Dirty White

by Brian Freemantle

  Gomez was pleased at the praise. “I told you at the beginning how it was going to be.”

  “Can we rely upon Navarra to do the same?”

  “Perhaps we won’t have to reply upon Navarra forever,” said Gomez.

  Scarletti looked directly across the table at the other man, waiting for Gomez to continue. The Colombian didn’t and Scarletti refrained from asking the direct question. Instead he said, “When are you planning the first shipment?”

  “Navarra says he’ll have about five hundred kilos ready in a fortnight. I can refine that down and have it ready to move here about a week after that.”

  “The whole half-ton?” asked Scarletti.

  Gomez shook his head, guessing that the American was testing him. “That wouldn’t make good sense,” he said. “I plan to do it in fours, 125 kilos at a time. That way we’re insured for replacement, if there’s any interception: and it’ll be easier, moving that amount at any one time.” Wanting to balance the demands, he continued, “I plan to get the whole lot here in under a month. Sure you can move half a ton?”

  Scarletti smiled, unoffended. “You ship it, I’ll move it,” he said. He smiled again. “On the streets that’s going to come out at something like forty-three million.”

  “I’ve told Navarra that five hundred kilos at a time isn’t enough; that if we’re going to corner the market it’s got to be much more.”

  “Can he supply?”

  “He says so.”

  “It would make sense to split from source from you,” said Scarletti. “Could you transport directly to Italy?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s the optimum?”

  “No one knows the full figure, but the estimates at the moment are that about fifty-five to sixty tons move through Colombia a year: that’s about forty-five for here and the rest for Europe. I’d like to see us with two thirds—say, thirty tons.”

  “On the streets, that’s two thousand, four hundred and fifty million,” said Scarletti.

  Now it was Gomez who smiled, briefly, at another challenge. “I think, at the current prices, the truer figure would be two thousand, five hundred and fifty?”

  “You’ve really worked everything out, haven’t you?”

  “Carefully,” reminded Gomez. “And I’m pitching it at slightly less than two thirds on the minimum figure on fifty tons. We would go higher.”

  “A lot of money,” said Scarletti.

  “Which is one of the reasons I’m here,” said the Colombian. It would have been wrong to let Scarletti think it was the principal reason.

  “What?” said the American. And then sat nodding, his face serious because he always considered money to be serious. When Gomez had finished, he said, “No problem.”

  “I want the best.”

  “I only ever use the best,” said Scarletti, with a hint of rebuke. “There’s a man here, in Philadelphia. Probart, Harry Probart. And one I use in New York. Norman Lang.”

  “Difficult to get to?”

  “Not with the right introduction,” said Scarletti, demanding the recognition.

  “I’d appreciate it,” said Gomez, providing it.

  “Here or New York?”

  Gomez didn’t foresee frequent visits but there would obviously have to be some. And the garment industry, which was his cover, was based in Manhattan. “New York,” he said.

  “I’ll make a can, promised Scarletti. “when you going back up?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Gomez.

  “It’ll be fixed, by the time you get there,” assured the American, enjoying his supremacy.

  “I appreciate it,” repeated Gomez.

  “All part of the partnership,” said Scarletti.

  Norman Lang’s office suite was on Pearl Street on the top floor of an old building. There was a lot of mahogany and a smell of polish. It was a discreet place of thick carpets and subdued voices and conservative dress and quiet typewriters. Having been granted access at the receptionist’s desk, the visitor was automatically assumed to belong; the smiles and the acceptance were as discreet as everything else. The ambiance was of old, established money and Gomez was glad he’d chosen New York. A challenge to a place like this from the FBI or an enforcement agency would have been an act of insolence.

  Norman Lang fitted the surroundings, of course—as if he’d styled himself to form part of the decor or the decor had been styled to conform to him. He was white-haired and pink-faced. The suit was black and superb and the tie had the motif of some club that Gomez didn’t recognize. Mingled with the polish was the aroma of expensive cologne and probably even more expensive cigars. The handshake was soft, almost feminine.

  “I understand you’re interested in investment?” said the lawyer.

  Gomez noted that the formal question omitted any mention of Scarletti. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “What sort of sums are we considering?”

  “Progressive amounts,” said the Colombian. “In excess of five hundred million in the first year.” He paused, waiting for some expression of surprise. There was no facial reaction at all from the other man. Gomez went on. “I would expect the investment to reach a thousand in the first eighteen months.”

  Still there was no expression from Lang. “These investment sums will be created by activities here, in America?”

  Gomez hesitated, then remembered the circumstances of his reaching this inner sanctum in the first place. “Yes, generated by activities entirely within the United States.”

  “But not sums you intend to make any return upon to the Internal Revenue Service?”

  “I am a Colombian, domiciled outside the United States of America.”

  “There are still statutory requirements, particularly involving sums of this magnitude,” insisted Lang.

  “No,” said Gomez. “Certainly I do not wish to make any sort of declaration to the IRS.”

  “I understand,” said the lawyer blandly.

  “This will be difficult?”

  “No,” said the American quickly, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Not difficult at all. There is something, however …”

  “What?”

  “There are to be no audited accounts … no books?”

  “No.”

  “Then you must understand that the expenses will be high. The commission, too.”

  New money maintaining the privileged atmosphere of the past, thought Gomez. He said, “I understand that. How much?”

  “Ten percent,” replied the lawyer, quickly again.

  Which meant that Lang’s cut would be fifty million. Gomez said, “That’s very high.”

  “So are the expenses,” insisted Lang.

  Would Probart, in Philadelphia, be cheaper? Possibly, Gomez supposed: things would be cheaper in a regional city. But the lawyer in Philadelphia would know his strength and his bargaining power just as much as this man sitting across the desk. And would a regional city be as impressive as this? He’d told Scarletti he wanted the best and this was unquestionably the best. “All right,” conceded Gomez.

  “How will this money originate?” asked the lawyer. “Check or cash?”

  “Cash,” said Gomez. “All cash.”

  “High-denomination bills?”

  “Not particularly,” said the experienced Gomez. “Twenty-dollar bills would be the average.”

  Lang made a slightly disparaging sound, drawing air through tight-together teeth. He said, “That creates difficulties through simple practicalities. Have you any idea how much bulk—and weight—is occupied by several million dollars? The sheer weight of paper?”

  “I think so,” said Gomez.

  “I’d guess brokerage houses would be best,” said Lang.

  “You could find one?”

  “I could try.”

  “I don’t want any mistakes.”

  “I’m sure neither of us wants any mistakes,” said the lawyer smoothly. “What sort of investments are you considering?”

  It was a ques
tion Gomez had already prepared for. “As high yield as possible. But this isn’t risk money. None of it. Nothing bizarre, just because it’s got a high return.”

  “I’m not in the business of the bizarre,” said Lang. “For your needs—and because of the circumstances of the money’s availability—I consider it will have to be something offshore.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll have to study the market closer,” said the lawyer. “When could we expect the first deposit?”

  “A month,” estimated Gomez. “After that, perhaps more frequently.”

  “It may take me a little longer than that. There’ll need to be arrangements between us, giving me power of attorney.”

  “Now?”

  “It would finalize matters. I have a notary in the office. It could be witnessed by one of my staff.”

  Gomez shifted uncomfortably at other people being involved. “All right,” he agreed, with no alternative.

  The notary was a balding man named Hatchard and the witness, one of Lang’s outer-office secretaries, was never introduced. The formalities took only minutes. When they left the room, the lawyer said, “Now everything is complete. The woman witnessed Hatchard’s signature, not yours.”

  Complete! thought Gomez exultantly. He was going to become the biggest there was!

  They considered the Holiday Inn first, on Seven Mile Beach, but Farr decided they needed more privacy, so they went back toward Georgetown and took a limited booking at the Royal Palms—not in one of the apartments but in the Coral Gables annex, in one of the three-bedroom duplexes.

  Farr stood in the middle of the more-than-adequate kitchen and said, “We’ll be self-contained enough here while we look around. But I suppose it would make more sense to hire a house. Houses even.”

  “Certainly, when the others come in,” said Harriet professionally. “This is still a hotel, although it’s got all these facilities. Five or six people moving in and out would attract far too much attention.”

  “It’s off-season,” said Farr. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to rent.”

  The woman stood at the window, unable from the way the complex was built to see the beach or the sea beyond. “From what I’ve seen so far, it seems a pretty place.”

  “There’ll be time to enjoy ourselves.”

  She turned back into the room to face him. “We’re not here to enjoy ourselves,” she said.

  11

  Farr did not need Harriet’s encouragement to work. He began the day after settling into the Coral Gables. The company he intended forming was to be a legitimate subsidiary of his legitimate New York corporation, so he set about its creation in a completely legal way, engaging one of the best incorporation lawyers on the island, an easy-mannered man named Richard Belling. With Belling, Farr went carefully through the implications of the full range of applicable legislation, covering the Companies’ Law, the Trusts Law, the licensing requirements for Bank and Trust Companies and the Confidential Relationships (Preservation) Law. Farr initially intended applying for a category A classification, which would have allowed him an unrestricted general license, but abandoned the idea when Belling told him that the local Cayman office would have to employ a local financial expert fully conversant with all the intricacies of the internal tax legislation. Farr knew theirs had to be a restricted office, so he settled instead for a category B unrestricted offshore license. The capital requirement was a minimum of two hundred and fifty thousand but he pledged the full FBI allocation of three million. Properly to incorporate the company required Belling to have certified evidence of the incorporation of the New York parent; this allowed Farr two twenty-four-hour returns to Manhattan, where he was able to chair brief meetings with Angela Nolan and the tour other division heads, to ensure that everything was running smoothly in his absence—which it was. During the Manhattan visits—and also weekly from the Caymans—Farr maintained contact with Eastham, wanting to visit Howard. Every time, Halpern advised against his coming, insisting upon no immediate distraction in their efforts to motivate the boy into agreeing to treatment.

  Farr concentrated particularly upon the Confidential Relationships Law of 1976—the legislation that attracted investors to the island and would be the lure to any trafficker. He didn’t imagine that the island government would move against him—particularly in view of the access agreement between the United States and Britain—but he decided that the wording of the law allowed prosecution against him personally on the grounds that he knowingly set up the company to obtain confidential information and then communicated it to others. Compared to the other risks he was taking, Farr decided, it was not a major consideration.

  The early days were crowded, but when all the legal necessities had been complied with there was a lull, during which the formal application was made to the Caymans government and examined by the Inspector of Banks and Trust Companies. This allowed Farr more time with Harriet, who had been working just as hard as he. She had narrowed down to three the possible office sites in Georgetown; two were near the fort, the third near the post office. Farr thought the post-office site best, but they deferred final decision until the arrival of Batty and Jones, in preparation for which they set about looking for houses. They made extensive tours of the island, considering going as far away as Bodden Town before settling on something more conveniently near to the capital: a sprawling bungalow and an equally large house, each in their own concealing grounds between Southwest Point and Coconut Valley Bar. The bungalow fronted on to the sea and, although the beach wasn’t as good as the shoreline along Seven Mile beach, having more rocks than sand, it was still possible to swim and sunbathe there, and it had the advantage of privacy.

  Farr was glad the shopping was so good in Georgetown. He worked at diminishing the suit and tie image, but did so gradually, not wanting Harriet to realize that he was making any effort. He was equally careful to avoid forcing any social involvement, although circumstances dictated that they should be frequently together. There were times when she announced—in a way that made it quite clear that she did not want company—that she was going to the cinema or to the theater along West Bay Road, and Farr never made any attempt to accompany her. Sometimes she simply said she was going out and drove off in the car; he never questioned where she went. When he suggested their going out together, however, Harriet never refused. They were disappointed with the Grand Old House, although they agreed that the plantation surroundings were attractive, and preferred the Lobster Pot for lunch rather than dinner. The Caribbean Club became a favorite. With whole days with nothing to do, while the company application was being processed and the office and houses selected, he planned outings he hoped she’d like; one day they went to the turtle farm and he laughed with her as she nervously held one of the young turtles with which visitors were allowed to be photographed. On another occasion they leisurely drove around the island as far as Rum Point, just before the road ceased, and then backtracked to an almost empty hotel where they had the beach to themselves.

  They swam and sunbathed a lot from their bungalow beach as well, which Farr preferred because, although it was out of season and the public beaches were not heavily used, there were still people on them. On their own tiny rocky inlet, he didn’t have to share her with anyone. It was a conscious thought and one Farr knew was ridiculous—they’d made the pact after their individual confessions and Harriet maintained a studied distance—but it was one that he couldn’t avoid. On their own beach, and any other beach. Harriet was particular—it was always a one-piece suit, never a more revealing bikini. Nevertheless, he could see—and he tried to see as often as he could without her realizing it—that she was very firm and quite heavy-busted and flat-stomached and long-legged. He was very careful about himself, always trying to hold his own stomach tight and wishing like hell he hadn’t stopped bothering about the workouts at the racquet club.

  Belling said he thought that it was the reputation and the prestige of Farr’s well-established New
York practice that approval for the application was secured far sooner than he expected. Farr traveled into town to receive the official document and sign the remaining forms, and Belling said, “Welcome to tax-free Utopia,” and that he hoped everything would work out. Farr said, sincerely, that he hoped so too.

  Farr had left his car in the street, that day, rather than in a parking lot, and his return to it took him past the Passman black-coral shop. He spent a long time at the window, undecided, and then, beginning to sweat in the growing heat of the day, he went gratefully into the air conditioning, telling himself that he was only taking relief from the sun but knowing he was going to do more than that. His first thought was to buy something expensive and obviously impressive, but he discarded it very quickly, aware of how she would react. He shied away from rings, too, because in Farr’s mind rings always meant engagements and marriage, and he was frightened that she might think the same. He finally chose a simple gold-linked strand of black pearls fashioned into a necklace, with matching earrings.

  It had been a morning meeting, so she knew he would return for lunch, and by the time he reached the bungalow she had come in from their tiny beach, to make the meal. She was wearing a shirt-wrap over her suit but it stopped at mid-thigh; she couldn’t have been inside long because, when he passed close to her, by the breakfast bar, he detected the heat still emanating from her body.

  “I used the blender to make some lemonade,” she said, aware of his reaction to the midday sun.

  “Do you celebrate with lemonade?”

  “Everything?” she said excitedly.

  “Everything,” he confirmed. “Properly incorporated, legally in existence … We’re in business!”

  She moved without any direction around the sectioned-off kitchen with jerky uncertainty, apparently as aware as he was that it was a time for arms-around-the-necks congratulation but keeping the barrier of the breakfast bar between them.

  “Terrific!” she said. “Wonderful!”

  “Belling expected it to take much longer—weeks at least,” said Farr, hoping she would be impressed. “The New York reputation clinched it, he thinks.”