Found money

27

Ryan returned to the Banco del Istmo on Tuesday morning. It was only half a block away from the Banco Nacional, where he’d found the records for the three million dollar account in the safe deposit box. Yesterday, he’d made the journey in a state of disbelief, almost in a stupor. Only today did he even notice the logo on the doors, the narrow isthmus of Panama, which explained the bank’s name — literally, the Bank of the Isthmus.

Ryan waited almost an hour in the lobby. He waited alone. Not a single customer came or went. The building was much older than the Banco Nacional, the decor less impressive. No artwork on the walls, no plants to dress up the hallways or offices. No air conditioning, either, at least not the modern kind. Through the open windows seeped traffic noise and exhaust fumes from the busy city streets. A wobbly old paddle fan rattled overhead, as if trying to shake itself free from the ceiling. Ryan got the distinct impression that very few customers did their business in person at the Banco del Istmo.

Ryan went through two cups of coffee while he waited. He could have spoken to several bank officers during that time period, but he wanted to meet with the same vice president he had spoken to yesterday. At 11:15, Humberto Hernandez finally emerged from his office.

“Dr. Duffy?” he said with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I just couldn’t get away from the telephone.”

Ryan rose and shook his hand. “I understand.”

“Please, come back to my office.”

Ryan followed him down the hall into his small cubicle. Hernandez wore a short-sleeved dress shirt with no jacket or tie, very practical in the heat. He had thick black hair that he combed straight back. It glistened with some kind of oil, as if he’d just jumped out of the shower. He stood almost a foot shorter than Ryan but was easily fifty pounds heavier. Tiny remnants of an early lunch of rice, beans, and sausage rested in the center of his cluttered desk.

“Please, have a seat,” he said as he sank into his Naugahyde desk chair.

“Thank you.” Ryan took the only available chair, on the other side of the desk.

“How can I help you today, Doctor?”

“I’d like to follow up on something we were talking about yesterday.”

“Yes, go on.”

“It has to do with the source of the three million dollars that was transferred into my father’s account.”

“I am very sorry, sir. I already explained. That is something I cannot help you with.”

“If I may, I’d like to explain my situation. I think it might make a difference.”

He seemed unmoved. “Go on, please.”

“I’m the executor of my father’s estate. It’s my job to distribute the assets of the estate in accordance with my father’s wishes. I cannot in good faith distribute those assets if I don’t know where they came from.”

“Why not?”

“Because my father was not the kind of man to have three million dollars in a numbered account in the Banco del Istmo.”

“Sir, we run a legitimate bank here. I do not appreciate your suggestion to the contrary.”

“I didn’t mean to insult. I just meant that my father wasn’t the kind of man to have three million dollars in any bank.”

“Perhaps you don’t know what kind of man your father was.”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you know my father?”

“No. Did you?”

Ryan narrowed his eyes. “I need to know where this money came from. Period.”

Hernandez leaned forward, his hands atop the desk. He was polite but firm. “As I explained yesterday, the funds were transferred from another numbered account in this bank. Just as your father’s identity was protected by the laws of bank secrecy, that other account holder is entitled to the same protection. I cannot breach that confidentiality just because you walk in and demand to know.”

Ryan glared, then opened the paper bag he’d brought with him. “I have something for you, Mr. Hernandez.”

“Oh? What?”

Ryan reached inside with a handkerchief. Carefully, he removed the bar glass and set it on the desk. “This cocktail glass is from the lounge in the Marriott Hotel.”

He was baffled, unsure of what to say. “Did you get a set of bath towels for me as well?”

“This is not a joke. After I left this bank yesterday, someone followed me to my hotel and robbed me. They took my bag and everything in it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I believe it was an employee of this bank who followed me.”

“That’s ludicrous.”

“I can prove it. The woman who followed me was drinking from this glass. Her fingerprints are still on it.”

“Have you done a fingerprint analysis?”

“Of course not. Not yet.”

“So the analysis could very well prove that the culprit is not one of our employees.”

“Or it could prove that she is. It all comes down to the question of what risk do you want to take.”

“Risk?”

“Yes, risk. If I give this glass to the authorities and there is no match, you’re in the clear. But if there is a match, the legal problems will be the least of your worries. Competition is brutal among international banks these days. This is the kind of misfortune your competitors could seize upon, I’m sure. It couldn’t be good for business if your customers were to hear that a law-abiding American doctor with three million dollars in your bank was stalked by one of your employees and robbed. You’re going to have one huge customer relations problem on your hands. I guarantee it.”

His right eye twitched. “Sir, I admit that the Banco del Istmo does not have a past that is, as you Americans say, squeaky clean. But in recent years we have worked very hard to change that image. I beseech you, do not slander our good name.”

“It’s in your hands. If you’re a hundred percent confident that it wasn’t an employee of this bank who followed me to my hotel, then you can send me on my merry way to the police. But if there is the slightest doubt in your mind, the glass is there for the taking. Consider it a gift.”

He glanced at the glass, then at Ryan. “Of course, it would make me feel terribly guilty to accept a gift from a friend without giving something of myself in return.”

“You know what I want.”

“I told you. It’s against the law.”

“I’ve never been a big fan of laws that allow criminals to shield themselves behind banks. This is not negotiable.”

Hernandez seemed in agony, like a man with a gun to his head. Suddenly he swiveled in his chair, faced his computer and typed in the account number. “I have here the entire transaction history for your father’s account. It shows every deposit, every withdrawal. Including internal transfers from other account holders at the bank.”

Ryan couldn’t see the screen from his chair. As he rose to take a look, Hernandez said, “Stay right where you are.”

Ryan retreated to his chair, confused.

Hernandez said, “As I explained, I cannot give you this information. That would be a crime. That is my final word on the matter.” He rose, then continued, “Now, I’m going to take this glass, go to the snack room, and get myself a cool drink of water. I will be back in exactly five minutes. You can remain here while I’m gone, if you wish. Whatever you do, do not look at that computer screen. I repeat: Do not look at that screen.”

The banker had cleared his conscience. He took the glass and quietly left the room. The door closed behind him.

Ryan remained in his chair, staring at the back of the computer monitor. It chilled him to think the answer was right around the desk, flashing on the screen. Yet to learn who had paid the blackmail, he would have to break the law of bank secrecy. It wasn’t an American law. It wasn’t even a law he much respected, having seen it abused by drug lords and tax evaders. Breaking any law, however, was a dangerous road. The first step had a way of leading to the second.

He paused to weigh his alternatives. He could walk away, perhaps never to know who his father had blackmailed. Or he could step around and have a look.

He waited only another moment. Then he took that first step.