by Glen Robins
“No, sir. But, with your permission, I’d like to put a temporary freeze on all electronic transfers out of those bank accounts without verification of identities of the accountholders,” Nic said, his eyes pleading.
“What makes you think they’ll cooperate? We don’t have that kind of jurisdictional authority.”
“Maybe not, but it should give them a pretty good scare. I’m willing to bet some will cooperate. Who knows, maybe I’ll catch a lucky break. I figure I’ll send out that photo of Collin Cook, the American you wanted me to track down, and see if I get any bites.”
“Fine, Nic. Good luck with that,” Alastair said as he moved toward the open door. “Time you be getting home, too. It’s past eight o’clock.”
“Right, sir. I’ll just finish up a few things here, then head out.”
Alastair gave Nic a quizzical look as the young investigator spun and headed down the hallway.
Nic checked his watch as he marched back to his cubicle. It was still mid-afternoon in the Caribbean. He could reach at least half the banks on his list before they closed. Maybe he would get lucky. It was worth a try.
* * * *
Near Kingston, Jamaica
May 3
As the Admiral Risty approached the outer harbor at Kingston, Jamaica, seagulls circled above, cawing and squawking, their white bodies gliding effortlessly overhead against the backdrop of blue sky. Captain Sewell stood beside his chair in the cockpit and surveyed the area near the docks through his high powered binoculars, scanning back and forth. His countenance grew stern. “There is an unusual amount of activity on shore, over there, near the commercial fishing dock,” he said as he pointed with his finger. “I’ll go check it out, make sure everything’s OK.” He handed the binoculars to Collin and continued to indicate the area of concern.
“I’ve never been here, so I don’t know what’s unusual for this place,” said Collin.
“I’m telling you, that crowd and all that activity is different.” Turning to his crew, he ordered Tog and Mickey to prepare the dinghy. He returned his focus to Collin. “Might be nothing. Who knows? For your own safety, you should stay here until I return.”
Collin’s face turned serious. “I guess, if you think that’s best,” he said, running his hand through his hair. He did not want to step into another trap.
“The three of us will go ashore to see what it’s all about. You stay here with Rojas and Jaime. But, you must stay out of sight, below deck, until we return. Rojas, show him the hiding place, just in case.”
* * * *
Below deck, Collin switched on his phone for the first time since boarding the boat. He wanted to save his battery with no signal at sea. As the phone powered up and locked into satellite reception, three message alert chimes sounded. All from Lukas, of course.
The first one read: Sorry I missed your call. Busy with another urgent matter. Did you land safely?
The second one read: Where are you going? You should be at the Comfort Inn.
The time stamp on the last one was roughly twelve hours after the second message. It read: The money in Grand Keys Bank is not safe. Need to move it right away.
Relieved to have something to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t feel like a captive, Collin opened his laptop and used the signal from his phone to get on the Internet and do some research of his own. He read bulletins on a few reliable web pages for information but found nothing pertinent to Grand Keys Bank. London Herald, however, quoted a source close to the investigation into the Royal Bank of Scotland fiasco as saying that Interpol was examining all of the major banks in the Caribbean, looking for suspicious activity. They had, in fact, ordered an injunction against all non-verified electronic transactions out of the banks until Interpol could sort out the origination point of the monies in question.
After reading two other articles that alluded to the banking situation, Collin rang Lukas. “What do I need to do?” he asked as soon as Lukas answered.
“Whoa, you’re OK? That’s great. I was worried,” said Lukas. “You’ve been off the grid a long time. What happened?”
“Are you referring to the cops in George Town?”
“Yeah. That was an unexpected coincidence, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean?” asked Collin.
“The cops over there got a tip that a fugitive from Europe was on his way to their island, so they were searching all inbound flights from the continent to find a foreigner wanted for embezzlement. Anyway, it’s a good thing you got out of there. The cops are pretty antsy,” said Lukas.
“Yeah, I noticed that. I barely slipped through.”
“The large police presence is not altogether surprising. The guys at Interpol are really stirring things up. They are getting slaughtered in the British press, so they’re scrambling to make an arrest ASAP. And the banks in Grand Cayman make a tidy living catering to wealthy British businessmen and corporations. This RBS thing has created a panic in the UK, and I’m sure the West Indies are feeling pressure to cooperate. So, how’d you get out of there, anyway?”
“Chartered a private sail boat,” said Collin.
“Good thinking, my friend. Take to the seas. There are a million boats out there. Hard to track. That’s brilliant.”
Collin gave Lukas a brief synopsis of what had happened and how he escaped. “We’re anchored a mile from the mouth of Kingston Harbor. There seems to be quite a bit of activity on shore. Any ideas on what’s going on?”
“No, but you don’t have time to go ashore, anyway.”
“Yeah, I saw your last text. What should I do?” asked Collin.
“You need to get back to George Town and get your money out of the Grand Keys Bank. My sources tell me that the new directive from Interpol is to lock down all electronic transfers that have come into the banks since the RBS attack. Didn’t you just move some money into Grand Keys Bank last week?”
“Yeah, about $1.5 Million on top of the $1.3 I deposited there originally. It seemed like a safe place.”
“It is. Or was. Now all these offshore banks are being scrutinized. Especially the ones with strong ties to the UK. It’d be best to get your money somewhere safer,” Lukas said. There was the familiar sound of keys tapping in the background.
“Any suggestions?”
“My operatives in the field have always used The InterCon Bank in Panama City. It panders to uber-wealthy Americans and those who have a need for secrecy. You’ll fit their client profile perfectly. I’ll alert my contact there to your impending arrival.”
“Wow, such royal treatment,” quipped Collin.
“After a couple of close calls, you need something to go smoothly. The difficult thing will be getting your money out of Grand Keys. You’ll have to take a cash withdrawal and move it physically to Panama. Can you do that?”
“I think so,” said Collin, scanning the walls around him, knowing something of the secrets this vessel contained. From what Rojas had shown him about the boat’s special features, Collin felt some assurance.
“Going by boat seems the best option. You trust the people you’re with?”
“Do I have much choice?”
“Not really. But you better get back to George Town as quickly as you can. There’s no time to waste.”
“Got it,” Collin said without hesitation. He had no idea how he would pull this off, but he didn’t want Lukas to worry unnecessarily. “But it’ll be dark here soon.”
“Then sail through the night.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No, I’m not. And call me as soon as you’re done.”
“No problem,” Collin said, continuing the illusion that he knew what he was doing.
The next ninety minutes went by faster than he could have hoped, mainly due to his preoccupation with researching and recording details, gathering the information he would need to protect the only two things he had left—money and freedom. Captain Sewell and the others pulled up in the dinghy just as Collin fin
ished his planning work. He was anxious to get back to Grand Cayman to execute his plan. It took some convincing and another $10,000 to persuade the Captain and crew to sail through the night. Once the financing was settled, they were anchors up and heading back the way they came. The sun was a glowing orange ball hanging just above the horizon as they set their course north by northwest for Grand Cayman.
Collin hoped to arrive without the police welcoming committee this time.
Chapter Eight
Caribbean Sea
May 4
Collin was roused at midnight for his shift. He, the Captain, and Jaime would man the controls for the next four hours. Collin had watched and learned several of the many tasks required of a sailor. He also recalled much of what he had learned about sailing as a youth.
With only two sails deployed for a nighttime voyage, the boat was traveling much slower than it had on the way to Jamaica. There was not much to do between tacks. The moon overhead cast its white light across the water, creating a tranquil ambiance.
Collin stood amidships and fussed with a length of rope, knotting it and unknotting it repeatedly as the Captain watched in the moon’s glow. “Where’d you learn to tie knots like that?” he asked.
“Boy Scouts,” Collin replied without looking up.
“I knew you were different. Not like most clients.”
“Oh, really? What are most of your clients like?”
“Most are rich, spoiled, and rude. But not you. You’re just rich.”
“What makes you think I’m not spoiled and rude?”
The Captain chuckled. Then, pointing at the rope in Collin’s hand, said, “Not many of them can do that.”
Collin just shrugged and tied another knot, which brought another chuckle from Captain Sewell.
“And not many of them make me sail through the night for that matter,” said the Captain as he checked his GPS monitor. The glow from the screen illuminated the Captain’s face with an eerie, purplish light.
“See? I’m spoiled.” Collin looked out over the dark horizon and turned his face into the soft, warm breeze. “But look at what a beautiful night it is. Perfect for sailing.”
This elicited another chortle from Sewell. “And that’s another thing I noticed. You see the good. You don’t complain. That’s different, I tell you. Different than most of my passengers.” The Captain studied Collin for a moment. “Why are you running, Mr. Cook? What kind of trouble finds such a decent man?”
Collin set the rope down and held onto the rail as the boat pitched into a swell. Wiping spray from his face, he replied, “The usual trouble, I guess.”
“Be straight with me, Mr. Cook. I know you are not a criminal. But you behave very peculiarly. What’s your story, man?”
“My story? You don’t want to hear my story.”
“Sure I do. Come on, what brings you here? What makes you run?”
Collin turned back toward the man piloting the boat. Tell him or not? The Captain was nothing if not a captive audience, Collin considered. But there was more to it than that. Although his skin was a different color, this man was much like his father. Business-like, yes. Hard on the surface, yes. But inside, Collin could tell, this man was one that could be counted on and trusted for his wisdom and honesty. There was an inner kindness the Captain could not hide. He was not a big talker, but he had experience and would only dispense advice when it was sought from him. He had already helped Collin and seemed willing to continue. With all that swirling around him, Collin knew it couldn’t hurt to make this man an ally. Maybe it was time to open up.
He had only recounted the story in bits and pieces, never in its entirety. No one had heard the sad tale beginning to end. Sure he had been interrogated during a deposition in his attorney’s conference room, bombarded by representatives from both the construction and the insurance companies. It was recorded. Cameras and microphones pointed at him; question after question was asked, then rephrased, and asked again. It was excruciating. Not something he ever wanted to experience again. He did not like the fact that he had been forced to talk, forced to answer inane questions, and forced to break down over and over again. It was a humiliating sob fest. Something he would never repeat.
And still, there were parts of the story that no one knew.
In the ten months since the tragedy, he had not spoken of it in depth to anyone else – not even his own parents or siblings. His best friends in the world, Rob Howell and Lukas Mueller, knew most of the story but not all.
Shifting his weight, he turned his eyes outward to the ocean and his thoughts inward. In that moment, Collin realized for the first time how completely he had shut off the outside world. He hadn’t talked much to anyone. Nor had he felt the need to share with anyone. It was painful. Disturbing images, in hauntingly graphic detail, bubbled up from within every time he thought about what happened.
He shuddered and faced the Captain, whose eyes were wide, searching, and full of curiosity, not judgment.
Collin spoke slowly and recounted the whole thing, starting with the fight before Amy went to Tahoe for the Fourth of July week. He explained how the pressures of his crummy sales job and the strain of their financial situation had led to near constant tension in their marriage. He spoke of Amy and her beauty, her energy, and her caring spirit. He praised her for being his strength and his staunchest supporter for so many years. He blamed himself for dropping out of college and for not knowing what he wanted to do with his life and never having a job that satisfied him or their family’s growing financial needs.
“So what happened? Now you have money, but where is your wife?” asked the Captain.
Collin grew quiet again, searching his thoughts and choosing his words.
“I was an idiot. I almost threw the whole thing in the garbage.” Collin’s gaze was far away, pointed at the horizon ahead, but focused on nothing. For some reason, he wanted the Captain to have the full picture, to know what was going on inside as well. He shook his head as a wave of shame passed through him, then continued. “I had this friend, a female friend. Actually, she’s more than a friend. She was my girlfriend in high school. My first love. The girl I always thought I’d marry. She dumped me after graduation, which wrecked me. Amy saved me a year later.” Collin paused and surveyed the Captain’s face. Without words his expression begged Collin to continue the story. “Her name was—is—Emily. She called me and said she was in San Francisco and wanted to invite me and Amy to dinner.”
“Your ex-girlfriend invited you and your wife to dinner?”
“Yeah, believe it or not, the three of us were friends, although my wife was always wary of Emily.”
His heart sank to his toes as the memory of that evening snailed its way through his conscience, starting with the words he had uttered on the phone that evening ten months earlier: “Sure, that sounds good. I’ll see you around eight.”
It was supposed to be –harmless—two friends having dinner together. Problem was this was Emily Burns, now Dr. Emily Burns, who could’ve become Dr. Emily Cook. She was mesmerizing in every way: gorgeous, brilliant, and fun to be around. Even her voice was captivating. Hearing it had actually made his heart skip a beat.
The other problem was that Amy had been at Tahoe all week with the kids. It was supposed to have been a family vacation. But with his job on the line, he had to close the Renfro account or be fired and that would only compound the misery. It was the end of a long, lonely, and difficult week. Not the best time to hang out with his ex.
The restaurant lived up to the rave reviews. The food was the best he had ever tasted and the conversation was engaging. Emily was passionate about her work and enthusiastic about her hobbies, several of which she and Collin shared. They reminisced about high school and relived some of the pranks they pulled and the fun times they had together.
As the evening wore on, Emily accepted every offer from the waiter to top off her glass of wine. As the alcohol took effect, the conversation became more personal, more
emotional, and more intimate. She told him how none of her relationships had worked out. None of the men she had dated seemed to have their act together. She confessed that none of them measured up to the standard Collin had set. “There’s no one like you left out there, Collin,” she had said. He struggled to recover from that comment. It was as if his heart had shifted within him and now beat in a strange, but oddly familiar, new rhythm.
She was in a silly mood, giggly and flirtatious. It scared Collin.
Inch by inch, Collin felt himself being pulled into the tantalizing orbit of Emily Burns. Everything about her was exciting, exacerbated by his weakened and lonely condition. In many ways he felt his life was crumbling around him while she seemed to generate a certain magnetic charge that pulled him closer.
The candlelight, her perfume, the soft music in the background, and the good food they had enjoyed, all worked together to create a very pleasing glow, a palpable sense of belonging and closeness. Alarms were going off in Collin’s head, but he pushed them aside, rationalizing his choice to stay by telling himself she really needed a friend right now.
When Emily started to slur as she flirted with him, Collin put an end to the conversation.
“I need to go, but first I’ll help you to your room so you can sleep this thing off,” he said as he stood and held out his hand for her.
Emily heaved a sigh and gripped his outstretched hand as if it were a rescue buoy being thrown to a drowning victim. Her hands were soft but her grip was firm. She didn’t let go, even after gaining her balance. It felt good, and a thrill ran through him. She needed him; she really needed him. As a friend, he told himself. But it felt good. As he pulled her up from her seat, she eased up against him and leaned her head on his shoulder. Before he knew what was happening, he found his arm wrapped around her slim waist, and the two of them were striding out the door onto Polk Street. She was staying at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, just around the corner. At $500 a night, it was apparent she was doing very well.
