by Jake Needham
Stanley didn’t smile, not even a little.
“What does Howard the Roach have to do with any of this?” I asked.
“I must remind you again, Jack, that I retired several years ago. The firm’s current activities are entirely out of my hands.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You don’t have to believe me, but it is true.”
Stanley sounded genuinely wounded I wasn’t taking him at his word and he sat silently for a while after that, apparently weighing just how much he was actually going to have to tell me to keep me happy and quiet.
“Howard once laundered money for a variety of people in which the United States government had an interest,” Stanley resumed after a moment. “The short answer is that ultimately he got caught doing it. He was then persuaded to turn his talents to the public good rather than face prosecution.”
I figured I had better push Stanley’s narrative along before old age overtook us both.
“So you’re telling me that Jello was right, aren’t you, Stanley? Howard and Dollar were laundering money for someone, but it wasn’t for Burmese drug dealers. It was for an American intelligence operation.”
“Jello was only half right at best. Howard and Dollar did manipulate large sums of money from time to time, it is true, but they always did it with the full knowledge of the United States government and only in support of legitimate American interests. You can’t call that money laundering.”
Stanley shook his head firmly. I wondered if that was entirely for my benefit or if some of the effort was going into convincing himself.
“No,” he repeated, “you really cannot call what Howard and Dollar were doing money laundering.”
I didn’t bother to argue with Stanley and instead pressed the more important point.
“So who were they working for? Was it the FBI?”
“It would be better, Jack, if we just left it—”
“Oh Jesus, I get it now.”
“I doubt—” Stanley began, but I cut him off before he could get wound up again.
“Stanley, let’s be absolutely clear about this. Are you telling me Howard was laundering money for some cockamamie CIA operation and Dollar was helping him do it? Is that what they were going to ask me to get involved in?”
“You’ve been watching too many movies, Jack.” Stanley’s voice was level, but I could hear an edge in it now. “Don’t try to reduce the real world to something simple enough for teenagers to understand while they’re stuffing popcorn in their mouths. You’ll end up looking like an idiot every time.”
“And don’t jerk me around like some dimwitted student, Stanley. You and your little buddies were having a great time playing spook until somebody took it all too seriously and killed Howard. That scared the shit out of Dollar because he knew he might be next on the list, so he took off. How am I doing so far?”
“That is not right!” Stanley sounded seriously angry now. “And I will not say that because it is not true!”
“Then you can explain it however you think you should,” I said.
“What makes you think that I have to explain anything to you, Jack?”
“Because you don’t want me to mess anything up, Stanley. You’re up to your neck in some deep shit here and you really don’t want me to keep asking questions about it.”
“Will you keep asking questions?”
“You bet your ass I will. I will keep asking questions until I understand exactly what the hell I’m involved in here. Am I coming through loud and clear?”
Stanley gave a heavy sigh as if all the air had suddenly been let out of him and then his eyes went dead.
A stillness settled over the office after that and we both sat for a while without saying anything else. Outside the windows the sun was hanging just above a thin wisp of clouds streaking the horizon somewhere beyond the river. Then the setting edge of the sun touched the clouds, the room darkened slightly, and grayness filtered over us like a warm mist.
THIRTY ONE
STANLEY TURNED TOWARD me. He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes seeking mine.
“The loss of British control over Hong Kong was a tremendous problem for the West,” he said. “We tried to pass it off as inconsequential, but that was not the case. Hong Kong had been our only real window on China since the end of World War II. It provided our best, sometimes our only access. In one stroke we were cut off from the few assets we had in China and we largely lost our ability to collect and evaluate intelligence data from there.”
I had a sudden flash of memory, a vivid image of balancing in the bow of the Star Ferry with Archie Ward as we wallowed through the oily swells of Victoria Harbour.
“Everything in the biggest nation on earth, developments that ranged from stepped-up drug smuggling operations by the Chinese army to the production status of intercontinental missiles capable of delivering nuclear warheads anywhere in the world, would soon be a complete mystery to us. The West had almost no human intelligence sources in China anymore, and those few sources we had we were desperate to keep supporting regardless of the loss of Hong Kong as a point of access. We had to find a way to keep supplying our assets with the resources they needed to keep operating.”
Archie had been cautiously scanning the crowd around us while he hinted at a variety of connections between the Asian Bank of Commerce and money being covertly funneled into China. None of it had really made much sense to me then. I had a feeling it was about to.
“Howard Kojinski had connections with several different agencies of the United States government and in working on their behalf he utilized a great many banks and front companies for his operations. His role was to assist with reestablishing and resupplying the points of access in China that we had to maintain in order to keep the information flowing.”
“Who exactly were we renewing access to in China, Stanley? Who were we resupplying?”
“I would presume, Jack, that we were resupplying the guys on our side. That’s the way it usually works.”
“You mean the dissidents? The democracy activists?”
“Yes,” Stanley said, measuring his words. “And some others.”
Thinking back on my conversation with Archie Ward, I didn’t recall him including any democracy activists or political dissidents among the people who were unhappy about the money missing in the collapse of the Asian Bank of Commerce. As I remembered it, he had fingered a long list of corrupt Chinese generals and government ministers instead.
“What did Dollar and Howard have to do with this resupplying, Stanley?”
“My former firm was working with Howard and these government agencies to establish the mechanisms that were required for his operations.”
“What agencies?”
“You wouldn’t know them if I gave you their names and addresses, Jack.”
“Try me.”
Stanley looked for a moment as if he might, but then he abruptly leaned back and folded his arms.
“Dollar directed the legal work involved in organizing and operating the companies that were used to mask the funds involved in these operations. He was the man who was ultimately responsible for the money. Howard was just the bagman.”
I noticed that Stanley had begun referring to both Howard and Dollar in the past tense and wondered if that had any significance.
“That’s all I know, Jack. If I knew more than that, I probably wouldn’t tell you anyway, but I don’t. That’s it.”
“Do you know who killed Howard, Stanley?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Do you know why he was killed?”
Stanley shook his head again.
“Do you think it might have been because somebody neglected to tell Howard what he was really being used for?” I asked. “That when he found out somehow, it scared the crap out of him and he started shooting off his mouth? Could that have been the reason?”
“I’ll bet you’re one of those people who think that the CIA killed Marilyn Monroe
.”
“Didn’t they?”
Stanley had about half a smile on his face.
“Are you saying, Jack, that Howard’s murder was organized and directed by some shadowy operatives of the American intelligence community in order to keep him quiet about these China operations?”
“You don’t think it’s possible?”
Stanley shook his head. “No. I don’t think it’s possible. For two reasons. First, no matter how endlessly fascinating the tales may be, the government of the United States does not, in my experience, kill its own citizens in order to advance vast and obscure conspiracies. The real nuts aren’t in Washington, Jack. They’re in Hollywood.”
“And the second reason?”
“It would have been far too hard for them to do. Never forget, these are the same kind of people who couldn’t convict OJ.”
“Then who did kill Howard, and why is Dollar on the run?”
“I don’t know, Jack. That’s the God’s truth. I just don’t know.”
I held Stanley’s eyes and we sat like that, hooked together, until he glanced away again. Then there was another silence and we both hid in it for a while.
“There’s something else I want to know, Stanley.”
He raised his eyebrows and waited.
“Who is Just John?”
“He’s a good man, Jack.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant.”
“I know,” Stanley said, “but I think it’s important to say that first.”
“He’s not just some retired old duffer who runs errands and pours drinks is he? What’s John’s connection? Is he the firm’s CIA man in residence?”
“Would you believe me if I told you John was retired from the State Department?”
“No.”
“Well,” Stanley said, spreading his hands, “there you go.”
We looked steadily at each other, neither of us blinking.
“How did John get hooked up with Dollar?” I asked.
“The firm were asked by a National Security Council staff member to provide a local cover for John about two years ago. The whole operation of reestablishing our access channels into China was a big, complicated undertaking with a lot of moving parts that could come unstuck and cause considerable embarrassment all-around. Having someone around whose job it was to prevent that from happening seemed sensible so we readily agreed to the request.”
“Then Just John’s not CIA? He’s with the NSC?” I briefly considered the implications of that. “Doesn’t that mean he works for the White House?”
“Don’t be naïve, Jack. Who the hell knows who John really is or who he really works for? And frankly, who cares? John Hanratty, or whatever his name really is, is one of the good guys. He represents the highest levels of American authority and he is doing work that is essential to the preservation of national security. Isn’t that good enough for you?”
“Not really. Not with Howard Kojinski swinging under the Taksin Bridge, Dollar on the run, and somebody stalking me around Bangkok. No, it isn’t nearly good enough.”
“Well, it’s going to have to be good enough, Jack.”
I had one really big question left to ask and I decided I’d better get to it before whatever goodwill I had with Stanley was completely exhausted.
“Where does Barry Gale fit into all this, Stanley, and what is he trying to get me involved in here? Is it something to do with these spy games you guys are playing with the Chinese?”
Stanley met my eyes squarely and he didn’t blink. He obviously wanted to convince me he was telling me the whole truth, at least as far as he knew what the whole truth was.
“I have no idea what this man Gale wants with you, Jack. I never heard of him until you told me about him today. But none of the rest of this has anything at all to do with you. That I can promise you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Look, even if Howard or Dollar were going to ask your advice on some technical details concerning the work they were doing as you suspect, I’m certain they had no intention of cutting you in on the whole picture. Besides, they never got around to asking or telling you anything at all, did they? You are clearly not involved in this in any way, and I can’t see how anyone could think otherwise.”
“Then why am I under surveillance?”
“I doubt you are. But if you are, it must have something to do with Gale or his gangster buddies. It has nothing to do with your work for Dollar.”
“You’re sure it’s not Just John who’s keeping tabs on me?”
Stanley smiled for the first time in what seemed to be hours.
“You’re not that interesting, Jack. John Hanratty moves in higher circles than either of us. I sure he couldn’t care less what you’re doing.”
“Let’s put this plainly, Stanley. Just for the record. As far as you know, does any agency of the United States government have any interest in me at all?”
“Not unless it’s the IRS, Jack.”
Our conversation went on for a while after that as conversations sometimes do even when they’re already over, but nothing else of any importance was said by either of us. By the time I left Stanley it was dark, and I went back downstairs to my own office and just sat there a while thinking.
In real life, coincidences really did occur sometimes. When I thought about what Stanley had told me, I could see now why the Asian Bank of Commerce could have been in Dollar’s address book. According to Barry Gale, the bank was in the business of facilitating shady dealings for foreigners in Asia by providing them access to compliant banking facilities and bankers who didn’t ask too many questions. That would have been just the ticket for Howard and Dollar in setting up their Chinese money runs. Maybe there wasn’t any more to it than that. Probably Barry Gale would have known nothing about how Dollar and Howard had been using the ABC, so his sudden appearance in my life might well have nothing to do with them at all.
That still left unanswered the question of who killed Howard, of course, and exactly what Dollar might be hiding from now also remained a mystery; but Stanley was probably right about that, too. I had never actually been involved in whatever Dollar and Howard were doing. Regardless of what the answers to those two questions ultimately turned out to be, those answers would have nothing to do with me.
Looking at everything that way made me feel a lot better. I stood up, stretched, and collected my briefcase. It was time to go home.
As the elevator whirred down to the garage, I thought to myself again that it really did look like I was in the clear with regard to whatever Dollar and Howard might have been up to. Now if I could only find some way to get rid of Barry Gale, my life would be pretty much back to normal.
I climbed into the Volvo and drove home. I held onto that thought the entire way, enjoying it beyond all reason.
THIRTY TWO
WHEN I GOT and took the elevator upstairs the first thing I noticed after the door opened at my floor was the faint odor of cigar smoke.
I reminded myself yet again either to clean up my act and cut down on my smoking or at least get the apartment aired out every now and then. It was a wonder to me that one of my neighbors hadn’t already complained to the residents’ committee and started a movement to get me thrown out of the building. It wasn’t until I opened the door to my apartment, dumped my briefcase, and crossed the entry hall into the living room that I realized the smoke I smelled wasn’t quite as stale as I had first thought.
“These are pretty good,” Tommy said, gesturing with the lighted cigar in his hand. “I generally prefer Cohibas, but Montecristos were all I could find around here and, like you Americans say, don’t look in the mouth of a horse that is a gift from somebody.”
“It’s ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’“
“Whatever.” Tommy took a long draw on the Montecristo. “My English may be a little rusty. Maybe you ought to help me with it, Jack.”
Tommy seemed to have made himself entirely at ho
me there in my apartment. Although the living room was dim and he hadn’t turned on any lights, he looked comfortable enough settled as he was into one of the two leather chairs that were turned at right angles to each other in front of the big front window. The cigar he was holding was about half smoked, so I gathered he had probably been there for a while.
“Don’t just stand there, Jack. This is your apartment. Come in, come in.”
Tommy’s tone was so avuncular that for a moment I wondered if I had forgotten some arrangement we had made for him to be waiting there for me. I hadn’t, of course, and I stood looking at him as he took another long pull on the cigar and exhaled in a steady stream.
“Where’s your girlfriend, Jack?”
“She’s out. Somebody’s having a birthday party at the Oriental.”
My response was automatic and I immediately regretted it. Why did I owe Tommy an explanation for anything? After all, he had gotten into my apartment somehow and was lurking there in the dark waiting to ambush me when I came home. In my book that hardly entitled him to start asking questions, much less to get any answers.
“Okay, fine.” Tommy’s voice filled the room with a hearty, good-natured boom. “That’s good.”
I wondered what was good about it from Tommy’s point of view.
“How did you get in here?” I asked.
“You ought to be more concerned about how I’m going to get out of here, Jack. That’s what I’d be worried about if I were you.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Why don’t you just sit down? This won’t take long.”
Tommy tapped the Montecristo against a green celadon bowl he had put on the floor by the chair to use as an ashtray. He smiled slowly in what I gathered he thought was a reassuring way. Other than grabbing Tommy and flinging him bodily through the living room window, I didn’t see what else I could do. And that didn’t seem like too hot an idea, so I sat down.
I watched Tommy as he smoked quietly, smiling in a vague sort of way and looking off in the direction of the lights along Ploenchit Road. He had a soft, almost pink face, and he wore plain, black-rimmed glasses. His dark hair was neatly cut and he was conservatively dressed in a dark suit that was neither snappy nor expensive, a white shirt, and a plain tie with a muted pattern. He didn’t seem to notice that I was looking him over or, if he did, to care very much.
