by Bob Graham
Even in July, there was a crispness in the early evening air. Carol was glad she’d thought of bringing a light coat. She slipped it on as she stepped from the bank entrance into the street. This casual distraction contributed to her failure to note a man with paunchy jowls in a heavier trench coat falling into step behind her.
JULY 18
Miami International Airport
“OK, what you got?” Miami-Dade Police sergeant George Whitten snapped into the phone.
“One mucho pissed-off hombre,” Mario Cartaya replied. “Says he just got back from a business trip to Vegas and can’t find his truck in the Flamingo Garage. Says he’s looked all over—no truck.”
“Can you put him on the phone?”
“Yeah, he’s standin’ right beside me.”
“Hello, this is Ramon Diaz.”
Sergeant Whitten lifted a form from his desk’s left-hand drawer and cradled the phone between his right ear and shoulder. “Mr. Diego, can you tell me what happened?”
“My name is Diaz,” the man replied with annoyance. “What happened was, I went to the Nurserymen’s meeting in Vegas. I go every summer. Left last Saturday and parked my truck here around four o’clock. Third level, section P; I made a note. I came back a couple hours ago and started lookin’ for it, and it ain’t there. So I went down to the exit box to tell somebody, and now I’m talking to you.”
Whitten filled in the blanks on the form as Diaz provided the information. “Ramon Juan Diaz. I live at the Tropical Nursery at 18645 Southwest 262nd Street in Redland, Florida, zip 33031.”
“What kinda truck were you driving and do you know the tag number?”
“It’s a Ford F-150, 2004 model. Painted black. I’ll have to get back to you with the license plate.”
“Do you want a copy of this form for an insurance claim?”
“Hell no. I just want my truck back. What are you going to do about it?”
“Well,” Whitten sighed, “we have over a dozen cars called in missing from this place every year. Each is reported to the state vehicle data center and to the Miami-Dade detective bureau to follow up.”
“And how many of those have you found?”
“Some, but most of them are taken right over there to the Miami River,” Whitten waved in the general direction of northeast, “put on a boat for someplace in the Caribbean, and that’s the last they’ll see of the U.S.A.”
There was no reply from Diaz.
“The detective will check the video from the cameras we have in the garage. You say it was Flamingo 3-P from 4:00 p.m. on the 12th till today?”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Diaz, if you would come over to my office—Mr. Cartaya can give you directions—and sign this missing vehicle form. I’ll call you if the detectives come up with anything.”
Diaz handed the phone back to Cartaya. “God damn, just more paperwork shit.”
While the distraught nurseryman called his brother in Sweetwater to give him a ride home, Cartaya wrote out the directions to the airport police office.
JULY 18–21
Zurich ☆ Washington, D.C.
It was Carol’s fifth day in Zurich. The initial cordiality was beginning to wear thin. It had begun on Day Two.
Carol worked through the 1992 version of the credits she had reviewed on Thursday. She saw a continued pattern: on the first Wednesday of each month, payments into the account from BAE Systems Inc. of 250 million British pounds per month—through October of 1992—for a total over the thirteen months of 3.25 billion pounds. What she had not seen were any disbursements.
“Mr. Schmidt,” Carol asked when she was back in his office, “I have completed both fiscal years’ review of credit transactions. I now need the disbursement information.”
“Ms. Watson, I am not sure you are authorized to inspect those transactions.”
“Mr. Schmidt,” Carol reacted with uncharacteristic sharpness, “I am authorized to conduct a complete audit of the account. What I have seen thus far is consistent with findings of the British Serious Fraud Office. What I have not seen is what it was denied—records of disbursements out of the account. I thank you for your hospitality and assistance, but I must be able to examine all transactions.”
“I will review it with my superiors.”
It was almost four o’clock when Schmidt reported that the general counsel of Zurich-Alliance had opined that the authorization to inspect that Carol proffered was limited to credits. Stunned and angered, Carol called the U.S. Department of the Treasury and spoke to Assistant Secretary for Finance and Intelligence Samuel Shorstein. She transmitted the information that 3.65 billion pounds had been credited to a numbered account stated to be under the control of members of the Saudi royal family, but her authorization did not extend to a review of where the money had gone.
“Ms. Watson, the Department of Justice cleared the authorization with the Swiss banking officials. I am stunned you are being blocked. It’s ten in the morning here; I’ll be back with you before noon.”
It was 5:30 in Zurich when Carol next heard Shorstein’s voice on her cell. “This is inexplicable, but apparently the guys at Justice and State screwed up. I have our legals on it, and I think we can get it resolved over the weekend. At any rate, you’re in luck. July is a good month to be in the mountains.”
And it was. Carol would have an unexpected chance to fulfill her desire to get to know Zurich and visit a few of the surrounding alpine villages. On Saturday night she dined alone at the hotel restaurant. She became aware of a man wearing a heavy coat, sitting awkwardly in a darkened corner, who seemed to be unusually attentive. Strange for July, that coat.
On Sunday, the same man, again overdressed for the train to Zermatt, was behind her in the economy-class car. At the Museum of Mountain Art, he was observing the landscapes from about twenty feet behind her back. He maneuvered forward, through the small cluster of art patrons, until he was standing behind Carol’s left shoulder. He bored in like a giant grizzly appraising its next morsel. The perverse intensity of his black eyes sent a quiver down Carol’s spine.
She had to get out of here. Whatever she did, she just had to get out.
She hurried through the crowd and made her way across the lobby and down the alcove into the ladies room. She went over to the row of sinks and placed her palms firmly on the counter to steady herself. She looked at herself in the mirror. Watching herself tremble made her tremble even more.
Take deep breaths. This is probably nothing. Even if he’s following, it’s probably just to hit on you. Still, she wasn’t going to take the chance. She quickly decided to dismiss the rest of the exhibit and abandon her plan to tour other villages.
Tentatively, she opened the ladies room door and peered outside to see if he was hanging around. The coast looked clear.
Not running, but striding too fast for comfort, she dashed out onto the street, carefully looking all around at each juncture.
She spotted an available taxi across the street, got in, and locked the door. The driver turned around in surprise. She told him she wanted to go to the train station. She arrived barely in time to catch the 3:26 to Zurich.
Midday Monday, the assistant secretary called back.
“Mr. Shorstein,” Carol said, “I have this suspicion I am being followed,” and she recounted the instances in which the same man had been in her vicinity.
“Carol, I’ll ask our counsel general in Zurich to contact the Swiss authorities. If you feel in any way endangered, here is her name and local number.” He repeated the information. “Now, the good news. We have clearance for you to complete the review. The papers have been approved in Bern and the approvals transmitted to the bank officer. Maybe you’ll be able to wrap this up and leave your unwanted companion.”
Promptly at 12:30, Carol was again in Franz Schmidt’s office. Chagrined, he apologized for the interruption on Friday and gave her two additional manila folders and access to the same office she had used three days ear
lier.
From April to July of fiscal year 1991, there were no unexpected disbursements. Each month transfers had been made to yet other numbered accounts at banks in Saudi Arabia. Carol assumed they represented individual members of the extended royal family. The amounts varied month to month, but rarely were these remittances for amounts less than the equivalent of 15 million U.S. dollars.
Her search became more interesting and consistent after October 1991. For the last three months of that year, a single wire transfer disbursement of the full 250 million pounds was made, on the day of receipt, to the Anglo-Cayman Bank in George Town, Grand Cayman. This practice continued into 1992 until it stopped suddenly in October.
Carol took the next hour to verify her accounts and records and review the notes she had made. She pushed the envelope with Mr. Schmidt when she asked permission to copy the pages of the statements on which credits and disbursements of relevance to her inquiry were entered. Possibly intimidated by her ability to reverse his earlier refusals, he acceded to her request.
Satisfied, at 2:00 she confirmed her 5:15 flight back to Dulles.
“Ms. Watson, I am so regretful at our misunderstanding and the inconvenience it caused you,” Schmidt conveyed as she was leaving. “We are unaccustomed to the inspection of our accounts and are rather clumsy at it, as your tax inspectors have also experienced. I hope you will accept Zurich-Alliance’s, and our government’s, apologies.”
“Thank you, Mr. Schmidt. I know you were carrying out your responsibilities as you were instructed. The information you have made available will be very valuable to my superiors and our government.”
As her two pieces of luggage were placed in the trunk of the airport taxi, the jowly man stood secluded behind the transfer stand. As it had been with several of his recent assignments, he was not informed of the purpose of his surveillance, only given specific tasks. Here, they had been to monitor and report on the young woman’s activities and movements. In contrast to other recent duties, it had been clean and nonconfrontational. He would submit his encrypted report and return to his temporary residence.
From the Zurich Airport lounge, Carol called Tony.
“Well, I got as far as I’m going to get here. I’ll be at Dulles at 7:30 tonight. Could you arrange your very loaded social schedule to pick me up?”
“I’ll think about it,” Tony teased.
“You’d better think about it hard, my boy.”
Yes!
JULY 21
Washington, D.C.
At 7:30 Monday evening, Tony was waiting for Carol at the International Arrivals area at Dulles. Every time the automatic doors opened, the crowd perked up, waiting to see if the emerging traveler was their loved one.
Carol stepped through the automatic doors, pushing a Smart Cart. The casual blouse she wore fell loosely over tight Calvin Klein jeans. She turned and her face brightened. Tony approached and hugged her around her bared midriff. She gave him a kiss full on the lips, followed by a light one on his neck.
As they left Dulles in the black Mustang, Carol sat as close to Tony as the center console and gearshift would allow. He recounted the news of Senator Billington’s tragic and unexpected death. Then, after a pause he said, “Carol, I’ve really missed you, not just since you’ve been gone but ... since you’ve been gone ... from me.”
“Tony,” Carol said softly as she turned to him, “I missed you and needed you.”
He felt an electric jolt, right around the middle of his chest. “Needed? How?”
“Well, in lots of ways. But I do need to get your advice on a piece of business.”
“Okay.” His mind was on other things as he steered the Mustang onto the Dulles Access Road.
“After a speed bump that seems to have been constructed here—not Zurich—the bank officers were gracious and helpful. They must be taking the IRS investigations seriously and want to repair their reputation with us. Anyhow, listen to this: From April to July of ’91, 400 million pounds were transferred by BAE to a numbered Saudi account. Then from October ’91 to October ’92 there were monthly transfers of 250 million pounds each from London to the same account at Zurich-Alliance.”
“Wow.”
“Tony Blair was especially protective of that account.”
“The plot thickens.”
“But the October-to-October BAE transfers didn’t stay in the numbered account long. It was all sent back west to the Anglo-Cayman Bank in Grand Cayman on the day of receipt. All three billion, two hundred fifty million pounds.”
“What do you think was going on?”
“My bank liaison said there was a connection between BAE and an American defense firm. He said that what I saw in the ’91 and ’92 accounts was not the whole of the relationship. He speculated it involved a military operation the Brits and U.S. wanted to keep undercover from the Israelis.”
“That could explain DOJ’s interest. If you didn’t know it, you’re a damn smart girl.”
“And that’s where I need your help, smart boy. Intelligence on a national security matter like that wouldn’t be in TFI database, but it could be in INR’s.”
“I can take a look,” Tony offered. “Is there anything else?”
He noticed a ripple run through Carol’s shoulders. “Yes,” she said. “There was a man who seemed to be following me. He was at the hotel restaurant where I had dinner, on the train to Zermatt, and stood next to me at an art gallery. He didn’t say or do anything, but he gave me a fish-eyed look and was so close he was practically breathing down my neck. I finally had to run away from him and stayed in my hotel room once I got back to Zurich.”
“Did you tell anybody?”
“My boss, Mr. Shorstein. He alerted our counsel general in Zurich, but I don’t know if she did anything. It probably doesn’t amount to a hill of beans but he creeped me out, made me feel as if I were under surveillance.”
“Do you think it could have been the bank was pissed off that you had pressed them further than they wanted to go, or maybe the Saudis? It was their accounts you were nosing into.”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“I’ll look into it tomorrow.”
Carol leaned over the console and rubbed her perfumed cheek on Tony’s neck. “You are so sweet.”
Carol’s apartment was on the fourth floor of The Greenwich, in the row of residential buildings stretching north along Connecticut Avenue across the street from the National Zoo. Tony carried Carol’s two bags to the elevator.
The apartment perfectly fit the profile of other young, single, firstrung-on-the-salary-scale professional women’s apartments in Washington. The small living-dining room and adjoining kitchen were bare except for a few necessities and a clutch of family photographs with Carol, what appeared to be her parents, and a young child. Since he had noticed it the first time he was in her apartment, Tony had wondered who the little girl was, but had never found the right moment to ask. The place was obviously for sleeping and preparing for work and little else.
Tony placed the luggage in the equally small bedroom.
“I’m really grungy,” Carol said. “I’ve been in this outfit since Zurich. I need to jump in the shower. Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.”
Tony welcomed her idea. How comfortable? he wondered.
As she turned, he clasped her wrist to keep her from leaving. “Carol, I’ve had a long time to think about it while we weren’t seeing each other, and I really don’t want to let you out of my life again.”
“Well, that’s up to you, I guess,” she replied.
“We’re both ready to take this to the next level. I want our relationship to be ... deeper.”
“Deeper, huh?” Carol had a mischievous glint in her eye.
“I’ve never waited this long to ... you know.”
“Your forbearance is admirable.”
“Carol, I love you, and I want to love you.”
“We’ll have to see about that.” Despite her words, her eyes
still betrayed that sparkle.
“I’d like to see about it ... tonight.”
“If you don’t let me get into the shower, you’re not going to want to get anywhere near me.”
As he sat on the IKEA couch watching the Washington Nationals’ pathetic effort to look like a major-league baseball team, Tony replayed the just-completed conversation in his mind. Maybe it was her southern upbringing; maybe it was her wariness of former professional athletes; maybe it was his skin color; maybe it was that she didn’t think Tony was in this for the long haul. Maybe it was this, maybe it was that, but every time Tony had gotten close to intimacy with Carol, she had emotionally backed away. At least, that was the vibe she gave off. But now, it was as if she were communicating a different message. If it was ever going to happen, now was the time.
While Tony overanalyzed in the living room, Carol peeled off her clothes in the bathroom and turned on the shower. She washed her hair with the Gucci shampoo from the Zurich duty-free shop. The Molton Brown soap was from her hotel room. She was smoothing the lather up and down her long legs when she suddenly heard the roar of the Nationals fans.
The shower curtain flung open behind her. She gasped as Tony, naked, stretched his muscular right leg into the tub. Carol jerked the curtain shut, leaving only the leg protruding into her space.
“‘But you’re lovely, with your smile so warm and your cheeks so soft,’” Tony crooned through the plastic barrier. “All of your cheeks so soft. And getting softer by the minute, I presume.”
With the showerhead pouring water on her head and shoulders, Carol pulled back the curtain, “You presume correctly.”
Tony almost leaped into the tub. Stomach to stomach, they swayed as he sang on, “‘There is nothing for me but to love you, and the way you look tonight.’” Carol reached down for the bar of soap on the tub floor. Tony cupped her breasts, bowed to nuzzle and gently kiss her erect nipples. Carol soaped him with rotating strokes, beginning with his chest, stroking down to his groin.
