The Heaven Trilogy (44 page)
“Now there,” the man said, coming from the cabin. “That wasn’t such a long wait, was it? Yes, this is my boat. What can I do for you?” The sailor’s blue eyes sparkled with the sea.
“What does something like this go for?” Kent asked, looking her up and down.
“Much more than you would think. And I don’t rent her out. If you want a day trip, Paulie has—”
“I’m not sure you’re answering my question. It was quite simple, really. How much would a boat like this one cost me?”
The man hesitated, obviously distracted by the strong comeback. “What’s it to you? You plan on buying her? Even if you could afford her, she’s not for sale.”
“And what makes you think I can’t afford her?”
“She’s pricey, mate. I’ve worked her for half my life, and I still hold a decent note on her.” Leather Face smiled. He’d misplaced two of his front teeth. “You got five hundred thousand dollars hanging loose in your pocket there?”
“Five hundred, huh?” Kent studied the boat again. It looked almost new to him—if the Australian had owned it for as long as he let on, he’d cared for her well.
“She’s not for sale.”
Kent looked back to the old man, who had flattened his lips. “How much do you want for her? I pay cash.”
The man looked at him steadily for a moment without answering, probably running through those little note balances in his mind.
“Five-fifty, then?” Kent pushed.
Leather Face’s baby blues widened. For a long minute he did not speak. Then a smile spread his cracked face. “Seven hundred thousand U.S. dollars, and she’s all yours, mate. If you’re crazy enough to pay that kind of dough in cash, well, I guess I’ll have to be crazy enough to sell her.”
“I’ll pay you seven hundred on one condition,” Kent returned. “You agree to keep her for a year. Teach me the ropes and take care of her when I’m not around.”
“I’m no steward, mate.”
“And I’m not looking for a steward. You just let me tag along, learn a few things, and when I’m gone you run her all you like.”
The old man studied him with piercing eyes now, judging the plausibility of the offer, Kent guessed. “You show me the cash, I’ll show you the boat. If I like what I see and you like what you see, we got us a deal.”
Kent was back an hour later, briefcase in hand. Leather Face—or Doug Oatridge as he called himself—liked what he saw. Kent just wanted to get out to sea, feel the breeze through his hair, drink a few beers, distract himself for a few hours. Kick back on the deck of his yacht while Borst and Bentley chewed their fingernails to the knuckles.
By midday they were trolling at twenty knots, precisely. A permanent smile had fixed itself on Doug’s face as he feathered the murmuring engine through the seawater. Thinking about the cash, no doubt. They sat on cushioned chairs, eating sandwiches and drinking ice-cold beer. The sun had dipped halfway when the first fish hit. Ten minutes later they hauled a four-foot tuna over the side and shoved it into the holding tank. What they would do with such a creature, Kent had no clue—maybe carve it up and fry it on the grill, although he’d never liked tuna. Give him swordfish or salmon, disguised with chicken broth, but keep the smelly stuff. Three more of the fish’s cousins joined him in the tank over the next half-hour, then they stopped taking the bait. Doug was talking about how tuna ran in schools, but Kent was thinking the fish had just grown tired of the senseless self-sacrifice.
The perfect day’s only damper came on the trip home, when Kent made the mistake of asking Doug how he’d come to own the boat in the first place. The old man had evidently both grown accustomed to Kent and loosened under the influence of a six-pack, and his story ran long. He’d been married twice, he said, first to Martha, who had left him for some basketball player on a beach court in Sydney. Then to Sally, who had borne them three sons and tired of them all after ten years. It was an inheritance of a hundred thousand dollars that had brought Doug to the islands with his sons, in search of a boat with which to begin life anew. He’d purchased
Marlin Mate
then. Two of his sons had left the island within the first year—off to America to find their own lives. The youngest, his little Bobby, had been swept overboard in a storm one year later.
The old man turned away and stared misty eyed to the sea, having dropped his tale like a lead weight into Kent’s mind. The beer in Kent’s hand suddenly felt heavy. The afternoon grew quiet beyond the splashing wake. Kent imagined a small boy cartwheeling off the deck, screaming for Daddy. A knot rose into his throat.
They docked the boat an hour later, and Kent showed as much interest as he could muster in the procedure. He shook the old man’s hand. Did he want to go out tomorrow? No, not tomorrow. Could he take the boat out tomorrow then? Yes, of course. Do what you like, Doug. He thumped the man on the back and smiled. In fact, keep the stupid boat, he thought, but immediately reined in the absurd notion.
“Hey, me and the mates are going to do some drinking tonight. You want to come? There’ll be dames.”
“Dames?”
Doug flashed a toothless smile. “Girls, mate. Beach bunnies in their bikinis.”
“Oh yes, of course. Dames. And where are we having this party?”
“Here on the boat. But not to worry, mate. The first man to puke gets thrown overboard.”
Kent smiled. “Well, that’s comforting. Maybe. We’ll see.”
DESPITE HIS need for a clear mind, Kent downed two stiff drinks before his eight o’clock phone call. It wouldn’t do to have his teeth clattering against the receiver, either, and his nerves had tightened as the hour approached.
Darkness had settled over the island. From the villa’s deck the sea looked black below, split by a long shaft of white cast by the bright moon. A spattering of lights twinkled along the hillside on either side. It was hard to imagine that across that sea the sun had already risen over a bustling city called Tokyo. He’d seen pictures of the tall, chrome building that housed Niponbank’s headquarters, smack-dab in the middle of the busiest part of town, but he could hardly picture the crowded scene now. The serene one before him had lulled him into a foggy state. Or perhaps the drinks had done that.
A small bell chimed behind him, and Kent started. It was time.
He grabbed the cordless phone from the table and stared at its buttons. His heart pounded like a tom-tom in his ears. For the first time in over a month he was about to expose himself. And for what?
Kent cleared his throat and spoke with a gruff voice, the voice he had decided would be his to complete his disguise. “Hello, this is Bob.” Too high. He’d done this a thousand times. “Hello, this is Bob.”
Get on with it, man.
He punched the numbers in quickly.
An electronic voice answered his call. “Thank you for calling Niponbank. Please press one if you wish to be served in Japanese. Please press two if you wish to be served in English.”
Please press three if you are calling to turn yourself in for grand larceny.
Kent swallowed and pressed two.
It took all of ten minutes to find the right individual. A Mr. Hiroshito—the one banking executive Kent knew who could quickly get him to the real power mongers at the top. He knew Hiroshito because the high-level man had visited Denver once, and the bank had spent a day dancing around him like crows around fresh road kill.
“Hiroshito.” The man said his name like it was an order to attack.
Chill, my friend.
“Mr. Hiroshito, you don’t know me, but you should. I’m—”
“I am sorry. You must have the wrong connection. I will put you through to the operator.”
Kent spoke quickly before the man could pass him off. “Your bank is missing one million dollars, is it not?”
The phone filled with the soft hiss of distant static. Kent was not sure if the man had transferred him. “Hello.”
“Who is this?”
“I am the person who can help you recover the million dollars that was missing from your ledgers yesterday. And please don’t bother trying to trace this phone call—you will find it impossible. Do I have your attention?”
Hiroshito was whispering orders in Japanese behind a muted receiver. “Yes,” he said. “Who is this? How do you know of this matter?”
“It is my business to know of such matters, sir. Now, I will lay this out for you as quickly and as plainly as possible. It would be best if you could record what I say. Do you have a recorder?”
“Yes. But I must know who you are. Surely you cannot expect—”
“If you choose to accept my terms, you will know me soon enough, Mr. Hiroshito. That I can promise you. Are you recording?”
A pause. “Yes.”
Here goes nothing.
Kent took a deep breath.
“Yesterday a million dollars was stolen from Niponbank’s main ledger, but then, you know this already. What you don’t know is how I know this. I know this because a certain party within your own bank, who shall remain nameless, tipped me off. This is relatively unimportant. What
is
important, however, is the fact that I managed to break into your system and verify the missing balance. I was also able to track the first leg of the outbound transaction. And I believe I will be able to uncover the theft in its entirety.
“Now, before you ask, let me tell you what you are going to ask. Who in the world am I to think I can track what the engineers in your own bank cannot track? I am a number: 24356758. Please write it down. It is where you will wire my fee if I successfully expose the thief and return your money. As I’m sure you can appreciate, I must protect my actual identity, but for the sake of convenience you may use a fictitious name. Say, Bob. You may call me Bob. From now on, I am Bob. I can assure you that Bob is quite proficient at electronic data manipulation. Without question one of the world’s finest. You have not heard of him only because he has always insisted on working in complete anonymity. In fact, as you will see, he depends on it. But there is no man better suited to track down your money; that much I can assure you with absolute confidence. Do you understand thus far?”
Hiroshito did not expect the sudden question. “Y . . . yes.”
“Good. Then here are Bob’s terms. You will grant him unlimited access to any bank he deems necessary for his investigation. He will both return your money and uncover the means with which the perpetrator took your money. You obviously have a hole in your system, my fine friends. He will not only return your money; he will close that hole. If and only if he is successful, you will transfer a 25 percent recovery fee into the Cayman account I recited earlier: 24356758. You will wire the money within one hour of your own recovery. In addition, if he is successful, you will grant him immunity in connection with any charge related to this case. These are his terms. If you accept them, I can assure you he will recover your money. You have exactly twelve hours to make your decision. I will call you then for your decision. Do you understand?”
“Yes. And how is this possible? How can we be sure you are sincere, Mr. . . . uh . . . Bob?”
“You can’t. And once you’ve had time to think about it, you’ll see that it does not matter. If I am unsuccessful, you pay nothing. But you must ask yourself how I know what I know. No one knows the workings of electronic high finance like I do, Mr. Hiroshito. I am simply the best. Please take this message to your superiors immediately.”
“And how do I know—?”
“You know enough already,” Kent interrupted. “Play the tape for the main man. He’ll agree to my terms. Good day.”
Kent hung up to a stammering Hiroshito and exhaled slowly. His hands were trembling, and he pulled them into fists. Man, that had felt good! He took a long drink from his glass, slammed the tumbler onto the table, and pumped a fist in victory. “Yes!”
Of course it was not victory. Not yet. But it was the deed. It was the plan. The thrill of the hunt, as they say. Within the hour the whole snobby bunch of them would at least suspect that there existed a man who possessed the electronic wizardry to waltz into their systems and do what he willed. A lunatic who called himself Bob. Now
there
was power! Not just being able to
do
it, but being settled in the knowledge that others
believed
he could do it.
Kent made his way to the bathroom on shaky legs. In twelve hours he would have his answer. And if they said no? If they said no, he might very well go in there and take another million. Then call them back and ask them if they might reconsider.
Ha!
Yes indeed. Now
there
was power!
KENT ATTENDED Doug’s party on the
Marlin Mate
later that night for lack of appealing alternatives. Actually, the thought of standing on a swaying boat with twenty people held little appeal itself. Never mind that there would be “dames.” Half-naked dames at that. Never mind that there would be booze. It was all sounding rather bleak now. But staying home alone drumming his fingers on the table held even less appeal, so he took the Jeep to the pier and boarded the swaying boat.
The Aussie knew how to party. It was perhaps the only skill he’d mastered aside from skippering. As promised, a dozen girls smelling of coconut oil slithered about the twin decks. At some point, Doug must have dropped the nugget that the blond-haired man sitting quietly on the upper deck was flush with cash, because the women began to mill about Kent with batting eyes and pouting lips.
For the first hour, Kent quite enjoyed the attention. It was sometime near midnight, however, that a thought dawned on him. He was not attracted to these bathing beauties. Maybe the booze had messed with his libido. Maybe the memory of Gloria was simply too fresh. Maybe the hole in his chest had sucked the life right out of him—neutered him. The realization fell over him like a wet blanket.
By the time he dragged himself back up the hill at two in the morning, the booze had robbed his ability to consider the matter any further. It was the last time he would party with Doug and his dames.
When Kent rejoined the land of the conscious it was to a relentless chirp sounding in his ear. A whistle blowing down the alley. He spun around, except that he couldn’t spin at all because Mr. Brinkley’s dead body was hanging off his shoulders, butt up, gray in the moonlight. He nearly capsized in his lumbering turn.