. “I can ask him.”
I can . . . but I won’t.
“What we can tell you,” Santos said, “is that our Focused Investment Niche Strategies are Cayman-based funds. They’re highly diversified, including many EB-5s. And, as your PEGI records will show, all OneWorld investment vehicles for Diamond Development are FINS.”
Why the hell didn’t Jan tell me that before I came down here?
I wonder if she knew.
He took another sip of his whisky, then nodded.
“I knew that, of course. That Diamond had FINS. I just didn’t realize the fine print of FINS being in Cayman.”
Listen to me. I’m already talking like them.
Not bad for the son of a South Philly barbershop owner.
But I’m not really sure exactly where Cayman is. Maybe near Puerto Rico?
Too many little islands down there.
“I know you’ve heard all this,” Santos said, “but please let me just lay it all out.”
“That’s why I came,” Badde said, smiling broadly. “Have at it.”
“As I said, FINS is diverse,” Santos then began. “We create vehicles—these specialized instruments known as funds—that invest in everything from oil and gas to cruise lines, resorts, restaurant chains, and much more.
“Some domestic money is there, but it’s tight. There is, however, significant foreign money out there. For OneWorld, Asian investments right now are biggest, followed by Central and South American monies. Accordingly, that’s where the EB-5 monies originate.”
The what? “EB-5 Central and South American monies”?
So much for talking like them.
“EB-5?” Badde said. “Didn’t you say you have one yourself, Mike?
Santos nodded. “Yes, as you know, the EB-5 is a visa designed for immigrants of serious means. It’s nothing like the well-known specialty occupation H-1B and -2 visas, which the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service also administers.”
Well, now I know.
And you don’t know that I didn’t.
“For starters,” Garcia said, “while there’re only ten thousand EB-5s available each year, the U.S. has never issued the entire lot of them. Compare that to ‘specialty occupation’ visas. Those are gone by mid-year, and they run in the six figures.”
“The H-1B and -2,” Badde said.
“Right,” Garcia said. “H-1Bs are architects, doctors, engineers, university professors, all sorts of computer types—hell, even fashion models. Their stay is only good for three years, with a three-year renewal. So, six tops. And if they quit their sponsoring employer, or get fired, they have to find another or leave the U.S.”
“Not that they always do,” Santos added. “Plenty overstay their visas illegally. But then if found, they can be deported. Same with H-2B visas, the seasonal jobs, like agriculture.”
“But not EB-5. It’s golden,” Garcia said, then smiled. “No pun intended.”
“You said ‘serious means,’” Badde said. “How much we talking?”
“Each EB-5 requires at least a million dollars,” Garcia said.
Badde nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s the other main difference,” Santos said. “You cannot buy an H-1B or -2. But, as long as you meet the requirements, a foreigner can buy as many EB-5s as he can afford.”
“Up to ten thousand,” Badde said, a little loudly.
He grinned, then took a long drink of his whisky.
Santos and Garcia chuckled, then exchanged a brief knowing glance.
Garcia drained his drink, and Santos discreetly motioned for the waitress’s attention. Badde saw her look over, then smile and nod. She started toward them, carrying fresh drinks.
Now, that’s service!
She was keeping an eye on us, and didn’t even have to be told to have the bartender pour us another round.
“For the million dollars,” Garcia said, as the waitress put the drinks before them, “the investor gets fast-tracked to permanent residency—a green card for himself, for his wife, and for his kids under twenty-one. In order to keep that status, the investment must create and maintain at least ten jobs for existing Americans, plus ones for himself and his family. These can be directly and indirectly created. For example, a hotel creates direct jobs—from the front desk to the restaurant staffs to housekeepers—as well as indirect ones—vendors who wash the sheets and towels, landscapers, valets. It’s not hard to do.”
“And it’s extremely lucrative,” Santos said.
“How so?” Badde said.
“These foreign investors mostly want to become permanent residents,” Santos explained. “That’s their focus. So while a typical investor would expect seven, eight, even ten percent return on investment, these immigrants are content with, say, two percent. Additionally, if you’re the one borrowing the money, you’re paying less interest, so your profits are higher.”
“That’s damn cheap capital, Rapp,” Garcia said. “And it’s capital that may have left the country and now has an avenue back to create opportunity here.” He made a sweeping gesture around the lounge with his hand. “You’re sitting in an example.”
“How do you mean?” Badde said.
“Yellowrose is one of four significant companies in the hospitality market owned by China Global Investments. We packaged Yellowrose, then sold it to them and continue to help them expand it.”
“The Chinese have all these new high-rises?” Badde said, his tone not concealing his surprise. “I thought the yellow rose had something to do with Texas.”
“It does,” Garcia said. “The Texas War of Independence. It’s legendary. There was even a hit song in the 1950s about it. Mitch Miller’s ‘Yellow Rose of Texas.’”
“So then what’s the connection with the flower?” Badde said.
Garcia looked toward the bar. “See that long-legged filly in the tight black dress? One of the three we saw earlier?”
Badde stole a look, then turned back to Garcia. “Oh, yeah. Beautiful woman. That creamy light chocolate skin is incredible.”
“In the day, that was called ‘high yellow.’ Legend is that a high yellow mulatto by the name of Emily West—she was an indentured servant who got herself captured when the Mexican army took Galveston in 1836—seduced General Santa Anna. My mother’s side of the family is descended from Santa Anna, which makes this story not one of our prouder moments.”
“What was wrong with being seduced?”
“The problem was Santa Anna became so enamored with the beautiful half-breed that her distraction allowed General Sam Houston’s Texas Army to win the decisive Battle of San Jacinto. And ol’ Sam trounced Santa Anna. It was really an ass-kicking—the whole thing lasted only eighteen minutes. When the dust settled, six hundred Mexicans were dead. That’s—what?—more than thirty killed every minute. Houston lost only nine men. Santa Anna was taken
prisoner and, being president of Mexico, signed a peace treaty. And so began the Republic of Texas—thanks to the Yellow Rose of Texas.”
“Damn!” Badde said, impressed. “The power of . . . women, huh?”
Garcia and Santos chuckled.
Santos said: “That the company name, as you note, Rapp, suggests local ownership doesn’t exactly hurt, either.”
Garcia nodded. “Right. And as I was saying, in addition to this development, there are twenty-five Yellowrose luxury hotels and resorts around the world. New York City, London, Paris, Tahiti, the Caribbean, Uruguay, Cabo San Lucas. This Dallas complex was in part financed with EB-5 funding that we at OneWorld put together. Every worker here counts toward the jobs needed to qualify.”
Badde glanced around the room, nodding appreciatively.
“For securing the approval of Immigration Services,” Santos said, “which designated OneWorld an elite regional center because of our history with them, we get a transaction fee of ten percent. Plus of course management fees for the investment vehicles themselves.”
Rapp Badde picked up his drink and sipped as he started to do the math. Feeling the effects of the alcohol, he gave up calculating after coming up with a hundred thousand for each million dollars invested.
If a building gets a hundred million, their cut is a cool mil just in fees.
Who knows what they bring in for management fees . . . ?
“Rapp,” Mike Santos said, “when Bobby here said earlier that we know where to find money, he wasn’t kidding. We have a long list of investors in our various funds. Among them are those already preapproved by the Immigration Service for EB-5 visas.”
“More than two thousand waiting,” Bobby Garcia added. “And another thousand in the process leading up to preapproval. Our goal is to use up all those ten thousand available visas before anyone else.”
“What’s the holdup?” Badde said.
“We need approved projects. Immigration Services has to sign off on the investments to ensure that the jobs are in fact created. You happen to know anyone who might be looking to build something?”
Badde looked between Santos and Garcia, then grinned broadly, flashing his bright white-capped teeth.
I could tear down all of North Philly and build new!
“Like maybe a new hotel?” he said, then held up his cocktail glass.
Garcia and Santos touched theirs to it.
“Rapp, assuming the project meets requirements,” Santos said, “and from what I’ve seen, it does, we’re prepared to put up a hundred mil, for starters. How does that sound?”
Badde looked between them for a moment, then smiled.
“I’d say it sounds like a deal.”
“All right. Let’s talk about something more interesting!” Santos announced, then glanced at the bar ringed with women.
Badde’s eyes followed his, then he smiled and again held up his glass.
After they clinked, Badde drained his drink.
Garcia and Santos did the same with theirs.
These guys can drink! Badde then thought.
Screw it. I’m feeling good. What’ve I got to lose asking?
“Those beautiful women who got off the plane?” he said. “Where did they go?”
A busboy appeared at the table and whisked away the empty glasses. Immediately behind him was their waitress with fresh drinks.
Garcia and Santos exchanged glances.
“Interesting that you asked, Rapp,” Garcia said, and pulled out his cell phone. He started thumbing a text.
“They went to join others at the hotel across the street,” Santos said. “They’re in the hospitality industry, usually working with the casinos and hotels. What’s called Guest Services.”
I knew it! Badde thought smugly.
The casino was why the plane stopped in New Orleans!
“Bobby’s having a few who’ve been in town awhile come join us. Some are from the Ukraine, some from Belarus. They’re all in the States as seasonal workers.”
“They came on those H-something visas?”
“Yeah,” Santos lied.
V
[ONE]
Slip F-18
Little Palm Island, Florida
Monday, November 17, 6:17 A.M.
Matt Payne was in the galley of the Viking Sport Fisherman, sipping coffee while standing before his laptop computer that was on the black granite countertop. Within reach were the coffeepot and a large bowl of fresh fruit. The peels of two bananas were beside the computer. From his digital music player, he had the sound system speakers overhead cranking out island tunes from his Pirate Playlist.
He yawned, then rubbed his eyes.
Almost two hours earlier, in Cabana Two, the spacious palm-thatched seaside room Amanda had chosen, Matt had suddenly awakened from a sound sleep. He stared at the ceiling fan, his mind spinning faster than the fan blades as he tried to make a complete list of everything he had to do before they were to board Chad Nesbitt’s Learjet at Key West International around noon.
He had yawned then, and when he checked his watch, he was not surprised that it showed it was four-thirty.
I’m lucky I got that much sleep.
It had been right at midnight, after he and Amanda and Chad finally had had dinner, that Matt had stripped to his boxer shorts and crawled into the king-sized bed.
Amanda was taking her time in the bath. Considering how the evening had played out, especially with Amanda being upset, Matt decided that there was absolutely no chance in hell of there being anything resembling romance—not to mention carnal intimacy. He told himself that he would not be surprised if Amanda came to bed wearing worn-out sweatpants, a baggy wife-beater T-shirt, a towel wrapped around her hair, and her face, neck, and upper chest smeared with a thick therapeutic coating of eucalyptus-scented cream—plus maybe thick slices of cucumber to soothe her puffy eyelids.
Accordingly, he had set the alarm on his cell phone for five-thirty, then turned onto his side at the edge of the bed and, yawning deeply as he closed his eyes, buried his head in the soft goose-down pillow.
When some minutes later he felt behind him the bedsheet being raised, and then the weight of Amanda and her twenty gallons of face cream sinking in, he was surprised that she continued sliding across the big bed toward him, her gentle, wonderful fragrance torturing him.
And then he was even more surprised when he felt on his back not only the warmth of her body as she began spooning with him—he always grinned when she said she liked to sometimes be the “big spoon”—but also the warm soft touch of her completely bare skin.
Then, nuzzling her nose into his neck, she kissed him.
What she began next had not stopped for a solid hour.
—
It was amazingly passionate, he had thought, sitting up and admiring her peaceful form beside him beneath the sheet, as if she was afraid it might be the last time it ever happened.
I should stick around and see what happens later.
Should—but my mind won’t stop racing.
Then, on the bedside table, his cell phone vibrated once but did not light up, which told him he had received an e-mail message.
He knew it would be futile trying to drift back to sleep. Not wanting to awaken Amanda by lying there tossing and turning, he’d decided to go to the boat and bang out on his laptop the list of things to do, then start knocking them out, with catching up on e-mails at the top.
He pulled on khaki shorts and a new T-shirt—an orange one that had stenciled in black: CONCH REPUBLIC CLUB FED, A GATED COMMUNITY, YOU MUST BE INDICTED TO BE INVITED—grabbed his phone and pistol, then, barefoot, slipped out of the cabana.
The sixty-one-foot Viking was essentially a floating mobile condominium, self-contained and self-supporting. It had four large staterooms, each with a queen-sized
bed and its own private head that included a stand-up shower. Its heavy-duty generators ran everything from the vast array of electronics (TVs, microwave oven, communications equipment) to the hot water heaters and washer/dryer, the air conditioners, even the desalination machine that daily could turn a hundred gallons of raw salt water into drinkable charcoal-filtered freshwater.
Matt had been impressed that the Viking also had its own Internet system, including Wi-Fi. Like the television signal, the Internet signal was provided by a satellite antenna. It was a separate, portable antenna about the size of one of the Travis McGee hardback novels he’d found onboard.
But more like a science fiction novel, considering what all it does.
Connected to a computer, the antenna hooked up from almost anywhere in the world with one of a dozen space-age birds that Inmarsat—for International Maritime Satellite—had in geostationary orbit twenty-two thousand miles above earth. Connection to the Internet usually took about three minutes. It was remarkably fast, though depending on various factors, such as weather, it could deteriorate to, at best, half the speed of a normal land-based connection.
But when at sea or sitting at anchor in some remote island cove, Matt knew that it was a helluva lot better than nothing.
Now tied up at the dock, the vessel had everything provided by shore lines. There were ones for electricity and for freshwater and for cable television and the Internet and more, leaving nothing to want.
I think I really could live on this boat, Matt thought. Maybe take up salvage work like Travis, which would be an interesting twist to what I’m already doing.
Wish I’d given the boat the really good shakedown cruise I wanted.
But the sooner we find Maggie McCain, the sooner I can . . .
As the pot of coffee brewed, the first e-mail Payne read was the one that had come in right after he’d bolted awake. It was from Corporal Kerry Rapier, a twenty-five-year-old blue shirt in the department’s Science & Technology section, which included Information Systems, Forensic Sciences, and Communications divisions. While Rapier was small in physical stature—some said impossibly so, causing doubt that he was actually old enough to be an officer, let alone a four-year veteran—Rapier was a genuine wizard with high tech. Which explained why he had been given the reins of the multi-million-dollar war room—the Executive Command Center—on the third floor of the Roundhouse.
The Last Witness Page 14
