Without another word Robert disconnected the call. "Security code," he muttered. He looked at Tom, pinching the deepening fold between his eyes. "Do you know anything about a security code for this account?"
"No. We'll have to get Bingham."
"Well, why isn't he here?"
Tom nudged his jaw toward the window, in the direction of the Roosevelt. "He's at the hotel."
Robert's voice was strained, urgent as he picked up the phone again. "Get me the Roosevelt Hotel immediately."
Amalise envisioned the firm operator's likely response to such terse instructions. She wasn't used to such rude behavior at Mangen & Morris. Beside her, Raymond sighed. On the other side of her, Rebecca said sotto voce that one would think Bingham Murdoch would have been here, waiting with them. Tom walked back to his chair and sat. He rapped an irritating rhythm against the table with his knuckles.
"Yes, all right," Robert was saying. "Just give me the front desk." Glancing at Richard, he jerked his head toward the door. His tone was resigned. "Go change our reservations at Arnaud's. Better make it for six thirty. Give ourselves some leeway." But then, he held up his hand.
"Yes. Bingham Murdoch, please."
Richard stood, hand on the back of Amalise's chair, listening.
"Ring again. He has to be there." He pursed his lips and turned his back to the room.
Tom said, "He's probably on the way over here."
Across the table Doug pulled his chair closer to the table and leaned on one elbow, listening.
Robert turned, threw up a hand, and shouted into the phone, "Well then, page him. Tell him to call the conference room at Mangen & Morris immediately." Pause. "He'll know. Just page him."
He slammed down the phone and turned to Richard. A white line had formed along his upper lip, and his mouth barely moved as he spoke. "Go to the hotel and find Bingham." He looked at his watch. "Check Bailey's first. Bingham's not used to waiting for lunch."
There were chuckles around the table.
"Get him back here right away."
Richard nodded and left.
"Security code." Still shaking his head, Robert fell into a chair beside Doug. "There was nothing about a security code in the wire transfer memorandum."
Amalise's heart jumped. She clasped her hands and worked to keep her expression blank as Robert picked up the memorandum, perusing it.
Doug plucked it from his hands. "No, there's not. But we received the information for the investors' transfers, including Banc Franck, from you and Bingham." He pointed to the initials on the bottom corner of the page. His voice was firm. "You approved it." He handed it back to Robert. His voice was firm.
Amalise let out her breath. Doug Bastion had defended her. So far.
Chapter Forty-Eight
At 1:00 Bingham checked in at the American Airlines counter at Moisant Field. No luggage, just a small carry-on bag. He pulled out his passport and handed it to the ticket agent upon request. The ticket agent glanced at the picture, looked at Bingham, and smiled. Then she slipped the tickets and three boarding passes into a narrow folder and handed them to Bingham with the passport.
"Your boarding passes for Miami and Rome are in here, too."
Bingham nodded his head and stuck them in his pocket.
"Have a nice trip, Mr. Skarke."
Turning away, he smiled. "Thanks, I will."
Bingham Murdoch whistled as he strolled casually to the concourse, taking his time to settle into the new identity, figure out the personality for Daniel Skarke. It always took him a little time to acclimate. He shook his head. Passports, Social Security cards, credit cards, driver's licenses. All were easy to obtain, about fifty dollars each. A little more for the passports—maybe a thousand, as he recalled.
He stopped at a newsstand to browse, find a book or magazine to read. He selected a mystery. Maybe he'd get one of those Lucky Dogs they sold from carts in the airport. He liked those Lucky Dogs. It'd be a nice change from the rich meals he'd eaten every day for the past six weeks.
Heading down the concourse with purpose now, he smiled to himself. The money had hit Zurich before the close of business there, in time for immediate wiring to accounts in the Orient and the start of a whole new day. Two hundred thousand dollars were now in the Swiss account of his "contractor," Dominick Costa, best inside man in the game. Always had been. They went way back. The remaining twenty million had hit his own account in Zurich this morning before bouncing on.
He stopped at the Lucky Dog cart and ordered a dog with mustard and chili and a Coca-Cola. He handed the man some change and took a bite, savoring it.
The twenty million dollars had moved from Cayman to Zurich in the time it took to drink a cup of coffee. Then it had been split into three sums—$6,666,666, $6,666,667, and $6,666,667—and routed through twenty-one different banks around the world, each according to the matrix provided under his standing instructions to Benjamin Salter.
He chewed the hot dog and fought with the little napkins they give you to clean up the mess, thinking the money would reunite in the anstalt—a corporate trust—in Liechtenstein, before bouncing back to Daniel Skarke's account in Switzerland. He'd created that account seven years ago, before the Swiss negative tax had hit.
Finishing off the hot dog, he wiped his hands and tossed the napkins into a trash barrel nearby. The Swiss franc had preserved his purchasing power against the dollar, and it was tax free for the most part. He smiled to himself. The world's most secure currency—no risk and a fat return. Perhaps he should consider purchasing some gold, after all. With the U.S. aggravating OPEC as they'd been, the price of gold was set to skyrocket.
He perked up, listening. The first boarding call for his flight was being announced. He picked up his bag and headed for the gate. He planned to sleep on this flight and dream of taking the ferry from Naples to the villa waiting for him. As he showed the gate agent his ticket, he was already thinking of the peaceful veranda high above the cerulean sea. He could almost feel the golden sun on his skin.
Daniel Skarke, a.k.a. Bingham Murdoch, smiled.
He had never liked crowds.
Chapter Forty-Nine
It was 7:30, and the wires had closed long ago. Amalise sat behind her desk, still struggling to absorb the situation. Bingham Murdoch was missing, and so was the twenty million provided by the investors. Repeated attempts to convince Benjamin Salter to reveal the whereabouts of the money without the account's security code had been unsuccessful. The information was privileged under Cayman law.
By now the money could be in Singapore or just about anywhere else in the world.
Robert Black and Richard Murray had searched Bingham's hotel suite, hoping to find the code. His clothes were still there, and all his belongings. Perhaps this was all a mistake, a misunderstanding. They'd talked to the bell captain and the bellmen at the hotel. No one had seen him after the closing that morning. Tom called every number he had for Bingham, to no avail. When at last the fed wires had closed, the mood in the conference room resembled that of a morgue.
At seven o'clock the Cayman Trust letter of credit was withdrawn.
The Mangen & Morris team had gathered in Doug's office. His face was white. "At least our bank clients are safe," he'd said. "Their funds are being held intact at First Merchant Bank over the holiday. They'll be returned on Friday." He rubbed his forehead, shaking his head.
Preston, head in his hand, looked up. "Tom's investors are the losers."
Slowly Doug nodded.
"It was a con." All eyes turned to Raymond. He hiked one shoulder and raised his brows. "The whole thing was a con from beginning to end. That's my take. Tom and Robert met Murdoch in Cayman. They were the marks."
They'd all stared at each other, speechless.
Now Amalise looked up as Rebecca walked into her office
and dropped down in the guest chair. She braced her elbows on the armrests and linked her fingers. "What do you think?" she said after a moment.
Amalise grimaced. "I think he's gone." She glanced at the window as if seeking him there. Between buildings she could see the quarter moon. "I think Raymond's right. Bingham Murdoch was an enigma. Everyone saw what they wanted to see with him."
"Tom and the New York contingent are packing their bags. They'll be spending the holiday tomorrow with their lawyers, I'd imagine. Or the FBI." Rebecca tapped the corner of the desk with her fingers and stood. "I'm going home to get some sleep. See you on Friday morning. Preston wants us to regroup then and wrap things up."
When she was gone, Amalise sat looking at her diploma hanging on the wall near the bookcase with disbelief. Could she possibly be safe? She thought about the question from every angle and came to a conclusion: yes. The house on Kerlerec Street would be the last thing on anyone's mind right now. Project Black Diamond was as good as dead.
She took a deep breath. Thank you, Abba. Then she picked up the phone and dialed Jude's number. Four rings before he answered. "We're doing fine," he said. "How'd things go?"
"I'll tell you when I get there."
"All right. Don't forget to pick up Luke's clothes from Caroline."
She parked in front of the house on Kerlerec Street and looked at it, the place she'd bought and given away at the risk of her career, this plain wooden house with its two windows across the front. Robert's threats were emasculated now.
The children were nowhere in sight. When she reached the screened door, she pulled it open and shouted, "Caroline?"
She stepped in. "Caroline. It's Amalise. I'm here."
She could hear Nick and Charlie and Daisy upstairs. Caroline clobbered down the stairs, wearing an apron. She wiped her hands on it and held them out to Amalise. "What a night you've had!"
Amalise took her hands, and Caroline pulled her into a hug. "Jude told me all about the hospital and the crowds and everything." She patted Amalise's back for a moment, and then released her. "Thanks be to God he came. I worried that you'd all be there all night. And you, missing work, and Luke in all that pain."
"But everything worked out, and I made it back to work in time."
Caroline nodded. She planted her hands on her hips. "Well, I've talked to Jude, and he thinks Luke ought to stay with him awhile." She studied Amalise.
"Jude's singing to him." Amalise's smile was wry.
"Isn't that something! Ellis and I . . . well, we've just never been able to communicate with the child at all, and here you and Jude come along and he comes to life." She led Amalise to the living room and picked up a small bundle of clothes folded on the corner of the couch. "I've gotten his things together. There isn't much. Jude said you'd be coming by to pick them up."
Caroline dropped her eyes as she handed the clothes to Amalise. When she looked back up, Amalise saw something in her eyes that held her. "He's become very attached to you, Amalise."
"I know. The feeling is mutual."
Fingering a strand of hair near her cheek, Caroline glanced down at the little pile of clothes and back up at Amalise, and she smiled.
She couldn't remember how long it had been since she'd slept. The fatigue had hit her all at once while driving from Caroline's to Jude's. With muscles still knotted with tension from the past twenty-four hours, Amalise trudged up Jude's front steps and pressed the doorbell. Once. Twice. Then she knocked.
No answer. So she turned the knob, and the door opened.
She leaned inside and called, "Jude?"
But still no one answered. She set her purse down on the coffee table in front of the couch and walked through the living room, dining room, the small hallway where the stairs went up, and into the kitchen. There she saw that the back door was open, and through the window over the sink she could see the bare bulb lighting up the yard. And she could hear Jude's voice.
Brows raised, she walked toward the door.
A ripple of high-pitched giggles, a child's laughter, made her stop. Listening, she heard Jude again, his voice deep and even. Picking up her step, she hurried to the back door and looked out through the screen.
Luke sat beside Jude on the wood-planked floor, plastered leg stretched out before him, fully engrossed. Jude said something as he handed Luke a hammer, and Luke, taking it carefully, inspected it. She could see his face shining. Smiling.
She stood still, not wanting to interrupt anything.
Then Luke leaned forward, as Jude folded his hand over the boy's hand, so that they held the hammer together. He helped Luke to lift it, and then he let go. Luke, holding the hammer up, watched as Jude pointed to a nail in the wood below.
Luke nodded, his expression turning grave. Then he slammed the hammer down on the nail. And looking up at Jude, he laughed.
Amalise's lips parted.
Jude ruffled the boy's hair, and she opened the screened door. Both Luke and Jude looked up. "Looks like you're doing all right," she said.
Luke turned sparkling eyes to her. "Mak!"
"He's been helping," Jude said.
Luke twisted around, struggling to stand but weighed down by the cast. He cried out. Jude took the hammer and scooped him up, forming a chair with his arms as he stood beside Amalise. Luke reached out, touching Amalise's chin with the tip of his fingers, as if making certain she was real. "Mak!" he said again, but softly now.
Her throat was thick as she held out her arms.
Jude's brows drew together. "He's heavier now, with the cast."
"That's all right." So Jude slipped Luke into Amalise's arms and she held him close, cradling him. Luke rested his head on her shoulder, looking at Jude. Then he pointed his finger at Jude.
"Ju," he said.
Amalise caught her breath.
Jude looked at Luke. "That's right, buddy." He touched his finger to Luke's chest, tipped his head to one side, and raised his brows.
"Luke." Luke spoke his own name.
Amalise looked from one to the other, staring.
"I figure he's been listening for a long time," Jude said, taking her arm and guiding her back into the house.
Jude went out to buy some hamburgers, and Luke ate every bite of his, looking from one to the other of them as he ate. He smiled, and he laughed when Jude teased. Sometimes he imitated a word—like hamburger—and then Jude would stop and repeat it, saying it over and over again with him until he got it and understood. She was amazed.
After they'd tucked Luke into bed and he'd fallen asleep, almost instantly—lingering effects from the previous night, Jude said—Jude took her hand and steered her out of the room. "Let him sleep."
"But he's alone."
"He'll be fine. We'll be nearby." He took her hand in his. His was callused and strong as it curled around hers, the hand of a working man, steady and constant. A good man, she knew.
But he was Rebecca's now. She slipped away and started down the hallway to the stairs. "I think I'll go home and bathe and change. I'll be back before he wakes."
"Wait a while," Jude said, trailing behind her. "I want to hear what happened today."
And she wanted every moment she could have with him. So in the living room, instead of heading for the door, she curled up in the corner of the couch she'd made her own from time to time and looked at him.
He sprawled beside her, facing her, arm stretched across the back of the couch, the tips of his fingers only inches from her shoulder. Images of Jude sitting like this with Rebecca came to mind, and she tucked her hair behind her ears. She wouldn't think of that right now. Jude inched closer, threading his fingers through her hair. The hair on the back of her neck rose as he did this.
"Tell me how the closing went today. I've been worried about you."
She close
d her eyes, then opened them again, and a wave of dizziness overcame her. The room wavered.
Jude leaned toward her, looking into her eyes. "Are you all right?"
"Just tired."
"You were up all night. How about some coffee?"
Without waiting for an answer, he stood and said he'd be right back.
She nodded, too tired to speak. Beside her on the couch was the bundle of Luke's clothes Caroline had given her. Yawning, she reached over and picked them up. The clothes were neatly folded along with a small blanket from his bed. Enough for a few days, Caroline had said. Setting the blanket aside, she picked up each piece of clothing, inspecting it. There were three pairs of brown pants with big square pockets on the legs—little boys pants—and three small T-shirts, a sweater, some socks, and some underwear.
At the bottom of the pile she found a faded shirt, a loose cotton weave unlike the other articles of clothing. She held it up to the light. It used to be white, she could see. And it was much too small for him now—he'd have worn it years ago. She wondered if this ragged, shapeless shirt was what he was wearing when he'd left Cambodia. Folds in the cloth were bleached lines, almost white. The edges of the sleeves were frayed and the cloth worn thin.
Amalise dropped the small shirt into her lap and lay her hands upon it, trying to imagine Luke's escape. He'd been brought to America from Vietnam, but how had he gotten to Saigon from Cambodia? She envisioned him on one of the orphan rescue flights out of Saigon that she'd seen on the news two years ago, and thought of the years he'd endured since in gray institutional places, and the foster homes that had sent him away. But why had he ended up here?
She knew she'd probably never find the answers.
She turned the shirt over and spread it across her knees, and a glint of light caught her eye. She looked down and fingered a small silver broach hanging on the square shirt pocket, pulling it down into a permanent sag. She rubbed her fingers over the smooth three-leafed design. The jewelry had the heavy feel of old silver, the look of a family heirloom. Not something you'd expect to find on the pocket of an orphan from Cambodia.
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