‘In total, yes, millions. But many are small, a few thousand. Lots of regular transfers. A possibility is that he has set up accounts for clients and pays himself fees from them. Then there are loan accounts.’
‘Loans to Serrano?’
‘Yes. One of them is called Falcontor. Big money-forty million dollars, thereabout, in big amounts. Six million dollars three times, one of seven million. All from a bank in the Antilles over two years. But others as small as 250,000 US. My experience says these will not be genuine loans.’
Anselm studied her. ‘No?’
‘No. The bank, well, to call these paper constructions banks is nonsense, the bank is owned by a blind trust in Hong Kong. It is very likely Serrano’s own trust, his own bank. He pays interest on these loans-that would be strictly for tax purposes, a precaution. His place of permanent residence is Monaco, I doubt whether he has ever been audited anywhere. So. He lends himself money and pays himself interest. And he also makes loans.’
‘Loans? From Falcontor?’
‘No. There are transfers from Falcontor. Big sums. No details, just dates and amounts. I gave up on that and then I thought about it again and I thought these are probably internal bank transfers, so I looked for a password, tried a few dozen obvious ones, you can get lucky. And then I tried the name Bergerac.’
She looked at him, she was smiling a small, pleased smile, she wanted to be asked.
‘Bergerac?’
‘People like their names, they often look for ways to use them.’
Anselm got it. ‘Cyrano de Bergerac.’
Carla laughed, he couldn’t remember her laughing, it was a real laugh, deep. ‘Correct,’ she said. ‘I tried it. It didn’t work so I ran the anagrams. Raceberg opened the door. I got the account number. And the dates and amounts, they match.’
Anselm smiled and shook his head. He felt her delight, her pleasure lifted him. He knew the buoyancy of the moment when intuition intersected with luck. The lift-off. He wanted to put out a hand and touch her, complete a circuit.
He didn’t.
‘That’s clever,’ he said. ‘That’s very clever.’
‘Amazing luck.’
‘The clever are luckier.’
‘In some things.’
She held his eyes, and then she said, ‘It’s called Credit Raceberg. It makes loans.’
‘Not real loans either?’
‘I would be surprised. Astonished.’
‘The borrowers?’
She shrugged. ‘Banks and account numbers. But some of the banks, well, if we can’t open them we should be in another type of work.’
‘I’ll tell the client what we’ve got.’
‘More in perhaps an hour.’
‘I’ll say that.’
Anselm went to his office and rang O’Malley. ‘We’re on our way with the inquiry,’ he said. ‘Another hour or two. We should meet.’
‘I’ll bring some Polish beer. Anything else you’d like? From Poland, I mean? I have your pickled…’ O’Malley had his injunction.
‘Like that, is it? Just some ballbearings. I’ll call you.’
Forty-five minutes later, Carla was at his door, uneven on the sticks.
‘I can come to you,’ he said and he regretted it. He put fingers through his hair. ‘That was not something I should have said, was it?’
She smiled. ‘I’m not sensitive about being the way I am. Also, I like the exercise. Come and look.’
61
…LONDON…
The man on the phone ended the call and stood up.
‘Mr Palmer,’ he said, ‘didn’t expect you so soon.’
Palmer nodded to him, went to the corner window. Outside, the day was the colour of pack ice, low cloud, a wind tearing at two flags on a rooftop. He looked down at the river, slick and grey as wet seal fur. A feeble sun came out for a few seconds and caught the oil streaks.
‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘Just stepped out. Get something to eat.’
‘Call him.’
‘Right away, yes.’
Palmer waited, eyes on the river, listened to Martie make the call.
‘Charlie, Mr Palmer’s here.’
He put the phone down. ‘He’ll be here pretty soon.’
Palmer turned, looked at Martie. Martie returned his gaze for seconds, then he looked down, touched the collar of his blue shirt.
‘Not the best run of operations this, would you agree, Martie?’
‘No, sir. Ah, yes, sir. Not the best, no, we’ve had some…’ ‘Don’t say bad luck, Martie.’
‘No, sir.’
‘These contractors.’
‘Agincourt Solutions. Carrick knows the boss. Ex-army, ex-MI6.’ Palmer looked at him for a while. What to do with clowns? ‘That’s like saying ex-Mossad,’ he said. ‘There’s only Mossad and dead. Why’d they shoot this guy?’
Martie stopped running his tongue over his teeth under his upper lip. ‘Well, it’s the back-up man, he’s there if something goes wrong with the handover. He says the guy just got to the top of the escalator, looked at him, dived at him, he fired. Instinct.’
‘Instinct of an arsehole,’ said Palmer.
‘Yes, sir.’
Palmer turned back to the window. In the building next door, on the third floor, he could see a man moving down a long white table. It was a restaurant. The man was putting out the cutlery, the implements flashed like fresh sardines. He had the precision and economy of a casino dealer.
He heard the door close. Martie coughed.
‘Mr Palmer, this’s David Carrick.’
Palmer turned. Carrick was medium-height, pale smooth hair, in a dark suit. He was going to fat but he held himself like a gasoline pump.
‘Any other contractors you’d like to recommend, Mr Carrick?’ said Palmer. ‘Any other old friends?’
He noted Carrick’s swallow, the bob in his short neck above the striped shirt.
Palmer turned back to the window, to the river, stood rubbing his palms together, hands held vertical. His palms were dry and the sound was of water moving on sand, a tropical sound. Australia. Never mind the Virgins. The Great Barrier Reef. After this, with the boy. Golf, sailing. He hadn’t sailed enough with the boy, they worked well together. You never had to tell him anything twice.
The door.
‘Scott.’
Charlie Price, in a dark-grey suit, grey shirt, no tie. From across the room, Palmer could see the blood in his
