The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 43

His first trip to the islands, some fifteen years earlier, had been with Avery Tolar, his mentor and supervising partner, and they had flown from Miami on Cayman Airways with a load of rowdy scuba divers, all guzzling rum punch and trying to get plastered before landing. Avery made the trip down several times a year, and though he was married and though the firm frowned on womanizing, he chased the women hard. And he drank more than he should have. One morning as he nursed a hangover, he apologized to Mitch and said the pressure of a bad marriage was getting the best of him.

Over the years Mitch had trained his mind to shut out thoughts of the Memphis nightmare, but there were moments when it was impossible. As the Challenger descended through the clouds and he caught the first glimpses of the bright blue Caribbean, he had to smile at his luck in life. Through no fault of his own, he had been within an inch of either being killed or indicted, yet he had managed to wiggle free. The bad guys went down, and hard, and they deserved it, and while they were serving time Mitch and Abby were starting over.

Stephen Stodghill had flown from Rome to Miami to Georgetown and arrived four hours earlier. He was waiting outside customs with a cab and they headed for downtown.

Another memory. The first wave of warm tropical air blowing in through the open windows of the cab as the driver listened to soft reggae. Just like fifteen years earlier.

Stephen was saying, “Our lawyer’s name is Jennings, British chap, nice enough. I met him two hours ago and he’s up to speed. According to our people, he’s a top guy here in the Caymans and knows all the banks and the ins and outs of transferring money. He knows Solomon Frick, our soon-to-be newest friend at Trinidad Trust. They probably launder money together on the side.”

“That’s not funny. According to my research, the Cayman bankers have cleaned up their act in the past twenty years.”

“Do we really care?”

“We do not. Over dinner I’ll tell you all about my first trip down here.”

“A Bendini story?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t wait. Around Scully the legend is that the Mob almost got you. But you pulled a fast one and outfoxed the Mob. Is that true?”

“I outran the Mob. I didn’t realize I was a legend.”

“Not really. Who has time to tell war stories at a place like Scully? All they care is about billing fifty hours a week.”

“We prefer sixty, Stephen.”

The cab turned a corner and there was the ocean. Mitch nodded and said, “That’s Hog Sty Bay, where the pirates used to dock their ships and hide on the island.”

“Yeah, I read that somewhere too,” Stephen said, with no interest whatsoever.

“Where are we staying?” Mitch asked, happy to forgo the tourist spiel.

“Ritz-Carlton on Seven Mile Beach. I’ve already checked in. Pretty nice.”

“It’s a Ritz.”

“So.”

“So, isn’t it supposed to be nice?”

“I suppose. I wouldn’t know. I’m just a lowly associate who’d normally be staying in cheaper joints but since I’m hanging with a real partner I get the upgrade though I still had to fly commercial. Economy, not first class.”

“Your brighter days are ahead.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

“Let’s go see Jennings.”

“Here’s his firm,” Stephen said, handing over a file. “It’s a British outfit, a dozen lawyers.”

“Aren’t all the firms down here British?”

“I guess. Wonder why we haven’t bought one and added it to our letterhead.”

“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.

The Georgetown traffic was unrelenting and he weaved through it trying to get out of town. He did not remember so much congestion. There were more hotels and condos, and strip malls offering fast food, T-shirts, cheap beer, and duty-free booze. Georgetown had been thoroughly Americanized. On the other side of Hog Sty Bay the traffic thinned and the scooter hummed along. He passed through Red Bay, left the city, and saw the signs for Bodden Town. The road followed the shore but the beaches were gone. The sea rolled gently in and splashed against rocks and small cliffs. With little sand to offer, the hotels and condos thinned too, and the views were impressive.

Grand Cayman was twenty-two miles long and the main road looped around all of it. Mitch had never had the time in his earlier visits to see much of the island, but at the moment he had nothing better to do. The salty air in his face was refreshing. Thoughts of Giovanna could be set aside for at least a few hours because the banks and offices were closed. He stopped at Abanks Dive Lodge outside of Bodden Town and had a beer at the bar at the water’s edge. Barry Abanks had rescued Mitch, Abby, and Ray from a pier in Florida as they made their escape. He had sold his operation years earlier and settled in Miami.

Moving on, Mitch scootered east to the far coast and crept through the settlements of East End and Gun Bay. The road continued to narrow and at times two cars could barely pass. Georgetown was on the other end of the island, far away. On the leeward side he parked and walked to the edge of a cliff where other tourists had left their trash. He sat on a rock and watched the water churn below. At Rum Point, he had another beer, a Red Stripe from Jamaica, as he watched a large group of middle-age couples eat and drink at an outdoor barbecue.

When it was almost dark, he headed back to Seven Mile Beach. Stephen was waiting and it was time for dinner.