Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

CHAPTER 19

The sooner Wilson got out of town, the safer he’d be. It had taken only a day for the wire transfer to clear between Hong Kong and St. Helier. He would have paid almost any amount for transportation to Kampala. But this was Bunia. A failure to bargain would seem suspicious. So he negotiated for five minutes with the man offering a ride in his beat-up Renault.

They got to Entebbe in the evening, too late to fly anywhere Wilson wanted to go. There was, however, a Kenya Airlines flight at five thirty in the morning, connecting to Zurich via Nairobi and Amsterdam.

At the driver’s suggestion, he spent the night at the Speke Hotel, an old-world relic with comfortable beds, good security, and a wireless Internet connection. The driver spent the night in the courtyard of the hotel, sleeping in the backseat of his car.

Wilson ate dinner in his room, then trawled the Internet for news of Bobojon and Hakim. Using different search engines, he looked for February or March news reports from Kuala Lumpur and Berlin, mentioning anyone named Bobojon or Hakim. Nothing. So he tried it again, omitting the names, and looking instead for reports from the same cities using the words “terrorist” and “arrest.” There were dozens of stories, but only two could be considered “hits.”

The first was a short article in Dawn, Malaysia’s biggest English-language newspaper. The story was dated February 24, and recounted the recent arrest of two men at Kuala Lumpur’s Subang Airport.

Sources identified one of the arrested men as Nik Awad, an alleged liaison between Kumpulan Militan Malaysia (KMM) and Jemaah Islamiyah (JI). The second man, traveling on a Syrian passport, was not further identified. Police said the second man attempted to commit suicide at the airport, but was prevented from swallowing a poison capsule.

Both men were detained under provisions of the Internal Security Act. Police are said to be investigating a terrorist plot to attack an American military base in Sumatra.

Wilson read the story three times. The salient facts were three: the time frame, the venue, and the suicide attempt. Late February was about the time he’d dined with Hakim, just before he set sail for Odessa; Hakim had been on the way to Kuala Lumpur; and the suicide attempt, well, it could only be him.

The second story was on the CNN website. It was a March 1 report, datelined Berlin. An antiterrorist investigation had ended in a shootout at the suspect’s apartment. An agent of the Office for the Protection of the Constitution (BfV), Clara Deisler, thirty-one, had been killed. The suspect, killed in an exchange of gunfire, was a “guest worker” with links to Islamist groups in Bosnia and Lebanon. The investigation was continuing.

Wilson searched for a follow-up, using Deisler’s name, but all he found were German newspaper articles with the same date as the CNN report. There was no follow-up. Which was strange. Two people had been killed in a gun battle in downtown Berlin. One was a terrorist; the other – a woman, no less – was a government agent. And then… nothing.

So the story was being suppressed.

But was it Bobojon? Wilson couldn’t be sure, but it seemed likely. Among other things, it would explain the phony message left for him in Draft mode. The Germans had Bobojon’s computer. Which probably meant that the CIA did, too. How long, then, before they found out about the Cadogan Bank?

The answer was anyone’s guess. For all Wilson knew, the feds could be watching the bank already. But he doubted that. The FBI and the CIA were bureaucracies like any other, except they were secret. This enabled them to conceal a lot of their blundering. But 9/11 made their modus operandi obvious: They moved slowly, fucked things up, and demanded more “resources.”

Still, they had a lot of resources, so it wasn’t as if you could ignore them.

So the question was: What would he do if he were in their shoes? He thought about it for a moment, and decided that the first thing he’d do was block wire transfers out of the Cadogan account. With so much at stake, “Francisco d’Anconia” would then be expected to contact the bank. At that point, his whereabouts might be traced, or the feds would try to lure him to Jersey.

Before they could do that, though, they’d need to know about the Cadogan Bank, and then they’d have to get the bank’s cooperation.

Did they? Had they? Wilson couldn’t be sure.

He got into Zurich a little after eight the next evening, after traveling nearly fifteen hours. Grimy and exhausted, he contented himself with a snack at a gyro joint in an alley off the Niederhof, where the city’s tourist traps were concentrated. This done, he walked along the quay beside the river, his eyes on the swans, then crossed a footbridge into the old town, where he found a room at the wildly expensive Hotel Zum Storchen.

The next morning, he wandered the streets until he found the vast Jelmoli department store, just off the elegant Bahnhofstrasse. There, he bought new clothes and a leather suitcase. Returning to the hotel, he took a long, hot shower that amounted to a kind of exfoliation. The fire and stink of Bafwasende, the chaos and grime that was Bunia, washed from him until all that was left was the ghost shirt that was his skin, and the injunction:

When he checked out, half an hour later, the girl at the reception desk didn’t recognize him – and then, when she did, she giggled. Clad in Armani, Bragano, and Zegna, he seemed, almost, to have stepped off the cover of GQ. Walking to the Bahnhof, he took the first train to the airport, and rented a car.

It was a jet-black Alfa-Romeo convertible. If the weather had cooperated, he’d have driven with the top down all the way to Lake Constance. But the weather had turned, and the sky was spitting at him as he headed east, skirting the edge of the Zurichsee.

There was only one way to find out if anyone was on to him. Move the money. Or try to. If the wire transfer went through, he was still a step ahead of them. If it didn’t… he wasn’t.

Either way, there were problems. If the Cadogan Bank dragged its heels or raised objections, it meant that someone was on to him. And he’d have to run.

If, on the other hand, the bank made no objection to a wire transfer, he still had a problem: What was he going to do with $3.6 million in cash? He’d done the math, and even if it was all in hundred-dollar bills, that much cash would fill a couple of suitcases, at least. And it would weigh a ton. How was he supposed to get the money into the States? Just walk it through Customs? That would be like playing Russian roulette with a derringer. And even if he got the money through Customs, then what? He couldn’t just put it in a bank. The DEA would be all over him.

And there was another problem, as well. Even if the wire transfer went through and he found a way to get the money into the States, there were people who would be looking for him. Not just the FBI and the CIA, but Hakim’s partners in the Lebanese Ministry of Defense. They’d fronted the hash, and they’d expect to be paid for it. This had been Hakim’s responsibility, but now that Hakim was missing, it was up to Wilson.

Of course, the Lebanese didn’t know his name. But they almost certainly knew about Belov (not to mention Zero and Khalid). It wouldn’t take long for the Lebanese to find out that the deal had gone through in Bafwasende, and that Wilson’s bodyguards were killed in Bunia soon afterward. They might even learn that he’d fenced the diamonds through Big Ping. And they would no doubt suspect that he’d decided to keep both his share and theirs.

Not that there was anything they could do about it. Not unless they found him.

Wilson mused about each of these problems as he drove through the rolling Swiss countryside on the way to tiny Liechtenstein. At three o’clock in the afternoon, he crossed the unmanned border that separates the two countries. Immediately, the road began to climb, cutting back and forth across the mountainside, straightening out when the Alfa rolled into Vaduz, Liechtenstein’s manicured capital. He parked on the street in front of the Banque Privée de Stern, and went inside.

The manager, Herr Eggli, had the look of a young Einstein, with a nimbus of blond hair exploding in every direction. Everything else about him was orderly and precise. His skin was as clear and smooth as a sheet of paper, colorless but for the blush of health in his cheeks. He wore a dark suit and gold-rimmed granny glasses, and spoke English with a British accent. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out upon the snowcapped mountains that defined the Rhine Valley, even as they hulked above it.

Wilson took the leather wing chair that was offered, crossed his legs, and explained that he wanted to arrange a wire transfer.

“I’m afraid that facility is only available to our clients,” Herr Eggli explained.

“I understand that,” Wilson said. “I was hoping to become one.”

Eggli’s face dissolved in regret. “We don’t actually do much retail banking.”

“Of course not, but, well, it’s quite a bit of money that’s involved,” Wilson said.

Eggli gave him a curious look. “Oh? May I ask how much?”

“About three million euros,” Wilson told him.

The banker paused, then nodded thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I don’t see any obstacles, really. We can open an account straight away, if you’d like.”

“I would.”

“There’s very little paperwork. I’ll just need to see your passport. And then, of course, I’ll need the banking codes for the wire.”

Wilson slid the d’Anconia passport across the polished wooden desk.

“I’ve always thought it’s a bit like checking into a hotel,” Eggli joked. “Except, of course, the guests are money.”

Wilson chuckled politely.

“If you’d like, I can arrange the wire transfer this afternoon.”

“Terrific.”

The banker pinched a couple of forms from the top drawer of his desk, and began to fill them in, relying on Wilson’s open passport and asking a couple of questions about the Cadogan account. After a moment, he looked up with a smile. “Your English is very good.”

Wilson smiled. “I grew up in the States.”

“I thought as much.” The banker completed the paperwork, then handed it to his new client. “If you’ll just sign at the bottom…”

Wilson signed d’Anconia’s name, and gave Eggli his account number and password at the Cadogan Bank.

The banker got to his feet, and crossed the room to the door. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Wilson made a gesture, as if to suggest that he had all the time in the world. In reality, he felt as if he were about to implode. It had just occurred to him that the feds might not be as stupid as he’d supposed. If they were on to him, if they were watching the Cadogan Bank, they might very well let the wire transfer go through – after alerting the authorities in Vaduz.

A minute later, the door swept open, and Eggli swept in. “No worries.” He resumed his seat behind the desk. “The wire should clear overnight, so the money will be available in the morning. Ten-ish, I’d guess.”

“That’s great. You’re very efficient.”

“We try. Even if, technically speaking, we’re not Swiss, we try. And now, is there anything else I can do?”

“There is,” Wilson said. “If you could recommend a hotel-”

“Of course!” Eggli exclaimed.

“And a stock.”

“Excuse me?” The banker seemed befuddled.

“The bank invests its client’s monies, does it not?”

“Absolutely,” Eggli said.

“Well, then, I’d like you to invest mine.”

Herr Eggli was delighted. “Yes, well, we have quite an array of instruments. Bonds, shares, mutual funds. May I ask your objective?” He sat with pen poised above a clean sheet of paper.

“My objective,” Wilson told him, “is to walk out of here with three and a half million dollars in stock.”

The banker chuckled nervously. When he saw that his client wasn’t laughing, he said, “You’re speaking figuratively, of course.”

Wilson shook his head, slowly. “Not at all. I want you to buy shares in… whatever. Nestlé. Roche. I don’t care, really, as long as they’re publicly traded. When you’ve made the trades, I’d like the shares couriered, on an expedited basis, to my hotel.”

Eggli winced through the explanation. “Typically,” he said, “we act as a repository for our clients’ shares. It’s safer that way. We’re a bank, after all. And we have a vault. If you’d like to see it-”

“I’m sure it’s sturdy, but… can I be candid?”

The banker looked surprised, but said, “Of course.”

“I’m in the midst of a very unpleasant divorce-”

“I’m sorry.”

Wilson shrugged. “It happens. And when it does, I can promise you it’s a lot better to be liquid than not. So I’d feel more comfortable if I held the shares directly.”

Eggli nodded understandingly, but he wasn’t buying it.

“Let me ask you a question,” Wilson said.

“Of course.” Eggli put the pen down, and folded his hands on the desk.

“How much is the bank’s commission?”

The banker blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your commission! For executing trades. How much do you charge?”

Eggli pursed his lips. “Three-fourths of one percent.”

Wilson did the math. “So that’s… twenty-seven grand.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your commission on the trade will be twenty-seven thousand U.S. dollars.”

Eggli’s expression never changed. He sat where he was, as he was. And then, with a shrug of surrender, he got to his feet and shook hands. “I think you mentioned Nestlé, Roche?”

“Whatever,” Wilson told him. “They’re all good.”

Standing in the Immigration Control line at JFK, passport in hand, Wilson felt tense, though he told himself there was nothing to worry about. He’d left the United States a couple of months before, using his Jack Wilson passport to enter Ireland. After that, he’d used the d’Anconia passport. Anyone looking at Wilson’s real passport would assume that he’d flown to Ireland and stayed there for the past two months.

But there was a problem, nevertheless. When the immigration officer swiped Wilson’s passport through a magnetic reader, something popped up on her computer screen. Wilson couldn’t see what it was, but it was enough to generate a phone call.

“If you’ll just take a seat over there…?” It wasn’t a question, really.

Soon, a good-looking Homeland Security agent arrived on the scene. She spoke with the immigration officer for a moment, then beckoned for Wilson to follow her to a cubicle.

When the door closed behind them, she gestured for Wilson to sit down at a small table. Wilson read her name tag: Carolyn Amirpashaie. What kind of name is that? he wondered, unable to guess her ethnicity. “Is there a problem?”

She leafed through his passport with a frown. Finally, she said, “I don’t know.” Looking up, she said, “Is this your real name?”

Wilson acted as if the question took him aback. Finally, he said, “Yeah… Jack Wilson.”

“Is that a nickname? ‘Jack’ for ‘John’?

Wilson shook his head. “No, it’s ‘Jack’ on my birth certificate.” He smiled. “My mother was a big fan of the Kennedys.”

“How nice…” She leafed through the passport again, but this time much more quickly. “So, what countries did you visit, Jack?”

“It’s on the form,” he told her. “I was in Ireland for a couple of months, and then a couple of days in Switzerland.”

“Right.” She glanced at his Customs & Immigration form, which showed his arrival on a flight from Zurich. “And what were you doing there?”

“Nothing, really. Saw some friends. ‘Explored my Celtic roots.’” He chuckled good-naturedly, but his hands were clammy, and the peripheral vision in his left eye was beginning to flutter.

“In Switzerland?” she asked.

Wilson’s laughter sounded forced, even to himself. “No,” he said. “In Ireland.”

“But then you went to Switzerland?”

“At the end of my trip, yeah. I was only there for two or three days.” He watched as she picked up his passport, and leafed through its empty pages a second time.

“They didn’t stamp it,” she said.

“Who?” he asked.

“The Swiss.”

“No, they just waved me through.”

She nodded. “They’re like that,” she said. Then she cocked her head.

“You don’t look Irish.”

Wilson took a deep breath. It suddenly occurred to him that whatever this was about, it couldn’t have anything to do with Bobojon or Hakim. If it did, Homeland Security wouldn’t leave him alone with someone named Jill. Which meant, what? Why had they stopped him? There was no way for Wilson to know, but it might have been as simple as the fact that he’d paid cash for his ticket. Either that, or they’d integrated some of their databases, making data from the Bureau of Prisons accessible to customs and immigration officers. If so, it was no skin off his nose. He’d done his time, and he’d gone to Ireland. So what?

Relaxing, he turned on the charm. “Actually,” he said, “I do… look Irish, I mean.” Leaning over the table, he lapsed into a playful brogue. “As a matter of fact, darlin’, you’re looking at the map of Ireland.”

She tried not to smile. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“You’re not sayin’ you never heard of the ‘black Irish,’ are you?” Certainly, Wilson had. His college girlfriend had written a master’s thesis on the Celtic diaspora.

The Amirpashaie woman shrugged. “Well, I’ve heard the phrase, but-”

“You’re looking at a direct descendant of some poor castaway whose ship went down with the Spanish Armada. Some of the Spaniards washed up on the Emerald Isle. Married the local colleens. And why not? They were all Catholics. And this is the result: my smiling mug. Dark hair, dark eyes. Mediterranean skin. Y’know,” he said, “some people think the Melungeons are descendants of that same Iberian blood.”

“The Melungeons?”

“In Appalachia. Which is fascinating when you think about it,” Wilson said, “because they’ve done mitochondrial DNA studies and-”

“Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes?”

“This sounds like a lot of blarney.”

“Oh,” he said, faking a look of deep disappointment.

She smiled, and handed him his passport.

The hassle continued at Customs, but it was no big deal. An agent went through his suitcase with great deliberation, but there was nothing to find. Wilson had burned the d’Anconia passport in Zurich, and FedExed his stock certificates to Vegas, where he would pick them up in a day or two.

Once he had the shares in hand, he’d open a bank account in Reno. Then he’d use the shares as collateral for a loan. He could probably get 80 percent of their value, which would give him about three million dollars. The bank would hold the shares, but it wouldn’t sell them – which was good, because they wouldn’t show up on anyone’s radar.

Sitting in the Admirals Club, nursing a tumbler of Johnny Walker Black as he waited for his flight to Vegas to be called. Wilson thought about all that he’d been through, including the people he’d been through. Bobojon and Hakim, Zero and Khalid, the kid at the diamond mine. Life’s a bitch, he thought, and then they bury you.