Colonel Mu’ammar Qaddafi indicated a comfortable armchair next to his own in the big, green-draped salon. “Please be seated, Mr. Shiller.”
Qaddafi exuded power. Physically, he was considerably shorter than Shiller had visualized, but there was no question that he naturally dominated his surroundings. His English was good, although heavily accented. He wore an olive-green military uniform and carried a sidearm. Dan wondered why he needed the pistol, surrounded as he was by guards carrying as much firepower as a small army. Probably a question of image, the grifter decided.
“We trust you had a comfortable journey.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, Colonel.”
“Is there anything we can do to make your stay with us more pleasant?”
“Well, sir, now that you mention it, I would very much appreciate being allowed to check in to my hotel. Not that it isn’t a real honor to meet you—”
“We understand completely, Mr. Shiller. You must be tired.”
“Yes. Well, it’s been a real pleasure—”
“Tell us about the money, Mr. Shiller.”
“What?”
“The money. Where did you get it? And why did you send it here?”
Dan Shiller felt a cold chill creep down his spine. “Ah, well, Colonel, since you ask, let me put it this way. The money is, quite frankly, from certain … activities that the authorities back home do not exactly … approve of. And the reason I had it temporarily transferred to Libya was because I knew that with … relations between our two countries the way they are, you know, I didn’t think you’d be too eager to return the money. Or have me extradited.”
“You are quite correct about that, Mr. Shiller. So, let us summarize. The money is the proceeds of criminal activity—we wonder if it has any connection with the recent events in Las Vegas?—and you want us to launder it for you through the Libyan Arab Foreign Bank.”
“Yes, Colonel. And I’m paying them five million dollars for the privilege.”
“It may not be possible.”
Shiller’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”
Qaddafi smiled, but his eyes were hard. “Have you considered staying here with us in Libya?”
“I-I don’t think so.” There was no way on earth Dan wanted to spend a single day longer than he had to in this desert rathole.
“That is too bad. Because, unfortunately, we cannot release the money to you at this time.”
Shiller’s shoulders slumped. “Why not, Colonel?” he asked dejectedly, not really caring what the bullshit answer was, knowing that he’d been royally screwed by this slimy little asshole. And there was probably going to be fuck all he could do about it.
“Our executive council has decided to hold the money in exactly the same way your own government has frozen our deposits in the United States.”
“For how long?” Dan asked miserably.
“Until the U.S. government releases Libyan assets.”
Or until hell freezes over, thought Shiller. “This is just fuckin’ robbery,” he muttered.
Colonel Qaddafi’s eyes blazed. “What was that, Mr. Shiller? You dare accuse us of robbery? You, who have robbed and murdered your own countrymen?” He slammed his fist angrily on the arm of his chair and barked orders to the two soldiers who stood by the double doors to the great room. “Perhaps you will see the error of your ways after a few years of spiritual cleansing in the Al Baraq Detention Center.”
“Oh God, no,” Shiller wailed as the soldiers moved in to flank him. “Look, Colonel. I’ll pay double what we agreed on! I’ll give you half! Just let me go!”
Qaddafi smiled. “Why should we settle for half, Mr. Shiller, when we have it all? And we have you, too? Surely you can see the logic of it.”