It was not every day that Pat Kennedy put his name to a document that covered the transfer of almost ten million Irish Pounds to his personal account even if it were lodged on behalf of other investors.
He signed with a flourish and pushed the documents across the table to Jim Maloney standing up at the same time and holding out his hand. He smiled broadly but was nonplussed at the sight of Jim Maloney who seemed to shrink back, leaving Pat puzzled, his hand suspended in space.
He was vaguely aware of a noise behind him, the door opening; there was a rushing movement. Before he had time to realise what was happening he was thrown violently to the floor, face down and his arms pulled up behind him. His wrists were pinched painfully as sharp metal was clamped onto to them. The room was full of thudding bodies, falling chairs and cries. A momentary silence fell on the room and then an authoritative voice declared, “We are police officers, you are under arrest for importation of funds from a criminal organisation through the Irish Farmers Bank.”
Bedlam broke out again as protests filled the room. It had barely penetrated Pats mind what was happening as he was roughly hauled to his feet and bundled from Maloney’s office, through the public area of the bank past the astonished customers and out onto the pavement, where several police cars were waiting with their lights flashing and motors running. He was vaguely aware of the strange almost fearful stares on the faces of the curious bystanders who had gathered to look on.
“Will somebody tell me what’s happening?” He blurted out as he was pushed between two burly Gardai onto the back seat of one of the waiting cars, the doors were slammed and the car accelerated off with a screech of tyres and the wailing of the siren.
“You’ll know soon enough Sir!”
The Sir was pronounced in a kind of threateningly aggressive fashion, as though it were distasteful in the police officers mouth.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
They followed hot on the tail of the leading car, weaving dangerously through the Dublin traffic, which seemed to have to a stop momentarily as in a dream.
Fifteen minutes later Pat recognised the grim walls of Mountjoy prison as the cars approached the huge iron doors, which slowly swung open. The procession of cars skidded into the cobbled yard and the prisoners were quickly pushed out and led into the grey stone building and up several flights of stairs where they were separated off into different interrogation rooms.
Pat sat on a chair in the stark room, a single naked light bulb lit the room, the light was reflected off the grubby white walls, it curiously reminded him of Lena’s place in Havana He was left alone still handcuffed as the steel door closed with a heavy thud. Then there was a silence.
There were no windows and it appeared as if the room was sound proofed. It was difficult to judge how much time had passed, his hands held by the cuffs behind his back made it impossible to see his watch. He tried to collect his thoughts, understand his situation, what had happened, but it was too difficult he was in a bewildered state of shock. He was overcome by a sudden tiredness and seemed to fall into a trance-like sleep.
He was awoke by a heavy key turning the lock, the door swung open and two plain clothes men entered the room accompanied by two-uniformed Garda.
“So Mr Kennedy, let’s go over today’s events, shall we!” said the squat grey haired plainclothes man pulling out a packet of untipped Craven A and lighting a cigarette. The other man placed a cassette recorder on the table and carefully switched in on whilst one of the uniformed men approached Pat from behind and on a nod from the grey haired man removed the handcuffs.
Kennedy rubbed his sore wrists and stretched his arms painfully observing them with suspicion. His three hours of confinement had achieved the desired effect. He was frightened, but calm and ready to talk.
“Yesh Sir,” he replied with his nervous lisp very pronounced.
“We’ll start from the beginning then, shall we.”
“Have you travelled recently to Colombia?”
“Yesh, I have. Why are you asking me that, I want to know why I’m here?”
“We’ll ask the questions not you!”
“Have you been travelling to Mexico and Miami?”
“Yesh,” he replied sullenly.
“What is the source of the money you transferred to your account at the Irish Union?”
“The money is from foreign investors.”
“We have reason to believe this money originates from the traffic of narcotics!”
“Narcotics!”
“Don’t be naive Mr Kennedy, you have been followed over the last six months by the European Narcotics Agency. You have frequented a Chilean well known to our services, whom we have long suspected as the legal front for money laundering on behalf of the Colombian drug cartels and the Russian Mafiya.”
Almost four hours later it seemed as if he had gone over his story a hundred times, he glanced at his watch it was just after seven and he had still no idea of what he was accused of. Slowly his confidence was returning, his interrogators were not very intelligent men. The police left the room and some minutes later one of the uniformed men returned with a mug of tea and a thick cheese sandwich, which he placed before Kennedy.
“Get this inside of you now.”
Ortega a drug trafficker that sounded very unlikely, the man had an honest business. After all he was a practising Catholic. Kennedy figured out that there must be some kind of a mistake.
The cell door opened again and he was led to the interrogation room.
“Sit down Mr Kennedy. Tell us what you know about Mr Castlemain and his yacht?”
“Mr Castlemain? He’s on business in Cuba!”
“Is he now?”
“Yesh, and what’s more he can vouch for my business activities!”
“Well I see you’re not very up to date with your information.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, because you see because Castlemain is missing at sea.”
“Missing!”
“Unfortunately yes, his yacht seems to have gone down in Rose.”
“Rose!”
“Yes hurricane Rose!”
Chapter 85
Sheremetyevo Moscow
Offshore Islands Page 84
