Dirty White

by Brian Freemantle

  The telephone and telex lines were the last items to be fitted. The two men dismantled the telephones, inserting listening and monitoring devices to ensure that everything would be recorded. In every receiver they put a separate activating mechanism: the recordings could be started manually but a second system was voice-activated. They then did the same with the telex machine, fitting it with an extra printout facility so that there would be duplicates of every message and an additional display screen to keep a record of all numbers dialed out or in. The cameras, both still and movie, were completely concealed in what purported to be a burglar-alarm system—a series of lens-type sensors with fish-eye coverage of every room in the office suite. Even with the film equipment, the sensors still performed their true function, reacting to the body heat of anyone who came within range.

  The center of the suite was a large, open-plan office area reached directly from the road. The telex room was to the right and there were three smaller rooms at the rear. Batty and Jones wired everyone with microphones, concealed inside the beading of the desks. Each was entirely automatic, triggered again by voice. They had finished their bugging by the late evening of the first day.

  Batty squatted on his heels by the desk in the main room, grinned and said, “Well, folks, we’re ready for business.”

  “Let’s hope we get some, after all this,” said the more doubtful Jones.

  Farr contacted his New York office by telex, advising them of his intention to fly up the following day, as a test for the installation. It worked perfectly.

  They dined out, as they had lunched, at the Caribbean Club, and Batty said, “We’d better enjoy it while we can. When Harvey gets here and starts scrutinizing the expenses, he won’t be happy.”

  Farr expected there to be some embarrassment when they got home at the end of the evening but there wasn’t, the technicians going to their house and Farr and Harriet to the bungalow.

  “They seem to have accepted our being together,” said Farr.

  “It was always planned that there should be shared accommodation,” she said.

  “Still thought they might have said something.”

  “You’re embarrassed!”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are! Worried what the neighbors might say!”

  He laughed with her, enjoying her lightness. “I don’t give a damn about the neighbors.”

  Without any discussion, she walked with him to his bedroom, and the love was as good as it had been the first time. They remained holding each other tightly afterwards, neither wanting-to break away. “How long will you be away?” she asked.

  “A few days,” said Farr. “Now we’re operational, the quickest way of spreading the word is through New York.”

  “I expect everyone will be here when you get back.”

  “Will it make it difficult for us?”

  “Could be a little awkward, I guess. Until they get used to it. The house will be a bit crowded.”

  “Some of them would expect to come and live here?” said Farr. The prospect had not occurred to him until now.

  “I would have thought so,” said Harriet, curious at his obvious surprise.

  “I don’t want that.”

  “Bill was only half joking tonight, about the expenses. Harvey Mann’s a tight-assed little bookkeeper. I don’t think he’d go along with the rental of a third property. Everything will have to be accounted for in the end, don’t forget.”

  “I don’t give a damn what Mann will or will not go along with,” said Farr. “I’m not sharing this place with anyone apart from you. I’ll take over the rental here and pay for it myself. Rent something else for the others. That way the Bureau will still only be paying for two places.”

  She pulled away from him slightly. “That’s going to cost you a lot of money.”

  He kissed her gently. “Can’t imagine a better way of spending it.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t fall in love or have any affairs while I’m away.”

  “You laying claim?”

  “Absolutely one hundred percent.”

  She looked at him in complete seriousness in the half light of the bedside lamp. “You needn’t worry. I’ve found someone to love.”

  Farr caught the earliest flight from the island and managed to make a connection within two hours at Miami, so he reached Manhattan by early afternoon. Angela Nolan was waiting dutifully, running with her usual efficiency through everything that had occurred since his last trip. He congratulated her on her impressive achievements.

  “Flying visit?” she asked.

  “I’ll be around for a few days.”

  “What’s it look like on the island?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Hector wants to talk to you.”

  “A problem?”

  The woman shook her head. “Not with his section, not as far as I know. Just said he wanted to know as soon as you came back, so I told him when I got the telex. He said he’d like to see you as soon as convenient.”

  “Guess I’d better have him in then,” said Farr.

  Faltham arrived in Farr’s office thirty minutes later, shirt-sleeved as usual, pipe already going. He lowered himself with slow deliberation into the chair Farr suggested, and remained for several moments staring across the desk. Then he said, “When we spoke you talked about the Caymans only being a possibility: that you weren’t sure if you’d proceed or not. From the telexes and from what I’ve heard from Angela, I gather you’re going ahead?”

  “I think it’s got potential,” said Farr.

  “For what?” demanded the other broker sharply.

  “Profit,” said Farr. “Good business.”

  “You’ve got a loyal team here,” said Faltham. “Good guys, every one of them.”

  Farr shifted unhappily. He supposed this confrontation had been predictable but he had hoped to avoid it. “I know that,” he said. “I hardly need reminding.”

  “Why isn’t anyone involved in the offshore venture then?” asked Faltham. He held up his hand in an apologetic gesture. “OK,” he said. “It’s your company. You own it; can do what you like. But I thought you owed it to us to take us a little more into your confidence than you have done. I gather the incorporation makes this company the parent of the Cayman situation, yet no one from here is involved—or has the slightest idea even of what’s going on. You’ve got a completely new team—we don’t know any names, for Christ’s sake!—and people here are uncertain.”

  “You the spokesman?”

  Faltham nodded. “Oldest guy around.”

  “I’ve got every confidence in you—in you personally, and in everyone else in the firm. Why else would I feel able to go off to the Caymans and not worry about anything that’s happening back here?” said Farr. He considered the lie and went on, “There’s no purpose in anyone from here getting involved in the island expansion. I want everyone back here doing what they’ve always done; and always done well. The Caymans is still experimental. I’m going to give it a run and see how it goes. If it doesn’t work, I’ll close it all down. And the only person to have wasted his time will be me.”

  “We go back a long time, right?”

  “Right,” agreed Farr.

  “So I’m allowed to ask,” said Faltham defensively. “You sure you’re leveling about this?”

  Farr determined against telling a direct lie. The alternative was practically as objectionable. “This is the way it’s going to be,” he said. “My way.”

  Faltham’s face tightened at the rejection. He took his pipe from his mouth, examining it as if seeing it for the first time. “I see.”

  “Hector!” said Farr, not wanting the gap to widen between them. “Let me do it my way—indulge myself, if I want to.”

  “Sure,” said the other man, the hurt obvious.

  “I need everyone back here,” said Farr. “I don’t want any mistakes … anyone imagining things when there’s nothing to imagine.” Farr r
ealized that, as a result of what had happened between himself and Harriet, he’d cocooned himself, momentarily cut himself off from what needed to be done. It was not taking long to come back to reality.

  “Like I said, it’s your company,” repeated the other man.

  “Which wouldn’t be the sort of company it is without you and the others,” said Farr urgently. “I rely upon you. All of you. You tell them that for me? Or shall I talk to everyone myself?”

  “No point in making it a bigger thing than it is,” said Faltham. “I’ll reassure those who need reassuring.”

  “Everything is going to work out OK. Just give it a little time.”

  Faltham looked directly at him. “There’s nothing wrong with the business, is there?” he asked. “I know my own division’s OK but there’s nothing wrong elsewhere that makes it necessary for us to go offshore and maybe attract some high-flying business?”

  “No,” said Farr, urgently again, well knowing how quickly rumors could start and undermine a perfectly strong and viable financial enterprise. “The business is what it’s always been. Solid as a rock.”

  Faltham stayed staring at him, his face showing neither belief or disbelief. “Maybe I’ll tell them that, too.”

  “I don’t want any wild stories,” warned Farr.

  “Neither do I,” said Faltham. Critically he added, “It’s a problem that arises when people don’t get taken into confidence.”

  “There’s no reason for it to arise; none whatsoever!” Farr allowed his own irritation to show. What would the professional reaction be if everything worked as the FBI intended? It would be important to remind Brennan about the promise publicly to exonerate him in court.

  “So it’s like you said, exploratory?”

  “Precisely that,” said Farr, glad that the assurance did not involve him in further lies.

  “I’ll try to make it clear.”

  “Make it clear,” said Farr. “You know how dangerous these things can sometimes be, particularly if they get out of hand.”

  The meeting with Faltham—the abrupt, harsh return to the forgotten reality—disturbed Farr. To spread the news that he was operating offshore he intended to use the same rumor mills that could be so damaging if the speculation took a wrong course; and he would have to be very careful—if there was the sort of feeling within the firm at which Faltham hinted—that it didn’t take the wrong course. Walter Farr going into the Caymans had to be presented and accepted as the action of a supremely confident and successful investment broker widening his activities. Not as the action of a man whose company had an unknown problem—a liquidity difficulty, for instance—which he was trying to solve by running after quick money. He had Angela Nolan prepare interim figures of the year’s working and profit forecast; and, despite the understanding that Faltham would spread the message that all was well, convened a meeting of the division managers—Nolan and Faltham and Paul Brent and Richard Bell—and went through everything with them, in a positive demonstration of their continued and increasing profitability.

  Having, he hoped, satisfied his immediate staff, Farr set about channeling the stories exactly as he wanted them to appear. He knew the places to go—the Union Club where he’d eaten with Becage, the luncheon club off Fulton Street, the floor of the exchange itself, the bars nearby—and he used them all, seeking out the key people. First, he planted the suggestion of the year’s increased trading figures, during an apparently casual exchange with the journalist who compiled the influential Notes section of the Wall Street Journal. After the item had duly appeared he managed to seem surprised when Barron’s and then the New York Times openly approached him for confirmation. He provided it, of course, and some more facts as well, hinting at some expansion. This brought the Wall Street Journal back and to them he finally disclosed the Caymans operation. Farr said that he had changed his earlier and well-known attitude toward expansion because of his operating success. The speed and extent of the response surprised him. There were approaches from several pension-fund managers—the biggest in Chicago—and plenty of calls from financial lawyers in the city. Farr handled everything himself, establishing a bone-aching schedule: getting into the office by seven in the morning, making every lunch a business meeting and then continuing late into the evening.

  By the end of the first fortnight, Farr had channeled business worth fifty million dollars to the Caymans corporation. It all came from reputable financiers and institutions in whose reputations Farr personally had complete faith, long before the result of any FBI probe from the islands. It was not, Farr knew, the sort of business the Bureau wanted but it was the sort of business a newly established company wanted, because it confirmed with remarkable speed their own good standing. It meant, too, that the operation was not only self-financing but actually profitable—which, he supposed, would satisfy Harvey Mann. From his several-times-a-day contact with Georgetown, Farr learned from Harriet that the accountant had arrived and taken personal control of the books. There had been approaches from and some contracts signed with lawyers and other investment outlets on the island, which she had handled and which Brennan and Seymour were processing. Farr decided, in passing, that he was definitely in breach of the 1976 law governing confidential relationships. Conscious of the eavesdropping devices, Farr found his conversations with Harriet frustratingly difficult and guessed that she did too. Working as he was consistently late, Farr took to calling her at the bungalow and they had several aimless, meandering conversations before Harriet announced that Batty had now decided to wire their houses as well as the office. She had rented a bungalow for Mann, Brennan and Seymour just beyond Southwest Point, near Jackson Point. Mann had raised the expected objection to three houses and she enjoyed cutting him off by saying that the charge for the first bungalow would not be set against the Bureau’s expense. Mann had suggested she move into the bungalow she’d found for the others, but Harriet said she’d told him to go to hell.

  “They realize what’s happening?” asked Farr.

  “Brennan asked outright,” replied Harriet. “I told him my personal life was none of his business.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That what we were doing and where we were meant we didn’t have any personal life.”

  “How’s it been left?”

  “Kind of up in the air,” said Harriet. “I guess it’ll stay that way until you get back. When’s that going to be?”

  “As soon as I can make it,” promised Farr. “I didn’t expect to be here as long as I have.”

  “Nor did I,” she said. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too,” said Farr. “I love you.”

  “I love you,” she said. “Which’ll probably be the last time I’m able to tell you because they’re wiring this telephone tomorrow. So hurry back.”

  “I will.”

  Farr remained sitting in the office after replacing the receiver, gazing out over a Manhattan skyline glittering defiantly against the night. He supposed he’d achieved all he had intended: there was no need for him to remain much longer in New York. There was still Howard, of course. Farr had called several times and been stalled by Halpern, who said he thought a visit would be premature, but tonight Farr had explained that he was leaving shortly, and the director said he guessed a brief visit might be all right. It was arranged for the following day.

  Farr was at the office early as usual. As soon as Angela Nolan arrived, he briefed her about continuing the island liaison he had already established. Before setting out for La Guardia—by helicopter, because he disliked the traffic-clogged Van Wyck Expressway—he saw Faltham for the last time.

  “Everyone happier now?”

  “I guess so,” said the man.

  “What about you, personally?”

  “Seems OK,” said Faltham, the lack of conviction obvious. “Early indications certainly make it look good.”

  “I appreciate what you do here, while I’m away. I really do.” Maybe when it was all over he wou
ld consider involving Faltham in some sort of partnership, Farr thought.

  “How long will that be—you being away, I mean?”

  Farr did not respond at once. The trap was set and baited. All they had to do now was wait for the right approach. He hoped it wouldn’t take long. Or did he? The sooner it came and the entrapment occurred, the quicker his idyll with Harriet would end. No it wouldn’t, Farr determined. The Caymans might end, but his involvement with Harriet wouldn’t. Would she marry him? He had not considered marriage until this moment, but certainly that was what he wanted. Did she? Their involvement had not come about particularly quickly, but the circumstances of it were unnatural. Would she feel the same when things were more normal? Farr had not rushed the affair and he did not intend pushing it into the sort of commitment that he wanted. Anyway, neither of them could sensibly discuss their future until there had been some resolution of the operation. Replying to Faltham, Farr said, “I’m not sure. I’ll be commuting up and down from time to time. Angela will look after this end, channeling the inquiries to me.”

  “Just passing them on?” Faltham was alert for greater involvement.

  “That’s all,” insisted Farr. He did not want anyone in the firm getting more involved than that.

  “I think maybe I got hold of the wrong end of the stick earlier,” said Faltham, in unexpected apology. “Sorry if I ran off at the mouth a little.”

  “You’ve nothing to apologize for,” said Farr.

  But did he need to apologize, to Howard? wondered Farr as he entered the shuttle helicopter thirty minutes later: Halpern had assured him there was no physical injury from the beating he’d inflicted upon the boy but Farr still wished that he had not lost control.

  Farr spoke first to Halpern and learned that Howard was medically detoxified. The director advised him against saying he was sorry for the beating during the last visit. Howard’s clothes were clean and he looked freshly showered, and the windows beyond the restrictive bars were open. The boy was not sweating with any discomfort; in fact his face had a healthy flush to it—the result, Farr guessed, of the basketball that Halpern had earlier told him Howard was playing most evenings. Howard still maintained the hunched-up sitting position and did not stand when his father entered.