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Republic of Nauru, Micronesia
Monday, August 18
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JACK RENTED A car and drove to the shack on the hillside. What he had to do, he had to do without witnesses.
He parked, stepped outside, stretched as if he had just woken up from a long nap, checked his cell phone, and finally approached the ramshackle building, taking it one thoughtful step at a time, keenly aware of his surroundings, sunshine beating hot on his face. He sensed his movements were being observed.
A worn wooden shingle hanging above the door spelled NBT Limited in faded letters. So unobtrusive was it that Jack hadn’t noticed it when Emmanuel drove past the building earlier in the day. When he opened the door and stepped inside, hinges creaking, a surprising sight greeted him. More than two dozen telemarketers manned rows of tables equipped with computer terminals. This, it would seem, was the new global economy.
Almost immediately, a fleshy woman marched out of a back room and strolled forward. She stopped halfway to assess him before completing her journey with an extended hand. “Madelyn Gibbons. And you are ...?”
“Jack Harrier.”
“May I see your passport, Mr. Harrier?” Her speech was clipped and businesslike but accompanied by a most charming Australian accent.
Not a beauty in any sense and severe in appearance, Madelyn Gibbons wore a linen off-white suit with an open-collared blouse beneath. Her blonde mid-cropped hair, brusque mannerisms, and flat expression rounded out the spartan effect of a businesswoman who took her job seriously. Big-buxomed, wide-hipped, broad-shouldered, and chunky-legged, she could have been a wrestler in an arena, sweating beneath skimpy attire, and still projected the same persona, that of a serious woman who could handle herself, and do it well. Quite well, indeed. But it was the stern face and pursed mouth that marked her as an armful of truculent womanhood.
She examined the passport. Flipped through the mostly blank pages. And set her eyes upon the unexpected visitor more than once, angling her head to absorb the fundamental nature him. Throughout, she showed nothing on her creamy, almost translucent complexion. She wasn’t the kind of woman to sun herself at the beach or play a leisurely nine holes of golf every day. No, she was a woman who sat behind a desk twelve hours a day, ate meals at a table for one, and got by on five hours of sleep at night. Jack decided that on her off-time, she probably played tennis, close to the net, with a wicked serve and a concentrated glare that could knock the socks off her opponent.
“I’m not sure if I’m in the right place,” he said.
“Oh, you’re in the right place, mate, no worries on that score.”
A man should have been able to penetrate a face such as hers, divining the thoughts lingering just behind the sheer façade. But she had put up a sturdy wall through which no man could breach without permission.
She handed him back his passport. Their fingers briefly touched. Hers were icy cold. She examined him once again, but from a different angle. Up close this time instead of standing back. “I assume you’re staying at the Oceana. Room 212.”
And now he understood her occasional smirks and amused expressions that never quite rose to full-fledged smiles. “Emmanuel.”
A caddy smile rose on her lips. “You’ll do, Mr. Harrier. You’ll more than do. Let’s see what else you’re made of.” With a saucy flick of her head, she motioned him to follow her.
In her cramped office, she threw her suit jacket over the back of a cushioned swivel chair and indicated one of two straight-backed wooden chairs for her client. Once seated, Jack told her what he needed, and more importantly, what he was hoping to find: approximately a hundred thousand American dollars or its equivalent belonging to his client John Finlay. She listened to him, scribbling hasty notes on a legal pad. Clearly, she assumed the American had come all this way with a different sort of business in mind. Her attitude became one of visible annoyance, sighing displeasure, and amused bewilderment. When he finished presenting his case, she tapped the pen cap against the notepad, the voluble click-click-click a distraction, and propped her chin by a firm hand. She leaned slightly forward, appearing outwardly bored but inwardly intrigued. “Your request is unusual to say the least.”
“How so?”
“Most people don’t lose a hundred thousand dollars, and if they do, don’t come all the way to the South Pacific to reclaim it.”
He laughed. She was a bitchy woman with a bitchy attitude and a bitchy way of getting her point across, mostly with catty smiles.
Her star-gazing posture remained with barely a blink. Of a sudden she pulled herself into an erect posture, turned towards the computer monitor at her elbow and keyed in entries. A quick succession of screens passed in review. At intervals, her deep-blue gaze fastened on him before returning to the screen. Several minutes passed. Once done with her research—checking and cross-checking and clicking keys at a furious speed—she redirected her gaze at him.
“I see that five thousand dollars remained in the Caymans and was subsequently withdrawn. But let’s call it an even hundred thousand, shall we?” She tilted her head, an amused smile on her lips. The smile went away. She swung back to the computer terminal and made an additional series of entries. Then she sat back. Pondering, weighing consequences, considering the cost of acting one way as opposed to another, and rehearsing an adequate explanation. “As it turns out, Mr. Harrier, we cannot give out any further information on that account since it’s been closed.”
“Say what?”
She slanted her head in thoughtful repose. “You heard me.”
“I don’t believe you fully appreciate my client’s position.”
“Oh, but I do.” Her lips curled with amusement. She enjoyed putting him in his place.
“Are you telling me I have no rights to my client’s records?”
“Or his money,” she emphasized, again angling her head, this time in a way that caused her dark-blonde hair to swing with the motion, a haughty gesture that intensified the sweep of her cheekbones, the wideness of her brow, and the laughter in her eyes.
He reconsidered his opinion of her. She had certain redeeming characteristics. Though still a brusque, even insulting woman, she carried with her a unique brand of femininity. She was quite sure of herself, and quite strong willed.
“We are bound by regulations, Mr. Harrier, regulations that prevent any Larry, Mo, or Curly ... oh, I see you’re smiling, but we’re quite familiar with American culture ... from waltzing in and giving us a cock-and-bull story about a missing hundred thousand dollars that may or may not belong to whomever he says he represents. Tedious, I know, but there you have it.”
“As this power of attorney attests, I am the legal representative of John Finlay, the rightful owner of the funds in question.”
“And I,” she said, her eyes impassive and her face tranquil, “am the custodian of those funds. I have a fiduciary duty to protect them.”
“You said the account was closed.”
“By me, as it happens. But before you say anything on behalf of your representation of this alleged client of yours, allow me put it to you this way. Any one of our official island banks would not have been as welcoming as I. Probably, they would have called law enforcement and had you slapped in one of our fine jails for trespass and fraud. As it is, I must protect our interests rather than yours. I just did.” A substantial amount of woman lay in wait behind the smug pronouncements, pompous words, and churlish smiles. She was enjoying herself much too much. “Please don’t take offense at what I’m about to say, Mr. Harrier, but even if that piece of paper has a signature comparable to the one that may or may not be on file, how do we know it hasn’t been forged?”
He called her bluff. “My client is a victim of identity theft. The signature you may or may not have on file is the forgery.”
“You may smile and pose and brandish documents all you wish, Mr. Harrier. But as you see, I’m not laughing since it’s not a laughing matter. So please, do go on. Entertain me. I haven’t had so much fun since I don’t know when.”
“You think this is con.”
“I said no such thing. But as it stands ....” She let the unsaid words speak louder than if she had shouted them from the island’s Topside.
“Let me put it to you another way.”
“I am waiting with bated breath.” She leaned forward with expectation, her chin planted firmly in a cupped hand.
“What I’m about to tell you must remain in the strictest confidence.”
“Pray continue.” Her voice bubbled with amusement while her face remained stoic and unswayed.
“I’ll be plain. The funds my client seeks were hacked from four American brokerage houses in the name of Mr. Finlay but not at his suggestion, direction, or instigation. A total of fifty million dollars was stolen by a person or persons unknown, transferred to accounts registered in my client’s name, and transferred yet again into several offshore bank accounts, yours being one of them. Several American and international laws were broken in the process. My client is under suspicion of embezzlement along with a host of other charges. Unless he can clear his name, he will go to jail for a very long time.”
Her caddy smile returned, tepidly at first, before intensifying.
“You’re amused.”
“Not in the least.” By now she was enrapt with his tale of woe, her eyes sparkling. “Please. Do finish your story. For the sake of decorum, I’ll try not to laugh.”
“The account you’re holding is the only one we were able to track down.”
“A hundred thousand dollars?” she asked. “Two-tenths of one percent of the total amount?”
“Yes.”
“And the other ... let me see whether I’m good with figures ... forty-nine million nine-hundred thousand dollars ... disappeared.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that?”
“Yes,” he repeated.
“That, my dear Mr. Harrier, is more bullshit than anyone can possibly swallow in a single day.”
“I’m not pointing fingers.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“Now you’re being facetious. And insulting.”
“Well, pardon me. I didn’t mean to sound so cavalier. I meant to be as serious as a dare.”
“And I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this mix-up on behalf of my client.”
“Ah, now it becomes clear.”
The beautiful face—and he decided it was beautiful, after all—was unreadable, a face made for playing poker.
“Horror of horrors, I think you’re referring to the financial art called money laundering.”
“Theft.”
“Now you’re being facetious, if I may be so bold. But if you think what we do here is illegal, in a real or moral sense, think again. No. Unless you can present a notarized copy of the original application, or a receipt, or an original statement of the accounts set up on behalf of Mr. Finlay, something that plainly indicates you are indeed a bona fide representative of his, I cannot let you view the files. Better yet, bring Mr. Finlay here. Fly him out. Unless he is being held in one of your fine American jails as we speak.”
“Not yet,” Jack said. “He’d like to keep it that way.”
“Then do as I ask. As soon as possible.” She slid a cell phone to his side of the desk. After several moments passed, she said, “You decline?”
“This isn’t a pony show.”
“Oh, no. I thought it was. But if not ....” She hesitated. “Since you cannot produce those papers, or your client, else you would have agreed to do so by now, the real point I was about to make is moot.”
“You’re saying you can’t help me.”
“I have just said so.”
“But the account has been closed. You said so yourself. I have nothing to gain personally.”
“Except invasion of privacy.”
“I take it you mean my client’s privacy.”
“Nauruan banking laws, which are directed at the pleasure of our Australian principals, are quite explicit, Mr. Finlay, and quite strict. My hands are tied. What do you think this is, bush week?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Here at Nauru Bank Trust Limited, we take our fiduciary responsibilities quite seriously. You Americans are all alike. You think you’re as cunning as shithouse rats.” She leaned forward, hands clutched together, knuckles white. “But allow me to say that I’ve had a bad day. Normally I’m not so bitchy. But you must think me a dill, coming here with a story like this. You’re probably FBI or CIA, trying to catch us out.” She clucked her tongue. “A case of identity theft, my humble ass, which you can’t prove at any rate. But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, truly I am. This someone or group of someones whom you claim has stolen your client’s identity, do you by any chance have a name or names?”
“As it is, I’ve already jeopardized my client’s safety.”
“How so?”
“Just by being here on his behalf.”
“Then you don’t have any proof of your claim. Or is this just a fishing expedition, trying to catch us out? Let me tell you, Mister Wise Guy, we didn’t just get off the boat. We had a run on our banks not so long ago. Licenses for every one of our offshore banks were revoked. It took us years to get up and running again. We run a tight ship here. We mind our Ps and Qs, and we’re not going to let any tinfoil American agent with the Treasury Department come in here and run us out of business.
Jack wanted to strangle her pretty throat but repressed the desire. In a level tone, he said, “You misunderstand me.”
“Oh, but I understand you all too well, I’m afraid.”
He sighed again and tried to get through to this pigheaded woman with her childish smiles and her barefaced accusations. “Do the funds still exist? I assume they do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so protective. I’m surprised at your attitude. The amount is a piddling amount, hardly worth posting a bulldog at the gate, and a condescending one at that.”
She took umbrage, drawing herself up and glancing down at him from the tip of her upturned nose. “I am not a bulldog, and I take your remark as an insult.”
“Then I apologize.”
“Too late. The cow has left the barn. But instead, allow me to make a proposition.”
“Indecent, I hope.”
“You should be so lucky.”
“Now you’re getting personal.”
“I have a lot more where that comes from, mate. And from my vantage point, it’s been rather personal all along, but let’s not get into the weeds. Let’s try to be civil with one another.”
Never in his experience had a woman touched so many triggers. He wanted to kiss her and strangle, preferably simultaneously. “My client wishes to transfer the funds, but he needs to do it in such a way that’s untraceable.”
“Now you’re talking turkey.” She said nothing more, merely waited for him to elaborate.
“Can you help me out, Ms. Gibbons? Yes or no.”
“May I say, Mr. Harrier, you’re a worthy representative of your client. I underestimated you. You’re very clever. And stubborn. But then, so am I. Do come again. I can’t remember the last time I have been quite so entertained.” She stood. The hem of her skirt fell from mid-thigh to kneecap while leaving creases permanently impressed across her rounded hipbones. She noticed him noticing and ironed her hands over the material. “Better yet ... the Oceana? ... it has a decent dining room. Shall we meet this evening to continue our discussion? Say, six o’clock? Though it would seem your government scraped the bottom of the barrel when they recruited you. But I do so look forward to our next meeting, when we can redraw our blades and spar once again.”
“Provided we make one thing clear. Emmanuel.”
“What about him?”
“Make sure he gets whatever referral fee he’s owed.”
She eyed him speculatively before saying, “One, you’re telling me you don’t want him cheated. Two, you’re telling me you’re honest as the day is long.”
“Yes to your first statement. Hardly ever to the second.”
She eyed him with renewed interest. “I don’t often meet men like you.”
“What kind of men would that be, Ms. Gibbons?”
“With balls.” She paused to gauge his reaction. It must have been positive, because she said, “It’s unusual in my profession. And believe me when I say, I’ve met the tall and the short.”
“I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment.”
“Quite the contrary.” She came around the desk. “Well then, is it a date? For this evening?”
He rose to meet her. They shook on it. He couldn’t help but notice they were roughly the same height and wearing the same deferential grins.
