by Glen Carter
THIRTY-FOUR
It took Jack three days to reach the warm waters of the Gulf Stream where it skirted the Outer Banks. The third day he spent lazily under sail about a mile from shore. For long moments he pressed binoculars to his face, picking out the landmarks that ran along a ribbon of macadam that Jack knew to be highway number twelve. He’d driven it in his third year at university, him and a couple of buddies escaping from the drudgery of campus in a beaten down convertible. Highway 12 is board-straight until it crooks west at Cape Hatteras. That was where Jack and his two friends ran into a trio of flight attendants from Varig Airways and spent two days drunk trying to communicate with their hands. The old lighthouse at Corolla stood like a solitary candle, and past that ran an assortment of multi-million dollar estates that popped up like porcelain crowns on the way to a strange place called Duck. Jack could still remember the thrilling sight of wild stallions on Shackleford Banks and the stilts of Wright Memorial Bridge which crossed Albemarie Sound for the perfect sweet-smelling top-down drive into Nags Head and farther south towards Bodie Island and Buxton. Jack anchored in a sandy bay between Cape Hatteras and Ocracoke, where his favourite local hotel featured a garish lobby statue of Edward Teach, a.k.a. Blackbeard the pirate, who was slain by the British navy in these waters. For a while he watched a squadron of pelicans settling in for the night among thick shoreline reeds near a nameless stretch of sandy beach that might have been perfect for lovers or egg-laying tortoises. Rolling dunes and tall lilting grasses disappeared in the gathering darkness, drooping from his senses like a Carolina drawl.
Jack had eaten light and was contemplating the smoke from his cigar as it drifted over the gunnels and was carried away on a light wind. He reached for another beer and thought about Kaitlin, couldn’t stop the fantasy that was forming in his mind. In it Kaitlin is swimming in the moonlight, splashing and teasing him to join her. “Silly Jack can’t swim,” she says, before disappearing beneath the surface of the water. Truth was he’d sink like a stone for a chance to change what had happened, plunge through layers of darkness till he hit rock bottom. That was the deal Jack would have made for a chance to relive that night at Café Umbria. Amillo. Dead man walking. We’re out of here, O’Rourke. So much for his hyper intuition, Jack thought. Had he been blinded by Kaitlin’s striking get-up? Silly Jack, blinded by his stunning producer.
He thought about her olive skin, wondered how her hair would have smelled as he toweled it dry. Jack shook the foolish sentiment from his skull. He was a pro and so was O’Rourke, and rule number one was that you didn’t bed your producer. Still, Jack couldn’t deny what he’d felt that night in Cartagena and he wondered whether Kaitlin had had any feelings for him. She’d never shown any. Though once, after four straight days of junk food, chasing the campaign of some senator, Kaitlin looked at him. “I’ve gained a ton, haven’t I?” She had pouted, narrowing her large dark eyes. “Well?”
Jack showed wide-eyed honesty. “It’s OK. You needed it.”
“Wrong answer.” Kaitlin had slapped him playfully on the arm. “Henry Slumberger didn’t think so.”
“Slumberger’s a schmuck. You can do much better. What about that shooter in the Washington bureau?” They’d locked eyes for a tantalizing moment until Jack retreated to rule number one. He had a job to think about. Besides there was never any shortage of women when you were running around the world flashing network credentials.
Jack looked around his boat and thought maybe it had needed a woman’s touch all along. Maybe he needed to settle down. He thought about that as he swallowed what was left of his beer. In another hour he’d head below, recheck the weather forecast and jump into the v-berth. With legs tangled in damp bedding he’d try to sleep.
But first he needed another beer.
THIRTY-FIVE
“Traffic at your ten o’clock, Tango Foxtrot Charlie. You are number two. Report on final.”
The Aztec pilot acknowledged the control tower’s transmission before scanning the sky in search of the other aircraft. It took him a moment to find it. A glint of sunlight reflected back at him from a commuter plane which was now about three hundred feet from the threshold of runway one-eighty at Santa Marta’s Simon Bolivar airport. The Apache lowered its nose to trim fifty feet from its altitude, and one minute later banked sharply left to level out at fifteen hundred feet on base.
The sun was directly overhead, and even with the air conditioning at full power the pilot was sweating. He licked his lips as he thought about El Rodadero and the swarm of people splashing beneath him as he swept over the upscale beach district in the city’s southern suburbs. Too bad he couldn’t stay a while.
There was no one else aboard so the pilot sang to himself. Singing badly as usual, he knew. What the hell. Selena always liked his singing. He glanced at the overnight bag, patted the chirimoya and melao which always made her smile, then pulled back the throttles until the twin engines were producing eighteen hundred RPMs. He banked sharply left again, checked the tower frequency at one eighteen point seven, and then keyed his microphone. “Tango Foxtrot Charlie on final.”
“Cleared to land,” the tower replied curtly with information on wind and altimeter settings.
The pilot flared the aircraft on a cushion of air and touched down softly in a perfect short-field landing, even though there was still forty-five hundred feet of runway stretched out before him. Good practice, he thought as he checked his time. Noon. Right on schedule.
She was waiting for him at the Zapata Flight Services hangar, and when he shut down and stepped onto the ground she ran to the aircraft and flung her arms around him.
“Orlando-o-o,” Selena screamed in delight.
“Your favourite uncle,” he said, squeezing her warmly.
“My only uncle,” she laughed.
“It’s good to see you, Selena, always good to see my favourite niece.”
“Your only niece, silly.”
A mechanic jerked his head from beneath an engine cowling a short distance away and looked at the older man and the young beautiful woman locked in embrace. “Lucky man,” said his twisted grin.
Orlando ignored him, smiled at his niece and then reached into the aircraft to retrieve a huge jar of custard apple from a bag on the passenger seat.
“Always on time, Selena, and always your favourite,” he laughed, handing her the jar. “Now tell me where we’re going in such a hurry.”
Selena told him and then tossed a briefcase into the back of the airplane.
THIRTY-SIX
GEORGE TOWN, CAYMAN ISLANDS.
The bank had a purple door and was very private, and had she not made an appointment first she would have been handed a brochure and politely shown the door.
Instead, Swiss National’s manager was very glad to see her, despite the fact it was only half an hour till closing, and servicing a new client who desired a fresh account in which to deposit fifty million dollars would require one full hour at least. Even in the Cayman Islands, which currently had about eight hundred billion US dollars on deposit, fifty million was a good reason to keep his wife waiting.
Relief swept through Selena as she handed the bonds to an armed guard who spirited them away to be counted and processed. She sipped lemon tea from a dainty white porcelain cup and made small talk with the manager while his secretary efficiently prepared the necessary deposit documents.
The bank manager introduced himself as Mr. Grito. He was a large man, immaculately dressed, with thinning hair and thick grey eyebrows. In any other job he might have had a sense of humour and an ear-splitting laugh. He hadn’t offered his first name but Selena saw Charles Grito engraved on a small stone obelisk that rose from the top of his polished desk.
In another room, visible to them through a wall of glass, two tellers counted the bearer bonds – twice. Small talk exhausted, Selena was given paperwork to complete while her host disappeared to oversee the counting. Twenty minutes later Grito returned to the office and maneuvered his a
mple form to its position of authority behind the desk. He smiled thinly, more a postmortem twitch. “Your deposit is confirmed at fifty million US dollars,” he said. A slight British accent. “We can proceed.”
Selena nodded and folded her long legs before speaking. “I hope it won’t take long. I appreciate the fact the bank will be closed in a few minutes.”
“I assure you that’s not a problem.”
Not with fifty million American dollars on the table, she thought.
Selena and Grito exchanged perfunctory smiles.
She looked the part of a rich heiress, wearing a finely tailored business suit the colour of latte which had cost her a week’s salary. Her long black hair was tied back to reveal a face that needed little makeup. Her large green eyes engaged Grito intently when she spoke. “Then we can begin.”
Selena had already produced the letter of reference. The one from Colombia’s largest bank was easy. She was an account executive so she had simply written that one herself on letterhead she removed from the president’s office while his secretary was at lunch. The second letter was the clincher, but it had taken considerably more time and effort. It started with the internet and a website for the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development. That’s where she had discovered the letter from the Cayman Islands’ governor pledging his nation’s commitment to eliminate money laundering. It had his signature and his letterhead. Selena downloaded the letter, and with the help of Adobe Photoshop software she created a page which was blank except for the letterhead and signature. With it she crafted a new letter, this one saying she had been granted Citizenship and Permanent Residency and the governor looked forward to seeing her at the formal Citizenship Court a week hence. In the meantime, it also said, feel free to submit an application for a Cayman Islands passport. Signed: Sir Nigel Smith, Governor. “P.S. Give my best to your grandfather.” Nice touch, Selena thought.
It was all a well-crafted lie, but Selena knew Grito was unlikely to verify either document. To do so would run the risk of offending a wealthy client. Besides, it was more convenient not to.
In the meantime, Grito was clearly impressed, and despite the fact he was now working overtime, his demeanor lightened. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the massive desk between them, and positioned multiple chins on his steepled hands. “Then you’ll be making Grand Cayman your home?” he said.
“I plan to, yes,” Selena lied, and as a fresh cup of tea was placed in front of her, she thought again about what she had to do.
There were countless banks on the Cayman Islands. New laws too. Selena knew that the colony was working to eradicate its reputation as a tax haven for the wealthy and a paradise for drug smugglers. In fact it had now become easier to launder money in the United States than in the Cayman Islands. Selena also knew privacy was still paramount here and was fiercely protected by law.
They’d spent hours working out the details. The bank had been chosen from a long list of financial institutions for one reason, and one reason only. Swiss National maintained no headquarters in Colombia, which provided arm’s-length protection from Montello’s corrupt influences. Selena was well aware of the degree to which criminals like him held sway within the boardrooms of Colombia’s banking system. Even the time of her arrival at Swiss National – just before closing – had been chosen for its strategic advantage.
There were the forms to sign and the standard questions about the purpose of the account and the source of the funds.
It was natural for Grito to suspect drug money. Someone with fifty million dollars, carrying a Colombian passport, would raise a red flag immediately. The suspicion was written all over Grito’s face. Selena mustered as much sincerity as she could and said, “I’ve recently gained full access to the proceeds of a family trust.” She then opened her briefcase and produced a manila folder. Carefully she withdrew a series of pages and laid them out on Grito’s marvelous desk.
Grito read carefully, occasionally nodding his head as he thumbed through documents.
“Your grandfather was a smart man,” he said. “Maximum return on his principal investment with minimum tax liabilities. Of course that won’t be an issue here.”
Selena allowed a look of nostalgia to paint her face. “Grandfather thought anything was possible. He was a good man and he provided well for his family.”
Grito managed a weak smile but quickly cast it aside like a snotty tissue, drawing the papers into a neat pile which he placed into the folder. “He’s made you a very rich woman.”
Selena ignored the remark. “Two people will have signing authority on the account,” she said. “Wire transfers will begin almost immediately.”
“Of course. But there is a requirement of seven days’ notice before the account is emptied.”
She had forgotten about that, but decided it shouldn’t pose a problem. “I trust your internet banking is acceptable.”
Grito looked insulted. “We’re an A-class bank and as such we offer the full range of investment and financial management services for our internet clients as well. You won’t have any complaints.” Grito nodded towards a large flat-panel computer screen on his desk. “I’ll have one of the girls demonstrate the system and the security protocols involved if you like.”
Selena told him that wouldn’t be necessary. In truth she was already quite familiar with the bank’s online set-up.
It took another half hour for the formalities. Then Selena established the computer protocols and passwords she’d need to access the account via the internet.
When they were done Grito rubbed meaty hands together and rose from his desk. “Welcome to Swiss National. Thank you for your trust.”
Selena left the bank smiling, and while Orlando held her seat for lunch she walked quickly to a nearby postal outlet and purchased a large strong envelope. She placed the bank documents inside, wrote an address, and purchased enough postage to see it to its destination. She left the postal outlet and headed for the outdoor café where Orlando was waiting. She spotted him talking to a pretty waitress. He turned just in time to see her smile, to return her wave. Selena, the progeny of slaves, was a very rich woman. So was Mercedes. But not for very long, they both knew.
Selena’s Uncle Orlando had said hardly a word since they’d taken off from George Town. They were descending from ten thousand feet through darkness towards Santa Marta airport when he surprised her with the question. He turned to her, half angry, half worried. “How long have you been involved with drug money?”
Selena looked at him like he’d slapped her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Orlando searched her face for signs of deception and then let her have it. “Your father was moving about a ton a week, Selena. Making lots of money too, running the stuff up to Norman’s Quay. Partied like a devil until…” Orlando allowed the words to trail off. “You know the story and you know what I mean. How long have you been laundering drug cash?”
Selena should have expected this. She stared out her window as the lights of Santa Marta began to come into focus. Orlando had misjudged her. It hurt – more than a little. But who could blame him? Orlando would be mightily pissed at her for repeating the same mistakes as her father, whose impatience and disposition towards fast easy money killed him. “He risked everything that mattered, Orlando. You lost a brother and I lost a father…we lost so much. Things could have been different, if only…” Selena allowed the sentiment to find its own conclusion.
Orlando nodded. “He loved you dearly, Selena. He always wanted the best for you. Maybe he wanted it too badly.” The aircraft banked slightly. “We both worked hard. He just got sidetracked, lost his focus on you and what was most important.” A second later Orlando adjusted the throttles, lowering the RPMs until the drone of the engines seemed to soften a touch. The aircraft continued its descent through the darkness. “And now you’re making the same mistake,” said Orlando. “We both know where the drug money goes. Banks like the one you visited today.”
Selena hadn’t told him the truth. She’d told him she was doing a favour for a client who owned a cattle ranch in Santa Marta, someone who needed some banking done in George Town. She should have known her father’s brother wouldn’t believe that. Selena had to tell him the truth – no matter what the consequences. So while Orlando flew the plane Selena told him everything. When she finished speaking Orlando shook his head in disbelief.
Selena told her uncle quickly about what Montello had done to Mercedes. “He would have killed her,” Selena said. “She had to run, Orlando. She had to.”
Orlando was stunned. “And what do you think Montello’s going to do now?”
Selena remained silent.
Orlando rubbed his face. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done. You’re both marked for death now. These animals won’t stop until they’ve found you.” Her uncle clamped shut his eyes, cursing quietly. A minute later he’d made a decision. “When we get on the ground I’m going to refuel and then I’m going to file another flight plan. You’re not safe anywhere here.”
His warning shook her, snapped her into a reality she’d conveniently waved away. For the moment she was without words, muted by shame and embarrassment. She understood why Orlando was mad. Anyone would have reacted the same way. But she would never abandon Mercedes – she couldn’t – even if it meant dangerous delays while they got Mercedes to safety. She’d work on Orlando after they landed. When he cooled down.
Orlando turned to her, a look of deep sorrow in his eyes. “We could all be dead.”
The radio suddenly burst into life. “Tango Foxtrot Charlie…join circuit downwind…runway 36 at fifteen hundred feet.” The controller told him he was number one, but to watch for a helicopter crossing the runway at the taxiway adjacent to the flight services hangar. Orlando acknowledged the transmission, banked the aircraft on final, and instructed Selena to tighten her seat belt.
