“Why an assumption?”
“Because Becker’s pleasure was gambling and Durant’s was fishing. You couldn’t get Becker on a boat or Durant in a casino but they both were business tycoons.” Suddenly he stopped and asked, “As a matter of curiosity, would you mind telling me why you want this information?”
“They’re both dead.”
“True.”
“Murdered, both the same way. An ocean apart.”
“Street muggings,” Wilkins muttered. “They happen here, they happen in Europe.”
“Neither one was guarded.”
“That’s not unusual. Millionaires walk all over the cities these days.”
“Not in unlikely places where these two were killed. Neither one had much cash in their pockets.”
“They weren’t wearing cheap clothes, Hooker.”
“Nobody stole the clothes either. They got a watch off Durant. What was Becker missing?”
“A watch, two rings and a diamond stickpin.”
“Glad you noticed,” Hooker said. “Now you know as well as I do that something was fishy.”
“It wasn’t big news to us, pal. The French have a pretty good spook system going for them too, and sometime back a money courier from the States opened a sizable account with the Becker Bank. Sheerly by accident, that courier was identified as having close association with mob figures in New York. Unfortunately, the person who made the ID died in a car wreck.”
“What are the big numbers, Wilkins?”
“The Company and the French police did one hell of a thorough investigation. Our side ran the lead down and a bundle of francs from our contingency fund dug something out. Becker had a male secretary, a little on the cute side, but nobody accused him of any sexual deviation. It didn’t take much pressure to make him mention that just before Durant’s death, Becker had sent him a fax message to meet Durant on a certain date in a certain place in Miami.”
“How did Becker send the fax?”
“The memo was on the secretary’s desk where Becker dropped his usual requests when he was going out.”
“Okay, got it.”
“The guy did what Becker had ordered. He sent the fax. A copy was in the files. The date and place of the meeting were when and where Durant was killed.”
“Wasn’t the secretary a little suspicious of the deal?”
“Not a bit. He said that Becker often did that. He thought they were assignations Becker had arranged.”
“Pure sex, huh?”
“I told you, the guy was cute.”
“But you didn’t tell me all of it.”
Wilkins grinned again and said, “Just before Becker was killed, the secretary died in a car accident. The police said it could have been arranged.”
“The usual mob touch,” Hooker said.
“That’s still speculation, Mako.”
“Then try this. That supposed courier opened an account. What’s wrong with that? Was it big enough to warrant Becker’s attention?”
“It must have been, because not long afterward Becker met with his advisors about a sizable loan to a U.S. client. There were no specific details given, but it seemed acceptable to all. Not that it mattered, since Becker called all the shots, but he wanted to have other thoughts on it before he moved.”
“Did it happen?”
“A two-hundred-million-dollar loan was negotiated, the money transferred to a bank in Grand Cayman, the account owned by a corporation that got lost in the maze of paperwork those slick deals entail.”
“The U.S. client who requested the loan, then, would have been the one who owned the account opened by the courier?” Hooker suggested.
“Right.”
“And the identity of the courier was guaranteed by the passport he carried.”
“Yes.”
“Easy to counterfeit, of course. No need to go into a security check when he was putting money in, not taking it out.”
Wilkins agreed with a motion of his head. “Money talks, Mako.”
“Hell, it yells. What security was given for the loan?”
Wilkins said, “The twenty-million bank account and a carton of bonds as good as gold and not traceable to anyone. We assume they are stolen.”
Hooker let it all sink in before he asked, “Is there anybody who could identify that courier?”
“There were three who saw him. The descriptions were all identical but, when you look at it, all very ambiguous. He was tall, well built, well dressed, had stylishly cut gray hair, rather heavy eyebrows and a dark mustache and beard. He wore heavy reading glasses, kept them in the breast pocket of his suit coat, and was very pleasant.”
“What about his coloring?”
“They all noticed that he had a tan, not unusual for Americans at that time of the year.”
Hooker said, “The guy was clever. Great descriptions, but nothing that couldn’t be faked. Anything about his voice?”
“Yep. Well modulated, well spoken and very American.” Wilkins leaned back in his chair, watching Hooker closely. “You have somebody in mind for this caper, Mako?”
“Not really.”
“You’re lying, pal.”
Hooker shook his head. “I’m just playing a close hand.”
“Look, dammit, you got everybody all shook up with your contact...”
“Quit the crap, Wilkins. I’m an old retired hand. Right now the Company is down in the garbage heap and is ready to do anything to claw its way out of the mess it got itself into. It needs restructuring, re-financing and respect, and they’re looking for that big touchdown pass to win the game for them, and this eater business popping up like a publicity hound’s best dream and me being on the scene have given them one big last-ditch chance to get back in the lineup. Just don’t try to crap me, old buddy.”
For a full minute there was silence between them, Wilkins folding the papers back in his attaché case. Hooker swung around and asked, “What’s new on the mob scene in the States?”
“Quiet. When the bosses start to go to prison things get stale for a while. Not that that means much. They’ve been going legitimate for a long time now and let the families that handle drugs, prostitution and all that stuff take the heat.”
“What’s the scam on the drug scene?”
“Nothing new. The poorer countries grow it with their government’s protection and the affluent places buy the junk. Our narcotics agencies confiscate tonnages of the stuff, but that’s only a drop in the bucket.”
“Think it’ll ever change?”
“Not in this system of things.” Suddenly Wilkins stared at Hooker, his eyes half closed. “You think drugs are involved in this mess?”
“Nope.”
“What, then?”
“Money, pal. It’s always money. It’s what makes this old world go round.”
“Yeah.”
“One other thing, Wilkins.” The agent paused in snapping the lock on his attaché case. “Becker had his own investigative group working for him, didn’t he?”
Wilkins said nothing, just nodding slightly.
“He would have had them look into that loan, wouldn’t he?”
“It was standard procedure.”
Now Hooker let the grin develop slowly. He wanted the uptown spook across from him to know that the old-time spooks could still mix up the batter and make a pie. “I bet you, old buddy, that Becker had some second thoughts about that loan and was going to recall it before it went through.”
He waited. Wilkins licked his lips, grimaced slightly and pulled at his earlobe.
“Yes. Something happened that Becker didn’t like. He could have put an order through canceling the check, but he was mugged and killed before that happened. The deal went through.”
Hooker leaned forward, propping his chin on his hands. “One more quickie, Wilkins. How did the loan pan out? If anything big had hit the bank, the financial pages would have broadcast it.”