by Bob Graham
Laura re-covered herself, bringing her knees together hard against her abdomen. “And was it, the partnership, consummated?” She emphasized the last word.
Stretching to return the Leica to its original position, Zaid said, “My dear, I fear you have moved from past history to current actions of the king. That is a place I cannot go.”
Laura’s lips curled into a pout. She intercepted Zaid’s now empty but still extended hand and placed it over her left breast. “I thought our new attachment was going so well, with much more to come. Now that you have ended our photographic seminar, is that the end of the evening?”
Zaid moved his hand to the loose knot that held her robe in place and pulled.
With her right hand Laura fended him off while with her left she struggled to hold her robe together. Flirtatiously melding her born southern and acquired aristocratic voices, Laura said, “Zaid, you are a very handsome and intelligent man and, beginning this evening, a promising photographer, with me as your model and muse. I want to know you better.”
Zaid released his hold as she continued, “But I am tired, and tomorrow I will have to be at my best for the session with your grandfather and the family. I will be staying over until noon on Friday. Could we continue your intriguing recollections tomorrow evening and conclude the fascinating suspense story you have spun for me thus far?”
Zaid nuzzled her neck, which Laura interpreted as a yes.
“And, Zaid, add to those treats the first viewing of your photographic talents. With your permission we might explore undiscovered regions of your artistic potential. I will be more alert with a good night’s sleep and my mission to His Majesty complete.”
She rose, taking Zaid’s hand lightly, and led him to the door. He took her in his arms and with scotch-tinged words said, “I am disappointed that we cannot deepen our friendship here, tonight. But I am gratified that you have come and will respect your wishes. Tomorrow evening will be special for me, and I hope for you as well.”
He tightened his embrace and lingered over a strong kiss on Laura’s open lips.
As Zaid was straightening his shirt, Laura arched her neck for a final kiss. “I am also anticipating a very special tomorrow.”
She waited until she heard the elevator begin its descent. She returned to the main room and placed a call on her iPhone.
“Mr. Jeralewski, please.”
SEPTEMBER 10–11
George Town, Grand Cayman Island
Carol’s American Airlines flight arrived from Miami at eleven. The plane was less than half filled, and Owen Roberts International Airport was virtually empty. George Town was as laid back in September as Zermatt was bustling in July.
When she stepped outside the airport, even wearing her stylish Ray-Bans, she had to shield her eyes from the blazing sun. There was no line for the Toyota taxis at the airport. With her overnight and laptop bags in hand, she hailed the nearest of them and directed the driver to the Anglo-Cayman Bank.
Another taxi, occupied and waiting in the short-term parking lot across from the terminal, moved in behind Carol’s, far enough away to be hidden by two intervening vehicles, but sufficiently close to maintain visual contact.
Hector Nuñez, an elderly Afro-Caribbean, neatly dressed in a black suit, stiff collar, and narrow sky-blue tie adorned with the Anglo-Cayman emblem, a dolphin rising from the sea, greeted her as she eased from the rear seat.
The occupant in the following taxi noted the time and the description of her host.
“Ms. Watson?” Nuñez said as he nodded respectfully.
“Thank you, yes,” she said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Rawls at noon. Would it be possible that you might store my luggage until later in the day?”
Nuñez escorted her into the cool lobby, cleared her with the receptionist, offered a seat on a tropical upholstered sofa, and left with Carol’s bags. After ten minutes, Carol noticed that she and the receptionist were the only persons in the lobby. No one else had entered or exited during her wait. At noon she was told that Mr. Rawls would meet her in the third-floor conference room.
Mr. Rawls, shoulders moderately stooped from his six-foot height and looking every one of his sixty-two years, was standing by the elevator door. He welcomed Carol in a thick Scottish accent and led her to a spacious conference room overlooking the harbor.
“Ms. Watson, we are honored by your presence. Our friends in Zurich have alerted us to your inquiries there, and I hope we have the information you are seeking.”
“It’s pretty straightforward,” she replied. “On the instructions of my government, I am auditing a flow of funds that reached your institution from October of 1991 to October of 1992. From the records at Zurich-Alliance, Anglo-Cayman received substantial transfers during that thirteen-month period. I am tasked to determine the subsequent disposition of those funds from your bank.”
Rawls motioned Carol to a corner seat and took the chair at the head of the table. With a noticeable quiver calling greater attention to his accent, he explained, “That was the period in which we were converting and automating our systems. I fear there are some gaps, such as records and data transitioned to our main office in London and not fully retrieved.” Reaching into his briefcase, he handed her a mixed stack of computer-generated spreadsheets and manual ledgers. “I hope you will find what you desire in these. Would you care for lunch while you are reviewing these documents?”
“Very thoughtful, thanks. A chicken or turkey sandwich with unsweetened ice tea would be fine.”
Rising to depart, Rawls said, “This room is yours as long as you care to use it. I can be reached at extension 308.”
It took less than an hour for Carol to eat her lunch and reprise her first-day reactions in Zurich. What she had been given was the counterpart of the disbursements from Zurich-Alliance to Anglo-Cayman, but no new information.
She was still stuck only one step beyond what the British Serious Fraud investigators had found and the Guardian disclosed. Carol dialed extension 308. “Mr. Rawls, I need to speak with you as soon as possible.”
Looking more earnest than at noon, Rawls entered the office. Carol explained that what she had been provided did not advance her inquiry.
“I regret your displeasure.” Rawls apologized. “The records you are seeking must be among those missing. I will contact our office in London. Unfortunately, as it is now almost eight in the evening there, it will be tomorrow before our colleagues can commence the search.”
“Mr. Rawls, in all honesty, I am more than displeased,” Carol declared in an edged southern accent. “This bank has known for more than three weeks what I wanted to review; clearance had been granted by your executives in London. This is a matter of extreme urgency, and my government will be highly disappointed that your institution is so unprepared to be responsive.”
Carol withheld what she knew, that 250 million British pounds would be an enormous transaction for Anglo-Cayman, requiring the knowledge and approval of the highest echelons of the bank in London and the Caymans. Mr. Rawls was lying.
“Ms. Watson, I apologize for any inconvenience. We who represent the Queen’s interest in the remainder of the colonial empire strive to maintain the highest standards. I will beseech the London office to expedite your request and will urge clearance from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office be facilitated.”
“Why is that a concern?” Carol asked.
“From your first inquiry in August, we recognized the sensitivity of your request and have kept our colonial ministers advised. Certainly you and your government can appreciate the appropriateness, no, the necessity of doing so.”
“I can’t, and doubt that my superiors at Justice or the Treasury will be very understanding.” Folding the papers Rawls had given her, Carol rose. “I’ll be back at 8:30 in the morning and trust you will have more and positive information from London.”
An hour later, in her room at the Grand Cayman Marriott Beach Resort, Carol received a call.
�
�Ms. Watson, this is Hector Nuñez. I need to talk with you.”
“Why, Mr. Nuñez?”
“Mr. Rawls did not tell you the whole truth.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The documents you came to audit are in the bank, but not in the files Mr. Rawls gave to you. I know where they are located.”
“How do you know this?”
“It will be better for all if we say no more on that subject.”
“Can we meet tonight?”
“Come at nine this evening to the parking lot across from the hotel, next to the Stern’s Jewelry. I’ll be waiting in a white Hyundai Sonata.”
“I’ll be there at nine,” Carol confirmed.
As Nuñez disconnected she heard a slight hum in the background.
She arrived ten minutes early and, not seeing a white Sonata, slipped into Stern’s. As she entered she noticed a man step behind a curtain in the rear of the elegant store. All that could be seen of him was two large and squat feet strapped in sandals covered with sand.
Carol couldn’t enjoy browsing at the upscale store. She could not concentrate on the bracelet she was considering for Suzie as she furtively and repeatedly glanced at the curtain. The sandaled man was now seated with his hairy, heavy legs exposed to midcalf.
At nine, through the pane of glass separating the store from the sidewalk, she saw the headlights of a sedan that fit Nuñez’s description. She walked to the passenger’s side. Nuñez motioned for her to enter.
He couldn’t avoid noticing Carol’s distress. “Ms. Watson, is there something bothering you?”
Carol nibbled at her lower lip. “There was a man at Stern’s who looked eerily familiar. As soon as I came through the door he slipped into one of the cubicles where they show the really expensive jewelry. He was still sitting there when I left.”
Nuñez consoled her: “He was probably just one of those rich Americans picking out something for his girlfriend.”
Carol wasn’t convinced but wanted to put the concern behind her. As Hector pulled out of the lot, she asked him why he had offered his assistance.
“First, as an internal auditor of the bank I have had access to the email traffic surrounding your arrival. In one of the bank’s communiqués with the Home Ministry, a Mr. Tony Ramos, formerly of Guanabacoa, Cuba, was stated to be your—in English I think you would say your colleague in this inquiry. That name was familiar, so I checked further and determined he was the grandson of an old friend from our hometown.”
“How was that?” Carol asked.
“I am also from Guanabacoa. Mr. Ramos’s grandfather and I played baseball together. During the war, when it was hard for American teams to fill their rosters, they picked up some Afro-Cuban players. His grandfather and I were two of those. We played a season and a half with the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro National League. You become close far from home.”
“And how did you get from Guanabacoa to here?”
“After I quit playing baseball, I went to work at a bank. I started as a cashier, and after a few years I was the head teller, and then Fidel came. Most of my friends, like the Ramos family, went north to Miami. And after the Bay of Pigs, I decided to go south where I thought I could find a better job, and have been in the Caymans and at this bank for over forty-five years.”
“Mr. Nuñez, that is a very uplifting personal story, but I’m still not sure why you took the risk of helping me.”
“Ms. Watson, I don’t like women to be made to seem inferior.”
“And was that happening to me?”
“Indeed. I know you work for the U.S. Treasury and used to be at Price Waterhouse, so you must be very smart. I know what it takes to be a bank auditor, and I don’t think a bank officer would have tried to deceive a man the way you were treated.” Nuñez maneuvered the Sonata into a parking space behind Anglo-Cayman in an otherwise empty lot. “I’ll show you how that was later.”
He held Carol’s door as she eased from the car. Nuñez had the codes to open the rear door of the bank. He introduced Carol as the new auditor to the drowsy security officer, Granville Meldrum, who nodded and dropped back to sleep.
Nuñez led Carol down a flight of stairs into the back office of the bank, where the courtesies and amenities of the executive suites were converted into profitable business. He opened a final set of electronically secured double doors, exposing a file room no more than thirty feet square. “This is where the information you have come for is kept. These are Anglo-Cayman’s special clients’ files.”
From a shelf labeled “Diplomatic,” Nuñez removed a file notated “Mahmood al-Rasheed” and handed it to Carol. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” he said.
In less than fifteen, Carol discovered that 3.25 billion pounds had come into that account from Zurich-Alliance in the period from October 1991 to October 1992, in increments of 250 million pounds per month. She spent the balance of the time trying to figure out where it had gone. Carol’s alternative hypotheses were that BAE’s pounds were washed through a British colonial bank to obtain even greater control and confidentiality than a Swiss bank would provide, or the pounds were being spread to additional princes whom al-Rasheed wanted to keep undisclosed.
Her analysis undercut both of those theories. Mahmood al-Rasheed’s accounts indicated that each month, within a day of receipt, 2 million pounds were wired to his account at the Riggs Bank in Washington, D.C. The remaining 248 million pounds were sent to a numbered account at the Empire Bank of Commerce in New York City.
When Nuñez returned he was carrying yet another file. This one was titled “Accounts.” It contained the names of the holders of the numbered accounts in two dozen banks in Europe and the United States. The account into which 3.224 billion pounds had been transferred was held by the Peninsular Partners.
Realizing she was unlikely to get her hands on this material again, Carol took copious notes. To assure an evidence trail, Nuñez assented to Carol’s request to allow her to copy the most significant of the bank records.
It was after eleven when Nuñez returned the files to their original location, leaving no evidence of removal. With a perfunctory nod to Meldrum, Hector and Carol walked toward the Sonata. There was now a second car in the lot.
As Nuñez turned onto Eastern Avenue, the second car followed. Nuñez pushed the gas pedal to ten miles over the speed limit.
“What’s the rush?” Carol asked.
“We’re being followed.”
Carol turned and peered into the high beams of the trailing car. It kept pace until Hector turned into the Marriott’s circular drive, whereupon it continued north along the beachfront road.
Standing by the front of the Sonata, Carol asked in a hushed voice, “Who do you think that was?”
“No idea. From the front plates I can tell it was a rental, so it could be almost anybody. I do know you should be very careful. What time is your flight?”
“Five-thirty tomorrow afternoon.”
“I suggest you leave as soon as you can,” Nuñez advised.
Carol nodded and thanked Hector profusely. “I would have been frustrated and lost without your assistance. I am deeply indebted.”
“It is always a pleasure to help a good person. Two requests: Please give Mr. Ramos my best wishes. His namesake was a fine infielder and an even better friend. And be safe.”
“I will and look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
“Igualmente.”
Carol strode across the tile lobby, waited until there was an empty elevator, ascended to the fifth floor, opened the door to 522, scanned the room, entered, and locked the door behind her with the dead bolt and the chain.
After a restless night, each slightest sound waking her, Carol canceled her plans for a jog down the soft white-sand beach. In her room she ate her accustomed breakfast of orange juice, bran cereal, and coffee, dressed, packed, and was walking through the main door of Anglo-Cayman as it opened at 8:30.
Mr. Rawls was on the o
ther side of the stately entrance. “Ms. Watson, I regret to say we have not heard back from the London office, but I’m sure we will before the end of the business day in London.”
Carol smiled. “I appreciate your efforts, but I have all the information I expect to secure and have changed my airline reservation to the eleven-thirty flight to Miami.”
Surprised, Rawls continued. “Ms. Watson, please tell your supervisors at the Treasury that we did all within our capacity and the time available.”
“I certainly will fully inform them of the level of assistance provided to our inquiry.”
Confused by the turn of events, Rawls retreated toward the elevator. Carol stopped him with a final request. “Mr. Nuñez was very gracious during my work at Anglo-Cayman. I would like to express my thanks before leaving.”
“I wish that were possible, but Mr. Nuñez has apparently been delayed. It is quite unusual. Punctuality and dedication to duty are two of his many positive characteristics. I will give him your regards when he arrives.”
SEPTEMBER 10–11
Kuala Lumpur, Kingdom of Malaysia
On the second leg of the flight from Il Kani to Kuala Lumpur, Tony had concentrated on encrypted cables Jonathan had emailed to his BlackBerry, as well as Billington’s memo and his own notes and reflections.
There was sufficient dual-source confirmation now to sustain a strong inference as to the old man’s speculations. He was right that the San Diego scheme was managed and supported directly by the Saudi diplomatic and intelligence services. What was in this for the Saudis was not so clear.
Hamza al-Dossari’s description of the mid-1990s recruitment and training of future Saudi agents supported Billington’s belief that al-Dossari was not the only overseer of Saudi students. And his observation that the agents were now being drawn not from bookkeepers but from the Saudi intelligence corps raised additional questions. What Tony didn’t know was whether other 9/11 plotters had received support from Saudi agents similar to that al-Dossari had afforded al-Hazmi and al-Mihdhar. Even more important, was the infrastructure still in place for future use? If so, these trained agents would allow the Saudis to provide assistance to whomever and in whatever form the kingdom would direct.