Lauren Carson was using the name she’d used several years ago when opening the account with Jim Hall, who also had established a false identity for this stash of funds. She remembered the manager, too. A ladies’ man. To deflect him from paying full attention to the account, she had dressed appropriately in a dark business suit with a short, tight skirt and a loose, scoop-necked blouse that showed too much when she leaned forward. She leaned forward, her eyes questioning. “I need to transfer some funds back to the United States,” she said. “What is the total in the account at present?”
“Of course. It will be no problem.” Oh! She was so stunning. “May I please examine your tax card?”
“Yes.” Lauren sat back, crossed her legs, and wasted some time digging through her purse. She brought out a leather-bound business Day-Timer and removed the fiscal permission form that was in a plastic folder.
Bandeira found it to be current and proper. “Both you and Mr. Roger Petersen have access to this account. He is not with you today?”
“He is elsewhere on company business. Is that a problem? We are expanding quite nicely.” She smiled. “It gives me a chance to spend some time alone in this lovely city. I am dying to visit the Berardo Museum.”
“Ah, my favorite. Many prefer the Calouste Gulbenkian, but the Berardo is my personal favorite: a treasure house of modern art,” the
Lauren cocked her head to one side, her eyes on him. “Should time permit, I would be delighted.”
Jose Eduardo Bandeira adjusted his tie and unconsciously touched his small mustache. “Excellent. Now to business.” He looked at the computer screen on his wide desk and tapped some keys. “This account shows about… one moment, let me get out of euros… twelve million dollars, U.S. Since it is a joint account, you have the necessary access.”
“Very well.” She opened her Day-Timer again and gave him two account numbers in the United States. “Mr. Petersen and I would like to transfer six million dollars to each of those accounts, as soon as possible.”
“All of it?” The bank manager exhaled with a deep sigh. She was closing the entire account. He tried to think of some way to change her mind, but the order and tax forms were perfectly legal. Perhaps a veiled threat might work. “I must make certain that you are aware our bank goes to great lengths to prevent international money laundering, not that you would do such a thing, of course, but it is a requirement since we were nationalized. These transfers must be reported in accordance with the terms of the USA Patriot Act.”
Lauren Carson recrossed her legs to give a flash of thigh. “We are counting on that,” she said. “Our company certainly endorses the financial elements of the Patriot Act, if for no other reason than to keep our own policies ethical. We would insist the names of the recipients-Mr. Pathurst and Mrs. Glenda Swinton-be filed with the proper financial authorities within the American government and the Department of Homeland Security. In fact, we would insist on that even if there was no such requirement on your part.”
He busily wrote out an instruction, stapled the paper with the new account numbers to it, and summoned an aide from an outer office to make the transactions. “It will take but a few minutes, Sinhorita Cunningham. Perhaps we can have some tea and chat about the museum while they finish.”
“
“Such is the world,” agreed the manager. It was only money, after all. Spending a few hours with Lynn Cunningham on his arm was worth much more.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE LIZARD HAD BEEN paying careful attention to the time changes around the world. The day officially began when the sun broke for a new morning on the islands of the Pacific Ocean, so that meant that the banks in Asia were his first targets. He wanted the instructions to land with the first batch of business for the day, when the data load would be heavy clearing away the overnight transactions from America and Europe.
The Standard Chartered Private Bank of Singapore was a large and efficient operation, one of the anchors of the Pan-Asian banking system and very discreet, with miserly interest rates on deposits. Lim Hwee Liu, a sector manager, fielded the incoming wire transfer request, a rather standard transaction that would shift eight million U.S. dollars. He checked the password and authorization codes and scribbled a note that the eight million, split evenly between a pair of accounts in the United States, would carry a higher than normal transfer and handling commission for the bank. Eight million dollars also was not enough to worry about. That figure would not even reach the middle range of the other interbank wire transfers that he would handle from all over the world during the long day to come. Liu then handed a printout of the instructions to one of his three assistants to finish and turned to thoughts of the Bank of China’s new interest rate schedule. That country was awash with new money, and one of Liu’s responsibilities was to examine ways in which the Standard Chartered Private Bank of Singapore could continue as a major player for a share of that wealth. Then there was an opening-hours flip in the direction of the Nikkei Index that measured the Japanese stock market. What was that about? Closing an account for a small and private American company with a routine transfer of funds did not raise an eyebrow for Lim Hwee Liu.
When the confirmation was made that the Singapore account had been eliminated, and the money gone, Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman took his time bleaching the entire file. Not a scrap of electronic data would trace the source of the original order back to him.
Jack Pathurst of the CIA and Glenda Swinton, the owner of a small fashion boutique in Georgetown and wife of CIA attorney Stephen Swinton, were each richer by still another four million dollars.
Freedman then began stacking up the information he needed for later in the day, when he would do a similar morning blitz on Randall MacDavies, a senior vice president at the Royal Bank of Scotland in Edinburgh, where the Lizard would raid still another hidden account belonging to Jim Hall. He could do even more of the accounts, probably all of them, in a single work shift, but that was not the plan. Two was quite enough for one day, plus the one that Agent Carson had done in Portugal. Kyle had been very specific about the schedule.
42
VENICE
ITALY
KYLE SWANSON CAME UP smoothly from the depths of his slumber, rising from the busy REM state in which the brain fires up convoluted dreams through the vague fog just below the surface of sleep and then, pop, awake. He sensed peace and safety rather than any danger. His eyes took in the red numbers of the bedside alarm clock, and he allowed himself the luxury of a long, muscle-stretching yawn. Morning. Naked beneath smooth, clean sheets in a large bed. Totally recovered from the long round-trip flight from Italy to Thailand. Feeling good. Cell phone and pistol within reaching distance.
The hotel room was dark in the bedroom, with the heavy drapes closed, but beyond the door, daylight illuminated the adjacent sitting room. He could see a pair of bare feet, and he heard the buzz of a television set. Swanson threw aside the sheets and a lightweight duvet, pulled on his shorts, and padded silently toward the portal and leaned against it.
The room smelled like Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. Lauren was on the sofa, wearing a white hotel robe loosely knotted at the waist. Her hair was wet. Her feet rested on a cushion, and she was slowly painting her nails while watching an English-language news program on the BBC. The nails were a pale pink; she was curling her fingers to get a getter look. Bottles and jars of cosmetics were strewn on a dressing table with a big mirror. He walked up behind her, leaned over, and kissed her wet hair, looking straight down into her cleavage. She stretched her head back for a full kiss, and he obliged, then slid his hands down her front, into the folds of the robe, and cupped her warm breasts.
“Mmmmm. You pick the strangest times to get amorous,” she said. “At least let me finish my nails.” She gave
