“Yes, I see,” I said. My mind was racing. This was field work, where I had to make critical decisions with whatever information was available. It was a hell of a lot different than sitting safely behind a computer and tapping keys. I would be wide open and exposed in that meeting, and if something did not go right… Shit!
“Check your grid. Seventy percent of Garcia’s calls to Santo were to the first cell phone,” I said, referencing the first few numbers from memory. “Do you see that?”
“Okay. That’s a high-percentage probability.”
“Right. Look, there may not even be a call; everything might just flow. But I can’t rely on hope. I have to assume for the worst. You need to forward that incoming call to Lenny.”
“My confidence level on that is… I believe I can do that.”
What was that? I thought. One or two on a scale of ten?
“Here’s another thing. You’ll be hearing everything in real time. My cell will be on, and you’ll be on that too.”
“That will help. Incidentally, I got that VIP visit postponed—told them we had a glitch in the DNA program—so I’m pretty free to focus just on this.”
Big deal, I thought, but it was something positive.
“Can you block it after I get out of the meeting?”
“No. That they will notice. If you could get the SIM card…”
“James, please. We’re flying to Cayman, not Palm Beach.”
“Just a thought.”
“What about Gonzalez’ phones at the bank? Can you do anything with those?”
“No, sorry, it’s Cayman Tel. It’s older infrastructure. Access is more limited. I can’t control them. What I can do is force an attack, the old denial-of-service trick. But that’s only the bank’s landlines. That would have nothing to do with Gonzalez’ cells.”
I looked over to Lenny. “We can always go old-school,” he said, without the usual smile. He was serious.
“If we have to do that,” I responded, “we’re as close to screwed as we can get. We’ll be on an island in the Atlantic.”
“Old-school” was our shorthand for physical force, guns and threats and physical intimidation in real time and on the spot. When generals say “war is the last resort,” old-school was somewhere way beyond my last resort. I was good at digital warfare—I was not a gun fighter.
“Yes… There’s that,” I said, after flashing on deflating images. Just then, traffic started to move a little. At least something positive was happening.
“Okay, James. Here it is. You send that spoof at eleven,” I started to summarize, “and James, that’s eleven here, East Coast time. You monitor as much as you can. We’ll let you know just before I go into that meeting. You’ll be on the call. If you handle your end, you get two hundred K, maybe more if you do a good job. You have to deflect that call from Gonzalez to Lenny. You understand?”
“I can do this, Derek.”
That was what I needed to hear—some level of confidence.
“All right, stay close. It’s showtime,” I said and clicked off.
“We can do this either way,” Lenny said. He was my best friend, he had skills I did not have, and he saw, and intuited, that I needed his support in that moment.
“Thanks, brother,” I responded meekly, smothered in more thoughts of failure and jail and a whole bunch of other crap I did not need to have in my mind. I flushed those negative thoughts and welcomed that we were moving at fifteen miles an hour—sometimes the smallest things made the biggest difference.
* * *
I parked in the air charter service FBO lot at eleven-fifteen. There were nine cars in that lot, including two Ferraris and a Bentley. I grabbed my briefcase and a second one I had brought, and Lenny hauled his suitcase from the hatchback. We entered the office for the start of our Cayman adventure. The office was small and well appointed; it connected to a large hangar attached behind. I had suppressed all the worries and gruesome mental images I had been having on the drive over, which were due mainly to James’ problems with his part of the job. That my friend Lenny was with me gave me most of the extra confidence I needed—he had skills and experience with this kind of stuff that I did not. I hoped we would not need them today.
A professional-looking woman with glasses and a dark blue blazer greeted us. “You must be Mr. Chapman,” she said with a smile. Her name tag read Kathleen.
“Yes, thank you, Kathleen. We have the charter to Cayman.”
“No problem. Everything is all checked out and ready for wheels-up. Captain Eddie Hughes and co-pilot Bart Lewis are in the cockpit, and your hostess today, Lenore, is preparing lunch… or is it breakfast?” she joked. “I just need to check your IDs.” How some people were able to easily speak full sentences with a constant smile always impressed me.
We showed her our alias passports, which she scanned in a nanosecond.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to your plane,” she said, then gestured toward Lenny’s suitcase. “Can I take that for you?” Lenny, of course, thanked her and said he had it.
We followed Kathleen to a door at the back of the office, which she opened, and entered a clean, spacious hangar. Two jets were comfortably parked on either side. Our Gulfstream G550 was parked just beyond the hangar door, glistening in the sunshine. I still marveled at the immediate image and sensation these high-priced corporate toys effortlessly exuded: they were speed and power and wealth manifest in one incredible vehicle. Today, the jet was a key means to an end.
As we approached, Lenore came down the steps. I recognized her immediately. She had been our waitress at the restaurant where we had met Agent Ross. What a coincidence… Or was it? My mind went off on a painful tangent—was she Ross’ agent? Shit!
“Hey babe,” Lenny greeted her and gave her a smooch on the cheek. She air kissed him back and attempted to take his suitcase. “Good to see you again,” he said as he refused her offer. “You’re all over the place, honey… What you doing here?” He was suspicious too.
“I gotta work wherever I can. I’m not on scholarship at med school.” It sounded plausible.
“Take care of us today. We’ll be good to you,” Lenny offered, which somehow made me feel a little better.
We boarded and got settled in the plush cabin. Plush is an understatement when describing a Gulfstream jet. Captain Eddie and Bart introduced themselves. Youngish, short hair, probably former military pilots, exceedingly pleasant and totally professional. Lenore started serving us drinks and menus, and then informed us that we would be taking off in about thirty minutes due to heavy commercial traffic. We asked Lenore for some privacy. She smiled and went up to the flight deck and closed the door. We would be leaving at just around noon. The flight was scheduled for one hour and thirty minutes, which would put us wheels-down just in time to make it to the two p.m. meeting… if everything went right. Big if!
“What the hell is this?” I said to Lenny.
“Not sure, bro, but it’s an awfully big coincidence. Let’s just let it play out, man. We got work to do at Cayman National Bank and Trust.”
“Oh man,” I said, “this is not a good start.”
“That’s life, bro,” he said, “it doesn’t always cooperate with your exact op plan. Let’s get to work.”
I took a few deep breaths to get focused and to dispel some of the anxiety that had just struck me. First James with his problems, now this, a possible federal agent infiltrating us. Okay, focus.
“Let’s meet with Ross tonight.”
“You want me to call him?” Lenny asked.
“Yeah, you have the relationship. Tell him we want the same table,” I joked.
Lenny got Agent Howard Ross on the first ring. It was on speakerphone, so I heard Ross. He agreed immediately to meet us tonight, at seven, and suggested the same Italian restaurant. Lenny asked him how Lenore was, and he said
“Who?” He was a trained professional, but there was no hesitation. Move on from the Lenore issue.
I cut in. “Agent Ross. We have actionable information to give you. Tonight will be rich, and not just the food.”
“Good,” he said.
“We need for you to check out a name for us, Nikola Karadžić.” I spelled the name for him.
“Why? Who is that?”
“We think he’s Lev Lavorosky.”
“Wouldn’t that be something. Just a hunch?”
“No.” I paused. “DNA sample.”
“I’m on it. See you tonight; don’t be late.” I noticed that he did not ask how we got a DNA sample.
I called James next.
“Hey,” he answered. There were some voices in the background.
“Can you talk now?”
“Hold, I’m going to another room.” He must have muted the phone, then came back on. “Okay.”
“Did you send the spoof?” I asked.
“Done, no problem. And I figured a way to monitor his phone—Santo’s key cell, but only the one. If Garcia calls him back, I can see it and give him a busy signal, no voicemail. That should work.”
I should have given him an A-plus on the spot. “Okay, James, excellent. Stay on this. We’ll get back to you when we’re going into the bank. Keep it tight.”
“Will do. Good luck,” he said.
I clicked off, took some deep breaths, and closed my eyes for a few moments. Lenny was playing around in his suitcase. I opened my eyes to see him holding up a beard. “What do you think?” he asked.
“For me?”
“Who else… Lenore?”
“Let me think on that. I might be sweating so much it drips off my face.”
“That will not happen.”
“I want to talk to Linda now,” I said, then my phone chimed. It was Lauren. I accepted. “Hey Lauren.”
“You guys in space now?” she said.
“In the plane waiting to lift off. What’s up?”
“Lev sent back his application, just like you said. I sent it to you. He listed one of the Cayman accounts, and you can see he signed the app. He really wants this commitment… Too bad he won’t be getting it,” she laughed.
“Right,” I agreed, “he’ll be getting something entirely different… if everything goes according to plan. You’re at work?”
“Yes. The young guy is down in the lobby, and the older guy is outside, I guess in his car. I ordered food from Carrabba’s, for them too. Not going out today.”
“Good… Good. Stay safe. I’ll call you when we’re wheels-up from Cayman. Oh, sorry… We have to meet with that FBI agent tonight. He wants to have dinner. Sorry… But, do you want to stay with me?” I asked, surprising myself. Was I getting needy?
“You have to ask?”
“Well, isn’t that the way it’s handled?”
“Derek, I want to stay with you tonight,” she said. “That’s the way it’s handled.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling sheepish. “Talk to you later. Thanks.” I clicked off. Lenny was looking at me like I was a kid… which is just what I felt like in that moment. Lauren had that effect on me.
I made a final call to Ed Sapperstein. I told him we would have more information for him later on the return of the money that Siroco had stolen from him, and thanked him for his security guys protecting Lauren. He offered his own thanks, said he looked forward to hearing from us, and then surprised me.
“I may have some good information for you too. I’ll be hearing something later. Happy to share with you; I think you’ll appreciate it.”
It was the kind of cryptic carrot Ed could dangle—his connections ran a lot deeper than I had at first realized.
We put our phones down when Lenore came out from the flight deck and informed us that we would be taking off in three minutes. We felt the engines fire up, and then the plane gracefully moved away from the hangar to a runway marker. Captain Eddie rounded onto the runway and did not stop, just straightened it and jammed the engines to full. The plane lifted off easily as the powerful engines pushed us back into our seats.
After about five minutes, we were at thirty-five thousand feet, cruising royally. Lenore started food service with plates of meats and breads and fresh fruits and other gourmet foods. Lenny was in heaven, literally and figuratively. I just nibbled a little, then closed my eyes and took the next thirty minutes to visualize the op: walking into the bank, meeting Ray Gonzalez, the different particulars and details and possible scenarios for the meeting, getting the money handled, and getting out… alive!
* * *
After a good amount of time spent visualizing my op plan and what I expected to see and do, I opened my eyes. Just then, Lenore came out from the flight deck to see if we needed anything; we asked her to give us privacy until we were ready to land in Cayman. She passively agreed and left us to our work.
“How’s this?” Lenny asked, holding the beard. Not just an All-American footballer at Pitt, Lenny had been very involved in the university’s theater program. From that, he had gained several useful skills, such as costuming and disguises. He was also quite an actor and could do some things with his voice that sometimes came in handy. “Don’t worry, it won’t fall off,” he assured me.
“Okay, good idea. What about the Google glasses?”
“Got ‘em right here,” he said, holding them.
We dove into the preparations that would determine success at the bank. First, Lenny glued the beard onto my face. It felt itchy and uncomfortable, but it greatly changed my appearance. I tried the Google glasses, and they worked perfectly. They seemed like just dark glasses, but not too dark; they had been re-fitted to look like normal designer sunglasses, and they fit nicely—at least they felt natural, unlike the beard. Lenny also had a few hats. He chose something island-like for me: young, energetic, stylish. The hat was a little tight, but it too would help to give me a new look.
I checked my phone, the one I would carry into the meeting. It would be recording the meeting and simultaneously connecting to Lenny’s phone and James’ phone in real time. I had fixed it so that the phone would not show any record button or any other visual or audible sign that it was live. I had also spoofed it so that the directory listed Santo and showed his cell number from the first main cell, but, if tapped, the unit would actually call Lenny’s other phone. One possibility today was that I would have to force Gonzalez to make the transfer by threatening to call Santo in the meeting… Bad banker!
I opened my laptop to the footage Lenny had gotten in Stuart and played the segment featuring Santo a few times. Santo had a very slight Latin accent. More importantly, he had a forcefulness in his voice, which seemed to come naturally to him. His rhythms were distinct. Lenny practiced what he called the “Santo voice” and had gotten it just about perfect when Lenore came through the flight deck door and told us we had about twenty minutes to wheels-down. She lingered on my newly bearded face for a little too long. Lenny and I both noticed it. She said nothing as she went back in and closed the door.
“You think?” I said.
“Not sure. I’ll jam Ross about this. Her too. I don’t like it,” he said.
“Maybe we can fix it afterward,” I said, conjuring another plot line involving Google glasses and the universal solvent: money.
Just then, Linda called. I didn’t want any distractions just before we went operational. She had some news which could have waited until later; I told her to give us the CliffsNotes. She informed us that Lev was meeting with General Kangxi tomorrow, that they had “three M” for him—which she interpreted as three million dollars, probably in cash—and that their European partner would be in town and they should meet too. Lastly, she informed us that two of the cell phones from the Chinese guys who had come on Sunday to my office building were communicating with the general
, but they were using a new encryption program, so the contents were unknown. She almost forgot: the limo would be waiting when the plane arrived. The airport allowed the vehicles to drive right next to incoming private planes. She had found a driver with a military background, SAS, and his name was Ryan. I thanked her and told her to stand by; I would call after the meeting from the plane on the way home, hopefully with good news… and not from Cayman Islands Prison.
I made a quick call to James to let him know that we were landing and that we would be operational shortly. I asked if anything had gotten his attention on Santo’s phones. James informed me that Santo was busy, but not with Gonzalez at the bank. That was the best news I had heard all day, and it portended that Gonzalez had received the instruction to meet with D. Chapman and do what he asked.
We could feel the plane starting to descend, as well as the air pressure changing. Lenny packed up his suitcase. He gave me his passport. I took out twenty hundred-dollar bills from my briefcase, folded them in half, and placed a thousand dollars in the back of each passport. If there was an immigration check, that would usually grease it. I placed my laptop in my briefcase and checked the small handgun that I carry there in the special compartment. Mag was full, safety on. I saw Lenny strap a gun in a holster to his belt and move it to his left hip. I’m sure he was thinking the same thought: if we had to use guns, we were in trouble. But at least we’d have that option.
Captain Eddie spoke over the loudspeakers that we were landing in three minutes. We strapped in. It was a perfect landing. We taxied to the far side of the runway, away from the commercial gates, and parked in front of some smaller hangars where a few other corporate toys glistened in the bright Cayman sunshine. Two cars seemed to be waiting for us, a black Mercedes with a driver and an older Ford sedan with Cayman Islands Customs & Border Control stenciled on the side and with two gentlemen in the front. When the engines were cut, the passenger door of the government car opened, and a large islander with whitish hair, in suit and tie, got out and came toward our plane. Action time.
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