The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  Stoeller looks up from his notepad, a bit uncomfortable. “Oh, yes, of course. Go to the reception desk, then to the back of the office. Please, I can have Berdine show you?” He reaches for the phone on the far end of the table.

  “No, thank you, I’ll manage.”

  Both Stoeller and I stand when she bolts from her chair and hurries out the door. She’s practically running by the time she hits the hallway. I feel like I should explain this, but my brain’s scrambling to catch up. “She picked up a bug on the flight over.” I hope I sound calmer than I feel. “Poor thing. She’s been miserable.”

  Stoeller nods sadly. “Flying can be so unpleasant these days.”

  Twenty Questions takes another fifteen minutes. My master’s study of anonymous corporate structures at the gallery (and later at PEN) helps a lot; I don’t think I sound too dumb. Stoeller takes my passport to scan (“only a formality, I assure you, monsieur”), glances at Carson’s empty chair, then glides out as quietly as he came to “begin the process.”

  Yes, Carson’s still gone.

  I pace to the window, beat my fingertips against the black-slate sill, and watch the lack of activity on the street. She was supposed to make it fast, gone five or ten minutes at most. It’s been over fifteen. An Amazon like Carson is going to stand out. There’s only so long she can wander around in here before somebody gets suspicious.

  Did she try to break into the file room? Did they bust her?

  Is she still here?

  Outside, a white BMW with an orange nose and rocker panels stops in front of the building: the local cops. Carson’s got the car keys and a phone. It only takes a minute to call 113 for the police. I can hear her report to Allyson now: Yeah, stupid bastard got busted the first day. But I can do this on my own. I’ve got a few ideas…

  Sweat creeps down my sides. I hold my breath until the cop car turns right at the corner.

  Should I go look for her? If she’s been caught, I could end up handcuffed to her, or whatever they do in law firms that set up money-laundering vehicles. If I don’t chase after her, they’ll wonder why. Shit.

  Two sharp raps on the door. Carson edges in.

  I never thought I’d be relieved to see her. I zoom in on her and grab her elbow. “What happened?” I whisper. “Where were you?”

  “Found the file room.” She yanks her elbow away. “Next to the toilets. Keypad entry, fire door. Thought I’d hang around a couple minutes, maybe pick up the combo from someone going in. Had a long fight with my boyfriend on the phone.” Carson has a boyfriend? Poor bastard. “Of course, nobody fucking shows up ‘til two minutes ago.”

  “Did anybody see you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course they saw me. Heard me, too. Kept moving ‘til the file clerk rolled in. Anyway, four-digit code. Got the first three numbers.” She makes it sound so easy. Too easy?

  How much of that is true? How paranoid do I want to be? “Great. Good job. But next time, let me know what you’re doing. I can cover for you.”

  She glares at me. “I’m not the one on a leash here.”

  Stoeller returns a few minutes later to wrap up. I sign a bunch of papers, get my passport back. He was able to catch somebody staying late at their pet Singaporean bank (six-hour time difference), so he has an account number already. “Please, you must deposit the minimum share capital before we can complete the registration,” Stoeller reminds me.

  Allyson will be thrilled. Not. “No problem. I’ll get that done as soon as we leave.”

  “Excellent. Please call to inform us. After that, all is formalities. I can have executed copies of the corporate documents ready for you by this evening, if I may?”

  Exactly what I’d hoped for: a reason to come back. We’ll get what we need this evening, or one way or another, we’re finished.

  Chapter 9

  Carson drives us to the Ville Haute on the plateau while I try to explain to Olivia why I need to borrow €12,400. It takes some persuading, but I finally convince her I’ll give the money back in a few days (Carson tells her on speaker, “I’ll shoot him if he doesn’t”). Olivia transfers the money into my shiny new bank account in Singapore.

  “Keep the number,” I tell her. “That’s how I’ll get my pay.” No, this wasn’t just a con to get inside the law office. In the interview, Allyson said her people have discreet ways to take their paychecks. This one’s mine.

  Now I can start on my next agenda item: getting Carson on my side, and making sure her report about me to Allyson is a good one.

  She parks the Merc in a garage in the center of town. “Now what?”

  “Let’s walk.” I toss my suit coat and tie in the back seat. “We can’t do anything until four-thirty.” She frowns. “Got something better to do?”

  We hike the couple blocks to Place Guillaume, the big plaza where the mobs will gather if there’s ever a revolution in Luxembourg, which will happen right after the one in Beverly Hills. It’s Wednesday, and the regular farmers’ market is in full swing.

  Flats of potted flowers surround the statue of Grand Duke William II on his horse. Splashes of yellow and red and blue and white make a real-life Impressionist cityscape in front of us. Well-behaved green trees screen the bases of the prim nineteenth-century buildings surrounding the square.

  I let Carson lead the way through the grid of flowers and around the scattered awnings shading the merchants from the bright June sun. We pass wandering tourists in bad colors and ugly footwear, and a number of comfortable-looking, vaguely Germanic women with canvas shopping bags who probably belong here. I catch up with Carson now and then to try to read her. Her face seems content enough, and while her eyes are busy taking in everything, they’re not hard or semi-angry.

  Flowers give way to the food stands. Some of them aren’t much more than pipe stalls, while others are hard-roofed kiosks bigger than a lot of the permanent storefronts we’ve seen on the road. Heaps of vegetables, slabs of smoked meat, bricks of cheese, mounds of bread. Everything smells great.

  I say “Enjoying yourself?” the next time I catch up to Carson.

  She nods, distracted. She nibbles her way from stall to stall—a roll here, a sliver of cheese there, a carrot—then suddenly stops in a clearing. She turns on her heel and skewers me with her eyes. “How’d you know?”

  “A little bird.”

  “Fucking Olivia.” She shakes her head. “Your goal.”

  After we escape the market, we stroll through central Luxembourg City. It’s compact—it all used to be inside a fortress—and as clean and orderly as Disneyland. The buildings range from the sixteenth century through the nineteenth. None of them are all that special by themselves, but put them together and it looks like a set for The Sound of Music.

  “What do you know about Allyson?”

  Carson shrugs. “Same as everybody else. Nothing.”

  I know more than everybody else? Seriously? “Where’s she from? From her accent, I’m thinking America or Canada—”

  “She’s no Canuck. We know our own.”

  Aha! That’s what I keep hearing in her voice.

  She continues, “States, maybe. Try Googling her.”

  “I did. Only two hundred forty-five hits for her name spelled the right way, and none of them are her.” We stop for a horse-drawn carriage hauling tourists. “Is there a Mr. DeWitt?”

  Carson shoots me an are-you-nuts? look. “Gonna ask her out?”

  “Just wondering.” We’re way past that point, anyway. “How do I reach her? Her number’s not on my phone.”

  She snorts. “Try clicking your heels three times and singing ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ I hear that works.”

  “Allyson’s the devil?”

  “Fuck, no. Devil works for her.”

  I try to chisel some personal information out of Carson—really sensitive, invasive stuff, like her first name. She pretends to not hear me, which is an improvement on jumping down my throat, but no
t by much. Finally I ask, “So, this evening. Stick with the original plan? Go in at closing and hide until everyone’s gone?”

  “Nope. Noticed something while I was staking out the file room.”

  “Cameras?”

  “Motion detectors.” She doesn’t sound happy. “Probably go on with the alarm.”

  I know what that leaves, and I’m even less happy. “Do it while they’re open?” She nods. “Are you okay with that?”

  “There a choice?” Whatever goodwill I bought with the farmer’s market is gone. She’s back to staring holes through my head.

  “If we don’t figure out who owns those companies, we might as well go home, which isn’t an option for either of us. At least, not for me.”

  “Ever been in a lawyer’s files?” Carson asks. I shake my head. “I have. We got no fucking clue how these guys run their files. Bet my left tit it won’t be something easy like by company name, not with their secrecy fetish. Could get in there and not find shit. What then?”

  God, I love complications. “It can’t be totally random. Nobody does totally random. Whatever their system is, it’s gotta make sense to somebody. Maybe clients get a number based on the order they came in. Maybe the shelf companies are filed by registration number. We’ve got the reg numbers and dates for all five of ours from Legilux. That could help.”

  Carson snorts. “Pigs could fly.”

  “Then get me in there and I’ll help.”

  “No way.” She stabs a finger in my chest. “You gotta be outside. You’re the moneybags, they’ll come looking for you. I’m just the assistant, remember? Nobody pays attention to me.”

  She’s right, damn it. But after this morning’s disappearing act, I’m not so hot to let her go off by herself. She could be planning to screw me. The trouble is, I can’t tell if she’s being smart or sly.

  She folds her arms hard. “Can’t drag this out. This is our shot. Let’s do it right.”

  “How?”

  Carson gives me an evil smile. “You a good actor?”

  Chapter 10

  Am I a good actor?

  The only “acting” I’ve ever done other than sales was four lines in my high-school senior play. But like any salesman, I can put on a character and say lines and connect with customers, my audience. Unlike high school, though, missing my cues here might mean jail.

  I’m already playing the part when Carson and I walk into Knoedler & Preiss at 4:30. I ran up and down the stairs between the first and second floors a few times to get out of breath (it didn’t take as much effort as it should have) and splashed some water on my forehead from Carson’s bottle just before we hit the office’s front door. I move like I’m walking through wet sand.

  Berdine’s pale eyebrows (I guess she’s a natural blond) grind together when I brace my palms on her desk. She doesn’t say anything when I ask for Stoeller, just punches a couple buttons on her phone and murmurs something into the handset. After a moment, she stands and says, “Här Stoeller sees you soon. Please come.” Just what we’d hoped for.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour, sir,” Carson says, just a little louder than she needs to. “Call if you’re done sooner.”

  Berdine looks back in time to see me give Carson an over-the-shoulder wave like my hand weighs a few hundred pounds—and, probably, Carson turning toward the front door. As we enter this morning’s conference room, I glance back again and catch a glimpse of Carson fading toward the back of the office suite and the file room.

  “Do you wish something?” Berdine asks. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Water would be great.” I groan into the nearest chair. “I’m afraid I don’t feel well.”

  Berdine scurries away, probably to limit her exposure.

  Carson should be trying to get into the file room by now. I pull my phone and check the time. I have to keep this charade going until she’s done, then I have to distract Berdine for a minute so Carson can get out of the building and ring the outside doorbell to come back in.

  In between, we both have to not get caught. The way these people roll, trying to sneak a peek at corporate files is like an American trying to break into the NSA. Luxembourg has 900 soldiers and 2000 lawyers; this is their national security.

  Berdine reappears as I’m screwing a Bluetooth into my ear. She lays down the stainless-steel tray from this morning; on it is a liter bottle of Spa water (from the place in Belgium) and a four-sided crystal tumbler. I give her a weak smile and pour a glass. Once she leaves, I dab some more water on my forehead.

  My phone buzzes. I tap the earpiece. “Hoskins.”

  “I’m in.” Carson’s voice, whispering. “Bigger than I thought.”

  Great.

  A tap on the door, then Stoeller slides in with a multi-part file. “Här Hoskins. So good of you to return. Please, you are ill?”

  “Afraid so.” I start breathing heavily, which Carson’s just going to love, since we’re keeping the line open between us. I’d insisted on this “as a precaution” and to make it harder for her to skip out. I also kept the car keys. She was even unhappier than usual. “I think I caught whatever my assistant has. You might want to stay away from me.”

  His eyes widen. “Yes, of course.” He takes his place across the table. “Please, we will review the documents…”

  Stoeller explains each one. I check the English translations (the originals are in French), sign where the little red arrows are stuck, and try to remember to sound like my lungs are giving out. All the while, I hear file drawers rumbling in my ear.

  “Nobody fucking does random, huh?” Carson snarls.

  Ten minutes go by. Fifteen. I insist on reading all the documents, including the corporate bylaws, which are boring as hell. I burn time asking questions I don’t need to. Every few minutes, I stop to wipe my forehead with a napkin even though I’m not sweating yet. “Is it hot in here?” I ask. Stoeller looks even more alarmed.

  “Found the shelf records,” Carson says. “You were right. Reg number.”

  Progress. Finally.

  “Shit. Someone’s coming in.”

  Now I really am sweating. She’s trapped. They’ll turn on the lights and catch her with a handful of files and her flashlight in her mouth.

  The door clacks open on her end. A couple seconds later, a metal cart rattles in.

  Can I get to the fire-alarm pull in the hall?

  “Här Hoskins? Please, what is the matter?”

  “Sorry,” I pant. I gulp the half-glass of water. “I don’t usually get this sick. Could you pass me that trash can? Just in case?”

  A woman hums loudly at the other end of the phone line. It doesn’t sound like Carson. The file clerk? A file drawer rumbles open a long way away. Will Carson try to take her out? How has the clerk not seen her yet?

  I take the black-mesh trash can from Stoeller and wonder whether I can barf on cue. I’ve never tried.

  He settles back in his seat and watches every move I make, like he expects me to explode. “Please, I may call for a doctor? A car, perhaps, for your hotel?”

  “I’ll make it, don’t worry. Thanks, though.”

  “Yes, monsieur.” He fidgets with some papers. “Now, please, let us review our fees…”

  A file drawer slams in my ear, sounding just a few feet away. The humming fades. Another drawer opens. In the foreground, I hear tiny rustling noises. I can’t stop my knee from bouncing.

  “Please, monsieur, these charges are acceptable to you?”

  I snap back into the room. The bill’s just over €3,100, actually pretty reasonable. “Yes, that’s fine. Thank you for doing this so quickly.”

  The cart rattles. A door closes on Carson’s end of the line.

  “Not at all, monsieur. Please, how will you pay?”

  “She’s gone,” Carson whispers. Thank God.

  Stoeller steps out with my Amex. I slump in my chair, feeling wrung out enough to actually be sick. “Anything?�
� I whisper.

  “Hold on.” I hear paper noises. “Fuck. Nothing in the file about ownership, just a sale date. Goddamnit.”

  It makes sense—the government could subpoena all the corporate records and still not find out who owns the companies. Not helpful, though. “What’s up with the client files?”

  “Case numbers, numeric order.”

  Which means date order, more or less. “Find the client records around the time of the earliest reg date.”

  “Already on it.” A file drawer opens behind her words.

  I sit through five minutes of file drawers and Carson cursing, feeling completely helpless. Then Stoeller returns with the invoice and the card receipt. He reaches out to shake my hand, but I wave him off. “I’ll feel terrible if I give this to you.”

  “Of course, monsieur.” He tries but can’t hide all the relief on his face. “Thank you so much for allowing us to help you. Please, if again you need our services, you may ring or email. There is no need to come here yourself.”

  “Got one!” Even Carson sounds excited.

  About fucking time. “Yes, of course, Mr. Stoeller. I wanted to come here this first time, just to see your offices and meet you. You’ll be handling my business, I hope?”

  “Yes, monsieur, if you wish.”

  “I do. You’ve been most kind. May I ask a favor? Could I stay here until my assistant comes to get me? She should only be a few minutes.”

  Stoeller gives me a tight smile. Maybe he’s thinking about how much it’ll cost to disinfect the room. “Of course, monsieur. Please, the office closes at seventeen hour, yes?”

  Which is in three minutes. I wheeze out a cough and bend over in my chair. Stoeller steps away from the trash can. “Sorry,” I gasp. “Understand. I’ll leave if she’s not back. Thanks.”

  The lawyer wavers in the open doorway, fidgeting his feet. “I hope you recover soon, Här Hoskins.”

  “You and me both. Do me a favor? Leave the door open? Get some air in here.” I’m panting now, leaning on the table for support. Don’t overplay it…