The Exchange: After The Firm

Darian talked to Cory, who was on the ground in Marrakech and had hired Moroccan security. One agent was now a guest of La Maison Arabe Hotel and was staying in a room two doors down from Abby. She was supposed to meet Hassan Mansour Tuesday for breakfast and an update. The Moroccans on their team would be watching for Mr. Mansour, a man they had so far been unable to track down. Darian warned Cory to caution the team that they were to take no chances. Just observe diligently and don’t get caught doing it.

Just after 9 P.M., 3 P.M. on the East Coast, the senator came through with the news they had been waiting for. Elias Lake informed Jack, in deepest confidence of course, that the British foreign minister had brokered a deal with the Italians and Americans in which all three governments would chip in $15 million each for the ransom. The payments would originate from sources so hidden they may as well have been on Mars, and they would get routed through banks on four continents. In the end, though, they would arrive almost magically in the new account in a Cayman bank. And any poor soul curious enough to try and track where all the money came from would probably lose his or her mind.

Jack thanked the senator profusely and promised to call later.

Forty-five million was half of ninety, their goal. Add Luca’s ten, and they were still far short.

An exasperated Darian said, “In the dirty world of American slush money, fifteen million is peanuts. The DEA pays that much to drug informants on a monthly basis.”

Jack said, “She’s not an American citizen.”

“Right, and neither are the snitches down in Colombia.”

For many hours over many days, they had debated whether the terrorists might bend. How much would they settle for if the entire $100 million could not be raised? It was difficult to imagine them walking away from a large pile of money. They had $10 million in hand. Another $55 mil was within their grasp.

Darian thought the current record was the $38 million paid by the French to a Somalian gang for a journalist, but since there was no centralized clearinghouse for international hostage taking, no one really knew. Sixty-five million was certainly an impressive sum.

The alternative, though, was too gruesome to think about.

Mitch stepped into another room and called Istanbul.

The Bombardier Challenger lifted off from Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci international airport at 6 A.M. Tuesday, May 24. Both Jack and Mitch needed sleep, and the flight attendant prepared two beds in separate quarters in the rear of the cabin. First, though, Mitch had something to say. “Let’s have a Bloody Mary, only one, and a chat. There’s something you need to know.”

All Jack wanted was a few hours’ sleep, but he knew this was serious. They asked the flight attendant for drinks, and once they were served she disappeared.

Mitch rattled his cubes, took a couple of sips, and began, “Years ago, when Abby and I left Memphis in the middle of the night, literally running for our lives, we barely got out of town. My employer, the Bendini firm, was owned by the Mob, out of Chicago, and once I realized that I had to get out. The FBI was moving in and the sky was falling. The firm suspected I was whispering to the FBI and there were plans to eliminate me. By then I knew that the firm had a history of keeping its lawyers quiet. Once you joined the firm, you never left. At least five lawyers had tried in the decade before I got there. All were dead. I knew I was next. As I was planning my escape, I saw the opportunity to re-route some money. Some offshore funds that were hidden in a bank, on Grand Cayman, oddly enough, and I knew how to wire it to other places. It was dirty money, firm money, Mob money. I was frightened and angry and facing a very uncertain future. My promising career was in the sewer, thanks to Bendini, and if I survived I was looking at a life on the run. So, as compensation, I took the dirty money. Ten million dollars of it. Whisked away by the magic of wire transfer. I sent some to care for my mother, some to Abby’s parents, the rest I kept hidden offshore. Later, I told the FBI about it and offered to give most of it back. They didn’t care. They were too busy prosecuting thugs. What would they do with the money? With time I guess they forgot about it.”

Jack sipped his drink, thoroughly amused.

“After I went to work for Scully, in London, I contacted the FBI one last time. They had lost all interest. I pushed them and finally got a letter, a waiver, from the IRS. No taxes owed. Case closed.”

“It’s still sitting out there, offshore,” Jack said.

“Still there, in the Royal Bank of Quebec, which happens to be just down the street from the Trinidad Trust.”

“On Grand Cayman.”

“On Grand Cayman. Those guys keep secrets, believe me.”

“And by now it’s a lot more than ten million.”