by Doug Walker
“I want in on the action. So you might as well talk.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“I’ll wait. And consider this. If I don’t get the information I’m after, I’ll shoot you and they’ll find your body in the trunk in a couple of weeks, a bit gamy by that time.” Slamming the trunk closed, I turned and took a short walk around the car. This would be the time for a cigarette if I smoked, or maybe even a hip flask and a quick shot for courage. But no flask.
Reopening the trunk, I asked, “Are you ready to begin your story?”
“You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Slam went the trunk door. Second thoughts. The noise of that door slamming might attract attention. Gentle, gentle, is the way. After a time, I reopened the lid. “I’m losing patience. Your demise is close at hand. Will you talk?”
“OK. So I do know something.” Hanif, bunched up in the trunk, gave his version of the truth, which I thought might be heavily laced with fiction.
“I do know something about the matter and I can check other facts with my cell phone. If you do not give me the truth and the whole truth, including the true name of your contacts with other terrorists in Pakistan, you are one dead man before the sun appears.” With that I closed the trunk gently.
A longer wait this time, then reopening that chamber. “No more lying. My patience has run out. I promise I won’t shoot you if you come clean.”
He talked and talked. I questioned him, even made a few notes. Names, places. Finally, I told him I was satisfied and would take him to a spot where he would finally be released, a glorious spot indeed. So, down with the trunk lid, slowly, silently.
Off we went to a lovely place overlooking the city, twinkling lights below. Backing onto the lookout, I cut the engine and popped the trunk. “Out you come.”
“I’m stiff. I’m not a young man.” Finally, he was standing on the low wall at the front of the lookout, wondering where he was. “This is a strange place. Am I on some kind of wall? What are those lights? They seem far off.” He was disoriented.
“One thing I failed to mention, Hanif, you are responsible for the death of the Senegalese girl, Oumou. For that you will have to be punished.”
“I’m not a killer,” he cried.
“Of course not. You would have had someone else take care of that. She talked, asked questions and you became suspicious. That poor innocent child. Goodbye, Hanif.” A gentle nudge was enough to plunge him forward into the overlook. He didn’t make a sound and I couldn’t hear the impact of his body striking the rocky slope below, such was the distance.
My promise was honored. I did not shoot him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
After parking the car across from the overlook, dropping the keys on the floor, wiping away fingerprints, I walked back to the city center, found my room and got a few hours sleep. All cares had fled, silently stolen away. Calling Sylvia, I made arrangements to meet her for lunch.
Then I had coffee and croissants, my usual satisfying breakfast, took a walk and called Chet from a nearby park. The time difference was such that he railed at me for waking him up.
“OK,” said I. “I’ve solved the money laundering mystery. I have names and places. I’ll call you later in the day.” He began to sputter, but I turned off the cell phone, knowing he would try to call me back. The hell with him and the rest of the CIA. I had my own gumshoes and I am a free American from the land of the free.
I did call my detectives in London and tell them the fun was over, to stop crying chaos and call off the dogs of war. My accountant would see that their excessive bill was paid.
Sylvia was a grinning imp at lunch. She had seen me usher Kurtha into the trunk. “I didn’t follow. At that time of night, you might have noticed. And you seemed to have the situation well in hand. Whatever happened to that Islamic gentleman?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. But your vigil is through.”
“My office told me.”
“Out of a job?”
“Temporarily.”
“This might help. I passed her the sack I had been carrying. Your weapon, Madam, unfired, with extra rounds. Plus five thousand Euros.”
Clutching the sack to her breast, she crooned, “Dear, Sir. You are a generous one.”
“Generous to a fault, and only because I can afford to be. Shall we have wine?”
We had a grand lunch, hitting it off well with one another. So good, in fact, that we decided to do it again for dinner. After lunch, I sacked out for an hour in my hotel room before taking a walk and calling Chet. In the States the day was well advanced.
“Sorry I was so gruff this morning, Andy. But there’s a huge time factor.”
“Sorry I called so early. This money-laundering trick is so simple, I’m surprised they got by with it so long. It could be going on at other casinos. Here’s how it works. The casino takes in quite a bit of money each day. That money is bundled up, usually about midnight, placed in a truck with two or three security men, including the driver, and taken to a bank’s night depository.”
“So far I’m with you,” Chet said, letting me know that he was listening.
“When they find out the amount to be deposited, an employee of the casino calls the bad guys and tells them the amount. The bad guys make a similar bundle of funds to be laundered. This is Pakistani-Afghani dirty drug money, I assume. The truck simply makes a stop, picks up the dirty money, then deposits it as the casino earnings. The clean casino money is deposited into a terrorist account somewhere in the world, or maybe split up. But that’s it.”
“Too simple,” Chet said.
“Yes, simplicity is the key. These double-domed schemes often fail from the get-go. I’ve got a few names for you.”
Chet was given what I had, names and how the money reached Monaco. My threats had paid off big time. He then asked who the Monaco kingpin might be.
“An Islamic man named Hanif Kurtha.” I spelled it out for him. “I don’t believe he’s with us any longer. I heard on the grapevine that there was an accident.”
A short pause on the other end, then a question: “An accident?”
“So I’ve heard. He was thought to be the person responsible for the death of Oumou, the mother of my son. So I’m not overly distressed over his demise.”
“Might you give me the details of this demise?”
“Might not your glorious CIA be able to do that little thing? I think I’ve done entirely enough, sacrificed enough. I’m history as far as Homeland Security is concerned.”
“We’ve got a lot of mopping up to do, our boys, the FBI and the Monaco police. We can take it from here. As far as I’m concerned, Andy. You’ve done a great job. You know how badly I feel about Oumou, but it seems that justice may have been done.”
Sitting on the park bench, wool gathering, after the phone call. Apparently the news had not yet gotten out about Kurtha’s death. At least it wasn’t on the brief segment of local TV news that I had watched. But he couldn’t have survived that fall. As it turned out, the Monaco police where withholding the information in hopes of fitting pieces of the puzzle together.
It was a delicious joke. I had mentioned Kurtha’s death before anyone, and no one, with the exception of myself, knew he was dead. What the hell, he was dead. That’s all I cared about. Never could I forget Oumou, but there was small measure of satisfaction in the end to the villain who had caused that death.
So I showered, changed and made myself ready to dine with Sylvia. Could she replace Oumou? No. But she was a warm, lifelike body, with a pixy sense of humor. What fatal attraction did I have for the girls? I believe I had heard that it’s just as easy to love a rich man as one burdened with poverty.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A more complete report on Larry Abraham had come to my hands via the London office. I wondered if he was simply addicted to lying, weaving falsehoods when the truth would serve him better, or had something to hide.
Seeking him out for a quiet cup
of coffee a couple of days after the excitement, I asked if he had been aware that the casino was used for money laundering. He seemed sincerely shocked at the question.
“The authorities haven’t contacted you yet?”
“No! What authorities?”
I attempted to shrug the whole thing off, but he pressed the point. “I just happen to be privy to information that Islamic terrorist groups have been using local casinos to launder their ill-gotten gains, then funneling the money to those nasty-minded suicide bombers and so forth.”
“And where might I ask have you obtained this startling revelation,” he asked haughtily.
“Listen, Konrad, I know many things. I know about the murder in Nice. I know about your DUI record. I know you were married twice, and I know enough not to tell all I know. Now believe me about the laundering. A word to the wise.”
“OK, Andy. I know you’ve hinted at some things. So how does this laundering shit affect me?”
“It shouldn’t if you’re unaware of it. If you do know about it, then you’re off to Devil’s Island. Just keep your cool and pretend you’ve never heard about it. By the way, I’ve wondered why you’ve developed this web of lies. I like you, Larry, Konrad, or whatever. I suspect it’s a family matter.”
“Your instincts are valid. My grandfather was an officer in the Nazi SS. Very likely he sent quite a few people to their death in prison camps.”
“Jews.”
“Jews and others. We hear of six million Jews, but many non-Jews were executed. Cripples, gypsies, dwarfs, Protestants, people suspected of disloyalty. You name it.”
“I’m sorry, Larry. He was not you, though. You’ve done well for yourself.”
“I’m a damned liar, a damned fraud. My marriages failed, I’ve failed. Working in a hellhole like this. It’s OK for the rich, but poor people lose so much money looking for a big killing. There have been suicides, broken marriages.
“Look, I do know what you mean by money laundering, and it happens all the time. A guy comes in, pays a thousand Euros cash for chips, makes a few bets, has a drink, maybe a sandwich, then cashes in his chips, maybe a thousand Euros. Presto, his money is laundered. What can we do?
“Then we have to deal with counterfeiters. Fortunately the Euro is hard to fake. It’s like money wells up out of the ground around here, mostly cash. For anyone handling it there is a temptation to skim. We watch one another. We watch the clients for all manner of scams. There’s a new one almost every week.
“And for all the money involved here, the operation is almost marginal because of the immense overhead. The casino must sparkle and be constantly updated or the client class will go elsewhere. The payroll is gigantic, everything from busboys to croupiers. That’s why we have to send a daily flow of money to the bank so we can write those payroll checks.
“Then we have to try to keep the hookers under control. They’re part of the equation, but we don’t need them to run riot in the casino. Then there’s sexually transmitted diseases to think of. Why should that be on our shoulders? Well it is, partially at least. It’s a madhouse, a crisis every hour on the hour.”
How to respond to his long rant? Finally, I said, “What can I say. Life is unfair. So it is. Get out. Become a fisherman, a car salesman, a schoolteacher. Hell, I’m not a counselor.” I finished my coffee and said goodbye, probably for good.
Sylvia had moved in with me and the two of us planned a trip to Milan. I was packing to leave when Chet called. I told him I’d call him back in a few, still suspecting the rooms might be bugged.
Reaching him from my park office, he said I had mentioned Hanif Kurtha’s death before his agents found out about it.
“I told you, I heard it on the grapevine. Apparently your boys aren’t wired in. Have they given you any of the information I supplied about the laundering method and the Pakistani connection?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Did my information check out?”
“In a word, yes. We’ve made a clean sweep of the operation, quietly taken out a few guilty parties, sent agents to Pakistan for follow up.”
“So what kind of a dog and pony show are you running, Chet?”
“Apparently not a very good one. I’d like to talk with you about that.”
“I’ve no time to chat, Chet. I’ve hooked up with a lady over here and we’re off to Milan to chill out. So it looks like goodbye.”
“I’ve heard about that lady. Sylvia, isn’t it?”
“Your guys can’t find their ass with two hands, so they blow smoke up your ass about what I’m doing. Who might I ask put them on to me?”
“You’ve got a good point, Andy. They wonder where and how you got your information. But I don’t care about that. You did crack this operation, but I’d like to discuss other things.”
“World peace, maybe? After Milan I’ll be going back to the States for some hands-on work on my continuing western project. Say, if you can help me with that, we might talk turkey.”
“Fine, Andy. In government one hand washes the other.”
“And neither hand gets clean. See you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sylvia was a fun girl. As a detective in Monaco she had spent most of her time chasing errant high living husbands with camera and tape recorder. She was ready to do some of the high living for her own enjoyment.
Milan, where the four-hour happy hour was developed and coffee as a delicious pasta sauce was created, is known as Europe’s creative capital. It’s not all that much for looks, but the sanctity of shopping is viewed as a religious experience.
The city lies on the Plains of Lombardy and is the world capital for design and fashion. Then there’s the great food and endless joy at the clubs. It does boast a claim to the world’s oldest shopping mall – Galleria Vittorio Emanuele in the Piazza D’Uomo.
To say Sylvia and I had a good time during our two week stint would be the mildest understatement. But all good things must end and I saw Sylvia off on a train bound for Monaco. I grabbed a first class flight to the States and eventually Las Vegas.
My thoughts often strayed to Oumou and Bella, but I knew at my age it wouldn’t be long until I joined them, which gave me great comfort. It also crossed my mind that my business partner Betty Morgan might be thinking of picking up where we left off on our carnal liaison when I returned to Kingman. And why not?
With this in my dirty little mind, I asked the detective agency to keep an eye on her and keep me up to speed on the comings and goings of male companions. It seemed there was one. A creature of habit, he always spent Sunday night with her, departing at 7:30 a.m. Monday, no doubt for his job, whatever that might be.
Therefore, I arrived at her dwelling, and our office, at 7:00 a.m. one Monday morning and banged loudly on the door, to have it opened by an irate Betty with her male companion staring out just behind her.
“I’m back,” I cheerfully announced. Her expression changed three times in three seconds, finally settling down to a placid Mona Lisa smile.
“You should have called,” she said softly, a glance behind her told her of his presence.
“I thought you’d like a surprise. Anyway, I’ll have breakfast then be back in a couple of hours.” Off I went, having established what I wanted to establish, a stable business relationship.
When I returned she was dressed in a sensible pantsuit and we got down to business, her filling me in on progress and, most of all, public acceptance now that the cat was out of the bag.
“The headquarters are up and running, smack in the middle of the land,” she explained. “Our city planners are out there brainstorming. The monorail idea has received mixed reviews. The incredible cost is the biggest drawback, plus the footprint on public land. But there’s a new wrinkle.”
I was happy I had stayed out of the fray. Betty seemed to be doing a good job, hiring the right people. Rubbing my head, I felt tired and a little stressed from all the travel, from all the woes of the world. The poets were rig
ht, money can’t buy everything, although it helps.
“Can we have coffee, then go on with this?”
“Certainly,” Betty responded.
I remembered too late that female workers feel abused when asked to make coffee for their boss. But she made the coffee and produced toast and marmalade. This was her home.
“What new twist?” I asked, slathering marmalade on buttered toast.
“Joint venture. A Japanese firm has offered to go halfsies on a tower, a really tall one, something like they’re building in Dubai or Saudi Arabia. You know those rich Arabs with their big ideas.”
This was a surprise. I pulled on my left earlobe, trying to straighten my thoughts. Finally, I spoke. “My vision is of a self-contained, horizontal bedroom community serving Las Vegas by means of a super-swift monorail. Who would inhabit this tower?”
“Businesses. Swift elevators carrying passengers from floor to floor. The hustle and bustle of commerce, alive, vibrant, electric, charging the air.”
“Sounds off the wall.”
“Au contraire. Your new city, what will you call it? Andyville? Andyburg? Whatever. It would be self-contained to a certain extent. No immediate need for a monorail. Everything would be there. Hearth and home. Shopping of all kinds, local transit of the green variety, and then offices to carry forth commerce.”
“It does make some sense,” I agreed. “So get the lawyers in on it and carry on exploratory consultations. Costs, locations, architectects and guarantees that our partners will come up with their share. Generally, you can trust the Japanese. Unlike the Chinese.”
She nodded, sipped her coffee, and finally asked, “Are you angry with me?”
“Of course not. You’re doing good work.”
“I mean personally.”
“Personally I think you’re great. But you have your life. I’m still a seeker.”
She smiled. “I’ll call the Japanese. Would you like to go to Osaka? That’s where they are.”
“I’ve been there and their post-modern architecture is ghastly. You might check out that monster building in Kuala Lumpur as well as the Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea. And I think I did read that elevators are the key to success. There’s something called a sky lobby, a transfer station. You take a fast express up and then switch to a local.”
