The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 41

Grand Cayman?

The Caymans are three tiny islands in the Caribbean, south of Cuba and west of Jamaica. Still a British territory, they cling to old traditions and still drive on the left. Large numbers of tourists are attracted to their beaches, scuba diving, and fine hotels. No taxes are levied on money earned there. Or stored there. At least 100,000 corporations, more than one per citizen, register in Georgetown, the capital. Billions of dollars are parked in huge banks where they accumulate even more billions in interest, tax-free of course. Highly paid tax lawyers work in nice firms and enjoy a splendid quality of life. In the world of international finance, the word “Caymans” means, among other things, a safe place to hide money, clean or dirty.

Grand Cayman, Little Cayman, Cayman Brac.

Mitch had tried to forget about all three.

It was the shadier side of the Caymans that attracted the Bendini firm years earlier, in the 1970s, when drug money was pouring into the islands. Bendini was laundering money for its own criminal clients and found some friendly banks on Grand Cayman. The firm even bought a couple of swanky condos on the beach for its partners to enjoy when they were down on “business.”

“Tell me again, Abby, what he said. Word for word.”

“He said, ‘Tomorrow morning your husband goes to Grand Cayman. I believe he knows the place.’ ”

He knows the place.

Mitch paced around his room in his boxers, thoroughly baffled and ready to pull out his hair. How could anyone, especially a man like Hassan or whatever his name was, really know that Mitch had ever had any contact with the Cayman Islands? It had been fifteen years ago. He sat on the edge of his bed, closed his eyes, and began breathing deeply.

Some details were returning. When Bendini imploded, there were dozens of arrests and news reports. Mitch and Abby were hiding on a sailboat with his brother Ray near Barbados. Mitch was not being sought by the FBI, but the Chicago Mob damned well wanted to find him. Months later, when the McDeeres finally came ashore, Mitch went to a library in Kingston, Jamaica, and found the newspaper stories. In several, the Caymans were mentioned in connection with criminal activity by the Bendini firm. But Mitch’s name was never in print, at least not in the reports he could find.

That was the one possible link: the Bendini firm, of which he was briefly a member, and some of its alleged wrongdoings in the Caymans. As old and as obscure as it was, how could Hassan have possibly found it?

Equally baffling was how he knew Mitch was in Rome, and that he got there on a private jet. Mitch called a partner in New York, a friend who was a pilot and aviation junkie. Without being specific, he asked how difficult it would be to track the movements of a private jet. No problem at all if you have the plane’s tail number. Mitch thanked him and rang off.

But how could they know Mitch was on the plane?

Because they were watching Mitch.

He didn’t tell Abby this because she would immediately think of the boys and freak out. If “they” were watching the McDeeres this closely, then how safe were they?

For additional privacy, Jack moved their operations to a large suite on the third floor of the Hassler. He ordered some snacks, no alcohol, and the team nibbled on finger food as they waited anxiously to hear from Mitch. When he arrived they listened raptly as he replayed his conversation with Abby and described the events in Marrakech. Abby was staying in a lovely hotel, felt safe, and was eager to get on with it. The Hassan character was a smooth professional who seemed firmly in control. The fact that he knew of Mitch’s history with the Caymans, and that he knew Mitch was in Rome and not New York, was nothing less than astonishing. The team was once again reminded that they were only reacting. The rules were being made by some nasty people far more informed and better organized than them.

Mitch and Jack decided they would leave Rome early the following morning and fly to New York. From there, Mitch would fly to Grand Cayman and arrive midday, Caribbean time. He called a Scully partner in New York and told him to contact their affiliated law firm on Grand Cayman and get a banking expert on standby. He called another partner and asked him to research the bank called the Trinidad Trust.

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.”

“Correct. It’s been earning interest for fifteen years, all tax-free. I’ve talked to Abby, and we think this is the perfect time to unload most of this money. For some reason, we’ve always felt like it’s not really ours, you know?”

“Ransom?”

“Yes, we’re kicking in another ten million. So, with another ten million from Luca, we’re up to sixty-five, in addition to the first ten. Not a bad payday for a bunch of desert thugs.”

“That’s very generous, Mitch.”

“I know. Do you think they’ll take sixty-five?”

“I have no idea. They seem to love blood as much as money.”

They were quiet for a long time as they enjoyed their drinks. Finally, Mitch said, “And there’s something else.”

“Can’t wait.”

“I called Omar Celik a few hours ago and I asked him for ten million. He adores Luca and Giovanna but I’m not sure his fondness translates into that much cash. So, I did a foolish thing. I guaranteed him we would recover the money in the lawsuit.”

“That’s pretty foolish.”

“As I said.”

“But I don’t blame you. Desperate times call for desperate measures. What did he say?”

“Said he’d sleep on it. So, I doubled down and went even crazier. I threatened him, told him that if he didn’t pitch in I’d withdraw as counsel and he’d be forced to hire a new firm.”

“You don’t threaten Turks.”

“I know. But he kept his cool. I’ll bet he comes through.”

“That would be seventy-five million.”

“The math is pretty simple, if nothing else is. Will they walk away from seventy-five million?”

“Would you?”

“No. Plus, they get rid of the hostage. She can’t be an easy prisoner.”

The booze blended nicely with the fatigue and jet lag, and an hour after takeoff, Mitch and Jack were in deep sleep 40,000 feet over the Atlantic.