Noble Chase

by Michael Rudolph

  “I’ll do that, but I’m going to find the money.”

  “Listen to me. You don’t have any say around this place. Clifford makes the rules.”

  “I have sixty days.”

  “Let the insurance company handle it.”

  “All they know how to do is delay, stall, and settle. I want to clear my name.”

  “No one has said anything about our name.”

  “I have. That bastard used me. Even though he’s dead, I can still track down the money and return it to C.K.”

  “You don’t know anything about banking protocols.”

  “No, but Brian’ll help and he wrote most of them. He runs the whole wire department now over at HSBC.”

  “Clifford won’t let you do it.”

  “I’ll do it in my spare time. He gets no say in that.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “Then I’ll quit or I’ll take a leave of absence. One way or another, I’m going to see this thing through. I caused this problem and I’m going to solve it.”

  “Put on your jacket. We’ll talk about it on the way over to the restaurant.”

  Andrew Leung, the only brother educated in Taiwan, spoke first in Mandarin. “We should not be doing this, I keep telling you. We have to get someone else.”

  C.K. looked at him sternly across the conference room table. “Listen to me, Andrew, the matter is settled. Rheinhartz has been in the waiting room for almost an hour, so let’s get him in.”

  Andrew wasn’t satisfied. “But, Chun Keun,” he continued to protest, “the man is a Jew and ex-Mossad. If it should come out, our Arab partners will blacklist us.”

  “They will do far worse if they find out we’ve lost their bank access codes.”

  “Let’s get on with the meeting,” Martin said. “I want to hear what this Rheinhartz has to say.”

  “But we should focus our efforts on finding a copy of the bank codes. We need to access our bank accounts.”

  “Our computer experts discovered that Sloane made two backup copies before erasing the hard drive,” Martin said. “Everything possible is being done to locate them.”

  “Stay on it. Maybe something will turn up when I get the Jasco files from the lawyers. What about Sloane’s personal checking accounts?” C.K. asked.

  “We still don’t have those,” Martin answered. “There weren’t any of his personal papers around the office.”

  “And his condo?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to check it out before you called me back to Taipei. I’m having it searched now. Eddie Huang should call within the next hour or two.”

  “Do you want to ask this Jew to work on the codes also, or just on the theft?” Andrew asked.

  “Let us see how the meeting goes.” Not commenting on his brother’s last remark, C.K. got up from his chair and opened the door to usher Dieter Rheinhartz into the conference room. Speaking now in English for the first time, he introduced Rheinhartz to his two brothers and quietly pushed a button under the table to begin recording the conference.

  Rheinhartz, a rather fat, sixty-three-year-old Israeli expat living in Zurich, sat at the foot of the table. He was irritated by having been ignored in the waiting room. He managed to look slovenly despite his custom-tailored dark blue suit, but his reputation as a bank investigator was based on results, not on appearances. His services were constantly in demand and did not come cheaply.

  A servant knocked and entered the room with an ornate sterling silver tea service and offered green tea to those seated around the table. She was followed by another servant carrying a tray of small individual pastries. Only Rheinhartz took pastry. The Leungs stared disapprovingly at the relish with which he ate.

  “I want to thank you for taking the time to come to Taiwan, Herr Rheinhartz,” C.K. said. “I know you have a very busy schedule, and my brothers and I are very appreciative.”

  “Well, as you know, Mr. Leung,” Rheinhartz responded in English heavily laced with his Israeli accent, “that is why I never take on more than three or four matters at a time. My reputation is based on results.”

  “And we appreciate your undertaking this matter for us.” Martin spoke from his seat on the only windowed side of the table.

  “The president of Fidelity Bank personally asked me to help, so I am glad to be of service,” Rheinhartz replied. He felt the start of a painful ache in his left arm, a constant reminder of his near fatal beating by brutal Chinese youths during his teenage years in Singapore when his father had moved their family there. He rubbed it vigorously in an automatic reaction, a gesture that C.K. noticed.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  “I have a minor circulation problem. Old age, I guess.”

  “You should see a Chinese doctor before you leave Taiwan. Acupuncture will cure that,” C.K. offered. “It’s better than Western medicine. If you wish, I’ll be happy to give you the name of my personal physician here in Taipei.”

  “Perhaps I will try him if I have time. Thank you for your concern.”

  “Mr. Rheinhartz, what do you have to report?” Martin demanded. C.K had abruptly summoned him from San Francisco because of the Sloane matter, and he was anxious to get back.

  “Quite a bit, in fact,” Rheinhartz replied.

  “Please go ahead,” C.K. said, tempering his brother’s more abrasive personality.

  “We’ve traced the funds from Chase Bank in New York, where they were deposited by Jasco on September third, to the Algemene Bank in The Hague, then to the Schweizerische Bankgesellschaft in Zurich.”

  “That’s an excellent start, Herr Rheinhartz,” C.K. said. As he spoke, the muffled sound of a ringing phone filtered through the room. His attention was diverted to one of the cabinet doors across the room. Simultaneously, a small red light began flashing over it. “That must be Eddie for you on the private line,” he said in Mandarin, and Martin walked over to the cabinet. He spoke softly into the phone for less than a minute.

  “What did he find?” C.K. asked him, still in Mandarin.

  “Two personal checking accounts of Sloane’s, one in New York and one in Providence, Rhode Island.”

  “Why Providence?”

  “Eddie is checking further.”

  “Good.”

  “Eddie wants to know about notifying the police.”

  “Tell him under no circumstances!” C.K. said. “We can’t afford to have the authorities asking questions about our Arab investors.”

  “Do you want him to find out if the lady lawyer knows anything about the bank codes?”

  “I do not think she knows anything. She was too upset when she told me about the missing money.”

  “She does not deserve your sympathy, C.K.”

  “It is not about sympathy. Leave her alone until we see how things develop.”

  Rheinhartz carefully ignored the conversation. The Leungs were unaware of his fluency in Mandarin. It was during his years in Singapore that he developed knowledge of the major Chinese dialects. He couldn’t speak them well, but he understood them, a useful talent when dealing with Chinese shielding their private conversations.

  C.K. finally looked back at Rheinhartz and resumed the conversation in English. “I am sorry to have interrupted you, Herr Rheinhartz. Please continue.”

  “I obtained the complete files at each of the banks, aliases, forgeries, and all. I have copies here for you.” He handed the documents across the table to C.K.

  “I am very impressed,” C.K. said as he briefly thumbed through the papers. “You have accomplished a great deal in a few short days.”

  “Danke, but I am afraid that is where the trail has ended for the time being.”

  “What do you mean?” Andrew asked.

  “The money was withdrawn on September sixth in cash from the Union Bank in Zurich,” Rheinhartz said.

  “What kind of currency?” C.K. asked out of mild curiosity.

  “Swiss francs,” Rheinhartz answered immediately. “I have the exact brea
kdown of the denominations if you wish.”

  “That will not be necessary,” C.K. said, impressed that Rheinhartz was offering those details. “But does that mean they eventually changed the money into gold or maybe bearer bonds?”

  “Ach nein, no,” Rheinhartz said reassuringly. “It only means that the search becomes more difficult. The money must have been redeposited in a bank. We will pick up the trail in another day or so.”

  “But suppose it’s been stashed somewhere?” Martin asked.

  “Stashed?”

  “Hidden.”

  “Oh, yes. I understand, but I’m certain it was redeposited and withdrawn several more times,” Rheinhartz said. “Sloane and his accomplice had plenty of time to make arrangements.”

  “But they did not anticipate dying,” C.K. said.

  “If they are dead,” Andrew added impatiently.

  “We have the DNA results,” C.K. said, and then asked, “Herr Rheinhartz, I am sure that you would like to get back to Zurich. Do you have anything else to report?”

  “We will keep working on the matter and let you know as soon as we learn something.”

  “Fine. I suggest you plan to come back to Taipei during the first week of November to bring us up-to-date.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Good.” C.K. took a leather attaché case out from under the table and handed it to Rheinhartz. “Here is the retainer you requested.”

  “In British pounds?”

  “Just as you requested. Five hundred thousand pounds.”

  “Thank you.” Rheinhartz opened the case and briefly checked its contents. Satisfied, he lifted himself out of the chair, brushed the crumbs off his suit jacket, and extended a hand to each of the Leung brothers. Martin and C.K. both stood up to shake hands with him. Andrew ignored the gesture and remained seated as he took a toothpick out of his pocket and began working on a recalcitrant piece of food. When Rheinhartz left the conference room, Andrew got up to close the door behind him. The thud of the massive oak door slamming shut expressed his continued dissatisfaction.

  Beth awoke under protest to face the dark, damp, and generally dreary Sunday morning. Max and Andi had returned to the Caribbean last Tuesday, right after the law firm turned C.K.’s malpractice claim over to their insurance company. Since then, Beth had worked hard to convince herself that the Sloane matter was dead, literally and figuratively.

  By ten thirty a.m., she was back from her regular karate class and decided to go over to the office for a few hours of work before ending up at Brian’s to watch the Giants play in Dallas. Although she and Brian Rhoden were no longer engaged, they still shared joint custody of their season tickets out at MetLife Stadium and remained close friends.

  She checked her mailbox on the way out and found a fat piece of mail from Max nestled among the bills and circulars from yesterday’s delivery. She put it in her pocket to read at the office. In view of the rain, she took a cab.

  The taxi got her to the office in short order. As it pulled over to the Park Avenue curb, the door was opened for her by two Asian men standing in front of the building waiting for a cab. One of the men had a burn scar where his right eyebrow should have been. As they brushed by her, getting into the cab, her sense of smell was assaulted by the odor of their stale cigarette smoke.

  She walked through the revolving door into her building and over to the entry log on the clipboard at the front desk. She noticed that no one else from the firm was signed in, so their floor would be empty. The youthful security guard sitting at the front desk had his head buried in an engineering textbook and barely grunted in response to her greeting, not bothering to look up at her as she signed in.

  The law firm occupied the entire twenty-ninth floor. Her elevator stopped on the floor and the doors opened. There was no mistaking the same odor of stale cigarette smoke. Beth instantly became concerned and stepped out quickly. She unlocked the glass entrance doors that triggered both the sonic and infrared alarm systems. Once in, she entered her security code and relocked the outer doors, turned on the hallway lights for the front part of the suite, and walked into her own office.

  When she noticed that the door to her credenza was partially open, she called down to the security desk in the main lobby. The security guard assured her that she was the only one on their floor today and that the closest anyone else had been was a real estate broker about an hour ago showing some clients the vacant thirtieth floor. Before hanging up, she asked him to buzz her before letting anyone else up to her floor. Then she plugged her iPod into a speaker, put her feet up on the desk, and opened the envelope from Max, savoring the rarity of a handwritten letter.

  There was nothing in the first few pages of the letter to indicate it was any different from the regular travelogues she loved to get from him. Then she saw that Max had enclosed a clipping torn out of an island newspaper. It was a notice placed there by the Gold Coast Charter Company on Guadeloupe, offering a reward for the recovery of a stolen sailboat called Sindicator. Max wrote that it was probably coincidence, but he remembered that Sloane had a ketch down in the Caribbean named Sindicator.

  It wasn’t until she read his letter a second time that she felt the repressed anger percolating to the surface. There must be a way to find the truth. A chance to clear her name and erase her guilt. Why would Sloane charter a fishing boat in Puerto Rico if he had a perfectly fine sailboat in Guadeloupe? And why would a thief steal the sailboat? Good questions, just no answers. Forget all her good intentions; she either needed to find solutions to problems or add more excuses to the pile she already had. She had trusted a thief, been wronged, and now she had to make it right.

  There were too many coincidences and sleazy characters entering her life lately. First Sloane, then C.K., and now that Scarface down at the cab, all giving her cause for suspicion and anger.

  She wanted Max’s help. There’s no way he was satisfied any more than she was. She turned on her computer and started a letter to him. After telling him that she wasn’t buying all this coincidence, she added that there was more to it than just the sinking of Satin Lady. She asked him to check the whole thing out, maybe sail over to San Juan to visit Blue Lagoon Charters and the Coast Guard. Get the details about the charter and subsequent sinking. Talk to Gold Coast Charter, too.

  She sent the email to Max and got online to do some research. The occasional ring of the office telephone was ignored. Anybody who wanted her on a Sunday would know her private number. Her attention was distracted momentarily by the whirring sound of elevator cables groaning into action. Sometimes it sounded like the elevator was stopping on her floor, but the alarm remained silent.

  Her first searches on Google were into the newspaper and magazine webpages. She checked for news items back over the last year but came up with a large goose egg except for one small article appearing in a San Juan newspaper almost two months ago that gave a brief description of the Satin Lady accident.

  Beth then moved over to the Orion NYCORP database, where she located and printed out copies of Paramount’s incorporation documents filed with the New York Secretary of State.

  She then tried to get into USCORP, looking for copies of their federal tax returns, but was repeatedly denied access. After a half hour of frustrated attempts, she gave up and decided to handle the problem the way she always handled difficult access problems: she picked up the phone and dialed Brian.

  “It’s two p.m. already,” he answered impatiently. “Where are you?”

  “The game’s at four p.m., and ‘hello’ to you too.”

  “Can you pick up some salsa and salted cashews on the way over? I have chips and beer.”

  “Brian, I need you to help me get copies of some federal tax returns online.”

  “So much for foreplay. What’s your problem?”

  “You know the problem. I can’t get into the account without the access code.”

  “So you want me to hack it for you, right?”

  “Isn’t that why
HSBC made you its director of technology?”

  “Hang on. I’ll dial up and send you a link with a session code.”

  “Thanks, Brye.” She clicked on the link as soon as he emailed it to her, identified the session code at the bottom of the page, and gave it to Brian over the phone. In less than a minute, her cursor developed a mind of its own and she knew he had taken control of her computer from his apartment.

  “What’s the name of the database?” he asked, and she told him.

  “What’s the name of the corporation?” he asked, and she told him.

  “You want to print it or save?” They both laughed at his expression of confidence.

  “See you in a little bit.” Beth hung up the phone while Brian did his techie magic.

  She had Paramount’s U.S. tax returns in no time flat and was intrigued to find that a company called Lenco Importing was listed as the only shareholder of Paramount. Lenco was described as the owner of all the shares. There was no mention of C. K. Leung, but that didn’t really surprise her. She had expected his foreign ownership to be well hidden behind a string of U.S. companies to avoid any alien withholding taxes. She would have to check out Lenco to see where that would lead.

  Most of the access codes for the credit and insurance industries had been available for years on blogs frequented by hackers. She and Brian had used them in college when it was a game. Now she was going to use them for real. She wanted to know everything about Sloane and Erica, from their height and weight to their insurance and hospital records, and from their credit history down to the amount of the last check they had written to Con Edison. It was all available.

  She worked slowly and meticulously for another hour, following each trail until it ended. She cut it close but still made it to Brian’s in time for the Giants–Cowboys kickoff.

  Max stopped off at the Road Town public library to check his email in their Wi-Fi lounge while he waited for Andi to finish her recertification course in offshore emergency medicine at Peebles Hospital. He met her at one p.m. at an open-air restaurant down by the water. They went over to a table and sat down to enjoy the harbor view. A ferry, with only a few passengers this time of year, was just pulling into the dock, loaded mostly with island freight.