by Donald Bain
During dinner, Smythe asked Guzman what was meant by a ‘private bank’?
‘A good question,’ Guzman said. ‘Let me just say that in Argentina the government has imposed many foolish rules that keep banks from making their profits, heavy-handed regulations that stifle growth. Private banks are … they are the refuge of the wealthy who look to preserve their wealth.’
‘Are you a financial advisor?’ Smythe asked.
‘Oh, yes. Many of the wealthiest men in Buenos Aires put their trust in me to manage their finances. I am honored that they hold me in such high regard.’
Smythe had other questions but didn’t get to ask them as the conversation turned to less weighty subjects.
At the end of dinner Guzman didn’t make a move to pay the bill, three hundred dollars in US currency, and Smythe did. Before they left, Guzman insisted that they cap off the night at a milonga, a tango party.
‘I’m really tired after the plane ride,’ Smythe said.
‘And the milonga will awaken your body and spirit,’ Guzman said. ‘A visit to Argentina must always include the tango.’
They exited the restaurant and climbed into Guzman’s silver Mercedes sedan. The DEA’s Cortez, who was parked on the same side of the street, started his engine and fell in behind.
The Miller Agency’s Buenos Aires investigator, Domingo, had to make a U-turn from his parking space on the opposite side of the street, and almost lost Guzman’s Mercedes as it sped to the tango club.
The club was hopping when they arrived, the dance floor chock-a-block with dancers as Smythe, Gina and Guzman were given a table at the edge of the floor. Guzman ordered a bottle of wine. A four-piece tango band – violin, piano, bass and bandoneón – provided the pulsating, sensuous music for the many couples strutting their stuff beneath multi-colored lights.
Gina, who’d been strangely reticent during dinner, seemed energized by the scene and asked Smythe to dance.
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m not up to it tonight, dear.’
‘Will I do as a partner?’ Guzman asked her.
‘Do you mind?’ she asked Smythe.
‘No, no, go ahead,’ he said, stifling a yawn. The trip, the wine, the heavy meal and his mental gyrations had exhausted him. All he wanted to do was climb into bed next to her and sleep.
He fought his fatigue and watched Guzman and Gina engage on the dance floor. Guzman had explained the tango during dinner: ‘It is all about the relationship between the man and the woman, a total giving of one’s self to the other, an invitation to seduction.’ His explanation was now being demonstrated in front of Smythe, and he wasn’t pleased with the display. Guzman and Gina were wrapped around each other, dipping, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes, bodies pressed together, their sweat mingling, hot breath on their necks and cheeks. Smythe squirmed with discomfort and realized how angry he’d become over the course of the evening.
‘She is the perfect tango partner,’ Guzman said when they returned to the table.
‘Yes, I know,’ Smythe said, wanting to bolt with Gina and escape this stereotypical Latin lover with the dazzling white smile and the virility he exuded. Guzman poured wine, and he and Gina conversed in Spanish while Smythe seethed, and battled to stay awake. An hour later, Guzman paid the tab and they went to his car.
‘You look like a dead man,’ Guzman said as he pulled from the curb, with Cortez and Domingo providing a surreptitious two-car parade, with plenty of distance between vehicles. Neither man knew of the other, nor did Guzman realize that he’d been followed all evening. Cortez and Domingo watched from different vantage points near the Four Seasons as Smythe, Gina and Guzman got out of his Mercedes. Guzman embraced her, for too long a time as far as Smythe was concerned. He shook Smythe’s hand and said, ‘You are a very lucky man, Mr Smythe, to have captured this beautiful woman’s heart. I look forward to when you come here to live, and I assure you that the money you bring with you will be in capable hands – mine. Buenas noches.’
The Miller Agency’s Buenos Aires investigator, Popi Domingo, hadn’t recognized Guzman, and didn’t think anything of Smythe spending an evening with him.
But DEA Agent Cortez had. Guillermo Guzman was known in Buenos Aires as a possible money launderer for Argentinean drug cartels.
‘Very interesting,’ Cortez muttered as he made notes before driving away and calling it a night.
EIGHTEEN
New York crime boss Vinnie Tourino sat with Angelo, his capo, in the black BMW on the outskirts of JFK Airport, in Queens. Parked behind was a second black car containing four of Vinnie’s trusted men.
‘So tell me again about this guy, Angelo.’
‘What can I tell you, Vinnie? He wants in on the action, wants to buy into the deal. Hell, you’re already out a mil so maybe it makes sense to copper your bet.’
‘Coppa?’
‘Copper your bet. It’s an expression. Sure, we’ll probably get more than the mil back, depending on how many places we can hit once the electricity is turned off. But this guy Tengku is willing to put up a half mil for Queens. What’s to lose?’ Angelo giggled, which always annoyed Vinnie. ‘I think we take the deal the guy is offering. Like I said, what’s to lose?’
‘I don’t trust people like that,’ Vinnie said.
‘People like what, Vinnie?’
‘Like this guy – what’s his name?’
‘Tengku. It’s a weird name but—’
‘It sure the fuck is weird,’ Vinnie said. ‘Like I said, I don’t trust people like this. What’s he got, only one name?’
Angelo shrugged.
‘It’s his first name?’
‘How the fuck do I know?’
‘Where you say he’s from?’
‘Malaysia.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘In Asia. It’s like a Chinese island.’
‘Chinese? I don’t trust the Chinese. Every fucking thing we buy gets made in China.’
‘Yeah, I know, Vinnie. They’re eating our lunch.’
‘What?’
‘That’s like a figure of speech. It don’t matter if you trust them, Vinnie. It’s cash upfront, on the barrelhead.’
‘On the what?’
‘On the barrelhead. It’s an expression.’
‘Oh. So he wants Queens for a half mil?’
‘Right. I told him to bring the money with him, no second chances. He buys in now or he’s out.’
They turned upon hearing a car. As it pulled up next to the BMW, Vinnie’s men got out and fanned around it. The doors on the newly arrived vehicle opened and two men stepped out. One was dressed like a businessman, suit, tie, shoes polished to a high gloss. The second man wore wrinkled chino pants and a red windbreaker over a T-shirt.
Vinnie and Angelo also got out. Vinnie stared at the well-dressed man as though looking at a newly arrived alien from another planet.
‘Mr Tourino?’ the man in the suit said.
‘Yeah. You’re?’
‘My name is Tengku. It is a pleasure meeting you.’ He spoke with a British accent.
‘Yeah, me too. You know Angelo?’
‘Of course I do, sir. He is the reason we meet here today.’
‘Yeah, well, let’s talk.’
‘Right,’ said Angelo. ‘Let’s get down to brass tacks.’
Vinnie scowled at his capo, who shrugged.
‘You are obviously a man of action,’ Tengku said. ‘I like that. As I am sure Angelo has explained to you, I am aware of a certain business arrangement you have entered into involving the supply of electricity.’
‘That’s right,’ Vinnie said. ‘And you want to buy in.’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘You have the dough with you? A half a million?’
‘Oh yes, sir, I do indeed. Do we have an understanding?’
Tourino looked at Angelo, who nodded.
‘I assume, sir, that once I turn over the money I will be given the precise date and time that the
cessation of electricity will occur?’
Vinnie said, ‘That’s right. I got it right here.’ He patted his jacket’s breast pocket. His million dollars had been sent by messenger to Martone in Toronto the previous night, and Martone had provided Tourino with the blackout information.
Tengku clicked his fingers at his companion, who opened the trunk of their car, brought out a bulging leather suitcase, and handed it to his boss.
‘I assure you, sir, that all the money is there. Of course you are free to count it if you wish.’
‘Out here, in the wind?’ Vinnie said. ‘Angelo vouches for you, that’s good enough for me.’
‘I am pleased to hear that, sir. Now, may I have the pertinent information?’
‘Yeah, right.’
Tourino pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Tengku. He looked at it, smiled, and handed it to his companion. ‘It has been a pleasure doing business with you, sir.’
‘Yeah, well, just remember that what you bought is Queens, no place else. Capisci?’
‘Pardon?’
‘He wants to make sure you understand,’ Angelo explained. ‘You bought Queens, that’s it.’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you. I have found this exchange to be quite pleasant.’
Vinnie’s two cars drove off. Tengku went in another direction. The well-dressed Malaysian smiled, then laughed heartily. He looked up through the car’s moon roof, clasped his hands, and said, ‘It will be done. In your name it will be done.’
NINETEEN
The next day, DEA agent Bill Whitlock and his handpicked team met in his Pentagon City office. He’d just gotten off the phone with Antoine Arnaud of the Canadian Border Services Agency. Arnaud had been assigned to augment Whitlock’s work on the Canadian side of the border and had become a valuable source of information.
‘What’s new on Arnaud’s end?’ Whitlock was asked after he’d hung up.
He adjusted his half-glasses and squinted at the notes he’d made during his phone conversation with Arnaud. ‘Sometimes I can’t read my own writing,’ he said. ‘OK, here’s what he said, only I’m not sure what to make of it. Smythe, our subject of interest, used to work at the huge Canadian power plant Power-Can. While he was there he supervised a team of engineers including a French-Canadian named Paul Saison. Saison lives in Toronto with a woman named Angelique. With me so far?’
There were nods around the conference table.
‘Angelique has a sister in Montreal named Celine, who happens to be engaged to Antoine.’
‘Arnaud’s engaged?’
‘Right. According to Antoine, Saison is a bit of a buffoon, a drunk who hangs on to his job at Power-Can because of the quota system – you know, having to employ so many French-Canadians. Anyway, according to Saison’s lady friend, she came back from visiting her sister and got into a scrum with Saison, which evidently isn’t a rare occurrence. During their argument Saison starts boasting that he’s about to become rich, mentioned a quarter of a million dollars he’ll soon be getting.’
‘Getting it from where?’
Whitlock shrugged. ‘Antoine says his fiancée’s sister didn’t have any information about that. But here’s what’s intriguing. The sister did say that Saison mentioned Smythe as the one who came up with “the plan”, whatever it is.’
‘“The plan”,’ a few at the table murmured.
‘That’s all I’ve got,’ Whitlock said, ‘except that Saison left a scrap of paper on the table when he went to bed on which somebody had written “Friday, August twenty-two, nine forty-five pm”.’
‘Did this Angelique ask Saison about it?’
‘Evidently not, at least from what she told her sister. According to her, Saison left the house early the next morning and took the paper with him. I should add that Saison’s girlfriend didn’t call her sister to report anything. She called to make fun of Saison and his boast that he’d soon be rich.’
‘Maybe it means nothing,’ someone offered. ‘If Saison is what Arnaud says he is, a drunk and a liar, why put any credence in what he said?’
‘You’re probably right,’ Whitlock responded. ‘Antoine says that Saison is a big talker, always saying he’s going to be rich. But the fact that he’s been involved with Carlton Smythe tells me that we shouldn’t ignore this.’
The phone rang and Whitlock picked up.
‘Bill, Luis Cortez here.’
‘Buenas días,’ Whitlock said. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘I spent part of yesterday and last evening with Mr Smythe. He flew in and was met by the same lovely lady. They took a taxi to the Four Seasons Hotel and holed up there for the afternoon. At night they took another taxi to a restaurant, Casa Coupage, very popular, very expensive. While I waited outside for them to leave, Guillermo Guzman arrived and went inside.’
‘Guzman. Guzman,’ Whitlock said. ‘Right. Isn’t he the guy you suspect is laundering Argentinean drug money?’
‘One and the same. I didn’t think much of it until Smythe and the lady left the restaurant. They were accompanied by Guzman. He drove them in his car to a tango nightclub. I went inside, sat at the bar, and observed. Smythe looked fatigued, didn’t dance, but Guzman and the woman went at it. Guzman drove them back to the hotel, hugs all around, and that was it.’
‘So Smythe and Guzman spent an evening together,’ Whitlock said loud enough for others at the table to hear. ‘Good work, Luis.’
‘Thanks. I checked with my airline contacts. Smythe is flying back to Canada tomorrow morning.’
Luis Cortez wasn’t the only one reporting in that day.
Clarence Miller III arrived at the Smythe household a little before noon.
‘Please come in,’ Cynthia said. ‘My mother and I made sandwiches and lemonade.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ Miller said as he followed her to the dining room where Mrs Wiggins sat regally at the head of the table.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Mrs Wiggins. It’s a lovely day.’
‘Much too humid,’ she said. ‘You have something to report?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Would you like something to eat?’ Cynthia asked nervously. ‘It’s warm chicken salad. My father—’
‘Mr Miller isn’t here to eat,’ Mrs Wiggins said sharply, ‘or to hear what foods your father enjoyed. He’s here to report any progress he’s made in determining whether your husband has been unfaithful.’
Miller adjusted his position on the chair. He sensed that Cynthia did not want to hear that her husband, Carlton Smythe, had cheated on her, and he shared her discomfort. While the agency left him by his father provided a good living, a very good living in this age when marital cheating was not uncommon, he did not enjoy having to report bad news to a spouse.
‘My mother is right,’ Cynthia said. ‘Have you learned anything new?’
Before he could answer, Cynthia quickly added, ‘You mentioned that Carlton has been renting an office away from the house. Have you learned any more about that?’
Miller took the opportunity to open his briefcase and take out a sheaf of paper. He consulted one piece before saying, ‘No, I do not have anything new about that situation, but I do suggest that I look further into the circumstances of it as part of my overall investigation. Before we go any further, however, I must inform you that in order to go beyond the point I’ve already reached, there will be additional fees.’
Cynthia looked to her mother, who smiled at Miller. ‘I am sure, Mr Miller, that your father told you that money was never an object with me when I retained his services. The amount of money involved is of little consequence. What matters is that my daughter – my only daughter – has peace of mind regarding her husband. You do realize that this family enjoys a certain prominence in this city?’
‘Of course,’ Miller replied.
‘Should my daughter’s husband prove to be unfaithful, the impact upon our reputation would be unfortunate. What I am s
aying, Mr Miller, is that not only must we know whether Cynthia’s husband is a scoundrel, we must then take steps to minimize the fallout.’
‘You made that point very clearly, Mrs Wiggins, when I was first contacted.’
‘Good. I simply wish there to be no misunderstandings. As far as learning more about why Carlton saw fit to rent an office without our knowledge and approval, please feel free to pursue any avenues you consider appropriate. Your bills will be paid in a timely fashion.’
The paper that Miller had pulled from his briefcase contained notes he’d made while sitting outside Smythe’s temporary office building. He added a note, ‘Proceed,’ placed it back in the case, and extracted the photos taken of Smythe and Gina in Buenos Aires. Cynthia looked down at the first one, burst into tears, and fled the room.
‘Please excuse my daughter, Mr Miller. She isn’t very strong when it comes to adversity.’
She picked up the photos one-by-one and examined them carefully. Miller filled a glass with lemonade and sipped as she completed her perusal.
‘A common-looking woman, wouldn’t you say?’ she said.
‘My man in Buenos Aires is checking into her background, Mrs Wiggins.’
‘I’m sure that it will be suitably sordid.’
She dropped the pictures on the table with an air of dismissal, as though they had soiled her hands.
‘Do you have anything else?’ she asked.
‘Not at the moment, Mrs Wiggins. I am delving further into Paul Saison, the gentleman who used to work for Mr Smythe.’
‘What about money?’ Mrs Wiggins said.
‘As I told you—’
‘I don’t mean about how much your investigation will cost,’ she said sharply, causing him to wince. ‘Surely conducting an immoral affair in a third-world country is costing my son-in-law a great deal?’
‘Well, Argentina isn’t exactly a third-world country, Mrs Wiggins.’
‘Perhaps not, but you know how those people are. My question about money has not been answered.’
‘I’ll need information from you and Mrs Smythe to help me look into Mr Smythe’s finances.’
‘Whatever you need. I’ll put you in touch with our accountants. He’s obviously been squandering my family’s money.’