The Devil's Banker

Chapter 28

Traffic came to a standstill along the international Friendship Bridge linking the cities of Foz do Iguaçú, Brazil, and Ciudad del Este, Paraguay. Seated on a peppy Honda 125, Marc Gabriel waited patiently. To his right, a string of laborers, traders, and Guarani Indians plodded along the narrow walkway. Most struggled beneath huge packages wrapped in newsprint. One by one they passed him by. The border checkpoint consisted of a metal cabin built in the center of the road. Three patrolmen lingered outside it, waving traffic past. Twenty-five thousand people crossed the decaying iron bridge each day. Few were stopped. Security was not an issue. In Ciudad del Este, the law was of secondary importance. Economics came first. People flocked to Ciudad del Este to make money, and the government didn’t care how.

The cars inched forward, eight automobiles crammed into four lanes. A fissure opened in the crush, a disjointed line clear to the checkpoint. Flipping down his sun visor, Gabriel guided the bike across the bridge, revving the motor as he cleared the border. The guards didn’t give him a second look. Ahead rose a smudged urban landscape: steel and glass skyscrapers, a few halted in midconstruction years ago; a collage of red-tiled roofs; a welter of billboards. All framed by the ever-encroaching jungle.

Located at the heart of the Triple Frontier area, at the meeting point of the Brazilian, Argentinian, and Paraguayan borders, Ciudad del Este-the City of the East-had served for thirty years as a mecca for smugglers, counterfeiters, tax evaders, and gangsters. It was a filthy town. Overcrowded streets gave way to overcrowded alleys where tiny stores, lojas, some barely six feet by six feet offered everything that could fall off the back of a truck: car stereos, in-line skates, Xboxes, even Viagra. Watch sellers, money changers, hawkers, and vendors of every stripe infested the sidewalks.

Gabriel had been coming to Paraguay for ten years. He felt comfortable amid the dazzling heat, the ripe humidity, and the permanent fog of exhaust. A ten-minute ride delivered him to the offices of Inteltech in the Las Palomas district. The low-slung warehouse had been freshly whitewashed and fairly sparkled in the morning sun. Three cars were parked in the lot. All carried Brazilian plates. He didn’t recognize any, but it had been six months since his last visit. Seventy percent of the cars in Ciudad del Este were “hot”-stolen and imported from Brazil, Argentina, and Uruguay. It was not uncommon for residents to frequently change vehicles. They did not, however, frequently change a silver Mercedes 600.

He parked the bike at the rear of the whitewashed warehouse. Strolling through the packing line, he waved hello to a few familiar faces. Box after box stood on the conveyor belt. Most bore easily recognized corporate logos: Microsoft. Corel. Electronic Arts. Oracle.

He stopped in the rest room, using the last of the hand towels to wipe the sweat from his face. He spent a moment checking that the floor was clean, the toilet flushed. Raising a hand to the vent, he felt that the air-conditioning was functioning. He might pay his workers the local wage, but he made sure they labored in decent conditions.

Using his key, he opened the service entrance to the executive offices and strolled down the hallway, popping his head into the offices on either side of the corridor. Several men jumped to their feet. Most were programmers charged with breaking transcription code on new and popular programs. “Buenos días, Jefe,” they repeated, one after another. With a smile and a “Please, don’t bother,” he waved them down.

“Ah, Gloria,” he said, as he reached the reception area. “Cómo está?” She was a pretty girl, twenty, married with two children, unfailingly polite, but not too smart. She wore a pink rayon pant suit that did not flatter her hips.

“Señor Gabriel,” she said, placing a hand to her chest, rising from her chair. “This is a surprise. Please, what may I bring you? Coffee? Tea? Perhaps with a little Cachaca?”

Music tinkled from the intercom. It took Gabriel a moment to recognize it as the same dreadful tune he’d listened to while on hold the day before. “Mineral water would be fine.” Gloria rose, her smile stretched to the breaking point. As she circled her desk, he grabbed her wrist. “Where is Señor Gregorio?”

Her vivacious brown eyes fluttered, weighing a lie, finding it too heavy. “He has not arrived yet.”

“Surely, he called to inform you of his tardiness.”

“He said he would not be in today. He mentioned a trip.” She added quickly, “He did not say where.”

“Bring me the water in his office,” said Gabriel, releasing her wrist and smiling. “I am sure you will not phone him.” Over dinner at Café Iguana during the last visit, he remembered Gregorio boasting that he’d bedded the girl.

Gloria shook her head no, and hurried down the hallway. By the time she’d set the bottle of San Pellegrino on Señor Gregorio’s desk two minutes later, Gabriel had located the company’s financial records. He was surprised to see that Inteltech had recently moved its business to a new bank. The Banco Mundial de Montevideo. Inteltech moved on average thirty thousand units a month to wholesalers in Panama, Bogotá, and Marseilles. The bank statements showed a steady revenue stream of approximately nine hundred thousand dollars. The company boasted gross margins of seventy-four percent and booked a net profit each month of more than five hundred thousand dollars. The figure was not entirely accurate. It was Gabriel’s practice to over-invoice the cost of the compact disks and production machinery, wringing an additional fifteen thousand a month out of the company and sending it directly to an account in Germany.

Selecting the most recent statement, Gabriel called the number at the top, introduced himself as Gregorio, and asked to be connected to the vice president in charge of Inteltech’s account. A short discussion ensued and Gabriel learned that the twelve million dollars was no longer in Banco Mundial’s coffers. Pleading a clerical error, Gabriel asked where the money had gone. He hoped the answer would be the Bank of Dublin, as he had ordered. He was disappointed. Gregorio had, in fact, wired the money to a numbered account at the Bank Moor in Switzerland. Gabriel’s hand shook as he drank the water.

Before leaving for the police station, he stopped briefly at the reception desk. “I know you will not think of contacting Señor Gregorio,” he said to Gloria. “You have two children. Pedro and Maria.”

The patrol boat was an old Boston whaler, rusting at the gunnels, with a string of bullet holes in the port side. Four men sat in the bow. They wore jeans, sunglasses, and black T-shirts beneath new Kevlar vests. They carried AK-47s on their laps and side arms on their belts. All were officers of the Paraguayan federal police. Colonel Alberto Baumgartner stood at the wheel, steering the boat through the placid, muddy waters of the Paraná River. After an hour’s ride, the river began to narrow. The banks grew closer. The jungle loomed over and around them. Baumgartner opened up the two Suzuki engines, calling out to Gabriel. “Snipers. They like to take a few potshots at us to keep us honest.”

Gabriel didn’t answer. He stared at the mass of vines and trees and scrub, too focused to remark on anything but his anger. Smoke from cooking fires rose above the tree line. Baumgartner pointed to a series of chutes, carved from the riverbanks. “Smugglers,” he said. “They slide bales of marijuana into the river, float it to the Brazilian side.”

Baumgartner was tall and blond, with a slight paunch and not quite a square jaw. His father, Josef, an SS Standartenführer, had fled Nazi Germany for Paraguay in the last days of the war, and had served as Alfredo Stroessner’s-the strongman who had ruled the country as a private fief for thirty years-chief of federal police. His son would likely soon assume the same post.

A ten-minute conversation and a fifty-thousand-dollar bribe had enlisted his active support.

“How much this guy steal from you?” Baumgartner asked. He spoke a mix of Spanish, English, and German, with a complete absence of emotion.

“Too much,” said Gabriel.

“Klar.”

The Paraná River had narrowed to the width of a country road. Branches ventured over the muddy water and more than once, Gabriel saw the thin, writhing shape of a snake hanging near the water. He did not like snakes. At a bend far up the river, he made out the figures of two men waiting on a dock. The boat slowed and Baumgartner shouted to them in German. “Bitte, werfen sie uns die Seilen!”

Two Toyota SUVs waited in a clearing by the river. “We’ve got the house under surveillance,” Baumgartner explained as they climbed into the vehicles. “The Mercedes is there and one of my men said he spotted Gregorio inside. Two women, too. Maybe he stay at home, have himself a fest.” Baumgartner handed him a pistol. A Beretta nine millimeter. Gabriel was surprised it wasn’t a Luger. “In case he’s not so happy to see you. I’m afraid we can’t kill him for you, too.”

Gabriel began to decline the offer, then had second thoughts.

It had been easy to track Gregorio to his country retreat. A note on his dining room table informed someone named “Elena” to meet him at his ranch. The line reminding her to bring a passport tipped Gabriel off as to his employee’s intent.

The road was a dream, a faultless asphalt expressway leading into an infinite nowhere. More evidence of the Germans’ enlightening presence. The jungle had disappeared, and they sped across expanses of dried marshland, scrub, and chaparral. El Chaco, they called it, an area that stretched for hundreds of miles to the north and west. After fifteen minutes, they turned onto an unmarked dirt road and met up with a squadron of Land Cruisers, similar to their own. Gabriel didn’t know how Baumgartner had mustered them so quickly. The police conferred among themselves. Baumgartner reported back a minute later. “You say he’s not a violent man, we’ll take your word. He’s still inside. He has some music playing. Why not we drive to the front door and let you two boys have a word together? In Ordnung?”

“In Ordnung,” said Gabriel.

Gregorio lived in a sprawling ranch-style house at the end of the road. It was an oasis of civilization in an otherwise barren spot. Palms, a rolling lawn, a swimming pool, and oddly, a basketball net, fronted the house. The convoy numbered six vehicles. Baumgartner approached the house slowly, parking near a tiled fountain. Leaving the lead vehicle, he adjusted his hat, then walked to the door and knocked. Gregorio himself answered. All smiles and an unctuous welcome. Gabriel stepped from the car and Gregorio’s eyes opened as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Hello, Pedro,” Gabriel said after Baumgartner had retreated down the walk. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, so let’s keep this quick, shall we? I know you transferred the money to Switzerland. I must say, though, I’ve never heard of the bank. Bank Moor? Maybe you can teach me something, after all. All I need for you to do is to call the bank and transfer it to a more convenient location. It’s only three in Zurich. Plenty of time.”

Gregorio had two choices. Either he could resist and play dumb, in which case after much unpleasantness, he would admit his folly and transfer the money. Or he could pretend it was all some sort of misunderstanding, plead embarrassment, and transfer the money immediately. In both cases, his death was certain.

“Let the girls go,” he said.

“Of course.”

Gregorio disappeared inside the house. A few minutes later, two local women, dressed as if for a day shopping on the Faubourg-St.-Honoré, hunkered out of the house, each lugging a Louis Vuitton suitcase-fakes, like everything else in Ciudad del Este-and continued past the knot of federal officers down the gravel road. Gabriel watched them go. The nearest village was thirty miles away. Where were they headed in their high heels and designer dresses?

Wrapping an arm around Gregorio’s neck, he led him inside the ranch house. “Come now, Achmed, I’m sure this is all a mix-up. Let’s put it off to cold feet and forget about it. I don’t care who or what is responsible. First, we’ll straighten things out. Then we can discuss your plans for our central bank’s policy-the liberalized loan requirements I’d mentioned.”

I’ll be doing him a favor, Gabriel thought to himself. Rescuing him from the rot. Saving whatever chance he has left of seeing Paradise.

Gregorio, whose real name was Achmed Haddad, smiled uncertainly. “I’ve drawn up a proposal I think you’ll like.”

“Wonderful.”

The two men made their way to Gregorio’s private office. In a moment, Gregorio had the Bank Moor on the line. “Where do you want the money wired?” he asked.

This question had caused Gabriel a good deal of thought on the boat ride. It was his practice to wire the funds to several different banks, then spread the money out further before moving it to the pooling account. The measures took days, if not a week, and time was no longer his to spend freely. Tomorrow, Gabriel would meet the Professor. The whirlwind would begin. He would be hard-pressed to shepherd the twelve million dollars to a safe account.

“To the Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden. Leichlingen branch. Account 47-20833S. In favor of the Holy Land Charitable Trust.” The Trust collected donations from around the world. Twelve million dollars from Switzerland would not raise any eyebrows.

Gregorio repeated the information. “Done,” he said, hanging up the phone. And turning, he lifted his hands and began to beg forgiveness. “I can explain,” he began. “Yes, I was gree-”

“Sit,” Gabriel demanded.

Gregorio sat down on the couch.

“For the past two days, I’ve been asking myself how the Americans got wind of our brother in Afghanistan,” said Gabriel. “For years, Sayeed operated there without any problem. A Brit, for God’s sake, and none of the locals breathed a word about him to the authorities. Suddenly, Sayeed is followed and captured. What, I asked myself, had changed in the intervening time? Do you know?”

Gregorio shook his head. He was a slim man with a very large, bald head and unattractive eyes. His underlings called him the “Mantis.”

“I know,” said Gabriel. “Because now I realize it was my mistake. You visited Sayeed. You and your big mouth. You and your greedy ideas. You and your lack of faith in my family’s plans. Somewhere along the line they picked you up. They’ve a woman on their team, I understand. She followed Sayeed for two days. I don’t fault him for failing to realize it. She’s a professional. I fault you.”

“But I said nothing… I-”

Gabriel waved away the excuse. “And now, you are running. What better proof could I have? Where did you think you could go that I would not find you? Under what rock did you plan to hide? In a week, I will have the resources of Croesus at my disposal. Did you think that I would forget you?”

Gregorio took a moment to answer. “I did not think you would succeed.”

Anger was building inside Gabriel, a virulent rage that swelled inside his head like a molten dome. Taking the gun from the waistband beneath his shirt, he threw it at Gregorio. “Do it.”

“I cannot.”

“Do it,” Gabriel repeated, his cheeks burning, lips stretched tightly over his teeth. Moving closer, he slapped Gregorio across the head. “You are one of us. You swore the oath. You know our code. Do it.”

“I cannot.” Gregorio looked at the gun, then at Gabriel. “Please,” he pleaded. “You-”

But Gabriel had no intention of easing the man’s burden. Dropping to a knee, he grabbed Gregorio’s chin and stared into his eyes. “Do it. I command you,” he shouted, so close that his spittle sprayed the man’s cheeks. “Do it!”

With surprising adeptness, Gregorio picked up the pistol and pressed it against Gabriel’s chest. “Leave me. You have your money back. Every last dime. Now go in peace.”

Gabriel laughed. “Kill me, and another will take my place.”

“Leave! I am the one making the decisions. Go now!”

Gabriel pushed his face closer, so that their foreheads almost touched, and he stared into the other man’s soul. “You are already dead,” he whispered.

Gregorio blinked. A defeated breath left his mouth.

The blast of the gunshot deafened Gabriel, the hot, deflected powder stinging his cheek. Standing, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He checked his watch. If he hurried, he would still make his plane to Paris.