The Exchange: After The Firm

“At the rate we’re losing them we might need to expand.”

Jennings was on the third floor of a modern bank building a few blocks from the harbor. They met in a conference room with a view of the ocean that would have been enticing if not for the three mammoth cruise ships docked in Hog Sty Bay. He was a stuffy sort who talked down through his nose and had trouble smiling. He wore a coat and tie and seemed to enjoy being better dressed than his American counterparts, neither of whom gave a damn. In his opinion, the best strategy was to establish a new account at Trinidad Trust, a bank he knew well. Solomon Frick was an acquaintance. Many of the banks on the islands refused to do business with Americans, so it was best to have Scully’s London office open the account and keep everything away from the feds.

“Your tax people are notoriously difficult,” he explained through his nose.

Mitch shrugged. What was he supposed to do? Rush to the defense of the IRS? When the money was collected, hopefully by the following morning, it would be transferred to a numbered account at the Trinidad Trust, pursuant to Mr. Mansour’s instructions. From there, with one push of a button, it would be wired to some yet-to-be-determined account, and gone forever.

After an hour, they left his office and walked two blocks to a similar building where they met Solomon Frick, a gregarious backslapper from South Africa. A quick Scully background check on Frick raised a number of red flags. He had worked in banks from Singapore to Ireland to the Caribbean and was always on the move, usually with some debris scattered behind. However, his current employer, Trinidad Trust, was reputable.

Frick handed Mitch and Jennings the paperwork, which they reviewed and emailed to Riley Casey, who was at his desk in London. He signed where necessary and sent everything back to Frick. Scully & Pershing now had an account in the Caymans.

Mitch emailed his contact at the Royal Bank of Quebec, which was just down the street, and authorized the transfer of his contribution of $10 million. He watched the large screen on Frick’s wall, and about ten minutes later his money hit the new Scully account.

“Your money?” Jennings asked, confused.

Mitch nodded slightly and said, “It’s a very long story.”

Mitch called Riley, who then called his contact in the Foreign Office. Stephen emailed Roberto Maggi with the wiring instructions. Luca’s money was sitting in an account on the island of Martinique, another Caribbean tax haven. Luca had dealt with several of them and was no stranger to the offshore games.

As they waited, Mitch glanced occasionally at the screen and the sum of money he’d just said goodbye to. There was a measure of relief in parting with the dirty funds he should have never grabbed way back then. He remembered the exact moment he made the decision to do it. He had been where he was now — in a bank building in Georgetown, not five minutes away by foot. He had been frightened and angry that the entire Bendini conspiracy had robbed him of his future, and maybe his life as well. He had convinced himself that they, the firm, owed him something. He’d had the access code and passwords and written authority, so he took the money.

There was now a relief in knowing it might actually do some good.

He called Abby, who was six hours ahead, and they talked for a long time. She was bored, killing time, and waiting on word from Hassan. She had talked to Cory, on the green phone of course, and they agreed that no money would change hands unless Abby was convinced Giovanna was safe. Assuming, of course, she was still alive and the deal was still on.

The British slush money arrived at 3:25 and came from a bank in the Bahamas. Twenty minutes later, the Italian funds arrived from a bank on Guadaloupe in the French West Indies. The current tally was $50 million, including Luca’s contribution.

Riley called Mitch from London with the intel that the American money would not arrive until Wednesday morning, unwelcome news. Since he had no idea who was sending it or where it was coming from, he could not complain.

Mitch had sent emails to Omar Celik and Denys Tullos in Istanbul but they had not responded. When it was time to leave, Mitch called Jack in New York on the off chance that he’d had some luck with the Scully management committee. He had not. With some bitterness that was uncharacteristic, Jack explained that enough of them had fled the city to prevent a quorum.

At the Ritz-Carlton, Mitch shook off Stephen and promised to meet him at eight for dinner by the pool. He changed into shorts and a golf shirt, and walked two hundred yards down the busy street to a rental place they had just passed in the cab. He picked a red Honda scooter and said he’d have it back by dark. Scooters were everywhere on the island and he and Abby had enjoyed them years earlier, when they were in hiding.