Chasing the Wind (45 page)

Amalise looked about, then leaned toward Raymond. "Where's Murdoch?"

Raymond glanced around and shrugged. "He's been gone awhile. At the hotel, probably."

Frank Earl walked over to the phone, still on the conference table and leaned over it. "What's our time look like? We're calling Banc Franck right now. How long will the transfer take, do you think?"

From the speakerphone, a weary voice: "No way to tell. It could be some time, being an international transfer and the day before a U.S. holiday."

Robert, brusk, harsh: "Then we need to get started. I'm putting you on hold. Stand by." He pressed the button and looked around at Tom.

Tom nodded. "You're the CEO now. Go ahead and make the call."

Robert pressed the second line and dialed the operator. "I need to make an international call."

"One moment, please."

Robert shook his head, glanced in Amalise's direction, and snapped his fingers, pointing to copies of the wire transfer memorandum on the desk, just out of reach. Preston, sitting nearby, picked up a copy and handed it to Robert. The international operator came on, and Robert gave her Benjamin Salter's number in Grand Cayman.

Another wait. Robert leaned against the credenza, looking out over the room.

Amalise tensed, clasping her hands in her lap and twirling her thumbs under the table where they couldn't be seen.

Tom walked over to the windows and linked his hands behind his head, looking out in the direction of the Marigny District.

"Benjamin Salter." The voice cracked through the room.

"Ah, Mr. Salter. Robert Black, new chief executive officer of Lone Ranger."

Tom turned from the window.

"Congratulations, Mr. Black."

"Frank Earl of First Merchant Bank is here with me. I believe he's sent you notice that the lending group has funded, triggering the transfer of investor funds from your bank to the parent company account here at First Merchant Bank."

"Account number, please."

"Account number 13672. Is the transfer in process?"

"May I have the security code?"

Robert frowned. His face flushed. He turned, looking at Tom. "Excuse me, Mr. Salter. What did you say?"

"I'll need the security code."

"I don't have a security code. Don't know what you're talking about. Just advise us as to whether the transfer of funds from the account has been initiated."

"Mr. Black." There was a sigh, but Benjamin Salter's tone was patient. "I'm not in a position to release that information without the security code."

Robert threw up his arms, then bent again toward the phone, lower this time, as if he could see the man on the other end. "What do you mean you can't release the information?
I'm speaking for the company
."

"In any event, I'll need the security code. We have procedures, as you know."

Robert raised his brows.

Tom shrugged.

"We'll fax copies of the corporate certificates confirming my position in the company, if that's what you need."

"I've already received a copy. But without the security code—"

Robert broke in, leaning on the conference table and glaring at the phone. "We have a schedule to keep. Have the funds been put on the wire or not?"

The voice was measured—polite, but firm. "Mr. Black, my hands are tied. Bingham Murdoch has the code if you do not. Get him on the phone or obtain the security code from his records. In either event, once you have the code, I'll be happy to oblige."

Without another word Robert disconnected the call. "Security code," he muttered. He looked at Tom, pinching the deepening fold between his eyes. "Do you know anything about a security code for this account?"

"No. We'll have to get Bingham."

"Well, why isn't he here?"

Tom nudged his jaw toward the window, in the direction of the Roosevelt. "He's at the hotel."

Robert's voice was strained, urgent as he picked up the phone again. "Get me the Roosevelt Hotel immediately."

Amalise envisioned the firm operator's likely response to such terse instructions. She wasn't used to such rude behavior at Mangen & Morris. Beside her, Raymond sighed. On the other side of her, Rebecca said
sotto voce
that one would think Bingham Murdoch would have been here, waiting with them. Tom walked back to his chair and sat. He rapped an irritating rhythm against the table with his knuckles.

"Yes, all right," Robert was saying. "Just give me the front desk." Glancing at Richard, he jerked his head toward the door. His tone was resigned. "Go change our reservations at Arnaud's. Better make it for six thirty. Give ourselves some leeway." But then, he held up his hand.

"Yes. Bingham Murdoch, please."

Richard stood, hand on the back of Amalise's chair, listening.

"Ring again. He has to be there." He pursed his lips and turned his back to the room.

Tom said, "He's probably on the way over here."

Across the table Doug pulled his chair closer to the table and leaned on one elbow, listening.

Robert turned, threw up a hand, and shouted into the phone, "Well then, page him. Tell him to call the conference room at Mangen & Morris immediately." Pause. "He'll know. Just page him."

He slammed down the phone and turned to Richard. A white line had formed along his upper lip, and his mouth barely moved as he spoke. "Go to the hotel and find Bingham." He looked at his watch. "Check Bailey's first. Bingham's not used to waiting for lunch."

There were chuckles around the table.

"Get him back here right away."

Richard nodded and left.

"Security code." Still shaking his head, Robert fell into a chair beside Doug. "There was nothing about a security code in the wire transfer memorandum."

Amalise's heart jumped. She clasped her hands and worked to keep her expression blank as Robert picked up the memorandum, perusing it.

Doug plucked it from his hands. "No, there's not. But we received the information for the investors' transfers, including Banc Franck, from you and Bingham." He pointed to the initials on the bottom corner of the page. His voice was firm. "You approved it." He handed it back to Robert. His voice was firm.

Amalise let out her breath. Doug Bastion had defended her. So far.

At 1:00 Bingham checked in at
the American Airlines counter at Moisant Field. No luggage, just a small carry-on bag. He pulled out his passport and handed it to the ticket agent upon request. The ticket agent glanced at the picture, looked at Bingham, and smiled. Then she slipped the tickets and three boarding passes into a narrow folder and handed them to Bingham with the passport.

"Your boarding passes for Miami and Rome are in here, too."

Bingham nodded his head and stuck them in his pocket.

"Have a nice trip, Mr. Skarke."

Turning away, he smiled. "Thanks, I will."

Bingham Murdoch whistled as he strolled casually to the concourse, taking his time to settle into the new identity, figure out the personality for Daniel Skarke. It always took him a little time to acclimate. He shook his head. Passports, Social Security cards, credit cards, driver's licenses. All were easy to obtain, about fifty dollars each. A little more for the passports—maybe a thousand, as he recalled.

He stopped at a newsstand to browse, find a book or magazine to read. He selected a mystery. Maybe he'd get one of those Lucky Dogs they sold from carts in the airport. He liked those Lucky Dogs. It'd be a nice change from the rich meals he'd eaten every day for the past six weeks.

Heading down the concourse with purpose now, he smiled to himself. The money had hit Zurich before the close of business there, in time for immediate wiring to accounts in the Orient and the start of a whole new day. Two hundred thousand dollars were now in the Swiss account of his "contractor," Dominick Costa, best inside man in the game. Always had been. They went way back. The remaining twenty million had hit his own account in Zurich this morning before bouncing on.

He stopped at the Lucky Dog cart and ordered a dog with mustard and chili and a Coca-Cola. He handed the man some change and took a bite, savoring it.

The twenty million dollars had moved from Cayman to Zurich in the time it took to drink a cup of coffee. Then it had been split into three sums—$6,666,666, $6,666,667, and $6,666,667—and routed through twenty-one different banks around the world, each according to the matrix provided under his standing instructions to Benjamin Salter.

He chewed the hot dog and fought with the little napkins they give you to clean up the mess, thinking the money would reunite in the
anstalt
—a corporate trust—in Liechtenstein, before bouncing back to Daniel Skarke's account in Switzerland. He'd created that account seven years ago, before the Swiss negative tax had hit.

Finishing off the hot dog, he wiped his hands and tossed the napkins into a trash barrel nearby. The Swiss franc had preserved his purchasing power against the dollar, and it was tax free for the most part. He smiled to himself. The world's most secure currency—no risk and a fat return. Perhaps he should consider purchasing some gold, after all. With the U.S. aggravating OPEC as they'd been, the price of gold was set to skyrocket.

He perked up, listening. The first boarding call for his flight was being announced. He picked up his bag and headed for the gate. He planned to sleep on this flight and dream of taking the ferry from Naples to the villa waiting for him. As he showed the gate agent his ticket, he was already thinking of the peaceful veranda high above the cerulean sea. He could almost feel the golden sun on his skin.

Daniel Skarke, a.k.a. Bingham Murdoch, smiled.

He had never liked crowds.

It was 7:30, and the wires
had closed long ago. Amalise sat behind her desk, still struggling to absorb the situation. Bingham Murdoch was missing, and so was the twenty million provided by the investors. Repeated attempts to convince Benjamin Salter to reveal the whereabouts of the money without the account's security code had been unsuccessful. The information was privileged under Cayman law.

By now the money could be in Singapore or just about anywhere else in the world.

Robert Black and Richard Murray had searched Bingham's hotel suite, hoping to find the code. His clothes were still there, and all his belongings. Perhaps this was all a mistake, a misunderstanding. They'd talked to the bell captain and the bellmen at the hotel. No one had seen him after the closing that morning. Tom called every number he had for Bingham, to no avail. When at last the fed wires had closed, the mood in the conference room resembled that of a morgue.

At seven o'clock the Cayman Trust letter of credit was withdrawn.

The Mangen & Morris team had gathered in Doug's office. His face was white. "At least our bank clients are safe," he'd said. "Their funds are being held intact at First Merchant Bank over the holiday. They'll be returned on Friday." He rubbed his forehead, shaking his head.

Preston, head in his hand, looked up. "Tom's investors are the losers."

Slowly Doug nodded.

"It was a con." All eyes turned to Raymond. He hiked one shoulder and raised his brows. "The whole thing was a con from beginning to end. That's my take. Tom and Robert met Murdoch in Cayman. They were the marks."

They'd all stared at each other, speechless.

Now Amalise looked up as Rebecca walked into her office and dropped down in the guest chair. She braced her elbows on the armrests and linked her fingers. "What do you think?" she said after a moment.

Amalise grimaced. "I think he's gone." She glanced at the window as if seeking him there. Between buildings she could see the quarter moon. "I think Raymond's right. Bingham Murdoch was an enigma. Everyone saw what they wanted to see with him."

"Tom and the New York contingent are packing their bags. They'll be spending the holiday tomorrow with their lawyers, I'd imagine. Or the FBI." Rebecca tapped the corner of the desk with her fingers and stood. "I'm going home to get some sleep. See you on Friday morning. Preston wants us to regroup then and wrap things up."

When she was gone, Amalise sat looking at her diploma hanging on the wall near the bookcase with disbelief. Could she possibly be safe? She thought about the question from every angle and came to a conclusion: yes. The house on Kerlerec Street would be the last thing on anyone's mind right now. Project Black Diamond was as good as dead.

She took a deep breath.
Thank you, Abba.
Then she picked up the phone and dialed Jude's number. Four rings before he answered. "We're doing fine," he said. "How'd things go?"

"I'll tell you when I get there."

"All right. Don't forget to pick up Luke's clothes from Caroline."

She parked in front of the house on Kerlerec Street and looked at it, the place she'd bought and given away at the risk of her career, this plain wooden house with its two windows across the front. Robert's threats were emasculated now.

The children were nowhere in sight. When she reached the screened door, she pulled it open and shouted, "Caroline?"