Two hours later, Abby was working at the small table in her room when the Jakl vibrated. It was Hassan with the grim news that his client was quite disturbed by the news that its demands were not being met. The deal was off the table.
However, it would be wise for Mitch to continue with his plans on Grand Cayman. Establish a new account at Trinidad Trust, and wait for instructions. So, the deal was not off the table.
Mitch was somewhere in the clouds, and the jet’s cell service was out of range.
The Challenger touched down at Westchester at 7:10, almost exactly seven hours after leaving Rome. Two black sedans were waiting. One went north with Jack, who lived in Pound Ridge. Mitch took the other south into the city.
Moroccan time was four hours ahead of New York. He called Abby, who was holed up in her hotel room editing a cookbook. She replayed the morning coffee with Mr. Mansour and their subsequent conversation. Of course he was disappointed with the money, but then he had been prepared for such a development. He was coy, a real pro, and she could not read him. She had no idea if he would accept only $75 million more, but she had a hunch he had a bigger role in the negotiating than he let on.
An hour after landing, he entered his apartment on Sixty-Ninth, his home for the past seven years and a place he adored, and felt like a trespasser. Where was everybody? Scattered. For a moment, he longed for their old routines. The silence was haunting. But there was no time for melancholy. He showered and changed into casual clothes. He dumped dirty laundry from his bag and repacked it with clean clothes. He did not pack a jacket or tie. As he recalled, from fifteen years earlier, even the bankers down there avoided suits.
He called Abby again and reported that the apartment was still standing. They agreed that they both wanted their lives back.
The car was waiting on Sixty-Ninth Street. Mitch tossed his bag in the trunk and said, “Let’s go.” Driving against the traffic was easier and they were back at the Westchester airport in forty minutes. The Challenger was refueled and ready to go.
The waiting was beginning to grate. Four hours had passed since she had seen Hassan for coffee. Her room was getting smaller and now the housekeeper wanted to have it. She walked around the hotel and knew she was being watched. The clerk at the front desk, the concierge in his little nook, the uniformed bellman — everyone glanced at her nonchalantly, then did a quick second look. The small dark bar was empty at 2 P.M. and she took a table with her back to the door. The bartender smiled at her when she entered, then took his time easing over.
“White wine,” she said.
With no other customers, how long does it take to pour a glass of wine?
At least ten minutes. She stuck her nose in a magazine and waited impatiently.
Chapter 43
His first trip to the islands, some fifteen years earlier, had been with Avery Tolar, his mentor and supervising partner, and they had flown from Miami on Cayman Airways with a load of rowdy scuba divers, all guzzling rum punch and trying to get plastered before landing. Avery made the trip down several times a year, and though he was married and though the firm frowned on womanizing, he chased the women hard. And he drank more than he should have. One morning as he nursed a hangover, he apologized to Mitch and said the pressure of a bad marriage was getting the best of him.
Over the years Mitch had trained his mind to shut out thoughts of the Memphis nightmare, but there were moments when it was impossible. As the Challenger descended through the clouds and he caught the first glimpses of the bright blue Caribbean, he had to smile at his luck in life. Through no fault of his own, he had been within an inch of either being killed or indicted, yet he had managed to wiggle free. The bad guys went down, and hard, and they deserved it, and while they were serving time Mitch and Abby were starting over.
Stephen Stodghill had flown from Rome to Miami to Georgetown and arrived four hours earlier. He was waiting outside customs with a cab and they headed for downtown.
Another memory. The first wave of warm tropical air blowing in through the open windows of the cab as the driver listened to soft reggae. Just like fifteen years earlier.
Stephen was saying, “Our lawyer’s name is Jennings, British chap, nice enough. I met him two hours ago and he’s up to speed. According to our people, he’s a top guy here in the Caymans and knows all the banks and the ins and outs of transferring money. He knows Solomon Frick, our soon-to-be newest friend at Trinidad Trust. They probably launder money together on the side.”
“That’s not funny. According to my research, the Cayman bankers have cleaned up their act in the past twenty years.”
“Do we really care?”
“We do not. Over dinner I’ll tell you all about my first trip down here.”
“A Bendini story?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t wait. Around Scully the legend is that the Mob almost got you. But you pulled a fast one and outfoxed the Mob. Is that true?”
“I outran the Mob. I didn’t realize I was a legend.”
“Not really. Who has time to tell war stories at a place like Scully? All they care is about billing fifty hours a week.”
“We prefer sixty, Stephen.”
The cab turned a corner and there was the ocean. Mitch nodded and said, “That’s Hog Sty Bay, where the pirates used to dock their ships and hide on the island.”
“Yeah, I read that somewhere too,” Stephen said, with no interest whatsoever.
“Where are we staying?” Mitch asked, happy to forgo the tourist spiel.
“Ritz-Carlton on Seven Mile Beach. I’ve already checked in. Pretty nice.”
“It’s a Ritz.”
“So.”
“So, isn’t it supposed to be nice?”
“I suppose. I wouldn’t know. I’m just a lowly associate who’d normally be staying in cheaper joints but since I’m hanging with a real partner I get the upgrade though I still had to fly commercial. Economy, not first class.”
“Your brighter days are ahead.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
“Let’s go see Jennings.”
“Here’s his firm,” Stephen said, handing over a file. “It’s a British outfit, a dozen lawyers.”
“Aren’t all the firms down here British?”
“I guess. Wonder why we haven’t bought one and added it to our letterhead.”
“At the rate we’re losing them we might need to expand.”
Jennings was on the third floor of a modern bank building a few blocks from the harbor. They met in a conference room with a view of the ocean that would have been enticing if not for the three mammoth cruise ships docked in Hog Sty Bay. He was a stuffy sort who talked down through his nose and had trouble smiling. He wore a coat and tie and seemed to enjoy being better dressed than his American counterparts, neither of whom gave a damn. In his opinion, the best strategy was to establish a new account at Trinidad Trust, a bank he knew well. Solomon Frick was an acquaintance. Many of the banks on the islands refused to do business with Americans, so it was best to have Scully’s London office open the account and keep everything away from the feds.
“Your tax people are notoriously difficult,” he explained through his nose.
Mitch shrugged. What was he supposed to do? Rush to the defense of the IRS? When the money was collected, hopefully by the following morning, it would be transferred to a numbered account at the Trinidad Trust, pursuant to Mr. Mansour’s instructions. From there, with one push of a button, it would be wired to some yet-to-be-determined account, and gone forever.
After an hour, they left his office and walked two blocks to a similar building where they met Solomon Frick, a gregarious backslapper from South Africa. A quick Scully background check on Frick raised a number of red flags. He had worked in banks from Singapore to Ireland to the Caribbean and was always on the move, usually with some debris scattered behind. However, his current employer, Trinidad Trust, was reputable.