You are met at the office, offered a seat, asked if you would like some refreshment. You accept, taking water. The most cursory small talk takes place, and then the door closes and you and the candidate are left alone.
The candidate addresses you by name, asking how he can be of service to you.
You tell him you wish to secure title to an object of some expense. What you choose depends on the state of your resources, of course, because you will have to outlay this cash (though you will also recoup the expense later, if all goes well). Whatever you choose, it must be something appropriately expensive, to indicate that the monies involved will be worth the candidate's time, yet it cannot be so outlandish that it will bankrupt you. If your finances were not everything they should have been before reaching Monaco, it is possible that you may have detoured in the South of France, and taken the opportunity to secure more funds by robbing a bank, or better, by taking down a narcotics sale. It may even have been necessary to do this multiple times, though, of course, each crime you commit brings greater risk.
An expensive car would work, a top-of-the-line Ferrari, perhaps, or an Aston Martin. A small yacht might be acceptable. Real estate, however, is best.
In this instance, you tell the candidate that you're interested in purchasing a small villa here in Monaco. Nothing fancy, you say, perhaps five, six million dollars. You travel quite a lot, as it happens, but you do love it here, and are interested in setting down, say, some shallow roots.
This I can help you with, the candidate says.
Wonderful, you say. I have the place picked out already.
The candidate smiles.
As for the issue of title, you say, my ex is a gold-digging piece of excrement-pardon my language-and I'd rather the purchase remain off the books, so to speak. Would it be possible to have the title placed in some sort of shell company, some way to keep my name out of it? That I could own the property without there being a paper trail that says as much? Is that possible?
And you smile, just enough so the candidate doesn't know if you're being naive, or something more. One of two things happens.
In the first instance, the candidate frowns slightly, embarrassed, and perhaps sits back in his seat. After a moment, with regret, he explains to you that the laws in Monaco-the banking laws-are under the French system, and doing such a thing would be illegal. He's extremely sorry, but he cannot help you.
At which point you look mildly surprised, apologize for taking his time, and depart.
Scratch one candidate. In the second instance, the candidate appraises you for a moment or two, then nods and says that such a thing can be done, but not without some legal maneuvering. He may mention additional cost, though, in all likelihood, will not, as that would be gauche in the extreme.
You respond by saying that you suspected as much, and would appreciate any assistance he can offer.
The transaction then takes place. You remain in Monaco long enough to see it to conclusion, and at its end, you thank the candidate, and ask if he might be available to you in the future.
There is a chance here that he will say no, that this is the extent of the illegalities he is willing to undertake. But, if all has gone well, if you and he have managed a rapport of some sort, he will say yes, certainly.
You thank him, and part company.
Perhaps two or three weeks later, you call to make another appointment. The sooner the better; you only need a few minutes of his time. If your last transaction was as successful as it seemed, he will accommodate you.
You come to the office with a briefcase. Not one of the metal-sided aluminum Halliburton cases, because those positively scream "ill-gotten gains" at the top of their lungs. Something elegant, leather, preferably.
The candidate greets you warmly, ushering you into his office. He offers, once again, refreshment, but this time you decline. You have a train to catch, you apologize.
Then you set the briefcase on his desk, opening it as you speak. You say that you have some business to attend to in South Africa, and you would be very grateful if he could hold this for you, just in his office safe, perhaps, until you get back at the end of the week. You show him the contents, stacks and stacks of currency, preferably in dollars. Half a million dollars, you tell him, and you of course will pay him for the service.
Again, this may prove to be too much, and he may refuse. In such a case, it is best to apologize and depart with no further fuss.
If he agrees, you do much the same thing, with gratitude in the place of apology, before leaving to catch your train. You are not going to South Africa.
You are staying in Monaco, and putting the candidate under the microscope, or at least the best microscope you can manage while working alone. First, you must ascertain that he has not told anyone of his dealings with you, especially the authorities. This can be determined in relatively short order. Next, you begin tracking his movements, his activities, devoting multiple days to this task. You mark his social habits, his associates, any friends, any lovers. You follow him in his off hours, to and from work. You watch him about town, and at home.
You're looking for things you might have missed, anything that might become a liability. Soon, now, you and the candidate will be entering a very long-term, very permanent partnership. Once the next step is taken, there will be little opportunity to correct any errors of judgment. Now is the best time to put the brakes on, before things progress.
So you follow the candidate, and you learn everything you can. One morning, after tailing him to his office, you double back and return to his home. You break in and perform a comprehensive search, taking most of the day to do it, going about it carefully, so as to leave no signs of your presence. You examine his clothing, noting the labels, discovering the name of the tailor he uses. You read the old love letters kept in the back of the bottom desk drawer. You find his collection of art-porn DVDs. You discover that he has a taste for very expensive whiskey. You take note of it all.
Once all of this is done, you withdraw to consider what you have learned. You must make your decision. Can you trust this person, this man? Is his greed enough to be of service to you, and yet not so great as to be a liability? Is his willingness to break the law pathological, or considered?
No matter what you do, however, you cannot eliminate the risk you are about to take. The best you can make is an educated guess. Do you bring the candidate in, or abandon the pursuit?
Eventually, you are going to have to trust somebody. Eleven days after leaving the briefcase with the candidate, you call again. This time, you speak to him personally. You tell him that you'll be in town that evening, and that you'd like to come by and collect your case, settle up, and speak about other business. It is a given, at this point, that the candidate is happy to accommodate you.
You arrive that evening, just as the offices are closing, and the candidate greets you, asks how your trip went. You tell him that it went well. He invites you into his office, and returns your case to you. You do not bother to open it and check the contents-you are trusting him, as he has trusted you-but instead produce an envelope from your bag or your coat, and hand it to him in turn.
For your help, you say.
He resists the urge to examine the envelope, to count the money. He can tell by the feel of it that it is substantial, and in cash. He tucks the envelope away, then offers you a drink, as he has on each visit. This time you accept, a glass of Scotch or brandy, perhaps, if he is willing to join you in it.
He is, and now, each of you seated in the office, you relax. Perhaps you light a cigarette, perhaps you loosen your tie, but by your manner and your look, you make it apparent that you are off the clock, and you are inviting him to act in the same manner. You exchange more small talk; maybe you steer the conversation to one of the hobbies or interests you learned of while examining his life. You keep it subtle; the ideal is that he does not realize until days later that the reason you spoke of the air show you saw in Paris is because you know of his fascination with vintage biplanes.