by Dick Couch
The largest, most secure, and most remote money-laundering and electronic offshore banking facility in the world is on the South Pacific island of Nauru. This little speck of phosphate lies south of the Marshall Islands; its nearest and most famous neighbor is Tarawa, some four hundred miles east-northeast. Rich phosphate deposits were discovered there some hundred years ago, which made Nauruans and their little island nation dazzlingly wealthy. But the mining activity devastated the island, and mismanagement squandered much of the once-large Nauruan trust fund that had been amassed with money from phosphate ore. Ninety percent of the twelve-square-mile landmass is an arid wasteland of mining tailings. The thirteen thousand residents depend on imports for food, fuel, building materials—everything. In the face of declining phosphate revenues, the world’s smallest republic turned to another industry: offshore banking and offshore corporate registration. Laws were written expressly to make legal what was illegal in most of the banking capitals of the world.
Nauru is isolated and secure. There is a dock to accommodate phosphate ore carriers, and a single airport, which handles but one flight a week. The “bank” is a low three-thousand-foot-square cinder-block building in the Yaren District near the airport that houses the computers; the “bankers” are computer technicians. The roof of the low building is populated by an array of dish antennas. The doors have stout locks, but there is no other physical security; there is no need on such a remote island.
While Garrett Walker and Akheem Kelly-Rogers were cruising the Caribbean, the USS Kamehameha (SSBN 462) silently approached the island of Nauru. The big nuclear submarine carried two small wet submersible SEAL delivery vehicles, piggybacked behind its sail. Well offshore in deep water, the big nuclear mother sub launched one of her SDVs, which made its way in close to Nauru. Under cover of darkness, four Navy SEALs bottomed their mini-sub and anchored it just outside the reef that surrounds Nauru. They swam the rest of the way on scuba and crossed the beach near the banking facility. With them was a skilled CIA technician and several bundles of electronic equipment. The SEALs easily defeated the standard door locks and entered the bank. The technician worked for most of the night while the SEALs kept watch. They left before dawn, leaving no physical trace of their visit, but within the data-processing infrastructure of this electronic financial conglomerate, some subtle and important changes had been made.
The technician who did the work was like an astronaut; he represented the visible component of a brilliant and dedicated team of engineers and scientists who had worked long and hard to develop the software patch that the technician had just installed. For the SEALs, it was an interesting but routine mission. They did it professionally and without complaint, but to a man, they wanted to be in Afghanistan or Iraq, where the real fighting against terrorists was taking place.
Dodds LeMaster watched from his perch at NSA while the international banking community rose to meet the new day. The volume of money transfers varied from country to country, but they were generally completed before 10:00 A.M. on a business day, as the flow of money followed the sun around the globe. Some banks, like the one on Nauru, never slept. Suddenly LeMaster uncoiled from his slouch and eased the half-eaten sandwich to the console.
“Well, hallo, luv,” he said as his fingers raced over the keyboard; his face was as animated as a child’s on Christmas morning. “Gotcha!” he said aloud. “Make one more move, and you’re mine.”
The communication algorithms and decoding technologies were sophisticated and very, very fast. And there was a little bit of luck involved, not the least of which was a certain Russian’s affinity for French music. LeMaster tagged the four transfers totaling close to $30 million as they entered and left the Leeward Bank on Nevis. When the funds, in different denominations and different currency, arrived on Nauru, he was able to deflect them to a bank account in the Caymans registered to LeMaster Trading Partners, Ltd. These funds then, through an even more complex series of laundering transfers, made their way in the form of a bequest to the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation. But for a brief moment in time, Dodds LeMaster had been a very wealthy man.
Pavel Zelinkow carefully wiped his hands before taking out his Blackberry handheld. He dialed his account tied to Nauru and punched in his PIN. The account was empty. Can’t be! He dialed again, and got the same result. A cold feeling crept up his spine, replacing the warmth of the tiramisu and espresso. Could it be happening again?! Two more inquiries to banking accommodation addresses only confirmed the fact. His funds were gone. Then he heard the growing wail of sirens. He watched helplessly as several police cars and unmarked sedans, which meant the Detective Division of the Polizia di Stato, raced by the bakery in the direction of his flat. For the second time in as many years, it seemed, the Grand Game had taken a turn against him.
With some reluctance he took out his cell phone, sighed, and punched in the number he had hoped never to have to dial. There was a short ring, then a busy signal, followed by a dial tone. The call triggered a relay that activated a solenoid, letting acid into a small glass chamber with a thin wire. The wire quickly gave way, breaking the circuit and firing the primer charge. It was not a large explosion, designed only to scatter flammable material about the office. Within seconds the whole flat was in flames.
Pavel Zelinkow rose, left a generous tip on the table, and walked out into the warm Rome morning. He decided to walk, and a half hour later he arrived on the steps of a small, rather ordinary and quite legal Italian bank. From his safety deposit box he removed a briefcase that contained cash in several currencies, credit cards, a flask of fine cognac, a small traveling humidor with four Cuban Churchills, and a passport in the name of Jean-Paul Desmond. He took a cab to the airport and caught a flight to Athens and from there on to Frankfurt, where he changed planes for Buenos Aires.
As soon as the American medical team had arrived at the madrassa outside the Saudi capital, they took possession of the three syringes of genetically altered smallpox. The serum was immediately dispatched by special military aircraft to Paris. When tests at the Pasteur Institute were completed, it was taken, again by special military aircraft, to Robbins Air Force Base near Atlanta. The final leg of the journey to the CDC was by armored car. There, the first man-made pestilence took its place beside what was once thought to be the last remaining strain of variola major smallpox. Those in Riyadh, Paris, and Washington hoped this new addition was the entire remaining stock of the African smallpox, but only time would tell if this were the case.
Graham Burkett sat at his desk in Georgetown studying the balance sheets and cash-flow projections of Outreach Africa. Things were not good. The recent setbacks in Zimbabwe had strained the financial reserves of the foundation and several of the benefactors who supported Outreach Africa had shifted their normal bequests to help with reconstruction efforts following the Indian Ocean tsunami. In a very short time, Burkett concluded, his foundation would have to cut back on their clinical services and that meant more suffering. He was massaging his temples with his fingertips when Florence stepped in, without knocking as usual. She put a file in his inbox and paused as she turned to leave.
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Findley from Citibank called and wanted you to call him right away.”
This sent up alarm bells with Burkett. They were low on funds, but he didn’t think they were that low.
“When did he call?”
“Well, the first time was early this morning, but he’s called back twice since then.”
“And why didn’t you tell me this before now,” Burkett said evenly, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.
“Oh, well, I thought you might be busy,” Florence mumbled, wringing her hands and studying the carpet, “and well, I thought you might not want to be disturbed.”
Burkett sighed. “Thank you, Florence, and please close the door on your way out.”
After she retreated to the foyer, Burkett took up the phone, sighed again, and hit the speed dialer. The receiver felt as if it weighed t
en pounds. Kenneth Findley had been Outreach Africa’s banker for some time, and often covered drafts for the charity while donor checks cleared. If we’ve overdrawn an account, Burkett thought, there is no check to clear and cover.
“Ken,” Burkett said when Findley came on the line. He made no attempt to hide his concern. “Is there a problem I should know about?”
“On the contrary, Graham, on the contrary,” the banker replied genially. “Congratulations on the donation.”
“The donation?”
“Why yes, it arrived this morning. Thirty million dollars! Well done. I know you will see that it is put to good use.”
“You are positive it was for us?”
“Absolutely. We don’t make mistakes with that kind of money.”
Burkett was dumbfounded. “But…but who was it from?”
“Hell, man, I thought you would know. The transmission letter just said, ‘For some much needed and noble work’.”
Burkett considered this. “Some much needed and noble work,” he slowly repeated. It had a familiar ring to it, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place it.
In a small, fashionable Paris bistro, two couples sat at the best table in the house and ordered dinner. There was no listing of prices on the menu; everything was outrageously expensive, and the normal clientele so affluent that cost was not even addressed. Garrett poured out the last of a bottle of Dom Perignon, flipped it into the air, deftly catching it by the neck, and in a smooth motion dropped it into the ice bucket, bottom end up. He signaled to the wine steward for another. He and AKR were dressed in slacks, open-collared shirts, and sport coats. Judy Burks and Janet Brisco had made a crusade through a half dozen high-end Parisian boutiques and were dressed to the nines. Garrett raised his glass and was about to speak when Janet touched his arm.
“Maybe we should let the ground commander make the first toast.”
“Madam controller, I think that is entirely appropriate. AKR?”
Akheem Kelly-Rogers raised his glass and, smiling broadly, looked at each of the other three in turn.
“Ladies and gentlemen—fellow warriors—to the Africans.”
“To the Africans!”