“I need you to fly to Andorra, immediately,” Halpert said. “We are buying another company.”
“Standard protocol?” the lawyer asked. “Open bank accounts, rent offices and such?”
“That’s the idea,” Halpert said, “and we need it done yesterday.”
“I’ll need to charter a plane, then,” the lawyer said. “I doubt there are commercial flights available at this late hour.”
“We will approve the costs,” Halpert said.
“How big are you looking, sir?”
“The initial funding will be ten million,” Halpert said. “Five will be a direct loan from one of our divisions in Liechtenstein, the second five will be in the form of a line of credit, available immediately.”
“I understand, sir,” the lawyer said. “I’ll leave right away.”
“One more thing,” Halpert said. “Find us a public relations firm in Andorra—I have a feeling what we are planning will garner some press interest.”
“Anything else?”
“If there is,” Halpert said, “I’ll contact you when you reach Andorra.”
“Very good,” the lawyer said as he hung up the telephone.
Then the lawyer sat back in his chair and smiled. He knew his rather excessive fees would be paid in cash— which he would fail to report to the tax authorities. Reaching for the telephone, he called a local company to charter a prop-jet for the trip north.
“LIKE being kicked by a mule,” Cabrillo said over the noise of the droning engine.
Pilston was closing the side door of the Antonov. She wrestled it in place and held it closed while Michaels locked it down. Cabrillo placed his hand on the Golden Buddha to stabilize himself, and then removed the package of papers and the satchel of food. He placed them on the floor, then unsnapped the harness and set it aside. He stared around the cargo bay of the Antonov before walking forward to the cockpit.
“How’s she fly, Tiny?” he asked as he slid into the copilot’s seat.
“She’s as slow and steady as a diesel trawler,” Gunderson answered.
“Did you get any sleep?”
“Yep,” Gunderson said. “Tracy needed to rack up some flight time, so she and Judy flew us here from Vietnam.”
Cabrillo nodded and turned his head back to the cargo area. “How’d it go with Mr. Silicon Valley?” he asked.
“We made it through,” Michaels said.
“I want to apologize to both of you,” Cabrillo said quietly. “If there was any other way…”
“We know, sir,” Pilston said. “It was just a job—and we treated it as such.”
“Still…,” Cabrillo said, “it was above and beyond what we should ask of you. I approved a special bonus for you both, and Hanley has scheduled you for a month off with pay as soon as we finish this mission.”
“Thank you, sir,” Michaels said. “And this helped soften the blow somewhat.”
She held up the stack of bearer bonds.
“I trust,” Gunderson said, “you mean that figuratively and not literally.”
THE U.S. Ambassador to Russia sipped from a small glass of vodka, then smiled at President Putin. The men were seated in front of a roaring fire inside the presidential offices in Moscow. Outside, a spring storm was finally exhausting itself after dumping nearly a foot of wet snow on the capital city. Soon the first flowers would pop their heads from the soil. Then it would all turn green.
“How much are we talking about?” Putin asked.
“Billions,” the ambassador said.
“And the structure?”
“As you know,” the ambassador said, taking another sip, “this is not a United States government operation. For all intents and purposes, you will be making the agreements with a separate company that we subcontract with.”
“But they work for you?” Putin asked.
“Not on paper,” the ambassador said, “but we have used them in the past.”
“Give me some details,” Putin said as he rose to stoke the fire with a poker. “I’d like to know with whom I’m getting into bed.”
“They call themselves the Corporation,” the ambassador noted quietly. “They handle things of a sensitive nature for us and other countries. The company has specialized skills, huge amounts of funding and an unparalleled reputation for integrity.”
“They can be trusted?” Putin asked.
“You may consider their word their bond,” the ambassador confirmed.
“Who runs this Corporation?” Putin asked.
“A man named Juan Cabrillo,” the ambassador answered.
“And when do I meet this Juan Cabrillo?” Putin said, turning from the fire, placing the poker back in the rack
