“No, not problems, just a few challenges. It’s not a simple matter of getting the law firm to write a check. There are many moving parts that involve various entities.”
He shrugged as if he understood.
The drinks arrived and Abby took her glass as quickly as possible without appearing desperate for the wine. Hassan toyed with his teabag as if time meant nothing. She had checked with the front desk and knew that room service was available. After five minutes with Hassan, the last thing she wanted was a long painful dinner with the man as they bobbed and weaved around topics they could not discuss. She had even lost her appetite.
As if reading her mind, he asked, “Would you like to discuss dinner?”
“No, thank you. I’m jet-lagged and need rest. I’ll order room service.” She took another shot of Chablis. He had yet to lift his teacup.
The smile was back as if everything was okay. “As you wish. I have some instructions.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Finally, he raised his dainty little cup to his lips and wet them. “As soon as possible, your husband travels to the island of Grand Cayman, in the Caribbean. I believe he knows the place. When he arrives tomorrow afternoon, he presents himself to the Trinidad Trust in Georgetown and asks for a banker named Solomon Frick. He will be expected. Mr. Frick represents my client, and your husband will do exactly as he says. He will know immediately if anyone attempts to track the wires. Any hint that someone is watching, that someone being the FBI, Scotland Yard, Interpol, Europol, or any of the other boys who carry guns and badges, and bad things will happen to your friend. We’ve come this far without the interference of the police or military, and it would be a shame to do something stupid at this late stage of the game. If you have the money, Mrs. McDeere, Giovanna is practically free.”
“We’d like to confirm she’s still alive.”
“Of course. She is alive and doing well and on the verge of going home. Don’t allow a bad decision to lead to her demise.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “Here are the instructions in more detail. Your husband is to follow them closely.”
“He’ll be traveling tomorrow, from New York to Grand Cayman.”
Hassan offered the widest smile yet as he gave her the sheet of paper and said, “Mitch is not in New York, Mrs. McDeere. He is in Rome. And he has access to a private jet.”
Chapter 41
Grand Cayman?
The Caymans are three tiny islands in the Caribbean, south of Cuba and west of Jamaica. Still a British territory, they cling to old traditions and still drive on the left. Large numbers of tourists are attracted to their beaches, scuba diving, and fine hotels. No taxes are levied on money earned there. Or stored there. At least 100,000 corporations, more than one per citizen, register in Georgetown, the capital. Billions of dollars are parked in huge banks where they accumulate even more billions in interest, tax-free of course. Highly paid tax lawyers work in nice firms and enjoy a splendid quality of life. In the world of international finance, the word “Caymans” means, among other things, a safe place to hide money, clean or dirty.
Grand Cayman, Little Cayman, Cayman Brac.
Mitch had tried to forget about all three.
It was the shadier side of the Caymans that attracted the Bendini firm years earlier, in the 1970s, when drug money was pouring into the islands. Bendini was laundering money for its own criminal clients and found some friendly banks on Grand Cayman. The firm even bought a couple of swanky condos on the beach for its partners to enjoy when they were down on “business.”
“Tell me again, Abby, what he said. Word for word.”
“He said, ‘Tomorrow morning your husband goes to Grand Cayman. I believe he knows the place.’ ”
He knows the place.
Mitch paced around his room in his boxers, thoroughly baffled and ready to pull out his hair. How could anyone, especially a man like Hassan or whatever his name was, really know that Mitch had ever had any contact with the Cayman Islands? It had been fifteen years ago. He sat on the edge of his bed, closed his eyes, and began breathing deeply.
Some details were returning. When Bendini imploded, there were dozens of arrests and news reports. Mitch and Abby were hiding on a sailboat with his brother Ray near Barbados. Mitch was not being sought by the FBI, but the Chicago Mob damned well wanted to find him. Months later, when the McDeeres finally came ashore, Mitch went to a library in Kingston, Jamaica, and found the newspaper stories. In several, the Caymans were mentioned in connection with criminal activity by the Bendini firm. But Mitch’s name was never in print, at least not in the reports he could find.
That was the one possible link: the Bendini firm, of which he was briefly a member, and some of its alleged wrongdoings in the Caymans. As old and as obscure as it was, how could Hassan have possibly found it?
Equally baffling was how he knew Mitch was in Rome, and that he got there on a private jet. Mitch called a partner in New York, a friend who was a pilot and aviation junkie. Without being specific, he asked how difficult it would be to track the movements of a private jet. No problem at all if you have the plane’s tail number. Mitch thanked him and rang off.
But how could they know Mitch was on the plane?
Because they were watching Mitch.
He didn’t tell Abby this because she would immediately think of the boys and freak out. If “they” were watching the McDeeres this closely, then how safe were they?
For additional privacy, Jack moved their operations to a large suite on the third floor of the Hassler. He ordered some snacks, no alcohol, and the team nibbled on finger food as they waited anxiously to hear from Mitch. When he arrived they listened raptly as he replayed his conversation with Abby and described the events in Marrakech. Abby was staying in a lovely hotel, felt safe, and was eager to get on with it. The Hassan character was a smooth professional who seemed firmly in control. The fact that he knew of Mitch’s history with the Caymans, and that he knew Mitch was in Rome and not New York, was nothing less than astonishing. The team was once again reminded that they were only reacting. The rules were being made by some nasty people far more informed and better organized than them.
Mitch and Jack decided they would leave Rome early the following morning and fly to New York. From there, Mitch would fly to Grand Cayman and arrive midday, Caribbean time. He called a Scully partner in New York and told him to contact their affiliated law firm on Grand Cayman and get a banking expert on standby. He called another partner and asked him to research the bank called the Trinidad Trust.
Darian talked to Cory, who was on the ground in Marrakech and had hired Moroccan security. One agent was now a guest of La Maison Arabe Hotel and was staying in a room two doors down from Abby. She was supposed to meet Hassan Mansour Tuesday for breakfast and an update. The Moroccans on their team would be watching for Mr. Mansour, a man they had so far been unable to track down. Darian warned Cory to caution the team that they were to take no chances. Just observe diligently and don’t get caught doing it.
Just after 9 P.M., 3 P.M. on the East Coast, the senator came through with the news they had been waiting for. Elias Lake informed Jack, in deepest confidence of course, that the British foreign minister had brokered a deal with the Italians and Americans in which all three governments would chip in $15 million each for the ransom. The payments would originate from sources so hidden they may as well have been on Mars, and they would get routed through banks on four continents. In the end, though, they would arrive almost magically in the new account in a Cayman bank. And any poor soul curious enough to try and track where all the money came from would probably lose his or her mind.