'You get by? You don't know what getting by is. Whatever you earn in a year, multiply it by a thousand and I've got more than that tucked away. Think about that, you sad fuck. You'd have to work for a thousand years to get the sort of money I've got.'
The man took a slow drink from his paper cup, then placed it carefully on the table.
'And that, Marty, brings me to my second order of business, as it were.'
Clare felt a chill in his stomach, suspecting that things were about to take a turn for the worse. He tried to keep smiling, but his mind was racing frantically, trying to work out what was coming next.
'Your money situation might not be quite as clear cut as you seem to think,' said the man.
'What the fuck do you know about my money situation?'
'More than you'd think, Marty.'
'Who the hell are you? And don't give me that bringer of bad news crap. You're a Brit, so you've no jurisdiction here. I don't have to talk to you.'
'Do you want me to go, Marty? Just say the word and I'll leave you to your weights and your porn channel until the men from the CAB pay you a visit. But by then it'll be too late.'
'What the hell would the CAB be wanting with me?'
'Take a wild guess.'
Clare took another drink from the paper cup. His hand was shaking and water slopped over his arm. He saw his visitor smirk at the show of emotion and Clare hurriedly put the cup down on the floor. The Criminal Assets Board was an Irish organisation, set up to track down the assets of criminals living in Ireland. Their initial brief had been to run drug dealers and other criminal undesirables out of the Irish Republic, and they had been so successful that their remit had been expanded to cover tax evaders and white-collar criminals. Their technique was simple they tracked down assets and put the onus on the owner of the assets to prove that they were acquired by legitimate means. Homes, land, money, bonds. And if the owner couldn't prove that the assets weren't connected to criminal activities, the CAB had the right to confiscate them.
'All my stuff in Ireland's legit,' Clare said.
'It's in your wife's name, if that's what you mean. But that's not quite the same as legit, is it? And what about the property development in Spain? And the villas in Portugal? You probably thought you were being really clever putting ownership in an Isle of Man exempt company, but CAB are wise to that.'
Clare swallowed. His mouth had gone dry again but he didn't want to pick up the paper cup. He folded his arms and waited for the man to continue.
'They found your accounts in St. Vincent and they're homing in on your accounts in Luxembourg. Then there's your Sparbuch account. Do you know where the name comes from, by the way?'
Clare shook his head. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. The man's voice seemed to echo in Clare's ears, as if he were talking at the end of a very long tunnel.
'From the German, Sparen, which means save, and Buck, which means book. Brilliant concept, isn't it, for guys in your line of work? An anonymous account operated under a password. No signature, no identification, completely transferable. He who has the passbook and codeword has the money. Got yours just before the deadline, didn't you? Smart boy, Marty. Austria stopped issuing Sparbuch accounts in November 2000. You had the inside track on that, I bet. You can still get them in the Czech Republic, but Austrian schillings are so much more confidence-inspiring than Czech crowns, aren't they?'
Clare slumped in his chair. He felt as if a strap had been tightened across his chest and every breath was an effort of will.
'Are you okay, Marty? Not having a heart attack, are you? Though I have to say, the Dutch do have an excellent health care system.'
'Who grassed me up?' gasped Clare, his hand on his chest.
'Who do you think?'
Clare frowned. Sweat was pouring down his face. He rubbed his hand across his forehead and it came away dripping wet.
'By the way, I think you were being a tad optimistic on your figure of a thousand times my annual salary. I reckon at best you've got five million quid salted away and CAB know where pretty much all of it is.'
Clare's mind was in a whirl. The only person who knew about the Sparbuch account was his wife Mary, and he trusted her with his life. The realisation hit him like a punch to the solar plexus.
'Mary.'
The man grinned.
'Ah, the penny has finally dropped, has it? She was none too happy with your arrest situation the two Slovakian girls .. .'
Clare closed his eyes and swore. The man with the camera.
'You bastard,' he whispered.
'The women, plus the fact that CAB were prepared to cut her a deal on the house and the Irish accounts pretty much puts your balls on the fire, Marty.'
Clare opened his eyes.
'What the fuck do you want?' he asked.
'A chat, Marty.'
'About what?'
'Den Donovan.'
Donovan spent the night at the Hilton Hotel in Kingston. He checked in wearing a Lacoste polo shirt and slacks, but when he checked out of the hotel in the morning he was wearing baggy denim jeans, a T-shirt that he'd bought in a gift shop in Rasta colours with 'I Love Jamaica' spelled out in spliffs, and a woollen Rasta hat. If the receptionist thought his attire incongruous for a business hotel, she was professional enough to hide her opinion behind a bright smile of perfect teeth.
Donovan knew that he looked ridiculous, but then so did most of the Brits returning home after two weeks of sun, sand and sex in Jamaica. The worst that would happen was that he'd get a pull by Customs at Stansted, but they'd be looking for ganja, not an international drugs baron.
He settled his account with American dollars and tipped the doorman ten dollars for opening the back door of a taxi and putting his suitcase and holdall in the boot. It was a thirty-minute ride to the Norman Manley International Airport. Donovan had no idea who Norman Manley was, or why the Jamaicans had named their airport after him, and he didn't care. The only thing he cared about was that it was a relatively easy place to fly to the UK from.
He put on a pair of impenetrable sunglasses and joined the hundred-yard-long check-in queue for the charter flight. Honeymooning couples who were just starting to think about what married life meant back in dreary, drizzly England; middle-aged holiday makers with sunburned necks, keen to get back to good old fish and chips; and spaced-out fun seekers who were biting their nails and wondering if it really had been a good idea to tuck away their last few ounces of Jamaican gold into their wash bags There was a sprinkling of Rasta hats, several with fake dreadlocks, and lots of T-shirts with drugs references, so Donovan blended right in.
It took almost an hour to reach the front of the queue. He handed over the passport and ticket and flashed the Jamaican girl a lopsided grin.
'Wish I could stay longer,' he said.
'Honey, you can move in with me any time,' laughed the girl, 'but you'd have to lose the hat.'
'I love my hat,' he said.
'Then it's over, honey. Sorry.' She checked the passport against the name on the ticket. Donovan's travel agent had worked wonders to get him a seat on the charter flight. A scheduled flight would have been easier, but there'd be more scrutiny if he arrived at Heathrow. Holidaymakers returning to Stansted would barely merit a second look. The agent must have had a pre-dated return ticket issued in the UK and then Fed-Exed it out to Kingston. It had arrived first thing that morning as Donovan had been eating his room service breakfast. The unused Stansted-Jamaica leg section of the ticket had already been discarded. It was that sort of creativity that merited the high prices the agent charged. Donovan was paying more for the cramped economy seat to Stansted than it would have cost to fly first class with British Airways.
The check-in girl ran him off a boarding card and handed it back to him with the passport.
'I'd wish you a good flight but it looks like you're flying already,' she laughed.
