“How can you ‘acquire’ a title? That doesn’t seem possible.”
“I believe the nature of titles is more peculiar in Britain than in any other European country. As far as Bobby is concerned, the manorial title is hereditary, and he now had the documents to prove he had a right to it. However, this title had already been sold. Some titles are considered property themselves, separate from land holdings. This was one of them. To make a long story short, Bobby purchased it from the then current owner.”
“Was it that easy?”
“Not really. Bobby threatened to bring legal action if the owner didn’t sell to him. After all, it was his by right of heredity, you see.”
“But he was – excuse the expression – a bastard. Does that still count?”
“In Great Britain, even a bastard has standing and, speaking of standing, it’s time for you to get up and go home. There’s your ride. Have a lovely day, Anne.”
Ben pulled his car in front of the main entrance and rushed around to open the door for Anne. Anne’s first instinct was to tell him there was no need in helping her into the car. She was perfectly capable of doing it herself. But she didn’t. He had been enormously helpful when setting the trap for the Client. He wanted to be helpful now. So why dampen a charitable spirit, she thought.
They drove across the city and stopped at Anne’s house. Ben waited in the car while she grabbed a change of clothes. Then they wove through mid-afternoon traffic to The Blue Peter.
“Have you heard about Dit?” asked Anne.
“Sarah called him earlier. Great news, eh?”
“It gives him hope, for sure. That tingling in his legs means that there’s some kind of spinal connection.”
“I can’t understand how it happened though. It’s been so long,” said Ben. “It must have something to do with that beating he took… or being stuffed into that container… I dunno.”
Anne said no more about it. She wasn’t superstitious, but some inkling suggested she might jinx it if she spoke of it. It was a silly thought. But perhaps it was better to remain timidly sceptical… to bottle up her expectations… rather than endure the inevitable disappointment if hopes for Dit’s recovery were dashed.
The Blue Peter was pleasantly filled with the chatter of coffee drinkers and muffin nibblers. Ben and Anne made their way to the round table they had grown accustomed to over the years. Mary Anne waved from a back corner where she held three of her waitresses in conversation.
Anne stared at the menu, but she wasn’t reading it. Her mind was still labouring through the last several days of hunting for the Client and being pursued by him. Her imagination raced through bouts of frenzy. It played out the same scenes over and over again. Her memory of most details of the incidents had returned. A few particulars eluded her. They were unimportant. But a few unanswered questions troubled her profoundly. And they lay like palpable, restless shadows in the recesses of her mind.
“Ben?” she asked.
“I think I’ll have the steak sandwich,” he replied.
“And I think I’ll go nuts if I don’t figure out what’s been going on.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“There are big pieces missing here. Like who was my Client? What’s his motive? What was Agent Pierce doing at MacLaren’s? And why is this whole rat’s nest being swept under the carpet?”
“Pierce? That’s easy. If the Mounties had you on their radar, so did Pierce, and he probably wanted to get a step ahead of the RCMP. He was either following you or found your connection to MacLaren. The rest? I don’t know. I don’t think you’ll ever know the truth, not everything anyway, but I think it all leads back to those supernotes.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that before, but counterfeit is counterfeit. Even if they are super-good reproductions, so what?”
“I did a bit of poking around a few days ago and a bit more yesterday. That fancy press that can make these bills costs tens of millions. I told you that. Having a plant to make the paper would cost tens of millions more. What kind of gang or crime syndicate could afford that? Or keep purchases like that secret?”
“Not many?”
“I would say ‘not any.’ It would take a government to pull this off. And the government most often pointed to is North Korea…”
“You think it’s the Koreans?”
“Na. They bought a Giorio press, but they defaulted on their payment to the Italian company which makes them, and the company cut off their supply of repair parts years ago. Besides that, nobody else wants to do business with them.”
“Then who?” Anne asked impatiently.
“First, answer this. If you had the capability to make really good bills, how would you run the production and distribution?”
“Me? I’d run off a few billion, dump it quick, and get out before they traced it.”
“That’s what most counterfeiters do. Get in, get out, and disappear. But supernotes always surface in small quantities, usually one to five million or so. And that’s been going on for fifteen or twenty years. And they seem to turn up more frequently in out-of-the-way trouble spots. Rwanda, Yemen, Somalia, Venezuela. Does that tell you anything?”
“It tells me that it’s pretty odd.”
“And why do you think it’s odd?” he prompted.
“I’m beginning to feel like I’m back in school again,” said Anne suspiciously.
“Consider this a review before your final exam, kiddo.”
“Okay, okay, I’d want to launder money where a lot of other legitimate money is changing hands. It’d be less noticeable.”
“Exactly. So here’s my theory. Well, it’s one that I heard somewhere, but it has plausibility.
The Central Intelligence Agency is secretly counterfeiting US currency to fund their pet projects overseas.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Look at it this way. Say the CIA wants intelligence from a foreign agent or some government official. They drop some bogus money in his pocket. He uses some of that money to grease some other unpatriotic wheels. It creates a money trail. Like-minded rats feed at the same granary. Because the CIA knows the serial numbers, they can trace where the money goes and who’s in the loop. Or maybe they want to fund a rebel group in some banana republic. They slip them five or ten million, and they watch where the money goes. The nice thing about it is that it costs the US nothing. Eventually the supernotes are detected when they pass through any major bank in the world. Then the hot potato principle applies: the last person holding the counterfeit money is out of pocket. It’s confiscated just like your bank deposit. No compensation.”
“Did you get all this intel from your spook friends in Ottawa?”
“Na, they were no help at all. They said they’d never heard of supernotes. Arseholes, the pack of them.”
“So how do you know all this, Mr. Bond?”
Ben stared at her for a long second. Then he knowingly tapped his nose several times with his forefinger.
“Simple, Miss. Moneypenny. I Googled it.”
“Can you Google the Client’s motivation, too? I mean, the CIA is a bit sketchy sometimes, but I don’t believe that they’d actually kill another Federal agent.”
“Neither do I. My guess, and this is strictly speculation, is this… your Client was one of several agents doling out supernotes to foreign agents in faraway places. He picks you and MacLaren to pass the buck, and that way he distances himself and the CIA from the money. That’s why he was so secretive. He was also a crook. Along the way he took a big cut of the money for himself, and, if tales of a shortfall got back to the CIA, he had a long chain of people, including you, to take the heat.”
“That explains why MacLaren and the money were headed for Havana,” Anne said.
“Yeah, and if I were your Client I’d have made plans to launder my cut in the Cuban community in M
iami. Nobody would have been the wiser, and I’d have a nice nest egg for retirement.”
“Now all he’ll get is a little star engraved on the memorial wall at Langley.”
“I wonder if they award tarnished ones to their strays,” said Ben.
“Speaking of strays, what about Cutter and McGee? And MacLaren?”
“There may be enough evidence to lay charges against the biker boys for kidnapping, once we interview Dit. That’s my hope and, knowing Dit, there’s surveillance cameras somewhere in that house of his, even though I couldn’t find them myself. And MacLaren’s gone. He doesn’t know you found his kiddie porn stash. So we can nab him on his return trip.”
“That would put my mind at ease… but I do have a better idea,” said Anne. Isn’t importing pornography a serious offense in Cuba?”
“I believe it is,” said Ben. “Perhaps I should make a neighbourly call to the Cuban embassy.”
“Please do. Tropical prisons have an old-world charm we just can’t duplicate here.”
53
Anne picked at her salmon platter. She should eat. She felt hungry, but food wouldn’t satisfy her. Too much was churning in her head. Partly, it was because she hadn’t seen Jacqui in a week. It seemed more like a month. But Jacqui and Aunt Delia would meet her here soon, and Anne worried how that would go. Her last words with Jacqui had been difficult, and it broke her heart to see her daughter in tears and not able to explain why she had to be sent away. It was for her own safety, and that was good enough reason for a parent, but, to a fourteen-year-old girl, it seemed like just a selfish excuse.
“I’d say you’re looking well,” said Mary Anne, slipping into the seat next to Anne and grabbing her arm, “but that would be fibbing. Looks like you need a week’s sleep.”
“Sleep I don’t need. A rest is more than welcome, though. A cruise perhaps to a sunny exotic island…”
“… overrun by scantily clad young men, their bronze bodies rippling with muscles, their eyes bright and inviting…”
“… their teeth flashing white…”
“… the scent of coconut oil on their skin…”
“… their fingertips soft and…”
“Oh god,” said Ben. His face screwed itself up in disgust. He dropped his fork on his plate with a clunk. “Can you ladies please stop now and talk about something normal?”
Both women tried to stifle their giggling at Ben’s embarrassment. Then all restraints gave way, and laughter burst out in uncontrollable gushes. Their bodies convulsed. Mary Anne’s palm slapped the table is if she were in pain. Tears flowed from Anne’s eyes. She buried her head in her arms. She grabbed her stomach. They hooted like boozers at a bridal shower until they drew more than several curious stares from across the restaurant, and that finally brought them under control.
“I know a terrific joke about a Canon lawyer who sued a Buddhist monk, but I don’t think it would top whatever you guys are laughing at,” said Dick Clements, Anne’s lawyer. He slipped into the booth alongside Ben.
“Hey, Dick,” Anne said. Her face had lost all composure. She wore the silly, grinning expression of a nine-year-old. She drew a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes and her runny nose before she spoke again. “Hey, Dick, what’s up?”
“Have a meeting with Patty Pacquet, your landlady, and her lawyer. Tried to call, but you haven’t picked up the messages.”
“Sorry, Dick, I’ve been… out of town and indisposed. When’s the meeting?
“’Bout fifteen minutes. Want to come? You should. We can get a delay on the eviction, maybe get things sorted out.”
“Geez, a meeting with that… woman! It’s the last thing I need today… and my daughter… I’m meeting her here.”
“I can take care of it. That’s fine. Don’t worry.” Both of Dick’s hands were raised defensively in front of him.
Ben looked at his watch. “The ferry from the Magdalens is just getting into Souris about now. Delia couldn’t possibly make it here for another hour,” Ben suggested.
“How long will this take, Dick?”
“Shouldn’t be much more than half an hour.”
“Okay, I’ll go. I start something, I finish it. But I don’t want to be late for Jacqui,” she said, wagging a finger at Dick.
54
The offices of Fitzgerald, Ryan and Keene were in the second floor of a renovated residence on Water Street. From the front porch one could hear noises from the marina and tour buses loading passengers from a cruise ship near Founders’ Hall. From the second floor windows one could even glimpse the harbour.
Anne and Dick Clements made their way up the stairs. The treads creaked, but plush carpeting muffled their sound. The carpeting extended to the reception area near the top of the landing and spilled down the hallway to the doors of a suite of offices. A bulky, curt, grey-haired secretary notified Michael Ryan of their presence and led them to one of the dark panelled doors. She knocked deferentially and opened it.
Framed university degrees, citations, and certificates hung like an aura behind Michael Ryan. Several bright modern oil paintings hung on two walls, and photos filled empty spots. Ryan sat behind an oversized desk at the far side of the room. His desk was a dark cherry. It matched the book cases, lamp stands, two closed cabinets, and a coffee table. Two large, dark brown, leather armchairs stood in front of his desk. The secretary ushered them in, and Ryan rose to greet them.
“Michael, you know Anne Brown, I presume.”
“I believe so. Ms. Brown,” he nodded in acknowledgement. “Here, let me get another chair. Dick wasn’t sure you could attend. We’re pleased you could make it.”
“Don’t include me in that remark. Frankly, I was hoping that she wouldn’t show. She’s been costing me money. Now she’s wasting my time with a frivolous delay,” sputtered Patty Pacquet. She scarcely could be seen behind the high back of the armchair and, until then, Anne had not been aware she had been in the room.
“Let’s all take a deep breath,” said Ryan, his voice louder, but still soft and appeasing.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. There’s a rotten smell in here. Did you catch a whiff of it, Dick? Smells like that stinky French cheese. What do they call it…?”
“Whaddya mean by that smart remark?” Patty Pacquet was standing now, facing Anne. She had a firm grip on her purse strap, and her arm was cocked back.
“Just an observation,” she said innocently.
“Another one like that and you’ll get the back of my hand across that little face of yours.”
“Please, don’t. I have no idea where those hands have been.”
Patty’s eyes blinked twice as the words registered. Then she leapt toward Anne. Her purse swung in its arc. Ryan’s arms shot forward to keep Patty from getting to Anne. Anne took one step back. Ryan caught Patty around the waist, but her purse clipped the side of his head.
Ryan held Patty firmly and led her back to her seat.
“Stay seated,” he ordered. “Both of you,” he added, “or we’ll have to cancel this meeting, and that won’t serve either of our interests, will it?” Ryan ran his fingers through his tousled hair, and gingerly felt his temple. The skin was growing red and stinging. Then Ryan took a deep breath himself, sorted through a few papers on his desk, and continued.
“Now, Dick and I have arranged for this meeting to clarify details regarding the removal of effects from the office of Darby Investigations and Security at such address as stated on Victoria Row. Verbal notice of eviction was given by Ms. Pacquet. Formal papers were issued and served a week later on Friday, June 29. There’s a thirty-day time period required for adequate notice. That would bring us to Monday, July 30. Any problems with that date?”
Ryan looked around. “No? Let’s move on then. Ms. Brown, you will vacate the offices on or before that date. That will allow Ms. Pacquet one
full day to prepare for occupancy by her new tenants on the first of August.”
Ryan looked around again smiling confidently.
“Are we good then? Ms. Pacquet?”
She nodded sullenly.
Dick?”
Dick Clements looked at Anne.
“Anne?”
Anne looked at Ryan. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m fighting the eviction.”
Dick looked confused. Then he swallowed a nearly escaped laugh.
Before Anne finished her second sentence, Patty squealed in rage and headed for Anne again. Michael Ryan sprang up and rounded his desk to fend off Patty. This time he grabbed both her purse and her arm and led her, still scrambling for a fight, out of the room and down the hall to a vacant office. When Ryan returned, he looked flustered.
“Okay, Dick, what’s this all about?”
Dick shrugged his shoulders, suppressed a smirk and said, “I had no idea, but it’s my client’s prerogative to take legal action if she wishes.”
“But on what grounds! Dick? Ms. Brown?”
“First of all,” Anne began, “we have a lease that’s valid in perpetuity with a fixed rent.”
“Yes, yes, I know that, but the lease was between your uncle…” Ryan sifted through some papers. “… W. A. Darby, and Mr. Wendell Dundas, Ms. Pacquet’s deceased husband. It has nothing to do with you.”
“That’s not quite true, counsellor. Anne Brown is W. A. Darby,” said Dick Clements.
“Explain.”
“Her birth name is Wilhelmina Anne Darby. Anne Brown is her married name.”
“Well, that sleight of hand might work at the Legion bar late Saturday night, but it isn’t likely to hold up in court,” Ryan replied.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Dick said. “It’s one point. And another point, somewhat more pertinent, is that the lease agreement is not between Dundas and Darby. It’s between Dundas and Darby Investigations and Security. Even though Mr. Darby is deceased, his company continues to operate and continues to be a viable party to the lease.”
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