Offshore Islands

by John Francis Kinsella

Arrowsmith flew into Antigua on a Bandeirante, a Brazilian built twin engine aircraft. The island was just to the north, a short hop from Guadeloupe. The plane was about half full, there were just sixteen seats, he could stretch out. Through the window he had a good view of the islands; the small aircraft’s cruising altitude was no more than two or three thousand metres.

  He could make out boats and ships that appeared motionless on the shimmering sea and wondered idly if the Marie Galante was one of them, the meeting point was fixed in Falmouth Harbour to the south of the island.

  The regular drone of the motors made him feel sleepy, just the slight bump from time to time kept him awake. There was a change in the pitch of the motor and the plane banked, he could see a large island ahead and they started their descent to Antigua.

  Castlemain had called him, it was urgent, a certain Ishkov was no longer available, an accident or something. Ishkov was to have settled a banking arrangement for the Cubans in Antigua.

  Castlemain’s explanations had been rushed and unclear, the only thing that came through was the urgent need to keep the appointment at the bank. He would get further instructions on arrival in Antigua.

  The instructions were there sure enough and Arrowsmith was more than a little unhappy. There was an envelope with a cash order in the name of Ishkov for $200,000 which was to be delivered by the Leeward Islands Bank, one of the multitude of banks in Antigua that conducted doubtful business transactions and was certainly a vehicle for fiscal evasion and money laundering.

  Castlemain had with his usual efficiency set up the arrangements with the bank, with the result that there was nothing much to do except relax and try to enjoy the sunshine. At the Leeward Islands Bank he had handed over the order with Ishkov’s signature, everything was fine, the cash would be prepared in US dollars and could be picked up the next morning, there were no other formalities, no currency exchange restrictions and no limits on banking transactions on the island.

  It would have of course been simpler with a wire transfer to an account opened in the name of a Cuban Vice Minister of Tourism or one of his family, that would have been much cleaner, unfortunately cash was wanted, and Castlemain had preferred that Arrowsmith deliver it personally and hand it over to the Cuban in Havana, that way he was sure that it arrived at the right door and intact.

  In the circumstances Arrowsmith took greatest care to keep a low profile. In spite of the mandatory banking secrecy on the island there were leaks, it helped the Antiguan authorities to maintain an image of vigilance and demonstrate their respect for international treaties. Any indiscretion could mean information being leaked to the French customs authorities on Guadeloupe, if it served the interests of the Antiguans. The French were always alert to tax fraud and laundering of illegal money by nationals or residents.

  However, it was the Russians that Arrowsmith feared more, they had other means of getting what they wanted and were totally without qualms when it came to the use of violence. He shuddered at the thought, making a mental note to keep as far away as possible from them, especially Ortega and his associates, who having befriended Kennedy were becoming embarrassing acquaintances.

  After arriving at the International Airport, he took a taxi to St Johns; it was just five miles away. After checking into his hotel he selected a small roadside bar with a good view and sat at a rickety table shaded from the sun by the tall palms that lined the seafront. He ordered a beer and started to thumb lazily through the guidebook he had bought to orient himself.

  There were numerous banks in down town St John’s and he wondered why Castlemain had made the pick-up arrangement there, or more to the point why he had not picked up the money himself, it would have been so much simpler. Arrowsmith collected the money the next morning and then took a taxi to Falmouth Harbour on the south of the island, where following Castlemain’s instructions he was to join him on the Marie Galante, which was cruising the islands with his guests and was scheduled to sail to Cayo Coco in Cuba.

  He was not totally at ease with the idea of the cruise. Although he had a total confidence in Barton, the Marie Gallant’s captain, and his seamanship, the constant though minor difficulties with the navigation equipment and Courtauld’s dismissal of those problems had irritated him. He would have preferred a short flight to Havana, but Castlemain had insisted on doing it his way, making the hand-over to the Cubans at their agreed place of delivery. Arrowsmith knew that he would not feel relaxed until the ketch was in the harbour at Cayo Coco and the money handed over.

  There were a good few boats moored at the new jetty, though he quickly found the Marie Galante. He was out of luck they were all gone, shopping no doubt. He could not leave the cumbersome pilots bag with the money nor his own luggage on board unattended and had no choice but to install himself in small bar facing the jetty and wait for them to show up.

  Finding the Marie Galante had not been the only thing on his mind, he was not really looking forward to the trip to Cuba; he was not a great seaman. His childhood memories of those grim Irish Sea crossings reminded him that the only thing certain about the sea was its unpredictability. He consoled himself by the idea that most visitors held, that the Caribbean was always as smooth as it was at that moment, shimmering in the late morning sunshine.

  He put down the guide book he had bought and made an effort to survey the scene, pleasure boats of all kinds lay at anchor in the harbour, there was little activity, so much money tied up in unused or underused hardware, the consumer society of the rich he reflected. It would all change in a week’s time when the tourists started to flow in for the Christmas holidays.

  He picked up the Herald Tribune he had bought together with the guidebook; the paper was two days old. Not much news, ten thousand billion dollars cash in US currency circulating in the ex-Soviet Union, he was not surprised to read a large part of it was in forged bills. He wondered if Ishkov was a Russian.

  Arrowsmith checked the exchange rates, French francs, Dollars, British pounds, nothing unusual. He turned to the inside cover, tropical storms and flood damage in Venezuela, that was somewhere off to the west, or was it south, he always lost his orientation in the Caribbean, too many islands. He looked up in the direction of the sun as if to get a fix, it was not of any use; he had never been good at those Boy Scout things with solar compasses.

  An hour later Castlemain and his joyous passengers had showed up looking like they had emptied half the island’s shops, overloaded loaded with booze and shopping bags. Once everything was stowed on board and they were settled in Barton lifted anchor and they set sail westward for Cuba. Castlemain’s friends included Erikkson and his girlfriend, Stein, the architect, and a couple of others besides Courtauld. Kennedy had already left the Marie Galante, he must have crossed him the previous day or that morning, as he was flying out to Dublin where he had some pressing business.

  Barton confided to him that Ishkov was or had been a Russian. He was seriously indisposed at that moment, lying in a Miami police morgue. A shotgun blast had practically blown his head off. His killing had suddenly compromised Castlemain’s arrangement and the Cuban Vice Minister was not a man to keep waiting when it came to a question of money.

  Ishkov had been mixed in a fray between Colombians and Russians. According to police reports he was said to have been stoked up on coke and vodka and had tried to pay for drugs with counterfeit dollars. One of the Colombians caught him with a shotgun blast that blew his head off for his troubles. South Beach had become a dangerous place.

  Arrowsmith was uneasy with Barton’s revelation, things had become annoyingly complicated. It seemed that Castlemain had a penchant for complicating things, as did some of his associates. Courtauld complicated things and for that matter Barton also complicated things. He felt it was becoming too involved; he did not really need that kind of trouble, it had never been his intention to mix in with their affairs. There was no choice but to see this last thing through, after that he would have to put things straight with Castlemai
n.

  Castlemain had other ideas that he was not about to discuss with Arrowsmith. For some time the banker had realised it was not as simple as walking in with money and know-how to create a dream for Castro. He had good reasons to suspect that the Russian Jewish Mafiya, who were well entrenched in Miami, had been used by the Cuban and Colombian interests to sabotage his project in favour of some other kind of deal they were putting together.

  Early that evening, without the passengers noticing, the wind had dropped and the ketch was barely advancing. The air seemed heavy and moist as they talked sipping their before diner drinks. The smell of the lobster grilling on the after deck wafted towards them; with a normal wind it would have been lost in their wake.

  “Hey Guy the wind’s dropped, better get the motor going or we’ll never get anywhere at this rate,” shouted Barton.

  “Let’s get that sail in,” said Courtauld throwing back his drink.

  He turned with Barton and they started to winch down the slack mainsail.

  “Perhaps we should check the weather report.”

  “It’s still fuzzy, the reception.”

  “Never mind try!”

  During the previous night their satellite link had started to give trouble, it was not the first time; maybe it was the navigation unit or the weather to the south.

  The cook had set the table in full style on the centre deck, the wine was in the ice buckets and the salad and freshly baked bread were laid out.

  Erikkson was full of life and looked forward to his dinner. He had made a late appearance after a heavy lunch and an afternoon session with Doudoune, she looked in good form in spite of her efforts to satisfy Erikkson in the king-size bed of the forward cabin.

  “Smells good,” said Erikkson beaming in anticipation of the feast.

  The sea was smooth and once the boat picked up speed driven by its powerful motors, assisted by a very light breeze that had picked-up. They settled down to cocktails and Barton got onto one of his favourite subjects, the Miami Russians, who had chartered the Marie Galante for two or three cruises before he figured out what they were up to, and how dangerous they were.

  South Florida had become the operations hub for the Russian Jewish Mafiya. They had money and lots of it. They did not hesitate to kill; they had international reach and were into drugs and just about every other illegal activity in the Caribbean. They saw Cuba as a potential base for recycling their vast quantities of doubtful money.

  Cuba was an investment zone, a development area for them. They were prepared to work with whomever it required to build up their position. However, the Cuban Communist Party nomenklatura had their own ideas and detested the Russians. They intended to develop their own privatisation after Castro and certainly did not need Russians who were Jews to boot.

  The Mafiya had stripped Russia of its assets, money, gold, raw materials and arms in one of the greatest organised thefts in history. The proceeds had been transferred to offshore accounts around the world, especially to Antigua and the Cayman Islands, by the corrupt Russian banks that they controlled.

  The Cubans were not about to let the Russians do the same thing with what little they had. They had virtually declared war on the Mafiya and the gausanos who had joined forces with them.

  Antigua was one of the most visited islands in the Caribbean. It had more than fifty banks for a population of only 75,000 inhabitants, certain of them owned by Russians who used it as a money laundering and transfer centre.

  Criminals could switch their monies backwards and forwards through the accounts of numerous shell companies, using Antiguan and other offshore banks around the world, operating twenty four hour a day in a bewildering electronic labyrinth, making the origin of the monies virtually impossible to trace.

  Monies often ended up, after their torturous circuits, in respectable European banks, where it was used to set up legal business operations or to buy luxurious villas in Monte Carlo or Cannes, allowing criminals to profit from their drug trafficking or pillaging and live in respectable luxury.

  Arrowsmith thought about the dead Ishkov, whom he had never known, Russians of his kind lived a short and dramatic lives. There were quite a few such Mafiya in Antigua, as well as in the Caymans, they flew in from Miami in their private planes to launder money and have their sit downs in privacy to work out their deals. Cuba was the next territory on their list for criminal colonisation.

  Ishkov had enjoyed his moment of glory, women, champagne, drugs and nightclubs. He had bought a villa in Antigua through one of the Russian mob’s crooked lawyers. He partied in the villa at weekends flying in his girls in a five-seater plane he owned.

  He had been one of the shady characters that Castlemain used from time to time for his special assignments, security staff he called them. It was natural that an international banker such as Castlemain employed personal security staff and it was unavoidable that certain of those personnel were sometimes a little shady; it was the nature of their profession. Castlemain kept them carefully in the background as far from the public view as was possible.

  However, Ishkov, who had been fifteen years earlier a Soviet Olympic boxer, was something different. He acted as an occasional courier who undertook delicate jobs for Castlemain, such as the delivery of money filled briefcases to certain destinations. Castlemain’s head of security a tough ex-British army Red Beret had first hired him.

  Ishkov had been reliable until he became too involved with the Russian Jewish Mafiya in Miami and Brighton Beach, who had given him a taste of high living, which he paid for by running cocaine for the mob.

  The plan had been for Ishkov to collect the money from the bank. The papers had been prepared in advance with instructions that Ishkov make the withdrawal. He was then to carry it to Havana where he was assured of a safe passage through the customs and deliver it directly to the Minister against the officially approved certificate of incorporation of the new Cuban joint-venture company, a sociedad anonima in the presence of Ernesto Chibas.

  Chapter 44

  Back in Cuba