Tess and Ron elected to walk to one of his favorite neighborhood places for seafood. He looked pretty worked from the afternoon’s events.
“So, you were out with Barry today?” She’d spent most of the day picking up odds and ends for tomorrow—a big day, to be sure.
“Yeah, it was a hoot. Apparently Stu got murdered, and it looks like it could have been the same group that got your father and Nick and Stan. I don’t see the connection. It’s baffling, frankly.”
Ron recounted the finding of Stu butchered at his apartment, apparently by the same team that was involved in her father’s death. He wondered again to himself what the hell had been going on in his city over the last week.
Tess was all shocked surprise. “That’s horrible, Ron. God. But what did Stu have to do with the rest of this mess?”
He studied her face, trying to tell whether it was an act or not. He felt like she knew more than she was letting on, but he couldn’t be sure. And for the life of him he couldn’t figure out how it all fit together. He paused, considering, and then told her about what they’d found on his computer.
“Maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. Kind of karmic justice. We would’ve never been able to pin anything on him; there’s no way I could have gotten a warrant to search his place, and it’s unlikely he would have slipped up and given me an opportunity. He was way too cunning to make any big mistakes. Stu would have gotten away with the murders, no question. Just like it looks like he did in Pennsylvania.” He looked at her. “And he wasn’t planning a very long retirement.”
A range of emotions played over her face. Fear, dread, understanding, and finally, relief.
“Well, then everything worked out for the best,” she observed, and took a swallow of water. “God. Stu…who would have guessed?”
He really couldn’t read her worth a shit, he thought. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing
.
Chapter 34
Monday came quickly, and Gordon felt like he could still use a few more days off after a week like the last one. His lingerie model was behaving petulantly, and had thrown a minor scene in Daniel’s on Saturday night, which he supposed was what hot young lingerie models did. Still, it was exhausting.
He was stopped by two men in bad sports jackets as soon as he entered his building. They flipped out badges. FBI.
Fuck.
“Gordon Samuels?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Sir, we’re with the FBI and we’d like to have a word with you. Would you be kind enough to step outside?” one of the agents suggested.
“Uh, sure. What can I possibly do to help the FBI? You guys need some tips on the futures markets?” Gordon’s pulse had increased twenty beats per minute; he noticed no one was smiling at his little funny.
They exited the building and Gordon stopped on the sidewalk.
“So what’s this all about?” he asked.
“Sir, you are under arrest for treason. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney…” The first man had pulled out a small card and was reading from it and the second man had expertly cuffed Gordon’s hands behind his wrists.
“This is preposterous. You have no idea who you’re fucking with. I want to talk to my lawyer, now, do you understand?” Gordon was being led to a waiting Lincoln Town Car with federal plates.
“Watch your head as you get in. You’ll have plenty of time to consult with attorneys, Mr. Samuels.” The agent was courteous but firm.
“Did you say treason? Are you guys kidding? You have the wrong guy.” Gordon was processing furiously. What could they possibly prove? He’d been careful. It was one thing to suspect, another to prove anything.
Unless they had Walter. If they had him, this could be a real problem.
If they knew about the bills, if they had Walter, then the plan wouldn’t be moving forward, and his fortune looked to get devastated by the futures and options markets.
His fortune. That was the only thing that would insulate him; he’d get a good legal team, he had the ability to make bail. He had to sell his positions this morning.
“You have to let me call my office and put in some trades. There’s millions on the line, and when this turns out to be a mistake you two will be liable for my clients losing their money. Personally liable.” Encountering studied indifference, Gordon switched tactics. “Please, just one call, you can listen in, it’s just some sell trades. Please.” Maybe they would listen to reason.
“You hear that, Cliff? He just needs to place some trades.” The first agent was smiling at his partner. They both ignored the request. “Do they still hang traitors, or do they use the chair—fry them like in the fifties?”
“I think they’ve moved to lethal injection. I don’t really remember. It’s so hard to keep up these days.” The first agent responded conversationally.
Gordon sat stewing in the back seat, alternating between panic and fury.
This couldn’t be happening. Things like this didn’t happen to people like him.
The car pulled into traffic. Mondays in Manhattan could be gridlock. It was likely to be slow going.
* * *
Tess got up and took a shower, and spent some time applying a little makeup and putting gel in her hair.
This was a big occasion, after all. It wasn’t every day that you became a multi-millionairess.
Yesterday she’d taken some time and gone to Bloomingdale’s, bought a conservative dark grey two-piece suit with a white blouse and a pair of business-like black pumps. She figured she’d present as conservative an image as possible since she’d be meeting with lawyers and government agents, and afterwards with the funeral director.
She paused and assessed her reflection in the mirror. She saw a businesswoman ready for the next corporate meeting, or an attorney prepared for contract negotiations. She decided to pull her hair back, lending a more severe look to her profile. The tattoo of the sun wasn’t visible, as she’d done a loose ponytail cinched further down her neck. She felt confident. It was fun to play dress-up sometimes.
Tess hailed a cab and went to her father’s bank, and went through the ritual at the hand scanner. Once in the vault she quickly removed the box, pulled out the sack of bills that was responsible for so much misery, and replaced the container into its slot. She’d bought an oversized purse yesterday in anticipation of today’s requirements; the sack fit easily inside.
Fidgety in the cab to Simon’s offices, she checked her watch. The blue of the lapis glinted in the sunlight, and she realized she’d already started taking the watch for granted. She made a mental commitment to never, ever do that again. She was very fortunate, and every day she was breathing she’d make a point of remembering how lucky she was.
She exited the taxi at ten-forty, and entered the elevator along with several business people. Simon’s offices were in midtown, in one of the skyscrapers that defined the New York skyline. She got off on his floor and followed the numbers to his suite. An older, conservatively dressed receptionist greeted her, and she registered two armed Brinks employees sitting in the lobby area. A portly man in his sixties in an impeccably-cut suit came out of the back and took her hands.
“Tess, I presume. What a pleasure. Please, come back into our conference room. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Water? A soda, perhaps?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too. I noticed the armed guards. Is that for me?” Tess was curious.
“Yes, I thought it would be better if we had a bonded company take possession of the cash immediately. I’d never forgive myself if you were robbed leaving the building. This way Brinks is on the hook for it the second they sign the receipt. They’ll deposit it at the bank of your designation.” Simon was on top of things. She wondered how the clerks at her branch would react to a three-million-dollar cash deposit into her savings account.
&nb
sp; “Probably not a bad idea, Simon. How should we do this?” Tess asked.
“Their attorneys will have a document for us to sign, and I’m sure they’ll want to know all about you and how you came into possession of the cash. Just tell them the story as best you can. You don’t have to be afraid of anything. The deal’s all worked out.” Simon oozed reassurance.
They discussed the will reading while they were waiting, and at exactly eleven the phone on the conference room desk beeped. Treasury was here.
Larry and David entered the conference room along with an older, wizened gentleman carrying a thin briefcase—the attorney, no doubt. The two younger men both carried larger briefcases, and David also had a currency counter. The Treasury attorney introduced himself and re-stated their agreement, then produced two documents in triplicate for them to sign. They did, and then he asked to see the bogus cash. Tess pulled the paper bag out of her oversized purse and plopped it on the table.
The three Treasury men looked at the stacks of hundreds inside. David removed the currency counter, plugged it into the wall, and then started loading the bills into it. In less than ten minutes they were done. David and Larry then placed the two briefcases onto the table and opened them, revealing neatly stacked rows of new hundred-dollar bills.
“Three million dollars, Ms. Gideon. I’m deeply sorry about the loss of your father. I was informed of the whole situation over the weekend, and it’s terrible that so much sorrow was created over these bills.” The government attorney seemed genuine.
Tess looked at the cash. It was so much money, and yet it was just so much paper; it really didn’t seem worth killing over. Simon used the intercom and requested that the two Brinks men be shown to the conference room. They used the counter to verify the amount and took possession of the two briefcases, exchanging them for a receipt. Tess gave them her account information and told them where she wanted it delivered, however, they indicated they’d prefer if she made the actual deposit, and arranged to meet her at the bank in two hours.
And that was it.
The government men shook hands and departed as silently as they’d arrived, no questions, no admonishments, nothing but a simple exchange and business as usual. It seemed anti-climactic.
Sometimes that’s how real life was.
Simon invited her back to his office, where he dialed her sister’s number and put her on speakerphone. He read the will, which took fifteen minutes, and you could tell Chrissy was both surprised and delighted she was getting so much money, but was also trying to figure out whether it was worth it to go after the watch shop. They heard her husband in the background whispering to her. Simon decided to cut this off at the pass.
“Chrissy, you should know this will was prepared two years ago, in my presence, and represents the legitimate last wishes of your father, who was of sound mind at the time we drafted it. If you’re unhappy about any area of it I apologize, but that’s the way your father wanted it. Are there any questions?” Simon had done this before.
There was a long pause on the other end. Muffled discussion. Eventually, Chrissy came back on the line.
“How soon until we receive our share?”
The remainder of the discussion was about the logistics of payouts. Tess wasn’t surprised her sister hadn’t bothered addressing her. Fine. Good riddance, she supposed.
Simon offered to take her to lunch, but she declined and asked for a rain check. They still had the watch shop to dispense with, and that was her next project: to find an appraiser and give Simon a number. They agreed he’d receive a three-hundred-thousand-dollar discount if he purchased it. She suspected he would, and was happy—she liked him.
Tess said her goodbyes and went down to the lobby. She called Ron, who answered his cell on the second ring.
“Do you have time for lunch?” she asked.
“Actually, I do. Where do you want to meet?”
She named a restaurant by her bank; that way, she wouldn’t have to rush if the service ran slow. He told her he’d be there in fifteen minutes.
When he walked into the restaurant he glanced around, and then Tess tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, and his mouth literally fell open.
“I clean up pretty well, huh? Don’t just stand there, let’s grab that table by the window,” Tess said, and then took his hand and guided him over to it. He was still astounded by her business look; he hadn’t been able to respond except for some monosyllabic noises. He got hold of himself and they considered the menu, glancing at one another occasionally.
“Ron, I just swore on a stack of bibles and at risk of serious prison time to never tell anyone what happened today, but I feel like I can trust you. Can I trust you?” She asked.
“You can, Tess. You should know that, I hope.”
“I do. I just wanted to hear you say it.” And then Tess proceeded to recount the story, omitting the part about Stu.
“Wow. That’s quite an adventure. So you’re filthy rich now?” He stopped as the waiter appeared, and they ordered. He resumed. “You’re the only person I’ve ever heard of who got the better end of a deal with the government.” Ron was surprised by the story, as well as at her poise. What a difference the clothes made.
“Apparently I’m absolutely filthy dirty rich, Ron. I don’t feel any different, though. Should I?”
Ron regarded her. “I’m afraid I’m the wrong guy to ask, Tess. I don’t have a lot of experience with obscene wealth. If I were you, I don’t know what I’d feel right now. You’ve had a hell of a week.”
“That’s the understatement of the year.”
They enjoyed lunch, both immersed in their thoughts. He was still trying to figure her out, but was beginning to see that could be a lifelong project.
* * *
Two Zodiacs made their way through the confused seas at a good clip. They were thirty-three-foot inflatbles, with black fiberglass hulls and flat black topsides designed to deflect radar; each one carried ten men and an operator.
The waves were cresting at six to eight feet, wind blowing at around twenty knots, and a sustained rain fell from the moonless sky. At their current rate, they’d reach the target within fifteen minutes—on schedule for a four o’clock landing. The satellite images had revealed three large docks in reasonably good shape, and the plan called for each boat to land at a different dock and offload the crew.
Every member of the team had night vision goggles, and all were dressed in black wet-weather gear, underneath which they wore Myanmar army uniforms. The large seas were rough to take at thirty knots, and everyone’s lower back was feeling the pounding from the small summer storm’s surges.
There’d been no evidence of any patrol boats, although it would have been hard to sight any given the limited visibility—actually, it would have been hard to see a tanker at a hundred yards in the downpour and the dark. They were fortunate it hadn’t been a clear moonlit night, although that was a mixed blessing given the chop and the deluge.
All men were sharpshooters with sniper ratings along with fluency in demolitions and assault, and two spoke rudimentary Burmese—enough to give a few orders in the language. Each of the team was equipped with a sniper rifle, flash- and noise-suppressed, as well as a submachine gun, similarly noise-suppressed; the silencers limited accuracy, but not to an extent where it would matter in these men’s hands.
All were Asian and under orders to communicate exclusively via hand signals once they reached the target. Each had a small earpiece in place so that they could communicate remotely via a series of clicks once they landed. Their faces were grimly determined, set, prepared for the assault only minutes away.
The twin noise-deadened diesels hummed silently, underwater exhaust outlets diminishing any trace of their operation. The captains were using GPS, radar being out of the question given the return signal it would create. Sonar was also out, as they didn’t want to alert any stray submarines to their presence.
They were given the signal from their operators an
d saw a dark coastline approach out of the rainy murk, with the dim glow of some illuminated buildings vaguely visible in the distance.
They prepared their lines as they throttled down and eased towards the piers, and secured the two boats to the pilings of the docks with grappling hooks. Another set of hooks flew up onto the docks, and once their grip was confirmed the men silently climbed the attached webbing. It was pitch black out, except for the main building and one smaller structure in the distance—the barracks they’d been briefed on.
Once on land, they moved silently towards the main warehouse. They’d discarded their slickers and now were wearing the uniforms and overcoats of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar. Eight of the men carried large backpacks containing explosives to be used once the building was secured.
The forward scouts used their night vision to ensure no sentries were posted, even though the satellite images had shown none in the last forty-eight hours. The guards were standing in two sandbagged areas near the entrance, three per outpost, with four floaters making rounds continually.
The front-runners stopped once the team was a hundred yards from the two bunkers, which were open and had tarps stretched across them to protect the men inside from the worst of the elements. They could make out men playing cards beneath the tarps, none holding their weapons.
Three men from each group split off to locate the floaters. They were going to take them out first, before hitting the bunkers. After roughly ten minutes a series of clicks sounded in the earphones. One click, and then a few minutes later two and three clicks, and then a series of four.
The floaters were neutralized.
The snipers each took a target, previously agreed upon according to their positions, and listening for a series of clicks, fired simultaneously on the third click. The rain muffled any sound, and the six men in the bunkers expired in unison, never knowing what hit them.
The squads moved quickly towards the building, and three members of each team took the places of the guards, each trio ready to shoot in case anything required them to speak. The rest of the team entered the building, and that’s where it became dicey.
Fatal Exchange Page 32
