The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

  The page contained only a few signatures, the most recent dated two days earlier. Nicole had already decided to sign it as Alice and explain that she was Sean’s sister. When she finished, she handed back the pen.

  Without a glance at what she’d written, much less any questions, the man slammed the ledger shut and shoved it back under the counter. Then he produced a dented metal flashlight and passed it to her. As he started toward the door behind him, she said, “I’ve forgotten exactly where the locker is. Could you…?”

  “Here, show me your key,” he said. After giving it a cursory glance, he gestured toward a dark alcove about twenty feet away. “You can use the stairs,” he said. “Your unit is one floor up. At the head of the stairs, turn right and walk along the corridor.” He gestured with a wag of his head. “Then left. Number’s on the door.” He turned and disappeared through the doorway.

  Nicole climbed the stairs; using the flashlight to read the numbers, she passed dozens of storage spaces that resembled small rooms rather than lockers. At last, she came to 571, which appeared to be the number on the key. She attempted to unlock the door, but the key didn’t work.

  Back in the hallway, she trained the flashlight on the key and took a closer look. This time, she saw that the etched numbers were so worn they might as easily be read as 577 or 517. She tried 577. No luck. Finally, at 511, the key fit.

  The room was small, lit by a single dim bulb. An attaché case was sitting on the floor and three cartons were stacked against one wall.

  Nicole squatted down and took a close look at the attaché case. It was brown leather, new, and well made. It might have been the one Alice had described except for a distinguishing feature she hadn’t mentioned. Dangling from its handle was a solid-looking brass chain with a manacle meant to be worn around the wrist to prevent theft. Why, she asked herself, would anyone go to such lengths to protect some old diaries? Obviously, Alice hadn’t given her the whole story.

  After determining the case was locked, Nicole picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy. When she gave a gentle shake, it didn’t rattle; the solid weight told her it was full. She set it down and went over to the cartons. Two were empty, and the third was sealed with heavy strapping tape.

  Nicole knew she should simply take the attaché case and walk away, but there were too many unanswered questions. Before she decided what to do with it, she’d have to find out what was in it. And what about the sealed box?

  She gave the carton a shake, and several objects rolled about, like a pair of tennis shoes. Next, she tried peeling off the tape. When this failed, she dug around in her purse; finding nothing equal to the job of cutting the tape, she left the room and went down to the desk.

  The man was nowhere in sight. She hesitated a moment, then went behind the counter and knocked on the door. After a brief pause, it opened, and the man peered out. Behind him, she caught a glimpse of a room lit only by the flicker of a small TV.

  His eyes were even redder than before, and his breath so reeked of whiskey that it forced her to step back. “I wonder if I could borrow a letter opener or a pair of scissors,” she said.

  He emerged from his room as she retreated back into the hallway. Without a word or even a glance in her direction, he began rifling through drawers and cupboards. At last he produced a pair of scissors, which he slapped down on the counter before disappearing back into his room.

  “Thanks,” she called after him. Scissors in hand, she hurried away, taking the stairs two at a time. Once inside 511, she relocked the door and began on the sealed carton, using the scissors to slit the tape and pulling back the flaps. Once it was open, she sat back on her heels and stared at the contents.

  The box held three clear plastic bags of white powder. They were about the size of two-pound sacks of powdered sugar. In fact, the contents might have been powdered sugar or flour or cornstarch, but something told her it wasn’t. As she closed the box, she wiped it with the inside hem of her skirt, in case she’d left fingerprints.

  Next, she turned her attention to the attaché case. Crouching beside it, she jammed the point of the scissors into the lock, then tried to force it with a quick twisting motion. When nothing happened, she did it again. This time, the scissors jerked away from the lock with a loud snap. Taking a closer look, she saw that the tip of the blade had broken off and was now wedged in the keyhole. It took considerable pulling and tugging to extract the piece of metal, but the case still wouldn’t open.

  She stood up again and considered what to do. One possibility would be to take the attaché case back to the hotel where she’d have the time and resources to deal with the lock. But this might present other problems. What would she do, for example, if the briefcase contained more of the incriminating white powder?

  On the other hand, she felt an enormous need to see justice done in the deaths of Alice’s brother and poor old Mr. McGiever. If there was a chance Sean’s journals were in the attaché case, how could she just walk away and leave it?

  With the attaché case and broken scissors in hand, she headed back down to the desk and was somewhat relieved to find it still unattended. She left the scissors on the counter, along with a £10 note to cover the cost of replacement.

  Outside, no cabs were in sight. After walking a block and a half in search of a taxi, she noticed a hardware store. Inside, she placed the attaché case on the counter and explained to the clerk that the lock was broken. “I’m leaving for the airport in an hour,” she said, “and my plane ticket is inside. I need something to pry it open.”

  The clerk, a burly man with a beard, stared at the attaché case with its gleaming chain and manacle, then gave her a funny look. “That’s a job for a locksmith, young lady,” he said. “Or a luggage shop.”

  “I don’t have time!” She was running out of patience. How hard can this be? “I’ll miss my plane if I don’t leave soon. You must have some kind of pick or chisel I could use on the lock.”

  “It would be a crime to ruin a fine piece of luggage like that.” He gave her the odd look again, then reached out and picked up the attaché case. “Why don’t you let me try to coax it?”

  “I’ve already tried everything,” she said. “Look, my husband is waiting out in the car. We’re in a terrible hurry.”

  The man shrugged and pursed his lips. Then he reached into a cubbyhole behind him and pulled out a gadget that looked like a cross between a small crowbar and a medium sized screw driver. “Here,” he said. “You may be able to do something with this.” He came from behind the counter to get a hammer out of a bin. “If the lock still won’t give, you could do this.” He demonstrated, wedging the tool under the lock and waving the hammer at it. Then he shook his head and turned down the corners of his mouth. “It would be a sin to ruin such a fine leather case.” His expression was so doleful it almost made her want to apologize.

  Back in her room, Nicole lay the attaché case on the bed, stuck the tool in the lock and went to work with the hammer. The lock was stubborn, requiring half a dozen blows before it broke open.

  She lifted the lid of the attaché case and then stood there, gaping. There were no journals, no bags of cocaine. Only money: banded stacks of lavender-colored bills. They were a currency she’d never seen before. Nicole pulled one out so she could read the print. It said “1000” and, in smaller letters, “Banque National Svisse.”

  She studied it a long time before she reached out and ran her hand over the cool, flat surface of tightly packed bills. There were ten stacks. She pulled out one of the stacks and counted. It held 100 notes.

  She returned the bills to the case, then got out her phone to look up the currency exchange rate. The phone was dead—the battery drained again. She’d left her charger at the house and made a mental note to pick one up.

  She went over to the phone on the night table and dialed 0. “Can you connect me with a bank?” she said.

  “What bank, miss?” the operator said.

  Nicole stepped to the window and
looked out. Scanning the surrounding buildings, she spotted a sign and read it aloud. “The Bank of Caledonia.”

  At last she was connected to the foreign currency department. “Can you tell me how much a 1,000 Swiss francs is worth in dollars?” she asked.

  After a pause, a man at the other end of the line said, “Approximately $1,108, minus our commission. That’s the fee we charge for changing one currency into another.”

  After she hung up, she counted the stacks and calculated the total number of notes: 1,000 in all. When she did the math, the sum came to $1,108,000. How could it be that much? she wondered. It fit in a briefcase and seemed to weigh no more than seven or eight pounds, counting the case.

  As much as the amount terrified her, she knew she wasn’t going to return it to the storage space, or ship it to Alice, as she’d promised. Alice had lied to her. She’d known all along what was in the attaché case. Besides, the money was evidence in a murder investigation. It had been the motive behind the car bombing, and she had a duty to turn it over to the police.

  Nicole also understood that the police would ask her a lot of embarrassing questions. They’d be especially interested in her secret meetings with Alice. Even so, she doubted they’d make any real trouble for her. Keaton herself had said the police didn’t have a warrant out for Alice. More recently, of course, the detective had even told her Alice was dead.

  One thing was clear. She couldn’t carry this huge sum back on the train, nor was she willing to hand it over to the authorities in Glasgow. She’d read about too many cases in which the LAPD had mishandled evidence. In a number of instances, they’d lost the evidence altogether. Her recent experience with the British police made her suspect they weren’t much better. She decided that if she wanted the car bombing case resolved, she’d have to turn the money directly over to Keaton or, better yet, to the team investigating the case.

  She had an idea: There wasn’t any reason she and the attaché case couldn’t make their way back to London separately. She could ship it overnight by Federal Express. She remembered seeing a FedEx office on her cab ride that morning, just a few blocks from the hotel.

  Then something else occurred to her. Someone had left over a million dollars, along with a sizable stash of cocaine, in that locker. It had to be Lowry’s profit and leftovers from the drugs Hayes had given him on credit. For the first time, she began to wonder if he’d made it out of the country after all.

  Twenty

  The mini bar was too small, even after Nicole took out the little liquor bottles and removed the shelf. Under the bed was too obvious, as were the closet and shower.

  Yet she couldn’t bring the money with her. For one thing, the lock on the attaché case was broken and refused to stay closed. Even if it would, she couldn’t imagine walking around a place as public as Glasgow’s Central Station, toting $1,000,000 in cash. Her only option was to find a good place to stash it while she went downstairs and found what she needed.

  For a moment, Nicole studied the drapes—pleated panels of a homely brown-and-beige tropical print that hung to the floor. Placing the attaché case under the window, she pulled the drapes shut and decided this would do. As long as the drapes remained closed, no one would guess something was hidden there.

  As the elevator began its descent, she had fresh misgivings. She’d left the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Only now did she think of experiences she’d had at hotels back home where staff often ignored DO NOT DISTURB signs. She pictured what would happen if a maid arrived to clean her room. She’d knock; when no one answered, she’d go right in. The maid would open the drapes first thing. When she saw the hidden attaché case, she wouldn’t have to be a genius to figure out that it held something of value.

  Still deep in thought, Nicole glanced at the other passenger. He was tall and beefy with graying sideburns. It seemed to her that she’d seen him before; as she breathed in the heavy smell of his aftershave, she remembered. The same man had been in line behind her when she checked into the hotel. My God, was he following her?

  In a sudden panic, she reached out and jabbed the button for the hotel lobby, a floor above street level, where she’d been headed. The elevator jerked to a stop, and she bolted out, pursued by the heady reek of aftershave. It took enormous will power not to look back to see if he got off, too.

  At the desk, she asked for her messages, her thoughts shifting briefly to her dead cell phone and her failed attempt to reach her sister. The clerk told her there was nothing in her box. When she ventured a glance around, the lobby was deserted. The elevator door had closed, and the man was nowhere in sight.

  Turning back to the desk clerk, she asked directions to the nearest stairwell. Upon finding it, she scurried down two steps at a time.

  This morning the station was alive with travelers —commuters, tourists, shoppers. The sun, streaming in through the glass dome, made the heavy stone structure seem light and airy. Like highflying kites, the bright banners suspended from the rafters lent a festive touch, as did the rich fragrance of coffee from an Italian-style coffee bar. She passed it and went into the bookshop next door. Just as she’d hoped, it had a reasonably well-stocked stationery department, where she selected two rolls of brown wrapping paper, heavy-duty strapping tape, and twine.

  At the checkout stand, she asked if the shop had an empty carton she might have. The clerk was dark and compact with bushy eyebrows that met in the middle. He eyed her in a way she didn’t like, as if she were the merchandise, and he was considering a purchase. “Afraid not, luv,” he said. “You can ask at the gift shop. That old lady sometimes has a box or two, but she’ll make you pay a pretty penny.”

  “Thanks,” she said, rankling under his gaze. As soon as he counted out her change, she hurried away.

  Two doors down, the window of a gift shop sparkled with crystal glassware. As soon as Nicole stepped into the shop, the salesclerk bustled over. She was a sizable woman in a red challis dress, tucked and gusseted to fit like a slipcover. “May I help you, dear?” she said.

  Nicole smiled. “I’m looking for an empty carton —you know, so I can pack something for mailing.”

  “Oh, my dear, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Each item we stock is packed at the factory in its own special carton. We haven’t any to spare.” The woman had a flutey voice and a cultivated accent with only the slightest hint of a Scottish brogue.

  “All right,” Nicole said, trying to hold on to her patience. “What can I buy that comes packed in a box about this size?” She held up her hands and outlined a box big enough to accommodate the attaché case.

  The woman turned and pointed at a large cut glass vase in a display case. “What about this absolutely gorgeous vase?” She pronounced it vaaze.

  Nicole studied the vase for a few seconds. It was a Victorian design of cut glass, heavy and bulbous. “I’ll take it,” she said.

  “You have exquisite taste,” the woman said, plucking the vase from the shelf and holding it up to read the tiny sticker on its stem. “This piece is only £140,” she said. “And you can save over £20 when you recover the VAT. You fill out a form at the airport…”

  As the woman went into detail about this process, Nicole reached into her purse and silently produced her credit card. For the briefest moment, she considered reimbursing herself out of the bills in the attaché case before rejecting the idea. The money was dirty; she didn’t want anything to do with it.

  As the woman rang up the sale, Nicole said. “Don’t forget the box.”

  “Of course not,” the woman said. “Would you like us to send it for you?”

  “No.” Nicole said, feeling another surge of irritation. Couldn’t the woman see that she was only buying the vase so she could have the box? “I’ll take it with me.”

  Once the vase was paid for, the woman retreated into a rear storeroom to look for the carton. Nicole, left alone by the cash register, paced up and down, her thoughts alternating between the money hidden upstairs and the man sh
e’d seen on the elevator.

  A minute passed, then two, and still the woman didn’t return. At last, Nicole made her way to the back of the shop and through the doorway where the woman had disappeared. As soon as Nicole stepped into the cluttered storage room, she noticed a pile of empty cartons against one wall. Then, looking up, she spotted the saleswoman. She was perched on a ladder at the back of the room, poking into the upper reaches of the top shelf.

  “Excuse me,” Nicole called up. “But I’m in a dreadful hurry. Any of these empty cartons will do.”

  “Oh, those cartons are for other merchandise we have in the shop,” the woman said. “We save each one until the item is sold.”

  “But you’ll always have extra cartons—as long as you have merchandise on display,” Nicole pointed out. “Look, I’ll give you £50 for an empty carton—£50 cash. You can keep the vase.”

  The woman looked down at her. “Why, my dear,” she said, as if she were deeply offended. “I couldn’t possibly do such a thing. This won’t take a minute. I know I saw that carton up here just the other day. “

  After what seemed an eternity, Nicole was finally heading for her hotel room with the boxed vase in her arms. When the elevator stopped on the second floor, she used the button to hold the door open while she looked up and down the hall. It appeared empty, and yet she felt a sudden tug of alarm, the sense of someone watching her.

  She felt an almost irresistible impulse to leave, to simply punch the elevator’s down button and walk out of the hotel. Nicole pictured herself calling the police from the train station to tell them where she’d left the money. Even if it never made its way to the London police, at least she’d have tried.

  The elevator began to make a loud, buzzing protest; she released the button and hurried to her room. She had to set the box on the floor to find her key. As she fumbled with the lock, her hands shook.