Bill Reichert chose Las Brisas because it was close to the airport. He had seen the Acapulco resort eight years earlier when he was attending an international bankers’ meeting. His familiarity with the site lent some confidence. He wasn’t a member of the international organization, but, at that point in his career, he wanted to learn everything he could about banking. It was before his involvement with The Company, when he thought that banking would be his only source of income, and president of the Covington Bank was not his idea of being at the top.
There was another reason for choosing the five-star resort. He needed Morgan to come. Las Brisas was romantic and beautiful, a paradise with private casitas, set like pink and white jewels on a hillside, facing a bay with clear, azure blue water. To swim in it was like bathing in the center of an aquamarine mounted in a fine setting. Each casita had its own pool, in which fresh, brightly colored hibiscus and other native flowers were floated each morning before the guests arose. Bougainvillea abounded. There were no radios or televisions, which assured freedom from anything negative or worrisome for the guests, except those things within them, brought along only because the owner was unable to leave them behind.
When he showed Morgan the travel brochures, there was no hesitation, no more questions or conditions. She didn’t even take exception to the fact that, though they were traveling on the same flights, they would be strangers for all intents and purposes. Nor did she react when he asked her to follow directly behind him as he went through customs. It was for her protection, he suggested, in case there were any questions about her jewelry or valuables. Should anything of that nature occur, he assured her, he would step in and straighten it out. She laughed at the idea but agreed though she didn’t accept his reasoning.
Reichert had also been told by Bernardo Heironymous Ortega, the man he would meet the day after his arrival, that since Acapulco was primarily a tourist area where the visitor’s comfort and safety were primary objectives, customs inspections were far less stringent than in most areas. Reichert was more than a little nervous about the four hundred thousand American dollars he carried in his luggage; however, Señor Ortega told him not to worry. If the money was discovered, declare it, the man said. Do exactly as he was told, and everything would be taken care of. Carry five thousand in cash that he would declare and keep it easily accessible should he need it, though there was no reason to think it would be.
Whether it was by arrangement—which he suspected—or because the inspectors were lax in their duties, none of the instructions were necessary. There were a few questions, a cursory glance at the luggage by an inspector, who was far more interested in Morgan Hannah, standing directly behind him, than anything the American might be trying to smuggle in. He congratulated himself for positioning her there for that very purpose.
After arriving at their casita, it took only minutes for Morgan to coax Bill Reichert into a bathing suit and down the natural steps in the hillside, onto the beach and into the water. As beautiful as the water was, he thought, Morgan floating on her back complimented it. It appeared he had made her happy for the first time in weeks.
After the beach, they returned to their casita where they swam in the pool, lay in the sun and let the anxiety and tension of travel leave their bodies. South Carolina and all that went with it was left far behind. They made love before dressing for dinner. Bill Reichert began to feel they were a couple, that he was connected to her. He wondered if he were beginning to gain some understanding of what the term “love” meant. What he was feeling was different than anything he had ever experienced with Isabel, but he felt no guilt about that.
When dinner was over, he took Morgan to the cliffs of La Quebrada to watch the cliff divers. It was a tradition begun in the thirties, young men rock-climbing the steep cliffs to an area a hundred and thirty or forty feet above a narrow cut of water that rose and fell in depth with the incoming breakers. The diver had to time it perfectly, or he would find the water too shallow when he entered it and be severely injured or killed. It had happened a number of times. Night was the best time to watch, Reichert remembered.
As they stood and watched the divers climb to their natural platform, the tension of the climb itself became almost unbearable. It taxed Reichert’s imagination that anyone would take such a risk. He watched Morgan and saw the excitement and fire that the prospect of what they were going to see brought to her eyes.
Once in position, the divers would hold their torches high, say a prayer, and wait for the precise moment to launch themselves out into space beyond the outcroppings of rock that stood between them and the water. The torches flickered, as shooting stars falling from the night sky, until they hit the water and were extinguished. It was spectacular and breathtaking. Morgan’s eyes became more brilliant and wet as she watched, mesmerized, he was sure, as much by the danger as the spectacle. They remained for more than an hour before Reichert was able to pull her away.
They went to the Esplanade and listened to a mariachi band playing at a sidewalk cafe for tourists who sipped on their Tecates or Coronas. It was like a movie; everyone was in love or so it seemed. Maybe it was just the Mexican night.
Upon their return to the casita, they sat by the pool and looked out over the water. Low, flat, shadow-clouds, dark, though not ominous, crossed the moon, and the lights along the hillside formed a necklace around the curve of the beach. Exhaustion finally overtook them and they went to bed. Reichert was glad they had made love earlier because he knew he was not capable when he lay down to sleep.
At nine-thirty the following morning, he left Morgan sleeping soundly and went to the resort entrance where a black Mercedes was waiting to take him to his meeting. He was unaware that his every move was being observed and had been since he boarded the plane in Savannah.
Bernardo Hieronymous Ortega was the primary representative of a private bank that dealt with large sums of money needing to be taken beyond the scrutiny of the United States Government and protected from the laws that governed its currency. Money brokers, such as Ortega, might use a bidding system to convert U.S. dollars for a fee or buy the dollars at a discount of up to ten percent. Either way, the seller was protected. With Ortega’s bank, unlike some others, the bank managed the funds exclusively, which made Reichert skeptical.
In his research, he was surprised to find that there were hundreds of such private banks in existence throughout the world, their activities funneled through financial centers with little legislation or restrictions. One of the primary techniques was “layering.” A transaction initiated in Mexico would continue a path, via wire transfers and other financial instruments, through a number of countries and islands, such as Aruba, Columbia, the Netherlands, the Antilles, Venezuela, the Canary’s and other areas with similar lax restrictions, to blind corporations that would make the proceeds legally available in the states. Of all the underground banks that practiced this technique, Ortega’s group was reputed to be the most sound and trustworthy.
Charley Clay had received a letter of introduction to Ortega from John Descartè in Miami. He had done business with him before, and there were never any problems in any of their joint ventures, which, in Charley Clay’s mind, generated trust. On the other hand, trust was a quality that Bill Reichert did not dispense easily.
Ortega was staying at the Pierre Marques Hotel. Located south of Acapulco on Revolcadero Beach, it was one of the original fine resorts in the area. By the time the Mercedes passed by Guitarron Point, Reichert was nervous. Despite Descartè’s referral, the idea of handing over millions of dollars to a Mexican “banker” and his compadres, none of whom he knew, was frightening. He was even more suspicious of falling into a government sting operation, which were becoming commonplace.
When the car stopped in front of the Pierre Marques, the driver, who had said nothing—Reichert assumed he spoke no English, so didn’t he didn’t try to begin a conversation himself—escorted the American to Ortega’s suite and left him at the door.
“Buenos dias, Mr. Reichert. Come in. It is a pleasure to meet you,” the man said as he held the door for Reichert to enter the luxurious suite. “An enjoyable drive down from Las Brisas, I presume?”
Bernardo Ortega was not what Bill Reichert imagined. He wasn’t old, wasn’t wearing a white suit, wasn’t overweight, nor was his hair pulled back close to his head into a pony tail. And he didn’t speak broken English. There was an accent, but his English was excellent. The man’s features were refined, more Spanish than Mexican. Although he was no taller than Reichert himself, he appeared so because of a lean physique resembling that of a matador. Surprisingly, his eyes were blue. Mixed breed, Reichert thought, the meanest and toughest to trust. Bill Reichert dealt in clichés, and he was working overtime on Ortega. Appearing calm was difficult.
“It’s a beautiful part of the country,” Reichert said, trying to affect a purely business-like tone. He didn’t come to be friends with the man.
“I took the liberty of having breakfast set up on the balcony. The heat is not so intense this early in the morning; I thought it would be nice to talk and eat in the fresh air. It is so beautiful a view. You will enjoy it.”
“That’s fine,” Reichert said, as Ortega ushered him through the doors onto the balcony. A round table, covered with a white linen tablecloth, held two place settings, several silver chafing dishes, a coffee server, a bucket of ice and two carafes of juice.
When they were seated, Ortega uncovered the dishes and they served themselves. One chafing dish held tortillas covered with minced onion and chopped ham, each with two fried eggs on top, drizzled with a chili sauce and sprinkled with green peas and cheese. Another contained Rancheros Huevas, a Mexican staple dish of eggs on tortillas, topped with salsa. Bill Reichert picked at his food; his stomach was too shaky to bombard it with anything—despite the quality of the resort—he held questionable.
“I understand,” Ortega said, flashing a smile that was difficult to mistrust, “that we are to discuss a significant number of U.S. dollars that you wish to protect.” Significant?
Reichert almost laughed. Eight to ten million dollars is what this man calls “significant”?
“Yes,” he said. “Excuse me, Señor Ortega, if I seem impertinent. I don’t mean to, but before we begin discussing details, I would feel more at ease, perhaps, if you could tell me exactly what your background is concerning international banking. Slipping four hundred thousand dollars across the border is one thing, but what we are considering is a much broader project with far more serious implications.” Reichert knew that delving into a man like Ortega’s background was not only improper but could be dangerous. In his mind, however, he was only exercising caution. He was out of his element.
“Your impertinence is excused, Mr. Reichert. I understand the trust between you and me is not here yet. I received my bachelor’s degree in international relations, with a minor in business administration from Brown University in Rhode Island and a graduate degree with an emphasis on international finance from The Wharton School in Philadelphia. You see, I understood from a very early age exactly what I wanted to do for a career and decided to prepare for it in the best way possible. If your business is going to be pulling the wool, as you say, over someone’s eyes—in this case a country—the best method is to study their ways. Fortunately, my father was able to afford it.”
“Very impressive,” Reichert said chagrined. “I hope you will forgive my asking.”
“No problem. But, and I know it is difficult, you have to trust me. I understand that Señor Descartè referred you to me, but he also referred me to you. My bank does not do business lightly. Should you ever run into any trouble in your dealings, it will not be through us. We currently manage on average five point three billion U.S. dollars a year, and not one dollar has been lost through our inefficiency.” It was said without hostility or braggadocio, just in a manner that let the American know that if they were ever going to be doing business, he must never question him again.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. Ortega smiled.
“You didn’t. I just felt it necessary to let you know we are not—what you call—a fly-by-night organization. We make money together, or we don’t make money at all. Now, let’s put all this aside, shall we? How many dollars are we talking about?”
“Eight to ten million is a ballpark estimate.”
“Very nice amount.”
“May I ask how you would suggest we handle it? Exactly. The process?”
“Of course. Diversify, I think, and then bring it to three or four primary corporate accounts. This would, of course, be after eight or ten transfers, maybe even more. I would begin by using one of our New York importers. The way it works—and I won’t go into detail—one of our manufacturers will obtain a permit to export, let’s say, ten million dollars worth of household hardware to New York. What he will actually ship is two million dollars worth of hardware to one of the island Free Zones, where it will be re-labeled, repackaged and sent back to Mexico to be sold at a discount.
“At the same time, the manufacturer’s agent picks up your eight to ten million in New
York, which is covered by an export license, and brings it back here. Now we are ready to begin the transfers, taking the money in various amounts through eight or ten countries and islands, via wire, courier and, in some cases, bank certificates until it finally rests in three or four blind corporations, probably in the Canary Islands, Venezuela and the Antilles. Those locations would not be decided upon until the time comes, in order to find you the best rates. No need to let money sit and do nothing for you.” He smiled.
“From there your corporations can use the money for real estate purchases in the states or virtually any other type of acquisitions the corporation might think is a good investment. To follow a paper trail, which seems to be your government’s primary method of exposure, will be virtually impossible. After this is established, smaller amounts can be wired, even through your own bank, if you wish, directly to your corporations’ accounts. Does this seem reasonable?”
Reichert nodded, thinking it over.
“Bertolt Brecht once said, ‘If you want to steal, buy a bank.’ Some wisdom in that statement I’m sure even he wasn’t aware of,” Ortega said.
Reichert had to bite his tongue to keep from asking what he knew were dumb questions. He could understand the simplified version of the technique that Ortega had just explained. That was no problem. It was the implementation of the procedures that was impossible for him to grasp. How could they keep track of the money with it going in so many different directions through so many currency exchanges? How many people were employed to manage all of what Ortega described? And how many individuals would be in control of The Company’s funds while the transactions were going on? Even if he could trust Ortega, what about the others? And if it all got fucked, it would fall on his shoulders.
The questions raced through his mind, not one reasonable enough to ask. But then again, maybe he was just a patsy in Ortega’s mind, an amateur, a hick from Covington, South Carolina, a chicken ripe for the plucking. Bill Reichert felt all of those assessments were valid at the moment. He was out of his league. The Company was out of its league. What were they thinking? Charley Clay and the others. That they were invincible? His stomach began to roll. He felt like he was going to vomit. He didn’t eat much, by design, but he thought he might lose what little he had ingested. There was a cool sweat on his body and arms that brought a chill with it that he tried to disguise.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Reichert?” There was a look of concern on Ortega’s face.
“No, nothing. Just a bit of indigestion.”
“I’m sorry. The spices in our food probably. Or maybe too much tequila last night? The water at Las Brisas is safe, so unless you drank some elsewhere, it couldn’t be the infamous ‘revenge’. Can I get you something for your stomach? There is a pharmacy not far from here.”
“No, really, it’s passing already. Just momentary. It’s not unusual.”
“So, does our financial planning meet with your approval?”
“We haven’t discussed your charges.” Get aggressive, he told himself.
“To do all that I outlined, with your only part being to get the currency to our agent in New York, would cost you fifteen percent of the total amount we handle.”
“That’s one point five million to handle ten.”
“Your mathematics is good. Of course, you’re a banker. It is a lot of work, Señor, and once it is in our hands, the risk is all ours. You could lose only your money. That can always be replaced. We could lose our lives or, worse, spend them in prison. We do not have ‘country club’ prisons in Mexico. For me, I would rather lose my life.” Ortega took a sip of his coffee. “And, before you ask, the fee is not negotiable.”
“It’s acceptable,” Reichert said. “What’s the first step?”
“You will notify us twenty days in advance of the money being in your possession. It is essential for your safety that it remains in your possession as brief a time as possible. When you have it, you will be given instructions on how to deliver it to New York. In the meantime, during that twenty-day period, papers will be sent to you to be signed—in any way you choose—for corporate setups and access signatures. We get nothing except a handshake until our agent in New York receives the money. At that time our percentage will be deducted and the process will begin. Can I answer anything else?” Reichert’s head was spinning.
“About that, nothing that I can think of; however, I will have to get approval from our principals.”
“Of course.”
“There is one other matter that we need to discuss and take immediate action on: the four hundred thousand dollars I brought in with me.” Reichert said.
“That is all arranged. These are your personal funds, I recall.”
“Yes.”
“My driver will take you to Banco Privado de Cuidadanos, a small bank in Acapulco in which we have an interest. Ask for Señor Gallaggria. He is the vice-president and will assist you in setting up an account here and one in Guadeloupe—you did say this was a personal account in your name only, not part of your organization,” Ortega said.
“Yes.”
“Once the money is deposited here, it will be wired directly to your account in the islands. Señor Gallaggria will supply you with all of the necessary documents and will give you a secure access code while you are in his office. You may witness the whole process.”
“How will I contact you when we are ready to proceed?”
“The same way you did this time. Mr. Clay will be in touch with Descartè, and he, in turn, will contact me.” Reichert rose from his chair, balancing himself with three extended fingers on the table in case his knees were too weak to lift him upright without faltering. At that moment, for the first time, he thought of himself as a criminal.
“We will contact you,” he managed to get out.
Bernardo Hieronymous Ortega extended his hand and smiled. “It will be good doing business with you, Mr. Reichert. I would say ‘Don’t worry’, but I can see that you will. That is you. But I will say it anyway. We have been in business for more than twenty years, and it is not all money such as yours, believe me. We have a number of legitimate, major American manufacturers and corporations among our clients, as well as quite a few of your elected government officials. You would be surprised.”
“I’m sure I would,” Reichert said, his legs firming a bit.
“Juano has the car waiting for you. Buenos dias, Señor.”
“Buenos dias.”
Walking to the car, the heat of the day enveloped him, but the feeling was not as uncomfortable as the cold sweat he experienced in Ortega’s suite. He tried to focus on Morgan Hannah and the two days and nights that lay ahead. His overwhelming desire, however, was to get back to South Carolina. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to leave it again. Of one thing he was certain, this would be his last venture with The Company.
Neither Bill Reichert nor Juano was aware of the small car that followed them as they headed back to Las Brisas.