by Evan Graver
Scott shrugged. “I’m due to hop back to the States tomorrow. I’ve got another op to run.”
Ryan nodded. “I’m glad you got to come play in the sunshine.”
“You know, when Jinks told me I was coming down here, I thought we’d be doing something like disarming a ship full of fertilizer and diesel fuel again, but this was a nice change of pace. The Caribbean is a helluva lot nicer than those little shitholes we’ve been in and out of in the Middle East and Africa lately.”
“Yeah, that’s why I don’t work for Trident.”
“If you ever put together a team just to work in the Caribbean, let me be the first to put in my resume.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ryan said.
Scott stood. “I’ll be back. I’m going to check the computer dope.”
Ryan remained seated in the shade of the patio umbrella. The smell of Mango’s burgers wafted through the air, along with the scent of the flowering bougainvillea that surrounded the patio. Yeah, there was no way he was going back to the Middle East. The Caribbean was paradise.
Mango transferred the burgers to a platter and carried them inside to a table loaded with condiments and buns. The team helped themselves buffet-style, and Ryan sat beside Mango at the kitchen bar.
“What brings you back from the South Pacific?” Ryan asked between bites of his burger.
“We’re moving back here. Our boat is in Florida right now. We’d just gotten to Key West when Jenn’s mom called, saying her father was in the hospital. He had a heart attack, and we got there just before he passed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It happens to the best of us.” Mango shrugged. “Anyway, we heard you needed your ass saved again, and here we are. Plus, we’re looking for a place to keep our boat. We want to run our charter business here in the Caribbean.”
“Hitching a ride on the company dime, huh?”
Mango grinned. “I’m just a poor sailor trying to make a living.”
“Right.”
Scott walked up to them and quietly said, “We have a match.”
Chapter Thirteen
The three men walked to Scott’s bedroom where the computer sat on the dresser, its screen flashing a match between an account Terrence Joseph had received money from and one logged in Paul’s files.
Scott moved the curser and another window appeared. “The SWIFT code is for a bank in Panama.”
“Makes sense,” Ryan said. “Paul told me he dealt with Venezuelans, and Panama is a hotspot for money laundering.”
“So, what now?” Mango asked.
“We track down the owner of the account,” Ryan said. “Whoever owns that account has information on Venezuelans moving money out of their country.”
“Okay, but how does that help Oscar find the guy who ordered his team killed?” Mango asked.
“From what the news is reporting, the hierarchy in Venezuela is all connected,” Scott said. “You just keep working up the chain until you find the person who ordered the hit on Oscar’s team.”
Mango asked, “What if he’s just a smurf like Paul?”
“Let’s talk to Paul,” Ryan said.
They went back to the kitchen, and Ryan asked Paul to join them where Oscar was working at a dining table. When the men had assembled there, Ryan said, “Paul, tell us how the Venezuelans contacted you to move their money.”
“I got a phone call. They knew I was an established money launderer, and they gave me an account number and SWIFT code where they had their money parked. Then they’d tell me where they want it to end up. Sometimes, that’s a bank in another country with lax laws, or they want to purchase businesses to funnel the money through.”
“What kind of businesses?” Mango asked.
“Do you know how this works?” Paul asked him.
“Vaguely,” Mango said. “I know it’s not putting money into a washing machine.”
Paul shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You good?” His inflection implied, are you done cracking jokes?
“Yeah, I’m good,” Mango said with a smile.
“It’s like this,” Paul said. “Laundering starts with what’s called placement. That’s where they place the dirty money in a legitimate banking institution. Sometimes it’s just deposited in person with suitcases full of cash, or it’s dripped in through small deposits. My job is to take that money and move it into other accounts via small transactions that won’t raise no red flags.”
“Like depositing over ten grand in a bank account,” Scott said.
“Exactly. That raises a flag, and the bank has to report it. Once they park the money, then it gets layered. By that, I mean we set up shell corporations, so the transactions look like legitimate business deals. I do bank-to-bank transfers, or wire transfers, and the clients use the money to purchase assets like art, cars, houses, jewelry, diamonds—you know, stuff that’s hard to trace and easy to move. That’s called integration. Those assets are then sold via legitimate transactions on the open market, and the clients put the money back into the bank, all clean. Each step makes the money harder and harder to trace. Sometimes, they funnel it through legitimate cash, heavy businesses like strip clubs, car washes, gambling establishments, and parking garages.”
“What about this account in Panama? Can you find out who owns it?” Ryan asked.
Paul shrugged. “It’s probably a corporation.”
“Can you dig into it?” Ryan asked.
Paul shook his head. “I just move the money. I don’t know how to hack bank records. Besides, whoever set up this account probably has it encrypted or the records are exclusively on paper.”
“What’s your system here?” Oscar tapped the papers strewn across the table. “You must know names.”
“Some I do, but most I don’t. I move money for the New Jersey Mob, the Venezuelans, Colombians, and any other knucklehead who wants it shuffled around.”
“How do you keep it straight?” Oscar asked.
“If you look at the paperwork, you’ll see the originating account is followed by the accounts I moved the cash through. I like to call it my ‘money tree.’ The corporations branch out like tree limbs and I get a cut from the transactions, usually five percent.”
“So, what names do you have?” Ryan asked. “Maybe we can narrow it down from them.”
“None for what you guys want to know. Almost everything is done with codes. No one knows the name of the account holder unless you’re the first guy the client talked to, and even then, the client may give you a false name.”
Ryan rubbed his chin as he stared at the documents. “How did you know you were moving money for the Venezuelans?”
“Before Maduro cracked down on people moving money last year, a lot of origination codes came from Venezuelan banks. Then they started moving money via Colombia or Panama. Basically, they’d put the cash on pallets and send it out of the country. They’ve moved billions of dollars offshore in the last ten years. I’m just a trickle in the firehose.”
“This account has to be connected to a post office box or an address, right?” Oscar asked.
“Of course,” Paul said.
“Then we stake out the box just like I did to find you,” the Venezuelan stated.
“We could do that,” Ryan agreed. “Can you get us any information on this account, Paul?”
“I’m not able to access the bank records. All I can do is pull cash from the account or put it in. If I’d set up the business, that’d be a different story, but youse guys are startin’ at the root of my money tree.” He tapped the paperwork. “This account is the first in the string.”
The men fell silent, frustrated with the dead end.
After a few moments, Ryan said, “I need to make a call. I’ll be back in a bit.” He walked out onto the pool patio and used his sat phone to call Floyd Landis, his contact at the Department of Homeland Security. When Landis answered, Ryan explained Paul and Diane Langston’s situation and asked if Landis could h
elp secure protection for them. He left out any mention of Oscar López or their hunt for his team’s killer.
“Let me see what I can do,” Landis said.
“I’m putting them on DWR’s plane to Texas City tomorrow.”
“Let’s not jump the gun, Ryan.”
“They can’t stay here. I saved Paul from being executed. Twice. He needs protection.”
“Okay, put them on the plane, and I’ll make some calls.”
“Thanks, Landis—you’re a lifesaver.”
“I’ll add it to the list of favors you already owe me,” the agent grumbled.
“I knew I could count on you.” Ryan ended the call and leaned against the chain-link fence at the rear of the property. The view of the harbor was spectacular: pale blue water washed onto palm-covered shores against a backdrop of wooded hills.
Emily came over and stood next to him. “I could get used to this.”
“What, the view?”
“The view. The house full of friends. Being here with you.”
Ryan put an arm around her and pulled her close. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He was finally living the dream. He had a woman, a mission, a life. “Mango said that he and Jennifer are moving their sailboat here to run their charter business.”
“Yeah? Maybe they need some extra crew?” Emily proposed.
Ryan grinned. “I don’t know if I can take orders from a guy who was in the Coast Guard.”
“I think you could make an exception.”
“What are you saying, Em? Are you going to quit your job and stay here on St. Thomas?”
“I’m sure I can work remotely. What about you? Could you see yourself staying here?”
He gave her a kiss. “I can see myself anywhere you are.”
“Gag me with a spoon,” Mango said from behind them. “You two need a room.”
Ryan grinned. “Shut up, RoboCop.” He’d given Mango that nickname because of Mango’s high-tech prosthetic leg. The manufacturer had made it from titanium and matched it to the contours of Mango’s other leg. A special sleeve fitted with tiny sensors connected the nerves of his stump to servo motors and other electronics inside the metal shell, enabling the prosthesis to mimic the natural movement of his former leg and foot.
Mango had lost his leg during a boarding exercise in the Persian Gulf when he’d mistimed his jump from the Coast Guard’s small craft to the freighter’s Jacob’s ladder, and his foot had slipped off the ladder rung. The two boats had collided, using his leg as a fender, and smashing it beyond repair.
Mango flashed him the middle finger. “Jennifer and I are going to look for boat slips. You want to come with us, Emily?”
She winked at Ryan. “Maybe we can find one with a house.”
“What’s she talking about, bro?”
“You don’t want to know.” Ryan gave Emily a kiss and swatted her on the behind as she walked away. Smiling, he pulled out his phone and dialed another number. The recorded message told him the number was no longer in service.
His next call was to Ashlee Williams at Trident. She answered with a curt and sarcastic, “Hello, Ryan.”
He could hear the eye roll in the petite redhead’s voice. Usually when he called her, he needed something from her, and she always gave him a sarcastic retort when answering the phone despite them being good friends. “How was the honeymoon?”
“It was awesome! Thanks for hooking us up with that place on Saint Martin.”
“No problem. I just called in a few favors for you.”
“It was the nicest house I’ve ever been in, and there was a maid waiting on us hand and foot. I didn’t want to come home. But you didn’t call me to ask about my honeymoon, did you?”
“Nope. I tried calling Barry Thatcher, but the number I have isn’t any good.” Thatcher was a hacker whose skills Ryan had used on a previous job. Although he’d never met the hacker in person, he figured he could make further use of his expertise right about now. “Do you have a current one for him?”
“He likes to change phones like other people change underwear.” She read him the current number. “I’ll send him a text and let him know you’ll be calling.”
“Thanks. Talk to you later.” He hung up and waited a few minutes before dialing Barry’s number.
Barry answered with a wary, “Hello?”
“Hey, Barry. It’s Ryan Weller.”
“Oh, no. What do you want now?”
“Come on, Bare. Don’t be like that. I need your help again.”
“Last time nearly cost me my business.”
“This time, I just need you to tell me who the holder of a bank account is.”
“Oh, is that all?” Barry said.
“Come on, bro, you know I’m good for the cash.”
“Yeah, I know the company you work for is good for it, but I gotta look out for my other clients.”
“How many do you have?” Ryan asked.
“Fine.” The resignation was clear in Barry’s voice. “Give me the account number.”
“Before I give you the number, why are you so reluctant to help me?”
“I’m reluctant to help everyone but myself.”
“In that case, consider helping me to be helping you. You’ll get paid, and I’m sure while you’re poking around in the bank account that I’m going to ask you about, you can skim a little off the top.”
“Are you kidding? Just getting you this information could get me killed if I know the kind of people you’re looking for, Weller, let alone dipping into their funds.”
“Then you’d better cover your tracks,” Ryan said. “Oh, by the way, do you have a retainer fee?”
“Oh, hell no!”
Ryan gave him the account information. “Call me when you have something.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Barry hung up.
Ryan pocketed his phone. Guys like Barry were geniuses in their own right, and they had to be handled delicately. One wrong insult or perceived slight and you were permanently on their shitlist. Do not call; do not pass go; do not collect the needed information.
He went back inside and sat down at the bar to eat his now cold burger. When Ryan finished, he joined Oscar at the table. Scott was asleep on a lounge chair beside the pool, and Paul and Diane were watching television in another room. Only the hum of the air conditioner and the rustle of Oscar shuffling papers disturbed the silence in the room.
Ryan had spent the last few months with Emily practically glued to his hip aboard their tiny sailboat. Being alone helped to recharge his batteries. He fetched a beer from the fridge and went outside, where he stretched out in a chaise lounge and shut his eyes. Numbers swirled through his mind and, no matter how hard he tried to turn them off or push them from his mind with breathing exercises, he could not fall asleep.
He decided to walk down to Windseeker. After checking on Oscar, who was drinking a beer while still staring at the account numbers, Ryan told him he was going for a walk and that he was waiting on a call from his hacker contact.
The marina was less than three quarters of a mile from the house. Ryan enjoyed the walk in the warm sunshine, smelling the flowers that mingled with the salt air. The entire island bloomed with vibrant colors, either painted on the houses by their owners or splashed across the landscape by Mother Nature. She knew how to clothe her landscapes with unique colors and plants, and Ryan had always appreciated her splendor. He loved the Caribbean; the constant warm temperatures, the changes in the ocean’s colors as it washed over the depths, and the contrast of the mountains clad in green vegetation against the yellow, white, or black sand beaches.
When he and Emily had left Trinidad, he’d expected to end up in Tampa, where Emily had an apartment and a job. He’d contemplated starting his own commercial diving business or partnering with Greg to run a division of DWR in Florida. Maybe he’d go to college. His mother had always wanted him to get a degree, and the G.I. Bill was there to pay the way. After all, he’d done thousands of push-ups
in the mud to earn that opportunity.
Still, he hadn’t been able to convince himself that living in Florida was what he wanted. With Mango and Jennifer now looking for a dock to start their charter business on St. Thomas, the option of him and Emily staying here with them was now on the table. Or had she planted the idea in his head with that pep talk at the fence?
He stopped at the marina office and asked about prices for a year-round slip rental. His breath caught in his chest when the man told him the amount. He shrugged and walked out to his boat.
After checking the mooring lines, he examined the cabin doors and hatches, looking for signs of tampering. When he saw none, he unlocked the door and stepped down into the aft berth. He inhaled, smelling the familiar odors of his boat.
With a beer in his hand, he retreated to the cockpit and sat on the bench, sipping from the bottle, one foot propped on the opposite bench. It was nice to be home, listening to the creak of the fenders against the wooden docks and feeling the gentle motion of the boat as sport and pleasure boats came and went past the mega yachts and sailboats.
Here he was, a boat bum living in paradise. The next best thing to being at a slip with shore power to run the air conditioner was being at anchor in a secluded cove with no one else around for miles.
“Speaking of no one else …” he muttered to himself as he reached into the lazarette and retrieved a waterproof box. He opened it and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The first draw of smoke into his lungs was intoxicating, and he settled back into his perch, sipping beer, and puffing contentedly on the cigarette.
Nearly finished with both, his sat phone rang, and Ryan saw it was Barry. “Hey, bud. What’s up?”
“Look, I got what you need, but it’s really gonna cost you.”
“Send it over.”
“I don’t think so, friend. This is some heavy-duty shit that you’re in to, and my servers are still being pinged by guys trying to trace my trail. I want my money upfront.”
“Okay. Where and how much?”
“You can bring me cash.”
Ryan laughed at the absurdity of having to deliver cash to the hacker, wherever he was in the world. “I’m on St. Thomas, Barry.”