“Merely because Kiettisuk, the Mad Dutchman, and I were all taken in handcuffs for questioning,” Abdul said, a thought beginning to nag at the back of his mind. “We were held overnight in stinking jail cells. And for no reason. They had no charges against any of us. Do you know anything about that, Jonathan?”
“No, nothing,” Rossi said, his hands beginning to shake. “Why would I know anything about that?”
“You were the only one of us not rousted by police,” Abdul said, speaking slowly, deliberately. “All three of your partners found it an interesting coincidence that each of us saw one of your men accompanying the police. In my case, two of your men were with the FBI.”
Rossi felt the blood drain from his head. He thought he might faint. So that’s what happened to the four men he had watching Douglas’ condo and Darcey’s office.
“I assure you, Abdul, I know nothing about that. I do know that four men I had keeping an eye on some people were picked up.”
“The men we saw weren’t in handcuffs. I should say they appeared more as collaborators than prisoners.”
Sweat was now rolling down Rossi’s face. How could this be happening?
“I have no idea what those men might have done. I assure you, Abdul, if the cops turned them I will make them pay. I promise you that. And I apologize for the inconvenience they might have caused you. How can I make this right?”
“We’ll talk about that, Jonathan,” Abdul said, a sly smile splitting his usually stern visage.
“As you wish, Abdul.”
“Now, Jonathan, tell me, what has happened to the $10 million of my funds that I directed be transferred via quick burst? I gave you that direction almost a week ago. I received word that the transaction has not been completed.”
Rossi closed his eyes. He had been praying Abdul wouldn’t ask about the transfer.
“I don’t know, Abdul,” he said, stammering more than he wanted. “I’ll look into it immediately. I will make it happen.”
“See that you do,” Abdul said as he ended the call.
Rossi stared at the phone. Abdul had hung up on him. He had never done that before. Never. Their relationship had always been cordial. It was necessary to have a strong, positive relationship in order for their fiduciaria to succeed.
The ancient system of hawala on which the fiduciaria was based depended on trust. Without hawala the fiduciaria would collapse. If that occurred before he chose the timing to exercise the tontine, all would be lost.
He went into his office and sat at his desk. He ran his hands yet again over his rifle. Someone had taken out four of his security guards. What if it was not Marshall? Could it have been one of his partners? But why?
He called for Peter, his most trusted man. He was born Pietro. He anglicized his name without hesitation when Jonathan suggested it. Peter showed his loyalty in many ways.
“How many men do we have patrolling the grounds, Peter?” Rossi asked.
“I had eight brought in after the invasion we suffered.”
“Double it,” Rossi ordered.
“Yes, Don Rossi.” Peter didn’t question his orders. He obeyed. When asked, he advised. Rossi wasn’t asking.
He made a mental note to keep his own weapon close, at least until whatever was going on had worked itself out. Peter favored a larger version of the Heckler & Koch submachine guns with which two of the ill-fated security men had been armed. With this weapon, Peter feared nothing.
Abdul was surprised when Rossi told him that an unknown assailant had taken out his security guards. That was something else to think about. Clearly someone was playing games. He had assumed it was Rossi. Perhaps more than one player had stepped onto the field.
Now it was time to talk to his other partners. Abdul called Kiettisuk Jetjirawat first.
“I think we have a problem,” the Middle Easterner reported to his Southeast Asian ally.
“Yes, there is no doubt about that. The questions are, ‘What, exactly, is the problem?’ and ‘What do we do about it?’”
“I think you and I should meet face to face with Winters. This is serious, Kiettisuk, and requires serious discussion and coordination.”
“May I offer to host the meeting?” Kiettisuk offered, diplomatically. “I know your hospitality to be unparalleled. However, our less cultured ally might bring with him companions and substances that would be offensive in your devout home.”
“Your offer is kind, and graciously accepted.”
Rossi used another burner to dial Scott Douglas. It was not Douglas who answered.
“I’m calling for Scott Douglas,” Rossi said. “Have I dialed a wrong number?”
“No, this is Scott Douglas’ number,” Christopher answered. “Unfortunately Mr. Douglas can’t come to the phone.”
“Please tell him this is an urgent call,” Rossi insisted.
“Scott Douglas is dead, Mr. Rossi,” Christopher said, correctly guessing who was calling. “He died trying to protect Miles Diaz-Douglas from your thugs.”
Rossi ended the call. Again he felt the blood rushing from his face, leaving him pale.
Douglas dead? The idiot Gaetano hadn’t mentioned that in his report of last night’s disaster.
Douglas was the key to Rossi’s money laundering operation. An attorney on Rossi’s payroll had enough knowledge of the system to continue it in partial operation temporarily. But he didn’t have the detailed records. Douglas kept that information himself. Without him the ability to continue the operation indefinitely was compromised.
With Douglas’ death his successor at the firm would order an audit. That was normal procedure. It was imperative that the right person was chosen to succeed Douglas. Rossi was certain he could arrange that.
But what of the records that Douglas must have kept hidden away? Of course Douglas would have kept them on his computer. That’s the way finance was done these days.
He had to get his hands on Douglas’ computer. He would have a lap top, Rossi guessed. A machine he could take home with him. He knew Douglas often worked from home.
He had to get a man into Douglas’ home to find that computer. He called for Peter again.
Kiettisuk Jetjirawat entered through the front door of the modest Thai restaurant not far from his penthouse apartment in Little Saigon. The Mad Dutchman and Abdul Rahman would enter through the rear door. He couldn’t care less if the Dutchman was offended. He did regret that Abdul should be subjected to such a rude requirement. It was necessary to avoid, to the extent possible, the wrong eyes seeing them together.
The private room arranged for them was more than adequate. It approached the elegant. He had selected the menu himself.
His partners would be served Pla Muek Yang, grilled squid in a tangy sauce with peanuts and cilantro; Som Tum, green papaya salad with dried shrimp, fish sauce, tamarind juice and chiles; and yellow beef curry with potatoes.
All were Thai specialties. He thought Abdul would enjoy them.
The Middle Easterner was the first to arrive. He slid noiselessly into the room. Kiettisuk rose as Abdul entered, pressing his hands together, fingers extended upward in the traditional wai greeting.
“Welcome,” he said, with a slight bow.
“As-Salam-u-Alaikum,” Abdul intoned, honoring Kiettisuk with the greeting usually reserved for fellow Muslims. “Peace be unto you.”
As the two men sat at the table, a pretty young Thai woman brought warm jasmine tea.
“This tea is excellent, Kiettisuk.”
“I am glad it pleases you, Abdul,” he replied, modestly. “I suspect our third party will find it less pleasing.”
With perfect timing they heard the distinctive roar of a motorcycle at the rear of the building. Seconds after the sound died the Mad Dutchman entered the room, dressed in jeans, leather boots, denim jacket with his gang colors over a black tee shirt. His long, unkempt hair and beard gave him the wild look of a man barely in control of himself.
“Good evening, Dutchman. Welc
ome,” Kiettisuk said. “May I offer you a cup of jasmine tea?”
“Tea?” Winters laughed. “No, I don’t want no tea. I’ll have a beer.”
“A Hoegaarden, please,” Kiettisuk said to the young waitress.
“Make it two,” Winters growled.
After serving the beer, the waitress set a bowl of steaming rice by each of the men. She quickly returned with large plates of the steamed squid, green papaya salad, and green curried beef.
Kiettisuk and Abdul helped themselves to all three dishes. Abdul complimented Kiettisuk on his choice of restaurants.
Winters pushed the squid and papaya aside.
“What’s this green stuff?” he asked, gruffly.
“It’s beef curry with potatoes,” Kiettisuk replied, controlling his irritation at the biker’s rudeness.
“Guess I’ll have some of that,” he said. “At least it’s American.”
As the meal came to an end, Abdul reported on his conversation with Rossi. Rossi, he said, had not been bothered by any law enforcement. He also, Abdul told his partners, denied any knowledge of his men collaborating with any of the agencies. Rossi said they had disappeared. He told Abdul he didn’t know what had happened to them until the Middle Easterner told him about seeing them with the cops.
Winters slammed his fist down on the table.
“I don’t believe it. Rossi’s up to something. He’s messing with us.”
“It gets worse,” Abdul said calmly.
“How could it get worse?” Winters demanded.
Kiettisuk just looked at Abdul.
“I am concerned that games are being played with our money,” Abdul responded. “A transfer I ordered almost a week ago has yet to be accomplished.”
“That’s it,” Winters said, rising and drawing his Sig Sauer handgun. “The time for talking is over. Let’s get him.”
“We should not act rashly,” Kiettisuk calmly suggested. “We can’t just shoot Rossi. He controls the fiduciaria. If we do away with him we would have difficulty accessing our funds. We must proceed cautiously. And we must have more information.”
Abdul looked at Kiettisuk thoughtfully.
“By any chance, my friend,” he asked, “do you have a contact within the Rossi Family?”
“One would be foolish to play a dangerous game without taking all precautions,” Kiettisuk replied with a small smile.
Miles slept through the afternoon. At 6:30 he walked unsteadily out of his bedroom.
Darcey and Trent were dining on spaghetti with meat sauce and garlic bread that she had made. Trent helped Miles into a chair at the table while Darcey prepared a plate for him. He took only a few bites before telling them he was going back to bed.
Later, Trent made gin and tonics for himself and Darcey. They sipped their cocktails in silence. Both feared Miles might not recover.
Friday, August 5th
Darcey woke at 4 o’clock. It was the hour she had come to dread.
She was relieved to find Trent sleeping peacefully beside her. Perhaps it would be a day without symptoms. They could use one of those.
She rolled over, gently laying one arm over his chest, one leg over his. He shifted slightly in his sleep, his hand coming up to cover hers.
It would be a good day.
At least for Trent’s illness.
At eight o’clock Ross Brown called to say he had completed the computer game they asked him to develop. He told them he had loaded the data Scott provided. It was ready to do its work. All he had to do was touch one button when they gave him the word.
Christopher and Trent again followed a circuitous route using the power of the Bentley for the short trip to Brown’s house. They had not identified Ross Brown or revealed this part of their plan to any of the other law enforcement agencies working with them.
So far they had encountered no interference from moles. But they weren’t naïve. Criminal organizations at the level of the four they were confronting would have officials on their payrolls. Some in high positions. Thanks to Captain Albright they already knew about Deputy Chief Amanda Justice. No action had been taken against her yet. Not yet.
Once again in Brown’s historic basement he showed them the “game” he had created. It was impressive. He lit it up for them on a dry run. It looked to Trent like one of those ant hills encased in plastic with thousands of small creatures moving through a maze of tunnels.
Except there were no animals. There were only lights. And the lights connected banks, investment firms, and other businesses in six Caribbean island nations, four scattered across the Pacific, two in Latin America, three in the Middle East, three in Africa, two in Asia. All were countries with few or no laws controlling the movement of money. Or countries that didn’t enthusiastically enforce the laws that were on their books.
Surprisingly, three banks in France were included, as were one bank and three investment firms in Great Britain. In Italy there was only one bank. A bank, they suspected, controlled by Jonathan Rossi. In the case of those three countries, it meant high level employees were simply turning their heads. Failing to report transfers of funds.
“Mr. Douglas gave us all the information we needed to identify the businesses he was using to launder the funds of Rossi’s fiduciaria,” Brown said. “The fun for me was figuring out how to link them up, aim them all to one location, and program them to transfer funds in short bursts when I push this button.” His finger hovered over a silver button.
“Not yet,” Christopher said, anxiously.
Brown laughed. “No worries. I’m anxious to see it work but I won’t get ahead of the game.”
“So we can assume that in each of these circles along the electronic pathways you’ve connected up you have all the account numbers and which organizations are connected to them?”
“Absolutely,” Ross said. “Mr. Douglas kept detailed records. For instance, Rossi has accounts in these two Caribbean countries, one here in the Pacific, one in Africa, two banks in France, one in Great Britain, and, of course, this one in Rome. There are also two banks in the U.S. One in New Orleans and another in Washington, D.C. And there’s an investment firm in Shreveport.” He lit up each small circle along the tiny electronic highway he had built each time he called out one of Rossi’s interests.
“When you hit that button, Ross,” Trent asked, how long will it take for the accounts to be emptied and the money sent on its way?”
“It will be instantaneous. If a banker, say here,” he said, pointing to a Middle Eastern country, “was looking at an account belonging to the Scourge, it would simply show a zero balance when I hit the button. He would have no idea what happened. The account to which we were sending the funds would reflect the deposit just as quickly.”
“We need to get on the phone with our friends in Great Britain, Paris, and Rome so they can be prepared. We also need to talk to FinCEN and the FBI. They should be ready to step into the offices of these firms as soon as you hit the button. We’ll let Interpol be responsible for contacting the other governments. They’ll have a better idea of which of them will take action against these rogue banks and which won’t.”
They spent the next hour on the phone, talking to their European allies, FinCEN and the FBI. They said they could be ready in three hours. It was agreed that at one o’clock Pacific Standard Time Ross would hit the button.
Other than those in the United States, the banks would be closed by then. They would reopen for full service Saturday morning in London and for drive through only in Paris. The bank in Rome was one of the very few Italian banks open on Saturday. The investment firms would be open at varying times, as would the banks and firms in the Caribbean, the Pacific, Latin America, Africa, the Middle East and Asia. Many of them had staff on duty twenty-four hours a day to accommodate large customers.
They would all be stunned to discover that huge accounts were emptied, the funds transferred to a single account in the Rome bank. In those countries serious about enforcing laws against m
oney laundering, the staffs on duty would be further surprised to find members of their country’s police as well as Interpol at their doors.
At exactly one o’clock, Ross pressed the magic button. Pressed it gleefully, Trent thought. Ross really did create, at least in his mind, a new game.
On the screen resembling a plastic-enclosed ant hill, the light began rapidly moving along the lines linking the round dots. As each dot was reached, it went dark. The signal that an account had been emptied.
In less than a minute, all the dots were dark but one. The bank in Rome, controlled by Jonathan Rossi, glowed brightly. So it should. Its coffers had been increased by more than $200 million dollars.
Peter was surprised to receive new orders. He didn’t think it was time to put the tontine into motion. He didn’t think Don Rossi was sufficiently in control. He decided to make some changes in the orders he had received. He made a few calls of his own. He would take twenty men with him and an eighteen wheeler.
He fitted his Heckler & Koch with its sound suppressor. His men, armed with the smaller H&K submachine guns and Sig Sauer semiautomatic handguns, were ordered to attach their sound suppressors as well. While the target was relatively secluded it wouldn’t do to have the sound of gunfire rolling across the community.
Though he was unaware of it, Peter and his men arrived at the Richmond warehouse at the exact moment Ross Brown touched his magic game button. Five cars and a large truck. As the truck driver was backing up to the loading dock under Peter’s direction, one of the warehouse doors rolled up. Two Barons of Lucifer stepped out of the dim indoor lighting.
“What’s this?” one of them asked, tersely. His eyes focused on the nasty-looking rifle Peter was holding.
“Just conducting a little business,” Peter replied with a smile. “Business is always good, right?” He put his arm around one of the Barons and led him back into the building. The other one stared at the truck for a few seconds, then followed.
Inside the warehouse were two stacks of recently arrived crates. One stack was marked “Furniture.” Peter knew it contained Glock 40s, powerful handguns. Peter had heard the Glock 40 was capable of taking down vicious feral hogs.
Neighbors and Other Strangers Page 17