He walked from the Madeline to rue Vignon where Erikkson was staying in a hotel of the same name, Hotel Vignon. From a short distance he saw Erikkson seated at a pavement table in front of a café. At first Erikkson did not recognise him, then he rose smiling and invited him to take a coffee at the wicker table. Rue Vignon was a narrow street lined with shops and typical nineteenth Parisian buildings, many of which had been transformed over recent years into offices.
It was eight-thirty in the morning and in that part of the city there were relatively few people about and little traffic, the bulk of which was still struggling to reach the city centre.
Next to Erikkson, on an adjacent chair, was a Bordeaux coloured pilots’ bag. He nodded towards the bag with his head to say that ‘it’ was there. Kennedy hoped he would not open it on the street.
They drank their coffee and Kennedy suggested that they go to the hotel room where there would be more privacy. The hotel small but totally refurbished in the style of a first class establishment. Erikkson’s room was on the 5th floor. Once inside the room he handed the pilots bag to Kennedy. It was almost bulging, packed with wads of new one hundred dollar bills.
“They are perfect, there is no detector in Europe that can differentiate them from the real thing –to all intents and purposes they are the real thing!” His chest seemed to puff up in pride as though it were he who had printed them.
Sweden was a perfect transfer point for the counterfeit money. There were no customs controls in the European Union. The money as usual came in from Tallinn via Helsinki, then on to Stockholm.
The bag was heavy, but Kennedy had no choice but to carry it with it with him when at five minutes past nine they left for the representative office in Paris that looked after his private business affairs. Kennedy had slowly reconciled himself to the idea of receiving counterfeit money after his escapade in Tallinn, as though it were some kind of game with big rewards.
Erikkson had recently set up a small company specialised in financial services, in fact it was nothing more than a letter box company, though it did have a couple of bank accounts that made it a convenient vehicle for transferring legally small sums of money for his various non-official banking activities.
The representative office that handled his affairs knew nothing of his function at the Bottens Handelsbank only that he was a prosperous Swedish businessman. The representative office was itself an honest firm that acted as an administrator, looking after reporting and tax matters. Erikkson personally looked after the bank accounts and transfers.
It had been Doudoune who had given him the idea of the Paris set-up. In that way he transferred money to and from Guadeloupe, a French Department, as a simple transfer from one bank to the other on the national territory.
It was much simpler than he had imagined. France with its reputation as complicated proved to be quite to the contrary. The representative office was specialised in looking after Nordic businesses and several of its staff being mostly expatriates spoke Swedish fluently.
They took lunch at the Svenska Klubben in a building on rue de Rivoli opposite Les Jardins des Tuilleries. It was a hot day and the cool of old stone entrance and stairway to the club was welcome after the ten-minute walk from rue Vignon. Kennedy transpired heavily as he clung tightly to the weighty pilot’s bag that was now his.
The Swedish Club was on the second floor. Erikkson was familiar with the club having been there on previous visits to Paris. It was a home from home. The staff and members spoke Swedish, there were Swedish newspapers, beer and herrings, and of course aquavit.
It was rather a drab place thought Kennedy, it was not unlike a provincial businessman’s club in Ireland, and it had much less style than the Brury Castle Country Club.
“Let me tell you something Pat, our friend Kurov is experienced at handling the transfer without any problems, so don’t worry, you needn’t go through the same trouble like the last time, there’s plenty more where that came from.” He nodded towards the pilot bag.
Kennedy tried to smile as he forced down the herrings not touching the beer, not to speak of the what seemed to be home brewed aquavit, fortunately there was a good supply of bread with butter. He would have preferred a nice cup of tea. Nevertheless, he was pleased with himself as he instinctively touched the pilot bag that sat on the floor against his chair. Erikkson with his usual lack of sensitivity did not even suspect the discomfort that an Irishman could have with smoked eels and pickled herrings.
Kurov was a Russian Jewish émigré, with big ambitions and a small brain. He was a dangerous thug and member of the Russia Brooklyn Mafiya, who operated with Ortega’s friends on Miami Beach.
Kurov had asked Erikkson to make arrangements for a loan at the Irish Union Bank in Dublin against a security in the form of US Treasury bearer bonds. The money from the loan would then be transferred to a London bank where it could be drawn on as needed. In addition Erikkson was to look after a large sum of dollars in ‘Super Notes’, new one hundred dollar bills, and bearer bonds, which Erikkson would have Kennedy keep at Kurov’s disposal in Ireland.
“Remember Pat, this is our business, keep it to ourselves, there’s no point to speak to anybody else, I mean for example Ortega, he can be very unpleasant. We have ourselves to look after.”
“Don’t worry Stig, I won’t let on to anybody else,” he replied with a serious air.
In spite of his habit of bragging, Kennedy carefully compartmentalised certain transactions when it was in his interest, especially when it came to money. That was probably part of the training and professionalism in financial and fiscal matters he automatically applied when dealing with his clients.
Chapter 70
Saint Petersburg
Offshore Islands Page 69
