by Glen Robins
It was time to check in with Lukas.
“You’re wise to enter Panama that way. Much safer,” Lukas said after they exchanged greetings. “That Captain knows what he’s talking about.”
“Yeah, but now I have to get from here to Panama City with all this cash. I feel like a slow-moving target.”
“Won’t be a problem, my friend,” said Lukas. “On your end, you just need to get on a plane for Panama City. According to our operatives, things are pretty loose and casual down there. The Kuna people have little concern for the government’s rules. Plus they have immunity, thanks to a long-standing arrangement between the Kuna tribal leaders and Panama City. The native people on the islands are self-governed and don’t give a rip what the Panamanian authorities want. So don’t worry yourself.”
“Okay, that’s only half the problem. What if I get mugged?”
“What if? That’s not going to happen, either. They are a peaceful people that wouldn’t hurt a person just for the sake of money.”
“Okay, let’s suppose you’re right, and I have no trouble here on the island. What next? What happens when I land in Panama City?”
“Don’t worry about that, either. We’ve got contacts set up there. I’ll have everything in place for you. For now just get yourself there, and text me your flight number, OK? You’re burning daylight, and you’ve got a lot to do in a very short time,” said Lukas.
“What do you mean?” asked Collin.
“I mean the EU and US governments are clamping down hard on offshore accounts and monitoring large transfers. We’ve got to consolidate your funds, all of them if possible, into InterCon Bank. At the rate they’re going, it’s got to be today. We have no time to waste.”
“How do you know I can trust InterCon?”
“The US is not going to audit the bank that handles the funds for all of their covert operations in Central and South America. Trust me, they do not want to open that can of worms,” Lukas said. Collin found this information disconcerting. The more of these tidbits he picked up, the more he realized he didn’t know—about the world, his own government, and life beyond the little sphere he had lived in for thirty years.
Lukas then outlined the game plan for his stay in Panama City. Parts of it sounded easier than others. Some parts sounded downright frightening. He had to trust Lukas.
From the dock at Porvenir, Collin walked through the tiny village, looking for transportation. Life on this little Caribbean island was indeed slow-paced. Nothing, it seemed, was urgent. Plus it wasn’t laid out like any town he had visited, either. There were few streets per se. There were huts and shacks and a few stores down near the water, separated by tall palm trees. Right next to the Customs and Immigration building where they had filled out their paperwork was a museum celebrating the culture of the Kuna Yala. Beyond that it was hard to identify a downtown or a shopping district. Even finding the main boulevard took effort.
Throughout the village, Collin noticed contrasts. Some of the buildings had stucco walls and tiled roofs. Others were built in the traditional Kuna way with mud walls and roofs made from palm fronds. Since he did not want to call undue attention to himself, Collin tried to slow himself down but found it to be no easy task. He was geared up for the mission ahead of him. Carrying $2.7 million in cash on his back wasn’t helping him to relax, either. Despite Lukas’s assurances, he continued to glance over his shoulder.
His mind was filled with steps from the meticulously constructed plan, a checklist of things he knew he needed to do to accomplish his goal of repositioning all of his money, not just what he was carrying. There was another $27 million out there. Some of it was safe in banks that Lukas had determined were not on the law enforcement radar. Another $9.5 million in various banks would be easy to transfer to InterCon Bank because the accounts were each under $1 million. Collin’s primary concern today was to physically move the $7 million dollars from other banks in Panama City to InterCon.
Concerns about guarding his fortune and following the outline from Lukas swirled as he maneuvered between the huts and brick buildings of Porvenir.
Sliding in and out of Panama without detection was paramount. So far, so good. Thanks to Captain Sewell, getting into Panama had turned out much easier than he had anticipated. Landing here in the Kuna Islands and dealing with the affable native people in Porvenir was a stroke of good fortune that he hoped would continue.
Next goal: Get to Panama City.
He had to get to the local airport, which necessitated finding a taxi, which were not plentiful. The town was so small and so poor, there was hardly a vehicle in sight other than hand-carved boats and rickety bicycles. The first and only cabbie he found required some convincing, oddly enough, but he came around when Collin showed him he had a stack of Panamanian currency.
The airstrip looked more like a long-neglected sidewalk. It was about as wide as a two-lane alley. Cracked concrete with green clumps of grass pushing through, patched in several places, and two sets of yellow Xs marking the ends made up the landing strip. One small building with a make-shift Formica counter served as the airport’s nerve center.
Collin swallowed hard as he surveyed the scene. A pang of discomfort rose inside him and squeezed at his sternum. A few deep breaths and a quick bit of research on his phone helped restore a sense of calm. Apparently everything worked. Planes came and went without incident several times a week. No reports of crashes or fatalities on the Internet.
He also learned there was an outgoing flight from Porvenir to Panama City with empty seats at 12:40.
Things being lax as they were on this obscure island, Collin was able to pay cash for his ticket and walk onto the twelve-seat, twin-engine, commuter plane without question, let alone a search of his person or bags. Lukas had not steered Collin wrong, which added to his confidence.
Next obstacle, however, would be clearing customs in Panama City. As a foreigner coming through Kuna Yala, there would be a higher risk of drawing attention. Lukas assured him he would take care of the details by the end of the twenty-minute flight.
As he walked off the plane in Panama City, Collin’s palms were sweaty, as was his brow. He had to maintain control and play it cool.
The secret to getting through unfamiliar situations, he knew, was to act like you had done it a hundred times before. Confidence was the magic ingredient, the thing that made it all work.
Collin summoned the courage he needed to exude confidence. He donned his sunglasses and secured his bags in his grip. He painted a determined look on his face, steely and convincing, as he walked through the terminal with an all-business swagger. No problems.
Out of compulsion, he dug his phone out and did the one-handed texting thing. Anything I should know? he asked Lukas.
Inside the terminal, there were crowds of people of all sorts, mostly Latin Americans, but there were quite a number of Europeans, Americans, and other white people. There were tourists, business people, college students, and local merchants moving this way and that. The bulging backpack, however, made Collin feel conspicuous. No one else was wearing such a large, conspicuous pack. He felt like he was standing out, and he didn’t want that.
The phone dinged. Lukas’s reply: My contact will meet you at Line 4. Have some US currency with your docs. $200 should be plenty. Nothing to worry about. You’ll be fine.
Collin followed the instructions and made his way to Line 4. The man behind the glass seemed no different than any of the other customs agents. Taking a deep breath, Collin stepped forward when the agent motioned for him, mustering all the serenity he could as he presented his papers. The man’s hands were quick and adept. The money slid discreetly from Collin’s passport under a loose piece of paper. As the man looked at Collin’s passport, not a trace of interest on his face, he said without so much as looking up, “It is an honor to welcome you to Panama, Señor Spencer. We wish you the best on your expedition.” The thirty-something-year-old official managed a smile and a nod of his head as he
took in Professor Spencer and his large backpack. He then flipped the pages of the passport, pounded a stamp onto one of them with gusto and authority, and handed it back to Collin. “Next,” he said as he waved to the person behind Collin.
Exhaling in relief, Collin picked up his bags and moved swiftly toward the exit, eager to get away from the crowds, the security, and so many unknowns.
He turned a corner and came upon a short man wearing a three piece suit and chauffeur’s hat holding a plastic placard that read: Welcome Nigel Spencer.
Collin walked right past it, lost in a tangle of complex thoughts. When it finally dawned on him several paces later, he turned to the man and introduced himself. The limousine took him to The Executive Hotel. Uniquely positioned in the heart of Panama City’s thriving financial district, the hotel towered above the bustling city. Every bank he needed to visit would be in walking distance.
He fired off a text to Lukas as he stood outside the front lobby: Nice touch. Seems a little overboard.
Not for a guest of the govt was the reply.
What? Collin shot back.
Part of your cover. It’ll work. Much safer, too.
Preferable to Collin would be a small budget hotel with free Internet, where he could come and go unnoticed. But, trusting Lukas, he tipped the chauffeur and reached for his overstuffed pack and the smaller backpack. He clutched the computer bag in the other hand. Within seconds, two friendly bellhops were at his side, offering assistance that Collin was not used to. His resistance was useless and short-lived. He had to pause when the young bellhop asked his name.
“I shall take this to your room, Señor Spencer.”
When they arrived at his room, Collin tipped him with American money and thanked him for his help. Instantly realizing his mistake, Collin’s eyes opened wide and his words caught in his throat. Collin was supposed to be a Brit. Why would a Brit be carrying US currency? Plus, he had forgotten to use the proper accent, his Yankee pronunciation flowing out before his brain could catch up.
“Gracias,” said the young bellhop who gawked curiously at the money.
Too many people paying him too much attention and two mistakes that could haunt him. He had to get his work done and get out of town. It was already two o’clock in the afternoon. The bank would close in three hours.
He had to prepare the money for deposit. Pouring the cash wrapped in duct tape onto the bed, Collin stopped to take it in. It was a big pile—more money than he and Amy had ever dreamed of. He pulled out his pocket knife and began ripping open the gray bricks, pushing away the thoughts of what he’d lost in exchange for it. His knees gave way as her face flashed in his mind. This time, though, it wasn’t the pretty, smiling face he liked to remember. This time it was the face with worry and dread painted on it after paying bills. He caught himself on the edge of the bed and slumped to the floor. With his face in his hands, he broke down, unable to restrain the pent up angst. “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m sorry we never had enough,” he mumbled just above a whisper.
Chapter Thirteen
Panama City, Panama
May 13
Collin awoke with a start when the incessant knocking at the door finally registered. Quickly checking his surroundings, he jumped to his feet but struggled to maintain his balance. Seeing the stacks of cash spread out on the bed, he stopped in his tracks. His mind clicked on, and he remembered where he was and how he got there. The knocking continued, accompanied by a gentleman’s lightly accented voice. “Señor Spencer? Is everything all right?”
Blinking hard and rubbing his eyes, he zeroed in on the clock to get his bearings. It read 2:48. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’ll be right with you,” Collin stammered in his best British accent, trying to hide his uneasiness. Scrambling to the side of the bed, he grabbed the large pack and swept the stacks of money into it, dropping it in the closet as he walked to the door. “So sorry to keep you waiting. I’m afraid I dozed off there for a few moments,” Collin said, playing off his scattered demeanor.
The man introduced himself as the manager of the hotel and told Collin what an honor it was to have someone so prominent staying at his hotel. Hosting guests of the government was not something they took lightly. Collin thanked him and modestly deflected the compliments. “I’m just a curious professor searching for links between the ancient Mayans and aboriginals of the Caribbean islands,” he said.
“I see,” said the manager. “It’s just that we usually have more than a few hours notice of the arrival of such distinguished guests. We did not have adequate time to prepare one of our presidential suites.”
“Right. No apologies necessary. My office, I’m afraid, must have missed that particular detail.”
“Yes, yes, perhaps you are right. Or, perhaps it is because you arrived by boat at Isla El Porvenir,” the manager said, his head cocked slightly. “It is so difficult to predict the wind and the seas.” His eyes narrowed in anticipation of Collin’s response.
Collin was caught completely off-guard. Again, he consciously maintained a cheery, naïve smile. However, he knew his eyes widened and his chin dropped as the man spoke. He felt exposed and it was difficult to conceal his discomfort. “Yes, we had a change of plans that necessitated alternate travel arrangements.” He turned away and cleared his throat.
“No matter the purpose for your visit, your business is welcome here at The Executive Hotel and much appreciated, Señor Spencer. I trust your stay here will be peaceful and trouble-free. We wish to provide you a token of our hospitality.” The manager’s face was like a mask, completely unreadable. His choice of words obviously meant to convey a level of wariness. He motioned behind him, and another man pushed a small cart holding a silver bucket of ice and champagne into view. The manager moved out of the way, and the cart-pushing attendant looked to Collin for approval. The hesitation was momentary but noticeable, he was sure. He awkwardly motioned for the man to enter.
“You are too kind, my dear sir. Muchas gracias,” he said with terrible pronunciation.
The manager and the cart pusher each gave a slight bow as they exited. “We hope you enjoy your stay, Señor Spencer,” the manager said. Then he backed away.
Thoroughly flustered, Collin closed the door and moved to the center of the room to survey the cart. He circled it twice, peering at it from every angle. Lukas had instilled in him a high level of skepticism, perhaps bordering on paranoia, so he pushed the cart into the bathroom and closed the door. If there was a camera on the cart, it would record nothing but darkness.
One valuable hour had elapsed. Collin scrambled to gather his paperwork and pack. He felt ill-prepared, but time was running out. As a precaution, he shoved the computer bag into the in-closet safe. He grabbed the backpack and headed out because he didn’t have time to buy a more business-like briefcase to carry the cash.
Walking the streets with $2.7 million was a scary proposition anywhere, but even more so in an unfamiliar place. Even though he only had to walk two blocks to his destination, it felt as if it took an eternity. His head swiveled about continually, expecting an attack.
He exhaled in relief as he walked through the front doors of InterCon Bank. Once inside, he was escorted by a young-looking vice president to a private office halfway down a corridor that required a key to enter. As Lukas had promised, the transaction went smoothly and quickly. No prying questions were asked of him, and no scrutiny of his person or papers took place. The most difficult part was finding the obscure office which housed the bank. With the transfers he initiated on his computer earlier, he had already consolidated nearly $11 million in a numbered account at InterCon. This deposit brought his total over $13.5 million.
His watch said 3:37. Two more banks, both within three blocks, held large amounts of his money. He politely requested the young VP to allow him time to return. The vice president promised he would personally attend to all of Collin’s transactions.
His first stop was at another well-kept secret of the ultra rich. PanAmerican G
lobal Assets was a favorite off-shore shelter used primarily by American and Brazilian multinational corporations. Without so much as a sideways glance, the operators there allowed Collin to liquidate $4.15 million dollars, which caused every pouch of his pack to bulge. As he wrestled the pack onto his back, he estimated it to weigh about ninety pounds.
At 4:17 p.m., Collin pushed the electronic buzzer at the entrance of InterCon Bank. The same young man let him into the otherwise empty office. Fifteen minutes later, Collin had an electronic verification that his funds had been received into his account.
One more bank to visit. One more favor to ask of his new friend at InterCon.
“I cannot let you in after five o’clock. The doors lock, and my code will not open them again,” the manager informed him.
The second bank was much closer – around the corner and halfway down the block. It held another $2.25 million. Collin couldn’t risk leaving his funds in banks that were on the target list for Interpol and the FBI. It would feel akin to leaving one of his children alone in the car at the mall. Since electronic transactions were being monitored, direct withdrawal, while fraught with tangible risks, was his best option.
Despite his ability to correctly code in his nineteen-digit account number from memory, Collin’s request raised the eyebrows of the assistant manager who was called to help with the transaction. Collin was escorted into a back office and asked to wait for the bank president.
As he sat, a line of perspiration formed on his upper lip. He squirmed in his seat and fidgeted with the straps on his pack. When the bank president entered the room, Collin half expected the National Guard to enter with him it had taken so long. The man’s face was stern, his gaze penetrating. He huffed as he took his seat in the high-backed leather chair opposite Collin, a ponderous mahogany desk between them. “What is the reason for your hasty withdrawal from our bank, Mr. Stevens, is it?”