Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  “Not very smart,” St. James said, “drawing attention when you’re on the run.”

  Jason interjected. “Or, it’s very smart. Maybe he wanted to be noticed, so someone totally independent could vouch for his whereabouts.”

  “I don’t know, Jason. Pretty thin.”

  “Could be right.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She remembered Gyberson laughing and joking with the man in the next seat. Made her feel self-conscious, like she was the butt of their jokes.”

  “Interesting on two fronts,” St. James mused.

  “How so?”

  “Well, it validates our interpretation of the code, or at least part of it. But, more importantly, it tips the scales in favour of Stevens being part of something. I like it.”

  “Part of something I got: I was looking for that. But I didn’t think about the code. You’re right. It gives us more confidence in Louis’s work. Not that I doubted it, mind you. I’ll know for sure this afternoon when the remaining flight manifests come in.”

  “Great! Thanks, Jason.”

  While Jason and St. James were speaking, an email from Basil and William Hughes was forwarded to St. James by Van Hoyt. They pledged their full cooperation when St. James came to England. Van Hoyt left it to the three of them to organize the visit.

  St. James now had too much on the go and was becoming increasingly concerned something might slip through the cracks. Everything had to be followed up in an organized manner for the investigations to turn out well. He decided to hold a team meeting to allocate responsibilities.

  He booked a private dining area in the Westin Beach Club for six that evening and invited everyone to dinner. All accepted. Smythe would bring his laptop and case files.

  It was 12:30 and St. James felt hungry, so he worked his way into the kitchen, made a smoked-meat sandwich, pulled a can of club soda from the refrigerator, and then returned to the study.

  Eating lunch with one hand and one-finger typing with the other, St. James managed to get a coherent email off to the Hughes brothers advising that he and Anna would be in England the following Wednesday. He listed a number of documents he’d like to be available when they arrived: original inventory count sheets, summaries, and supporting documentation sent to HQ after year-end counts. He thought advance notice was not only courteous but would give the brothers time to prepare.

  Then he booked an Air Canada flight to Toronto for himself and Anna next Tuesday, with an overnight connection to Heathrow.

  Just as the printer pumped out travel confirmations, the phone rang.

  Jason.

  No pleasantries, only uncontrollable excitement.

  “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it!”

  “Calm down, Jason. Can’t believe what?”

  “Every flight number, every time, and every date matched every destination travelled by every suspect named in Louis’s email,” he said in disbelief.

  “Wow, that’s a mouthful! I take it you received the other manifests?” St. James said with a grin.

  “You bet. We’re making progress, Hamilton, thanks to you.”

  “We make a good team, Jason,” St. James said.

  Jason’s news increased St. James’s confidence in Smythe and Anna’s decoding work exponentially.

  “Jason, I know I am overstepping boundaries between us, but I think you need to bring the American Ambassador to Cayman and the Cayman Ambassador to the United States into the picture.”

  St. James heard Jason clear his throat.

  “Let’s be clear, Hamilton. I need all the help I can get. My only interest is in solving the case. I’m not worried about my ego. I leave political crap to those who are full of it.”

  St. James smiled broadly. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Jason.”

  “What do we want from the ambassadors?”

  St. James laid out the plan.

  Chapter 37

  A man named Sterling settled into a booth in the Queen Elizabeth Hotel restaurant in downtown Montreal to wait for a man he’d never met, a man described in detail in an anonymous email.

  The man would approach a booth next to the window facing the old Sun Life head office. There Sterling would be sitting, alone. The man would make eye contact with Sterling and then sit opposite him.

  They would confirm each other by code. Sterling was told the man would say, “I think the Maple Leafs will make the playoffs this year.” In response Sterling would say, “I believe you are right, friend, but will they take the cup?” That was confirmation they could speak freely.

  Sterling waited a good twenty minutes while a number of people came and went, none of whom looked anything like the man described in the email.

  He eyed the dining room. Only a few tables were occupied, one with ten or so ladies from the Red Hat Society loudly arguing Quebec politics. Large crystal chandeliers dotted the white-and-gold ceiling. Waiters dressed in tight-fitting black suits and matching bowties scurried among the tables.

  Finally Sterling spotted a man vaguely fitting the description he’d been given entering the restaurant.

  The man paused and looked around the room, seemingly uncomfortable. He spotted a man sitting where he had instructed Sterling to be in the anonymous email. A moment later he walked slowly toward the booth. Sterling studied him carefully as the man approached.

  But the man walked past the booth Sterling occupied. Perhaps not the man Sterling was to meet after all. A few steps past him, the man abruptly turned and eyed him.

  Eye contact, good sign, Sterling thought.

  The man sat opposite, waited a beat while studying Sterling, then spewed the words Sterling expected to hear. Sterling responded as instructed.

  “We don’t seem to be doing very well here,” the man mumbled. “First Clayton and Wagner are burned up. Now Long’s arrested. Cost me three grand to have an expert dismantle those airbags and seatbelts.”

  Sterling nodded but said nothing.

  “Do you have anyone who is competent?” the man said angrily.

  Sterling tensed, concerned about how the meeting was going.

  “I have a contract man. A shooter,” he said hesitantly.

  “Is he any good, or is he just going to disappoint like the others?” the man said harshly.

  “He’s very good, I guarantee it,” Sterling said cautiously, demeanour approaching one of fear.

  “You guaranteed the others. I’m afraid your guarantee isn’t worth much anymore. Not what it used to be. They all failed. Incompetence,” the man barked in a low voice so as not to be heard by those having lunch nearby.

  “They were wrong for the job, I admit,” Sterling said, anxiously fiddling with his silverware. “Shooter has never let me down.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t this time.”

  “I know my pay depends on it.”

  The stranger’s forehead furrowed, and he leaned closer to Sterling. “Maybe more than your pay.”

  Without another word the man stood and wandered slowly out of the restaurant.

  Sterling remained behind, seated for several minutes, overcome by an emotional cauldron of fear, uncertainty, and lack of confidence.

  Chapter 38

  St. James’s watch said 1:45.

  For the next thirty minutes or so he prepared an outline for the team meeting later that afternoon. He made notes. Lists. Questions to be asked by each team member when carrying out their assigned responsibilities.

  By 2:30 he was feeling cooped up and anxious enough to take his usual walk up Colonel By. Time to think, put pieces of case puzzles together, at least as much as he could with what he knew.

  He arrived back home around five and immediately jumped in the shower. Then he shaved and dressed in a light-grey Nordstrom slim-fit blazer, a dark-blue dress shirt open at the neck, black slacks, and black wingtip shoes. At 5:30 he poured a glass of Primitivo and moved to the study, where he photocopied notes on Franklin and Gyberson and scribbled a few e
xtra key questions he had thought of during his walk.

  Anna had left a voicemail saying Dozer was escorting her to her apartment to dress properly for dinner. She would meet him at the restaurant.

  He strolled over to the Westin around five after six, through the Beach Club’s glass doors to a place rich in décor with suede walls and dark wood paneling. He made his way into the private dining area and found the team already into beer and wine.

  Smythe was wearing a red-and-black tartan shirt with pink plaid pants; Anna, a black pantsuit. Both stunning, but for very different reasons. Dozer was in his best black leather Calvin Klein suit, his head freshly shaved and shinier than usual.

  Anna was smiling broadly, and St. James knew why. Smythe and Dozer were standing side by side, an indescribable contrast that could only be appreciated in person.

  The table was covered with white linen, with blue cloth napkins at each setting together with a full set of silver for four. The spaces between settings were wide enough to allow for files, note-taking, and Smythe’s computer. All just as St. James had requested.

  On the wall behind them hung a larger-than-life oil painting of a huge ship in rough seas. The lighting was dim, and the smell of exquisitely prepared food swirled about the richly decorated room.

  The server was a beautiful girl named Cathy. Dozer was clearly already in love.

  St. James said to Cathy, “Forty Creek on the rocks, please.”

  Cathy nodded. “Anyone like a refill?”

  “I’ll have another Molson,” Dozer said with a huge smile meant only for her.

  St. James grinned and pointed to the bottle in Dozer’s hand, protesting lightheartedly. “You still have half the first one.”

  Dozer looked at the bottle as if he didn’t know what it was, and then smiled a second time. “A man can plan ahead, can’t he?”

  Smythe and Anna laughed.

  “Put your tongue back in your mouth, Dozer,” St. James said. “We’ve got business to attend to. Let’s all sit down.”

  Anna sat next to St. James, Dozer and Smythe sat opposite. Anna smiled again.

  “Anna,” Smythe said, “why are you smiling all the time?”

  Anna shrugged, “Just seeing you and Dozer together … well … it’s entertaining.”

  “What?” Dozer said, sounding slightly annoyed. “What’s so funny about Louis and me?”

  “Do you really have to ask?” St. James said with a chuckle.

  Dozer looked at Smythe, and then at himself. Smythe looked at Dozer, and then at himself.

  “I suppose not,” Dozer slowly began to laugh along with the others.

  Smythe, not finding any of this funny, remained stone-faced.

  “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” St. James said, focusing everyone to the purpose of the evening.

  He recounted Jason’s findings with the flight manifests in the Stevens case. Smythe and Anna congratulated each other once again for breaking that part of the code.

  Everyone was surprised to learn Gyberson and Stevens had travelled to Fargo together.

  “If they were in it together why wouldn’t they have travelled separately, on different airplanes? Seems a bit cocky to travel together,” Anna said.

  “That would make Gyberson the number one suspect in Stevens’s murder,” Dozer offered.

  “That’s right,” Smythe agreed.

  Cathy arrived with the Forty Creek for St. James and a second beer for Dozer.

  Cathy stared at Smythe’s outfit, looking bewildered. Smythe paid no attention.

  St. James continued.

  “I’d like us to agree on what each of us will be doing over the next two weeks. This is what I propose.

  “On Stevens, we still haven’t confirmed that $23 million was actually transferred to the Cayman National Bank. Supposedly there’s a transfer or transfers with the ID ABA#021000089 to account number 012-67141, a transaction we believe has the code name csprite1, but we don’t know the amount, whose account it is, or who made the transfer, that is if it actually was made. As we get closer the thieves will become nervous, perhaps trying to move the money before we get to it. So we’ll ask the US and Cayman ambassadors to lobby the Cayman government and the bank to block any cash movement. Jason is on that now.

  “I spoke with a partner in the Cayman law firm Higgins Johnson. She said legal action would have to be commenced in the United States before a bank account can be frozen in Cayman. Once an order is obtained it must be accepted by Cayman’s Grand Court to be enforceable on the island. If and when that happens, the bank has to comply. All this takes time; time we don’t have. That’s why I asked Jason to go the ambassador route at the same time. Problem is, ambassadors are political people, loathe to get involved in commercial matters unless ordered to do so by their own government.

  “Because you’re already involved, Louis, I want you to stay close to Williamson, and keep me up to date.”

  Smythe nodded, typing vigorously.

  “Tomorrow I’d like you to phone the woman at the Cayman bank. Tell her our plan. Ask her to unofficially flag the account. That means the bank’s senior management will be notified if attempts are made to move money. Meanwhile Jason will work the Cayman government angle and ask his Island counterparts for help. If all else fails, they’ll find some technical reason to prevent money leaving the country.

  “And ask Nathan to instruct his attorneys to seek the appropriate US court order. Once that’s in hand, ask Higgins Johnson to apply for its acceptance by the Cayman Grand Court. Then the bank can be served.”

  “Will do,” Smythe said enthusiastically.

  Dozer was scratching his bald head, looking perplexed.

  “So, let me get this straight, Hamilton. You’re unofficially asking the bank to flag the account, which sounds suspiciously like voluntary freezing to me. Then you’re asking ambassadors to lobby for a freeze order from the Cayman government. Then, you’re applying for a US court order to have the money legally frozen.”

  “That’s right,” St. James said without hesitation.

  “Isn’t that overkill?”

  “I don’t think so, Dozer. Look at it this way. Louis notifies the bank that the funds were stolen. The bank talks to its lawyers, who remind them that their fiduciary duty is to the money’s rightful owner. The bank’s lawyers call ours, who’ll say an application is being made for a US court order to freeze the account and that the Grand Court will be asked to recognize it. While this is happening, the Cayman government is contemplating using the political process to freeze the account. A remote chance of that happening, but still, they would contemplate it.”

  All eyes were on St. James. “Now … here is the pivotal point,” he said, gesturing with a forefinger. “The bank will not give money to anyone without the blessing of the Grand Court, knowing all this is in play. No banker in his right mind would let money go in that environment.”

  Anna leaned forward to face St. James. “What happens if the account signatories claim the money before the courts and government can act? What will the bank do then?”

  “It has a duty to see that the money falls into the right hands. And the legal process has to unfold to determine whose those rightful hands are.”

  “That could take months,” Smythe said with a pained expression.

  “That’s right,” St. James said, grinning. “Meanwhile the signatories will put heat on the bank, argue the money was accepted by the bank on the strength of their signature and therefore should be released on the strength of their signature. They’ll launch lawsuits against the bank for some trumped-up reason. Something like: if monies aren’t released right away to consummate a business deal, both money and opportunity will be lost. Or some other such nonsense.”

  “Then what?” Dozer chimed in.

  “We don’t expect the bank to give the money to us; nor should they. They’ll pay it to the Grand Court on the grounds that there are competing claims. The court holds the funds until the rightful o
wner can be determined. The money can’t disappear, which is all we want out of the whole process anyway. Our problem’s solved, the bank’s problem’s solved, possibly even without a US or Cayman court order, or action from the Cayman government. Sometimes people knowing what’s in play, and knowing what’s going to happen, behave as if it’s already happened.”

  “Clever,” Dozer said thoughtfully.

  “How can you be so sure of all this Cayman political court stuff?” Louis asked.

  “Cayman laws are derived from British law, just like Canada’s. Both countries have parliamentary democracies and develop laws in a similar manner.”

  St. James let a few moments go by.

  Then said, “Any questions?”

  Everyone shook their heads.

  Cathy returned to drop menus in front of them. Everyone took a moment to study their options.

  “May I have another Pinot Grigio?” Anna asked, holding her wine glass high as if proposing a toast.

  “And another Cabernet for me too,” Smythe chimed in.

  “Certainly,” Cathy responded, smiling.

  That prompted a smile in turn from Dozer.

  And that prompted another giggle from Anna, who was quite enjoying the flirtation between the two.

  Cathy turned to Anna.

  “Would you like an appetizer?”

  “Please. Dungeness crab would be great,” Anna replied, pointing to a line on the menu.

  Cathy turned to St. James.

  “And for you, Mr. St. James?”

  “I’ll try your Bigeye tuna.”

  Smythe didn’t wait to be asked.

  “Clams casino.”

  “Glad you saved me for last,” Dozer said, grin so wide that St. James thought his face would crack.

  “Always save the best for last,” Cathy said in a seductive voice, ignoring Smythe’s fake gag.

  “Would you like an appetizer?” she said to Dozer.