Maybe the only thing harder than stealing fifty billion dollars by way of a thousand different simultaneous transactions involving at least two dozen different currency conversions across five continents and a multitude of shell corporations is trying to do it all in reverse in one night. Even the man who masterminded the idea was at a loss.
“This is like trying to put the toothpaste back in the tube,” said von Oehson.
Of course, being called a genius on the cover of Fortune magazine is one thing. Actually being a genius is another.
“You cut the tail end of the tube open, put the toothpaste in from there, and fold it back over a few times,” said Julian, not even bothering to look up from his keyboard. He truly was one of a kind.
My laughing at Julian’s response was the only sound I’d made in the hour since I took a seat on the couch along the wall in his office next to the wing of the old Fokker Eindecker airplane wing that doubled as his desk. Even von Oehson, a man who owned almost every toy imaginable, was in awe of it. Sitting in an armchair in front of it, he kept staring at the rows of rivets against the chrome-molybdenum steel with sheer envy.
So this was the banking side of things. I’d covered damage control with Foxx, including protection for Carter up at Yale. I figured von Oehson’s wife was well out of harm’s way down in Palm Beach. Foxx came through for Carter via an operative who happened to be at Naval Submarine Base New London for a training exercise. He was promptly dispatched to nearby New Haven and the Old Campus dorm where Carter lived on the second floor.
As for keeping Mathias alive, returning all the money didn’t guarantee anything. The only thing for sure was that not returning the money meant Foxx would have no chance of getting Hungarian intelligence to call off the hit. If there was a perverse irony, it was that Foxx and the agency would be all too willing to overlook Frank Brunetti’s assassination. The multiple attempts by the FBI and IRS to take out Brunetti legally in court for more than a decade had been a waste of time and human resources. No one with a badge was ever going to shed a tear for the guy.
The proposition boiled down to this. You got your money back, Hungary, as well as your Monet (or, at least, you think you do). We’ll forgive you for Brunetti if you let things slide with von Oehson. Let the man and his family be. Do we have a deal, Budapest?
After going four pods deep on Julian’s Keurig, and with the sun beginning to rise, I watched as the very last of the fifty billion made its way back to the balance sheet of the central bank of Hungary.
“Done and dusted,” announced Julian.
“I’ll let Foxx know,” I said, standing.
I was about to head into the next room to call him on the blender. Von Oehson had long since fallen asleep in his chair. I knew Foxx had told me that he’d find out courtesy of the Hungarians, but letting him know personally still felt like the right thing to do.
“No need to call him,” said Julian.
I knew that, but how did he know that?
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because he’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”