The New Black Mask (No 8)

Telex Martin J. Miller, Jr

Martin J. Miller, Jr. is a private investigator in southern California. He has been in the field for over twenty years, and his company specializes in internal business crime. About “Telex” he writes, “This is my first serious attempt at fiction, although I have had numerous articles published in the field of military and ordnance history. Contacts within the banking industry assure me that the crime described in ‘Telex’ is theoretically possible. The second adventure of Mike McDermott and Quad Investigations is in the word processor.”

International Merchants Bank was head-quartered in the heart of downtown L.A., a thirty-story black glass box in the midst of a herd of glass boxes with little logos plastered around their tops. I met Robin Hendricks in the lobby as we had arranged on Friday at 2 P.M.

I had first met Robin three years ago. She was setting up a computer program for a client and I was doing the security survey for Quad Investigations. I’m one of four partners in a private-investigation firm specializing in business crime. We worked together on security for the computer system. Robin was employed by a local systems-analysis firm, Laidlaw. Our relationship now extended beyond business hours.

“Hi, Robin. Where’s this guy we’re supposed to see?”

“Our man’s on the twenty-seventh floor, Mike. Let’s go on up.”

In naval parlance, we were heading for officer country. If the twenty-seventh floor had been on an aircraft carrier, we would have just stepped onto the flag bridge and the admiral’s office would be straight ahead. Of course, I’d never seen a navy ship with plush pile carpet and real wood paneling. The admiral’s secretary was waiting for us at the receptionist’s desk.

“Miss Hendricks, Mr. McDermott? Mr. Naughton will see you now. Please follow me.” The admiral turned out to be Daniel J. Naughton, chief executive officer of International Merchants Bank. We weren’t going to see a mere task force commander; we were going to see the man who ran the whole bloody navy.

The only person in Naughton’s office was Daniel J. Naughton. I had seen pictures of Naughton in the business pages and occasionally in the “View” section of the L.A. Times at some function or charity ball. He looked more impressive in person. He was fifty-five to sixty and looked it, but he was in good shape. Gray hair, steel-rim glasses, six feet, maybe 220 pounds. His stomach didn’t sag. His eyes were clear, hard, penetrating. I didn’t think one could fool around with Daniel J. Naughton, at least for very long. One thing you learn as a cop or P.I. is to look at the eyes. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the eyes will tell you what’s going on inside.

Naughton shook hands and asked us to sit down. “Has Miss Hendricks explained the situation to you, Mr. McDermott?”

“No sir, only that it involves computer theft of some kind.”

“Good. I wanted to brief you myself. Miss Hendricks says that you and your firm are the best in your line of work. I checked on my own, she’s right. Quad Investigations has a good reputation. So do you. I know Miss Hendricks is good; her company charges me a thousand dollars a day for her and she’s worth every dime. She tracked down our problem in three weeks. We’d spent two months on it and had got nowhere.”

Naughton continued the briefing. Three months ago the Fed had pulled a major audit of the bank’s accounts. This happened when Congress started beating its gums about the latest headline, in this case a bank failure in Idaho. Naughton’s opinion of Congress wasn’t very high. I was beginning to like the man.

The audit had turned up a shortage of five million three. The bank rechecked, the Fed rechecked, and the shortage grew to five million seven. The bank examiners were not amused. Naughton was not amused. The audit department started over, still short. The head of the automated data processing department had left several weeks before the audit began, and the new man hadn’t had time to really get into the system.

Laidlaw was called. They had helped to install and set up the bank’s whole computer system several years before. Laidlaw sent Robin. Robin assumed that the simple answer was probably the correct one: if five million seven was missing, someone had taken it.

She started with the program. At the end of the first week she had determined that it had been tampered with. The bank had assumed it was an accounting error. Score one for Robin. At the end of the second week she knew how it had been done. More study of the computer system, some good old-fashioned gumshoe legwork, and a lucky break in the communication center had turned up the answer.

Over the years I had learned a lot about banking from Bob Johnson, one of my partners in Quad and a C.P.A. — things the average citizen never thinks about. Banks have very impressive vaults to store their money in. But that’s only for the green stuff. Most of a bank’s money doesn’t exist as actual dollars. It exists only in the ledgers. And in today’s world it really exists only in some computer memory-storage system. Banks whisk this money all around the country and around the world — thousands, millions, billions by data-transmission lines, microwave relay, communications satellites, computer to computer.

The banks keep a big pile of this “paper money” to handle all the transactions that occur each day. It’s called the “float.” Bank floats take in and put out whole bunches of money. Millions, billions if you count up all the different banks. Essentially, the banks have no immediate control over this float. So somewhere later on, float transactions are reconciled, and everything should balance. Sometimes they don’t. Think of your own checkbook. If people really knew how vulnerable their money was in the bank, they’d put it in a tin can and bury it in the backyard.

But while it isn’t hard to steal from the bank’s float, eventually the auditors will find out and begin to backtrack until they find where it went. If you are going to steal, you have to keep the bank from finding out or, if they do, from finding out where the money went. Then, you have to devise a way for your audit trail to get lost so you can actually turn that paper money into real dollars, green stuff.

Someone at International Merchants Bank had figured out a way. The only thing he hadn’t figured on was Robin Hendricks and the lucky break. The lucky break was Harold Chu, a fourth-generation Chinese-American, who worked in the communications section of the bank handling the night traffic.

Besides checking the computer program and procedures, Robin had gone around to the various departments and asked the employees if they remembered anything unusual happening in the last few months, anything out of the ordinary — anything, no matter how trivial or insignificant. She got several dozen responses. They didn’t pan out. Then Harold Chu knocked on her door.

Harold was bright, in his twenties, and had an insatiable curiosity about everything. The night shift in communications handled routine transactions. The branches and regional clearing houses fed all the day’s checks, deposits, and withdrawals information through the computers at night. Pretty dry stuff, virtually all automated. Harold just had to see that the data-transmission lines kept working and that all this mass of data was going to the right places.

But a couple of months ago that routine had been broken several times during the course of two weeks. He got instructions to send domestic money transfers to various other banks to be deposited to a number of different companies. That was unusual. Generally that kind of traffic was handled directly during banking hours by the operations officers upstairs. Harold had never handled anything like that before. He had to transfer the information over the telex to the various banks.

All the proper clearances and codes were in the transmittal orders, which came in over the bank’s own computer, so Harold didn’t see anything wrong, but he was curious. Harold wrote down the dates, names of the companies and the banks where the transfers were going, and the account of the major corporate customer they were drawn against. He thought he would check out these companies sometime, see what they did. They had names like Global Transport, QRB Corporation, Toltec Import-Export, Cal-Farm Commodities, Ltd.

He put the list in his desk. When Robin made her request for odd information Harold remembered the list. He showed it to her. She showed it to Naughton. Naughton began to get that funny feeling that tells you something is really out of whack.

“We checked these companies with the other banks, Mr. McDermott,” Naughton said. “The accounts had all been opened recently, within the last four months. All were checking accounts for three to four thousand dollars. There had been no activity until these domestic money transfers were deposited.”

Naughton went on to say that the next day after each of these transactions took place a telex message was received by these banks to transfer the funds by international wire to a bank in Zurich. They all went to a company called International Outfitters, S.A., of Panama. Naughton’s staff queried Panama — no such company. They checked their corporate account — the right name, but there was no account for the number used. They queried the Swiss bank, where a tight-lipped bank officer said only that the International Outfitters, S.A., account had been dosed out, end conversation.

Now that they knew the money had been stolen, Robin reasoned out how it had probably been done. “Actually, Mr. McDermott, it was relatively simple for someone having an intimate knowledge of the computer program here at the bank. It had to be someone in the bank with access to the computer itself. The security for the system precludes any outside tampering.”

“Our thief had to program the computer to instruct Harold Chu to telex these domestic money transfers to the various accounts he had established at the other banks. Once that was done he had to erase the memory of those transactions from the computer. The second part was to hide the source of the money. The audit department found that the float accounts at the other branches are short the five point seven million. The float here at the main branch balances, so we believe our thief transferred the money in from the other branches to the dummy corporate account he set up and then sent it out as domestic money transfers from the main branch. He did a good job of it. There are no records of withdrawals from the branch floats, deposits to the corporate account, or of the domestic money transfers on Harold Chu’s list. Without that list we wouldn’t have the faintest idea what had happened to the money.”

Naughton broke in, “Miss Hendricks is quite right, McDermott. There is absolutely no record of any of these transactions anywhere. We know the money was stolen and we know how it was done.”

I asked the sixty-four-dollar question, “OK, the money’s gone. Do you have a suspect?”

“We have a good idea,” said Naughton. “F. Terrance Boynton was our head of data processing. He was here when we put in the new computer system. He helped put it in and he left over two months ago.”

Robin added, “I talked to Laidlaw and they said Boynton was totally familiar with the system and the program. He has the knowledge and the ability to get past the security blocks and change the program.”

Naughton sounded angry, “When Miss Hendricks told us that the computer was tampered with we phoned Boynton. He’d already left town. There’s no forwarding address.”

“So what do you want Quad to do, Mr. Naughton?”

“I think it’s a good bet that Boynton stole the money. But that’s just a hunch. I want you to find where he’s gone. Check the companies that got the money. See if there’s a connection. Mr. McDermott, I want you to find the bank’s five million, seven hundred thousand dollars.”

Robin and I had two rules: no familiarity during working hours and no business during off hours. We spent a quiet weekend at her place. On Sunday we went over to Art and Rosa’s for a barbecue with their kids. Art Tones was another of the partners in Quad. He was a lawyer and had been with the D.A.’s office until he couldn’t take the legal games any longer. So twelve years ago he and I, Bob Johnson, and Charlie Schwartz had formed Quad Investigations.

On Monday morning I headed for the office. Quad was going hunting for F. Terrance Boynton. Our office was in West L. A., off Sepulveda. We had bought an old machine shop and fixed up the inside. The outside still looked like a machine shop.

Charlie Schwartz, our only partner with a police background, twenty-three years on the Chicago PD, was going to tackle Boynton’s old neighbors, while Art and Bob were going to see if there were records of a condo sale, DMV, post office, etc. I went back to the bank.

This time I didn’t head for the twenty-seventh floor. The elevator took me down two flights to the security office. Most big operations have their employees sign in and out at the security desk after regular hours. The time sheets showed that Boynton had been in the computer room at the times and dates on Chu’s list. He had also spent a few nights a week in the computer room for several months previous to the thefts. I figured that was when he worked out the programming for the theft. Before that he very seldom came in after hours. Boynton was looking more and more like a good suspect.

By Tuesday afternoon we knew Boynton was really gone — vanished into the woodwork. He had sold his condominium, furniture, and car, closed out his bank accounts, paid all his bills. Even with all the computers, credit cards, I.D.s, and government agencies, if someone wants to disappear it’s simple. There was no record of Boynton having a passport, so it was a cinch he had established a phony identity. We already knew of two that he had used for setting up the fake bank accounts — he would have others, one for the Swiss bank and one or more for his final disappearance.

If you want to get a fake I.D., it’s easy, especially if it won’t have to hold up for years. Visit the hall of records, check on someone who died a long time ago, someone who was born about the same time you were. Check the birth records, get a copy of the birth certificate. If they ask, tell them you lost the original. If you really want to be safe, make sure that the person was born or died in a different county or state. But it’s not crucial — no jurisdiction compares birth and death records. Take the birth certificate to your local motor-vehicle office, and you can walk out with a driver’s license; most states don’t even insist on the birth certificate.

To get a passport, you now have the two necessary documents. A private mailbox gets you an address; no one is going to check. For the bank accounts, Boynton just had to give phony social security and federal employer I.D. numbers he made up. By the time they got around to checking, filing tax information and such, he would be long gone.

In fact, it isn’t even illegal to set up another identity as long as there is no intent to defraud or commit an illegal act. Pay your taxes and stay out of trouble and no one really cares.

There didn’t seem to be much we could do about finding Boynton. He hadn’t left a trail and it was virtually certain he had left the country, at least long enough to empty the Swiss bank account. It would take the resources of the FBI and the State Department to track him down.

Charlie Schwartz rolled into the office late Tuesday, smiling from ear to ear. He had a lead. F. Terrance had a girlfriend. Charlie had spent his time talking to the neighbors in Boynton’s condo.

As Charlie told it. “I was getting pretty discouraged. I had talked to seventeen of Boynton’s neighbors. Most hadn’t even known him, a few knew him by sight, two had talked to him occasionally. Our Mr. Boynton kept to himself, didn’t socialize with his neighbors, and didn’t attend the owners’ meetings.

“Then I knocked on Samuel Dobbins’s door. Even he really didn’t know Boynton, other than to say hello. But he remembered Boynton’s girlfriend. And he remembered her only by a fluke. She was a good-looking girl, late twenties, blond, but what he really remembered was her car.”

Charlie paced up and down the office, gesturing with his hands, bubbling on. “She drove a red Triumph TR-6 and the reason Dobbins remembers her is because she parked in his spot — they all have assigned parking spaces — and he had to get her to move it a few times. But the best part, the really great part, is that he remembers the license number. It’s one of those personalized lobbies: FUNGIRL.”

A check with the DMV in Sacramento the next day gave us an address in the Valley. Charlie and I headed over the 405 freeway. The address was near the Van Nuys Airport in a large apartment complex — one for swinging singles, or so they advertised.

Kristi Mayhew didn’t live there anymore. She had moved out at the end of September. No forwarding address. Maybe she was moving in with her boyfriend. Maybe they were leaving town. Kristi had been happy. We got all this from the manager. We told him we were insurance investigators, that the girl had been a witness to an accident, and the lawyers needed her for a deposition. He gave us the address of her former employer, a beauty salon on Ventura Boulevard in Encino.

I left Charlie to pound on the neighbors’ doors and headed for Ten Snips — Salon for Beautiful Women. The manager wasn’t helpful.

“Well now, darling! She left weeks ago! And she was my best stylist! It was such a bitch replacing her!”

I didn’t like the guy. The gold chains and rings were bad enough, but the two-tone yellow-and-black hair left me cold. He did say that Kristi’s best friend, Paula, worked at the salon, but she was off today.

I went back for Charlie. He hadn’t had much better luck. Only one person had any answers. The guy next door to Kristi said she was talking about leaving the country, for someplace sunny and warm — exotic and out of the way. That left out Siberia and Antarctica, but the world is still a large place and a lot of it’s sunny and warm. Exotic and out of the way wasn’t going to help much either.

I didn’t think we would have much luck taking Paula White on straight if her boss was any indication of the state of the world at Ten Snips. The next morning I called in Susan Emerson, one of our operatives. Susan was forty, passed for thirty, blonde, petite, and dressed smartly. I told her she needed her hair done.

Paula couldn’t book Susan for an appointment until Friday afternoon. I worked on another case. Peterson Trucking was losing appliances off their loading dock. They were in Riverside, and it was late Friday before I got back. Susan had left a message: “Have a good lead, will follow up Saturday, report in Monday.”

I was getting the anxious itchy feeling. I wanted to press ahead, but you can’t rush these things. I phoned Robin instead. We went to Solvang, a Dutch-style village north of Santa Barbara. The weekend was uneventful and filled with too much good food, clean air, and beautiful scenery.

Susan was waiting for me Monday in my office.

“Paula White is your basic scatterbrained, twenty-five-year-old teenybopper, if there is such a thing. But she’s a pretty good hairdresser. I worked her around to Kristi Mayhew. I told her what a good job Kristi had done on me before, was sorry to hear she had left, and did she know where she had gone.”

Charlie wandered in and Susan continued, “Paula said Kristi went off with her boyfriend. She mentioned Boynton’s name, that he had retired and had some money. They were going to travel out of the country for a while. She said Kristi was really excited. She had mentioned some secret she couldn’t talk about.”

Susan asked if she knew where they were going to start the “grand tour.” Paula said that Boynton had gone ahead, and Kristi would meet him someplace. Kristi had brought in a lot of travel brochures one day, mostly about the Caribbean.

“I said that must have been exciting, that my husband and I were thinking about a Caribbean cruise. Did Kristi go to a travel agent? Paula said yes and she happened to remember the name because they were stamped on some of the brochures, a place called Travel for Pleasure in Sherman Oaks.”

On Saturday Susan went to Travel for Pleasure to see about Caribbean tours. She told the man that her hairdresser, Kristi Mayhew, had used the agency and raved about how helpful they had been. Did he remember Kristi? She described her. The man said yes, but the name didn’t ring a bell. By the time Susan was through with Henry Smith, travel agent, she had a good idea where Boynton or, at any rate, where Kristi had gone.

“She used the name Kristi Callander. I said that must be her married name now. She booked flights from here to Houston and then to Georgetown, Cayman Islands. Smith said that she talked about living in the Caribbean and took folders on all the different islands, places to see.”

Boynton had made a mistake, he should have bought Kristi’s tickets himself. We now had a sunny, warm, exotic, and out-of-the-way place to go look for F. Terrance Boynton. It was time to see our client, Daniel Naughton.

Instead of downtown, Naughton wanted to meet for breakfast. There’s a good buffet style restaurant on Ocean Boulevard facing the Pacific with a great view of the Santa Monica Pier and the bay. It was nice enough to eat outside on the terrace.

I brought Naughton up to date on the investigation, “It’s likely that Boynton and the girl are in the Cayman Islands, or were not too long ago. Art Torres knows someone at the State Department; he’s checking to see if the girl used the Callander name for a passport. Either way I think I should go down there and look around. The islands are small and there are fewer than twenty thousand people. But we’re starting to talk serious expenses. How far do you want to go on this?”

“I’ve been thinking about this the last week, McDermott. I checked with the district attorney. He doesn’t think there’s enough evidence to prosecute, even if Boynton has the money.”

Naughton stopped while the waitress refilled our coffee cups. “Boynton’s played this pretty smart so far, except for this girl, Kristi Mayhew. He couldn’t have known about Chu’s list. And going to the Cayman Islands is a good choice. The place is a British Crown Colony, but they have their own local laws. For a tiny place they have quite a few banks — over four hundred. Their banks are like Swiss banks, but more so. They allow private, numbered bank accounts and the government won’t touch them. It’s a good source of income for the place and it also attracts a lot of people who spend money. It’s reported that drug and mob money goes there very quietly. Go see if Boynton’s down there; see if the money’s there. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

The last thing Naughton said as we left was, “The bank can stand the loss, McDermott... Mike. But I don’t want Boynton to get away with it. I want the money back.”

I had never been to the Caribbean, so I was going to need some help. Cuban-born Olivia Campanas had walked into our office about five years ago. She was a private investigator from Miami and worked cases there and all through the islands. She had been looking for someone in the L.A. Cuban community, and we helped her out. Since then we had kept in touch, traded a little business.

“Olivia? Mike in L. A. I’m going to the Cayman Islands and I need a local man. I’m looking for two Americans, a man and a woman; they have bucks. Any ideas?”

“Sure, Mike. I got a man in Georgetown. Used him there a few times, and also in Jamaica. He runs a sport fisher. Name’s Robert de Montigue. That OK?”

“Perfect, Olivia. Next time I’ll ask for something difficult.”

“Stop in and see me on your way through. You can connect here to get to Georgetown.”

Miami, even at midnight, was hot and muggy. Olivia met me at the airport. The plane to Georgetown wasn’t due to take off until 10:43 A.M. I got a room at a nearby hotel. Olivia filled me in on Robert de Montigue. He was in his early forties, black polyglot stock, very outgoing. A wheeler and a dealer. He had made a few trips to Cuba over the years, don’t ask what about.

“He’s good people, Mike. If your couple is in the Caymans, or was there, Robert can find out. I talked to him; he’ll meet you at the airport. If he likes you, he will do anything you want, otherwise you’re in the swamp with the alligators. I told him you are my compadre. He may not hold that against you.”

The Cayman Airways made a leisurely left-hand bank as it descended to the Georgetown airport. I had a good look at Grand Cayman Island as we came in. The water was crystal clear; you could see the sandy bottom just like in all the tourist brochures. The Cayman Islands would make more than an adequate substitute for paradise. White sand beaches, tropical vegetation, hotels, and villas were scattered up and down Seven Mile Beach. Georgetown itself was low-lying white buildings, quiet tree-lined streets, clean. It was hard to imagine that there were over four hundred banks down there.

Midday in early November was cool, breezy, and bright. Robert de Montigue was waiting in the airport lobby.

“Mister McDermott? I am Robert. I take the bags. I have hired a car and driver while you are here. And I have arranged accommodations at my Aunt Tilly’s. She run a guest house with a few rooms. It will be more quiet and very private. That be OK?”

Robert’s smile was mostly a set of dazzlingly white teeth. He was a good operative. The car was nondescript, about five years old, obviously a local one, not a Hertz or Avis rental. The car was driven by Robert’s “cousin,” Thomas. Thomas was in his early twenties and as light as Robert was dark.

Aunt Tilly was in her sixties, heavyset, Scotch-African, laughed all the time, kept a spotless home, and could cook like no one I had ever met. She also did not ask questions. Most everyone I met was “related” or connected to Robert.

That night I told him about Boynton and the five point seven million dollars. I showed him a photo of Boynton and one of Kristi Mayhew; she hadn’t used the Callander name for a passport.

“Where you get the pictures, man?”

“The one of Boynton came from his personnel file at the bank. The girl’s was more difficult.”

I told Robert about Susan Emerson and her trip to Ten Snips. All the employees had their photos mounted on the wall. Susan had noticed Kristi’s down behind the reception desk and had unobtrusively appropriated it before she left.

The next morning I told him that we would have to be very careful looking for Boynton. We didn’t want to scare him into running, or let him know that we were looking for him.

“Don’t worry, man. It be OK. This feller never know we look for him. We be real circumspect.” Robert was infatuated with crossword puzzles.

We visited stores, hotels, restaurants, beaches, docks, and homes the rest of the day. At each Robert would “confer” with another relative. If Boynton and Kristi were in the Cayman Islands I didn’t think it would be long until we found them.

The second and third days we spent driving around the island checking on the outlying hotels and clubs. No luck, but this business is mostly foot slogging, eliminating possibilities until only one remains. Robert wasn’t anxious either, “It OK, man. Not to worry. We find them pretty soon.”

The morning of the fourth day Robert and I were sitting on Aunt Tilly’s veranda drinking iced coffee when this skinny little kid came up to the bottom of the steps. She looked about twelve or thirteen, dusky, curly hair, and very shy. She kept her head down and sort of beckoned to Robert. He went down the steps and squatted to her level.

“She say her name Michelle. Her mama work in one of the private villas near Old Robin Point on the north side. The house is owned by an Englishman who comes a few times a year. The rest of the time he rent the place. Mister Boynton and his lady friend have been there about a month.” Robert’s “family” intelligence network had come through.

The next few days we spent dogging the couple. Terrance and Kristi, now known as William and Patricia Goldman from New Zealand, sunbathed on their private beach, went scuba diving, shopping, dancing, and dining at the local hotels and clubs. They were the perfect picture of a married couple on an extended holiday.

This was the first time I had seen Boynton in the flesh. He was forty-two, six foot, a hundred-eighty-five pounds, brown hair, mustache, worked at staying in shape. Kristi had good taste, both as regards looks and bank accounts.

On Friday morning Boynton left the villa alone. “Cousin” Thomas and I followed him into Georgetown. He parked his car and walked into the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, Ltd., on Edward Street. I was right behind him. The teller passed over a green form and Boynton filled it out. The teller made an entry in his computer terminal, waited for the answer, smiled at Boynton, and excused himself. He came back in a few minutes and counted out a large amount of cash, maybe one or two thousand dollars. After Boynton left, I was able to check the type of form he used. It was a withdrawal slip for a private numbered account.

It was time to see Naughton again and get reinforcements. A plan was beginning to form. I worked it out in more detail on the flight back to L.A. A lot of it would have to be played by ear, but the outline was there. I dubbed it Operation Just Desserts.

Naughton was in New York. His secretary forwarded my message and he called back Sunday night. “Did you find Boynton, Mike? How about the money?”

“Yes, sir, and I think so. Look... how bad do you want the money back? Are you willing to invest some more money on the chance we can get back all or part of the five point seven million?”

“Yes! This thing is really getting to me. What do you want to do, Mike?”

“Mr. Naughton, it’ll be better if you don’t know. But you can do a few things for me...”

Robin was in the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed, “How would you like to go to the Caribbean for a week or two and get a gorgeous tan?”

What I had planned was going to require technical assistance. Glenn Monk was an old army master-sergeant when I knew him at intelligence school; my army career had ended with a grenade in Vietnam.

Glenn had been an instructor in electronic surveillance, telephone tapping and bugging, both offensive and defensive. When he retired he came to Los Angeles and moved to one of the beach towns and went to work for defense contractors debugging their facilities. Quad uses him whenever we have a client with that type of problem. I explained what I wanted him to do, that there was a certain degree of danger, and that it was obviously illegal.

“Hey. When do we leave on this Caribbean vacation, Mike?” was his answer.

The view of Georgetown the second time around was just as spectacular as the first. Robert was at the gate to greet us. I had briefed him by phone a few days before. Glenn would have no trouble getting his gear through customs. Aunt Tilly’s nephew’s cousin worked for customs.

Later I outlined the plan to my assembled troops: Robin, Glenn, and Robert.

“All right. Step one. We have to keep Boynton and Kristi under continuous surveillance. We have to know where they’re going to be at any given moment.”

The next day we staked out the villa. Robert told us that the housekeeper had the afternoon off and that Boynton and the girl would probably go out to dinner. The housekeeper left at one. We got lucky. At two, Boynton and Kristi drove off in their car. They looked to be gone for the rest of the day; they took extra clothes.

Robert watched the road and the house. Glenn and I went in. We bugged the place from top to bottom — the phone, bedroom, living room, kitchen, and den, even the veranda. Glenn was an expert and it would take another expert to tell it had been done.

We hid the small van Robert had rented about two hundred yards from the house, across the road in heavy cover. We would take shifts monitoring. Glenn had even tapped into the phone line so he could reach us at Aunt Tilly’s or anywhere else on the island.

Robert and I went off to check on step two. We needed an office in Georgetown, out of the way, but with access to international telephone and telex lines. Thomas found one on the second floor over a grocery store. There was a back entrance off the alley.

The next day I visited the offices of the Inter-Island Overseas Bank. Step three. I asked for the manager.

“May I be of assistance, sir? I am the managing director, Mr. Griffin.”

“Mr. Griffin. I’m Paul Stephens, I represent the Trans-Oceanic Commodities Service, Gmbh. We wish to open a private numbered account with your bank.” More than one could play the fake I.D. game. I handed Mr. Griffin one of my business cards.

Naughton had advanced us a hundred thousand as working capital. I put thirty into my new account. Later that morning I walked out knowing in precise detail how the private numbered account system worked. Mr. Griffin had been very helpful. One thing I had checked very carefully was that Inter-Island Overseas Bank, Ltd., was quite up to date and used the latest in telex equipment. They could transmit any type of banking document worldwide. “We here at the bank, Mr. Stephens, can handle your every banking need.”

I walked over to our new offices. They were only two blocks away. Glenn was setting up equipment.

“Hiya, Mike. This place will be just about right. There’s plenty of juice and there’s a big phone junction box next door for the six banks in that building. I’ve never seen so many ruddy banks! I’ll be operational by tonight.”

Glenn was working away unloading the crates of “spare engine parts” that flew in with us. “Here, I’ll go over this stuff. First, the portable telex. We can message to any other telex on or off the island. Next, we got the scrambler for voice transmission. Bob Johnson has an identical unit back in L.A. There’s no way anyone will ever know what you two talk about on the phone.”

He rummaged around in an old army musette bag and came up with a handi-talkie. “I bought six of these FM units. They got a five-mile range and four channels, also extra battery packs. I thought they might be useful.”

I went back to pick up Robin at Aunt Tilly’s. There were happy sounds and good smells coming from the kitchen. We drove out to see how Robert was doing at the “listening post.”

“Afternoon, Miss Hendricks. Mike. Nothing transpiring. No phone calls. They be pretty quiet. I think they on the beach now.”

Robin and I settled in. Robert went back in the car, saying he would send Thomas out after dinner to relieve us. I went over with Robin what she had to do in the next couple of days. “You’re the key to this whole thing, hon.”

Wednesday dawned overcast and cool. They said there was a chance of rain later in the day. At 10:34 A.M. Mr. and Mrs. Paul Stephens entered the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, Ltd. Mr. Hamilton, an account representative, was most gracious. He asked if we would like coffee, perhaps tea. Yes, tea, that would be most kind. And how could Mr. Hamilton be of assistance?

Mr. Stephens would like to transfer five thousand dollars from his private numbered account to an account in Miami. Of course, that would be no problem. Robin’s cue.

“Oh, Mr. Hamilton, do you handle all these transactions from this computer terminal on your desk?”

“Yes, Mrs. Stephens. Everything can be handled from here.”

“Would it be all right if I watched how you do that? I’m just learning how to use my new personal computer. It’s all so fascinating.”

Would Mr. Stephens mind? No, Mr. Stephens would not mind. It would be a good learning experience for his wife. Mr. Hamilton showed Robin how he checked the account status. He entered my account number and the primary code word, and also the secondary code word which changed for each transaction. The codes were random five-letter groups.

“But, Mr. Hamilton. How do you know what the code words are supposed to be?”

“Well, Mrs. Stephens, each account holder is given a code booklet. It has his account number, primary code word, and also a list of the changing code words. There are several hundred in the list, and every account has different code words. When a customer gives me his account number and the code words, I check them by entering them in the computer. Like this. And then after entering this command I can bring up all the code words listed in your husband’s account. See?”

“Oh, yes. That’s very clever.”

Mr. Hamilton didn’t know it, but he had just put the whole bank in jeopardy. Given a little uninterrupted time with Mr. Hamilton’s terminal, Robin could now loot any of the bank’s accounts. But there was only one account we were interested in.

Our next problem was two-pronged. We had to determine how much of the five million seven was in Boynton’s private numbered account. And second, or actually first, find out what the account number and code words were. The only way I could see to do that was to get a look at Boynton’s bank booklet, and it had to be in such a way that he wouldn’t suspect it had been done.

There were two possibilities. The first was to get back in the villa while everyone was out and do a full search. I didn’t think this way was too promising. One, he might take the booklet with him; two, we could miss it if he had hidden it; and three, there was a good chance Boynton would notice the house had been searched no matter how careful we were.

No, the second way was the only one that would work. We had to get a look at the booklet while we knew he had it with him. And the only time we could be sure of that was when Boynton went to the bank. I explained the next step.

“We’re going to pull a classic ‘bump and dip’ maneuver, with one variation. Timing will be everything. I figure we’ll have thirty seconds.”

Now we had to wait again. We took turns monitoring the bugs at the villa. I hoped we’d get some warning when Boynton decided to visit the bank. It took three days. The waiting was hard on the others, except for Glenn and me. We were the only ones with an acquired sense of patience. I was at Aunt Tilly’s when the phone rang. She answered.

“Mr. Mike! It’s Mr. Glenn.”

Glenn was in the van, “Mike, he’s going to the bank, alone. He’s just getting ready to leave.”

“Right... OK! Showtime, everyone!”

We all headed down to the bank and took up the positions I had assigned. Boynton arrived about twenty minutes later. Thomas followed him into the bank while Robin and I window-shopped. We waited another ten minutes. Thomas came on over the handi-talkie, “He put the booklet in the right front cargo pocket of his bush jacket. He is leaving now.”

Boynton came out of the bank and turned right, toward his car. Robin and I fell in close behind him. Robert was waiting with Aunt Tilly just around the corner in the alley. I dropped back a few paces and cued my lapel mike. “OK, Robert, he’s fifty feet from you, get ready.”

Boynton had just reached the alley when Aunt Tilly came barreling around the corner carrying a dozen bunches of tropical flowers in her arms. There was a spectacular and colorful collision. Aunt Tilly went down. Boynton went down. Robin landed on top of them. Robert came up and was jumping around talking like a machine gun gone berserk, being of no help whatsoever and adding to the scene of chaos.

While the injured parties were trying to sort themselves out and get upright, I picked Boynton’s pocket. I turned around, opened the booklet, and photographed the first page with the miniature camera I was carrying. I flipped the page and copied the variable code words, put the camera away, turned around again, and was in time to slip the booklet back into Boynton’s pocket as he stood up. We helped Robin to her feet.

“Dear, are you all right? Is everything OK?”

“Yes, Paul. I’m afraid I wasn’t looking where I was going. I hope this gentleman isn’t hurt.”

Boynton was checking himself over, patting pockets. He looked a trifle confused. “No. I’m fine. That was a pretty good crash though. Are you sure you’re all right, Miss?” to Robin. “You came down awfully hard.”

“Yes, thank you. Oh, I’m Bridget Stephens and this is my husband, Paul.”

“It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Bill Goldman. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

Robert had a friend who, he said, operated a photographic emporium. She let us use the darkroom. Two hours later we had our answer to question number one. My shots wouldn’t win any prizes. They were canted, a little out of focus, and the contrast was lousy, but we had Boynton’s account number and code words. We were definitely in business.

Now it was time to hurry things along. We had to get Boynton and Kristi out of the country, preferably for a week to ten days. I checked in with Glenn that afternoon.

“He got back a little after twelve. He told the girl about the accident; he doesn’t sound suspicious. About twenty minutes ago he made reservations for dinner at the Grand Old House for eight-thirty.”

At 8:45 Robin and I walked into the restaurant. Our reservations were for 9:00 P.M. As we walked to the bar I saw Boynton, “Well, well. Mr. Goldman. I hope you are no worse for wear tonight?”

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Stephens?”

“Stephens, right. Paul and Bridget.”

“And this is my wife, Pat, and I’m Bill. Hey, why don’t you two join us for dinner?”

The dinner was superb. Bill had the lobster, the girls some local fish dish, and I chose the shrimp curry. The wine was excellent. We learned that Bill and Pat had been on the island about six weeks and were enjoying an extended holiday. They were planning to travel around the Caribbean with Grand Cayman as a home base. So far they had been to the Bahamas for a week. Pat really enjoyed the traveling.

That made Robin’s task easy. She told Pat and Bill about our trip to Curasao and Aruba in the Netherlands Antilles and how Willemstad, the capital, was just like an old Dutch town set in the tropics. She enthused over the people, the food, the sights, things to do. By the end of the evening Pat was sold.

Now we had to wait again and hope our sales pitch had taken hold. It took another three days. Robin and I spent our free time on the beaches.

The beaches were the best part. They’re pure white sand, clear blue-green water, warm with a steady breeze. Robin had bought a bathing suit that was all the rage on the French Riviera. It did things for her that shouldn’t be done in public. It also did things to me. I spent a lot of time swimming.

I was coming back from the store when Robin came running down Aunt Tilly’s steps and started dancing around, laughing, “They went for it, Mike! They’re going to Curasao on Tuesday. Robert just called. They made reservations and everything. Oh, Mike! It’s going to work! It’s going to work!”

Tuesday morning started as another perfect, beautiful sunny day in paradise. Mr. and Mrs. Paul Stephens drove down to the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, Ltd., on Edward Street and waited.

“Mike.” The handi-talkie came to life. “This is Robert. Over.”

“Go ahead, Robert. Over.”

“Mike, the plane just took off. Our voyagers are well gone. Over and out.”

A secretary showed us into Mr. Griffin’s office. Good morning. This is my wife, Mrs. Stephens. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stephens. And how could Mr. Griffin and the bank be of service today? Mr. Stephens’s company was thinking of sending him a sizeable stock of bearer bonds and other negotiable securities. Did the bank offer safe-deposit boxes? Yes. Could he see them? Of course! The vault was in the basement. Would they come this way? Would it be all right if Mrs. Stephens waited in Mr. Griffin’s office? Quite all right.

I hurried Robin into the car, “Did you get it?”

“Yes, you gave me more than enough time. I punched up Boynton’s account on Mr. Griffin’s terminal. I got the balance — five million four hundred thousand, and the next variable code word. I even got a printout. It’s in my purse.”

“That’s beautiful. Did I ever tell you that I love you?”

“Oh, once or twice, I think.”

That afternoon we were in the office over the grocery store. Robin was sitting in front of the telex machine. I looked at everyone. “Are we ready?... OK, Robin, send the first message.”

She typed in the bank’s number and then:

We sent two more messages before the bank closed. Now we waited again. While we had been in the Cayman Islands, Bob Johnson, with Naughton’s help, had opened two accounts in Florida banks, one in the Bahamas, and one in Santo Domingo. He had also opened an account in Basel, Switzerland. Boynton had stolen the money by sending it around the world by telex. We were going to steal it back the same way.

On Wednesday morning I called Bob. He was in Miami.

“Hi, let’s put this on the scrambler.” I plugged the handset into place, punched in the code reference, and picked up the scrambler’s telephone equipment from the case.

“You still there, Bob?”

“Mike, it’s working. Three money wires in yesterday and they’ve been deposited to our accounts. I’ve already verified it. How are things there?”

“Fine, Bob, just fine. We’ve been keeping our fingers crossed since last night. We’ll continue as planned. Talk to you tonight, 7:00 P.M., right?”

Robin began sending more withdrawal messages. At noon we sent the biggest one so far — seven hundred and fifty thousand to the account in Santo Domingo: Western Allied Services Group.

I was beginning to get nervous again. So far we had transferred a little over two million, with more than three to go. Twenty’ minutes later Robert called in from the van.

“Mike. That Mr. Griffin. He call the house. Want to speak with Mr. Goldman. He sound very concerned. Is that the right word — concerned?”

“Yes, go on, Robert.”

“I tell him that I am the houseboy. That Mr. Goldman and his wife they go to the Bahamas. That Mr. Goldman say he have big business deal with someone there. That OK, Mike?”

“Yeah, that’s quick thinking! Let’s hope it works. Keep in touch.”

Robin looked worried as I put down the phone, “Well, what do we do now?”

“Keep to the plan. Send the next message at one forty-five. A few prayers are indicated, I think.”

We sent three more withdrawals. At seven I called Bob.

“Any news yet?”

“I’ve confirmed three transfers. How many have you sent, Mike?”

“Seven today, but the bank manager here called Boynton’s house about noon. Robert told him he was away on business. The big one for seven fifty hasn’t cleared your end; he called after we sent it.”

“Oh, boy. It’s going to be a long night.”

It was. I left Robin with Aunt Tilly, and Glenn, Robert, and I went out to the villa. Robert watched the outside again while Glenn and I went back inside. We removed all the bugs. If Griffin got suspicious and called in the police, I didn’t want anything left around to find. We still had the phone tap hooked up, but that was two hundred yards away with the van. If anyone came snooping we could disconnect and get out quietly.

I saw Glenn and Robert off in his boat at sunrise on Thursday. Robert said they’d go about ten miles to a nice deep spot where Glenn could deep-six all the bugs and anything else that might look questionable.

At ten Robin and I were back in the office. I put a call through to Bob.

“What’s the good word?”

“You guys can relax. The last four transfers are confirmed and deposited. How’d you sleep?”

“We didn’t. We’ll continue as planned.”

Bob laughed, “Right. I’ll start transfering money to the Swiss account. You’ll finish today?”

“Yeah, we’ll finish today.”

“OK, I’m on a flight to Geneva in two hours. Friday I’ll move the money in cash from the Basel bank to Naughton’s account in Geneva and then transfer it to International Merchants Bank in L.A. Any questions?”

“No. Good luck. I’ll talk to you there on Friday as agreed for a progress report.”

Robin kept sending telexes: 150 thousand to Miami, 375 to the Bahamas, 430 to Santo Domingo. Glenn and Robert got back a little before one. Glenn started packing up all the little stuff. At 2:30 we would send the last message, a big one, 630 thousand. We were all edgy, wishing the clock ahead. Glenn was at the window.

“Damn. It’s a phone company repair-truck. He just started down the alley. If he opens the box next door he’ll see the temporary connections I made. Damn.”

We all looked out the window. The repair truck had stopped just up the alley from us. It wasn’t quite two o’clock.

Robin asked, “What’ll we do now, Mike?”

“Send the last message, Robin. Glenn, get down there and be ready to take out our wires if you get a chance.”

Robert broke in, “I’ll stop the phone company!” He grabbed the bottle of scotch Glenn always kept in his tool box, took a quick swig, splashed some on the front of his shirt, and ran out the door.

“What’s he going to do?” Robin asked.

I answered, “Maybe God knows. I don’t.”

A minute later our car came weaving down the alley from the opposite direction. It came to a shuddering halt next to the truck, almost taking its door off. Robert got out, playing the drunk, bottle in hand. A minute later he had the repairman in tow, heading up the alley to the bar across the street.

“Robin, send the last message now! Glenn, when she’s finished, pull everything quick and get back here!”

Inside five minutes we had sent the message and pulled in our wires. It was another twenty before Robert and the repairman came back. Robert slapped him on the back, waved, and came pounding up the stairs.

I greeted him at the door. “That’s terrific, Robert. Quick thinking. It was awful close there for a minute.”

“Yes, was pretty good, man. But was not problem. That phone man, he a cousin of my cousin.” We packed up everything — telex, scrambler, radios, and put it all in the car and headed for Aunt Tilly’s.

We wouldn’t know until the next morning if all the transfers had gone through. Aunt Tilly fixed a fabulous fish dinner for us, but it was a subdued celebration. I wondered if you could hold your breath for twelve hours.

Early Friday morning I put a call in to Bob in Geneva. The rest of the crew sat around the living room waiting, watching me and the phone.

“Bob, Mike. Don’t drag it out, we’re going crazy here.”

“Mission accomplished, Mike. Everything’s arrived here and it’s being sent on. I don’t see any trouble from this end.”

I gave them the thumbs up.

Later we packed all our gear and ourselves into the car and Robert headed for the airport.

I asked Robin, “How much did you leave in Boynton’s account?”

“A little over sixteen hundred. I didn’t think we should be greedy.”

Robert turned onto Edward Street and as we passed the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, a taxi pulled up and Mr. and Mrs. William Goldman of New Zealand got out.

Glenn said, “Hey, looks like our friends got back a little early.”

I put my arm around Robin and looked out the back window, “I hope they had a good time. It looks like they spent all their money in Curaçao.”