by Tim Tigner
“And you know where to find him?”
As a veteran of CIA operations, Chase was in the habit of keeping his informational arsenal stocked. “I do. He set up on the island where Caribbean offshore banking began. About six hundred miles southwest of here on Grand Cayman.”
23
Subtle Security
CHASE NOTED that their situation was both exactly the same as and yet completely different from what they’d experienced when swapping identities just ten months earlier. That time, he and Skylar had been in London’s East End. This time, they were on the West End of Grand Cayman. That time, they’d just knocked. This time, an appointment using their “birth names” was strictly required and current passport photos had to be provided. That time, they’d passed from a dark alley through an unlabeled black sally door into a brick corridor where a sap wielding thug searched them before escorting them to a second armored entrance. This time, a friendly receptionist dressed in colorful island clothes led them up the stairs of a beachfront bungalow.
The Guy was definitely more customer friendly than Sargon. Chase hoped it wasn’t to compensate for an inferior product.
A single suite encompassed the building’s entire second floor. Large paddle fans slowly stirred the air in the high, wood-raftered ceiling while every window of the open-floor-plan arrangement offered hypnotizing views of lush vegetation and turquoise waters. As offices went, it could not be beat.
A man wearing sunglasses and a palm frond fedora, said, “Good afternoon. Please have a seat, Ms. Fawkes, Mr. Chase.” He gestured to an elaborate bar off to the side. “Can I get you caffeine, fructose, alcohol, or mineral water? I have a lovely chilled rosé from Provence.”
Chase and Skylar briefly glanced at each other. They definitely preferred The Guy’s meeting style over Sargon’s. “Some rosé would be lovely,” Skylar said.
Their host nodded his approval then sauntered to the bar, where he hit a button on an automated coffee machine. While it went to work grinding beans, he uncorked a bottle of wine, poured two generous glasses, and handed them over polite bow. Before taking a seat with his espresso, The Guy placed the rosé bottle in a chiller and set it down beside them as well. While unstated, the message was clear. This was not going to be a quick in-and-out meeting.
He raised his cup in a toast, took a sip, then said, “Tell me exactly what you’re looking for.”
That question gave Chase the puzzle piece that made the picture clear. Whereas Sargon used physical security, this forger was using informational security. Beginning with his name.
He was referred to as “The Guy” because that was the name he used. Obfuscation was built in. Chase pictured a frustrated prosecutor trying to generate witness testimony that didn’t leave a reasonable doubt. “Which guy?” “The guy.” “This guy?” “Can’t say. All I heard is the guy.”
The Guy had asked for their names and photographs well in advance of the meeting. Plenty of time to do background checks and weed out law enforcement officers. Then, in case anyone slipped through, he forced his customers to state their demands, thereby facilitating an entrapment defense, should things ever go that far.
Given his decades in operation, Chase was certain that The Guy had plenty of powerful friends in the court system and Royal Cayman Islands Police Service. No doubt much of the $2,000 nonrefundable advance consultation fee had been passed along to them as payment for background checks and tipoffs.
After an approving initial sip, Chase set his glass on the table between them. “We’re looking to disappear.”
“You seem to have disappeared about ten months ago.”
“We’re concerned that our disappearance was incomplete.”
“I see. What’s your ideal scenario?”
“We’re open to recommendations.”
“I really need you to say. I couldn’t best direct you to someone who might be able to help without knowing exactly what you need.”
Clearly, The Guy wasn’t going to implicate himself in any way. “Let’s switch topics, if we may,” Chase suggested.
“By all means. I’m here to assist in any way I can.”
“What would you consider to be the most versatile passport for people living in these parts. People who appreciate their privacy?”
“Versatile in terms of visa-free travel?”
“Exactly.”
“Caymanian passports are British Overseas Territory passports, and thus offer largely the same entry privileges as British passports if residency is not your intention. They will get you into about 180 countries, including the United States. Would that suit your needs?”
“I believe it would.”
“Excellent. So you’re yachters?”
“What makes you say that?” Skylar asked.
“You didn’t arrive on a commercial airline or cruise ship. Some of my clients arrive on private planes, but they’re generally less tan than you.”
Skylar looked at Chase.
He nodded.
“Yes, we’re yachters.”
The Guy picked up his espresso and gestured toward their wine glasses. “Tell me about it. Where’ve you been lately? Which islands are your favorites?”
Again, Chase nodded to his wife. He recognized this for what it was. Confirmation that they were who they said they were. The Guy probably wouldn’t give any indication if he didn’t believe them. He just wouldn’t deliver the goods. His security system was far superior to Sargon’s, and considerably more pleasant.
The Guy peppered Skylar’s narrative with detail-related questions, and then pulled a laser printed slip of paper from his desk as they finished off the bottle of wine. He slid the paper across the desk, face down. “Thank you for sharing. Come back next Wednesday afternoon and I’ll have what you’re looking for.”
Chase glanced at the paper the way a poker player would his cards. “US$46,000 Cash” was all it said.
“Would Tuesday be possible?” he asked.
“Wednesday afternoon,” The Guy said.
“How about Wednesday morning?”
“Wednesday afternoon,” The Guy repeated.
“What about next Thursday?”
The guy smiled, acknowledging Chase’s clever move. “I only work Wednesday afternoons.”
24
The Other Customer
THE LAST BUNGALOW looked like the others on the sparsely populated road, with a cheerful paint job and plenty of porch. As financial services offices went, it beat any Vicky had seen before. Bathed by warm sea breezes and just feet from the sugary sand with no hustle or bustle about, it was the polar opposite of Wall Street.
Or the Los Angeles Financial District for that matter.
Having spent most of her life in a suburb of L.A., Vicky was still shocked by the amount of underdeveloped beachfront property in the Caribbean. To get views half this good in California, people would construct houses on stilts, on the sides of cliffs, in an earthquake zone. This was a different world.
A modest brass sign beside the door before her read:
FINANCIAL SERVICES
By Appointment Only
Despite her lack of an appointment, Vicky knocked a second time because she didn’t know what else to do. FINANCIAL SERVICES had no phone number or website. At least none that she’d found.
After much asking around, she had been directed to find the Salt & Battery beachfront café and then go to the last building on the road. “It’s a financial services office,” the concierge of a resort on Seven Mile Beach had advised them, before adding, “I think he only works Wednesdays.”
Well, it was 11:30 Wednesday morning and she was at the financial services office a half mile north of Salt & Battery, but she might as well have been in Jamaica for all the service she was getting.
“How do I make an appointment?” she asked the locked door in frustration.
When the wood didn’t answer, she circled the building, looking for signs of life. Finding none, Vicky bicycled back to the landmark
café, intent on grabbing lunch and asking around.
This was her first solo adventure since they’d bought a couple of bikes for the purpose of exploring islands. Getting Chewie to agree to let her visit the ID guy alone had taken some convincing. Her boyfriend was clinging to her like a crustacean these days. But Vicky insisted, citing safety reasons.
She didn’t want the forger to be able to identify or even readily recall her. Not when the people chasing her could read minds. Although her own appearance was generic enough and relatively easy to disguise, Chewie was distinctive and unforgettable. He marked her like a big hairy beacon.
Salt & Battery was busy with the lunch rush, so Vicky grabbed an empty seat at the bar rather than wait for a solo table. The bartender would likely be her best resource anyway.
“What can I get ya?” he asked, with that relaxed Caribbean cadence she’d come to love.
Vicky fixed her Pradas on him. “I’ll take the fish tacos.”
“Anything else?”
“Do you happen to know when the financial services office at the end of the street opens?”
“I wouldn’t be knowing ’bout that.”
“Any idea who would?”
“Financial services? No, not really.”
He wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t done yet. “Do you know anyone who works there? Anyone I could ask? I really need to meet the guy who owns it but he doesn’t seem to be around.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. I’m just told the guy who works there is the best for certain situations.”
“If you share with me, I might recommend someone who is around.”
“Kind of you, but I need that guy. Who might know him, if not you?”
The man rocked his head back and forth. He didn’t look optimistic. “My boss comes in ’bout four o’clock. I’ll send him your way if you’re still here. Or you can come back and ask for Frank. What ya drinkin’?”
“Iced tea.”
“Fish tacos and tea comin’ up.”
Once the bartender turned to a customer at the other end of the bar, the stranger sitting one stool over leaned her way and said something. Vicky had to check her screen to catch it. “He’ll be there after lunch.”
Vicky whirled to focus on the eavesdropper, grateful that his motion had caught her attention. Her phone knew to wake and vibrate if it detected someone speaking in her direction, but that feature didn’t work well in crowded settings. She repositioned her phone so he could read her hearing advisory. “Pardon me?”
“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I thought you’d want to know that the guy will be in his office after lunch.”
The Good Samaritan was a few years older than she and a few inches taller, with intelligent but mischievous gray-blue eyes and an otherwise handsome face put out of balance by a low left ear. He was fortunate not to need glasses, Vicky thought as she directed hers at his forehead. “You know him?”
I have an appointment with him. “You got lucky. He only works Wednesday afternoons,” the man said, avoiding her question.
“The guy from the financial services office at the end of the road?” Vicky clarified, using a question to direct his thoughts.
“That’s right.” I wonder why she needs a new identity? Jealous ex, I bet. A rich guy.
“What’s his name? I’ve only heard him referred to as the guy.”
“That’s intentional. He goes by that name. I think it’s a security precaution.”
“Smart move,” Vicky said. “But how are people supposed to find him?”
Is this a test? Did The Guy send her? Is checking my discretion his last line of defense? A hurdle I need to clear before he’ll hand over the goods? “I suspect he relies on referrals. And counts on discretion.”
At that moment the bartender showed up with her order and the Good Samaritan turned back to his fish and chips.
Vicky said, “Thank you very much. I’ll leave you in peace.”
She moved to a table that had opened up about ten feet away. One with a chair facing the bar. She picked up a steaming fish taco, and continued reading the mind of The Guy’s other customer.
25
The Invitation
VICKY HAD EXPERIENCED countless surprises since inventing the ability to read minds. In general, people had proved to be less secure and more resentful than she’d anticipated. Less intelligent and more superficial than she’d assumed. Less charitable and more deceitful than she’d hoped. Women were more jealous. Men were more lascivious. All were more prejudiced.
Once she got past the initial shocks and related depression, Vicky turned her magic lens into a mirror. She used it to self-analyze. After much honest introspection, Vicky realized that she wasn’t as different as she’d hoped or assumed. She—like everyone else—was just very good at filtering out her own foibles. At using context to excuse her shortfalls, imperfections, and sins.
Her worst shock had not come from an exposed attitude or peccadillo, of course. That distinction went to learning that a client had her homicide on his mind. But that horrific incident aside, Vicky had never been nearly so shocked as she was at that very moment, eating fish tacos at Salt & Battery.
Despite his jovial outward appearance, kindly intervention, and helpful words, the Good Samaritan was fuming inside. While the fact that he hid his rage so well surprised her, the real shocker was the source of his frustration and anger. The man at the bar was being forced to change his identity by a lawyer. A woman Vicky knew but had never met. The female partner at the New York law firm of Resseque Rogers Sackler & Slate.
For a minute, Vicky wondered if this was a setup. If the man was somehow being used to lure her into a trap. After all, what were the chances that she’d run across a fellow casualty of their cruelty? Even if Resseque Rogers Sackler & Slate had hundreds of victims, the odds had to be a million to one given the number of people within direct-flight distance of Grand Cayman.
But not really, she realized after a few minutes of analysis.
Not when Vicky and the four partners of RRS&S were presumably the only five people on the planet who could read minds. Not when the lawyers used their ability to uncover exactly the kind of information that would force people like her and this man into hiding. Not when all the savvy Caribbean islanders used the same guy for false papers—and he only worked Wednesday afternoons. Not when Salt & Battery was the closest restaurant to his office and the only one around.
Heck, after refining the math, Vicky was tempted to read the minds of the restaurant’s other diners to see if there were other identity changers hidden in their midst.
But not really.
There was still the coincidence that they’d both chosen the Caribbean for their escape. What were the chances of that? The odds that both she and this guy would choose to vanish on yachts?
Vicky had selected yachting because the nomadic lifestyle was more conducive to hiding than any other. She’d picked the Caribbean because there were thousands of islands in relatively close proximity, where North Americans would fit in, the weather was great, and the attitude famously relaxed.
Come to think of it, yachting in the Caribbean was the obvious choice. They were both meeting the guy in the place for people with their needs. In that light, one might say such a coincidence was inevitable—depending on the number of RRS&S victims.
Or destiny.
Then again, maybe she’d just gotten lucky. Very lucky.
In any case, Vicky couldn’t let the opportunity to learn more about her would-be assassins slip away. She couldn’t let a fellow RRS&S victim turn and walk out of her life without first learning everything he knew.
But how? How could she turn him into an ally without revealing her connection to the unlawful lawyers?
The irony of this particular problem made her smile. They were a woman and a man of similar demographic profile sitting in a bar—and she needed to pick him up. He wore a ring and she was no less committed to her companion, so the
obvious answer was out. She’d just have to wing it—with the aid of her Pradas.
Vicky picked up her plate and moved back to the bar. “Excuse me. I’ve been sitting over there thinking this wasn’t the first time I’ve seen you. Were you at the Yacht Club marina earlier?”
He turned to appraise her before answering. What do you really want? “I was.”
“My boyfriend and I just docked today as well. I’m Vicky. For now, at least,” she said with a wink, extending her hand.
He wiped his hand and shook hers. He was grinning on the outside, but skeptical and moving toward alarmed on the inside. “John. For now, at least.”
Normally, Vicky disarmed people by asking them a question about themselves. People loved to talk about themselves. But that was the last thing John wanted to do, so Have you been yachting long? was off the table as an icebreaker. “We’re new to the yachting scene. Just bought our boat a few weeks back.”
Again, he studied her subtly, trying to take her measure. “Where are you from?”
Vicky decided to use openness and sincerity to disarm him. The caliber of his thinking led her to believe they had more than lifestyle choices in common. “Most recently from Las Vegas, but I spent the first twenty-seven years of my life on the campus of Caltech, the California Institute of Technology.”
“Are you a test-tube baby?” This time it was his turn to wink.
“My parents were professors, and I went to school there.” She went on to give him the basics, beginning with the accident. That led to a bit of back and forth. He lied about everything, but very convincingly. She’d never have detected his deception were it not for her Pradas.
With her glasses and subtle psychic interrogation skills, however, Vicky assembled the stranger’s secrets. Zachary Chase was not, as he claimed, a former freelance insurance investigator who made good money keeping a percentage of his recoveries. He was a former CIA operative who’d “inherited” a boatload of drug money when a cartel assassin attempted to kill him and his “wife.” He wasn’t legally married to Skylar Fawkes, although they’d slipped on rings when assuming their John and Joy Hughes identities.