“And I repeat that this will be a continuing situation,” said Lang, increasing the pressure. “The fifteen percent would be payable on every sum invested.”
It was time to appear tempted, decided Farr. He said, “The percentage payments would also be in cash, naturally?”
“Naturally.”
“I think it’s something that I would certainly like to consider,” said Farr.
The lawyer’s easy smile switched on again. “I was hoping for something a little more definite than consideration,” he said.
“Then I think it is necessary for us to be more specific,” said Farr, knowing it was the sort of response he had to make because to acquiesce too quickly might arouse the other man’s suspicion. “The money is undeclared and must never come to the notice of the authorities?”
“That is so.”
“So it’s from some sort of criminal enterprise?”
Momentarily the lawyer’s face clouded. He said, “I’m a professional man, Mr. Farr. Like yourself. I have clients who ask my advice. I provide that advice and for it I charge a fee. I restrict myself to the advice for which I’m asked and to receiving the required payment.”
Farr wondered how many other lawyers and accountants and brokers satisfied their consciences with such a simplistic, ostrichlike attitude. A cautious man seeking protection, Farr said, “With whom would I be dealing when receiving these investments. Your clients? Or you?”
The smile returned. The lawyer believed that Farr was trying to distance himself. “There would need to be some meetings with my clients,” he said. “With such large sums of money they not unnaturally want to satisfy themselves of the integrity of the person in whom they are entrusting it. But in terms of actual operations, I would expect it to come from me.”
Farr, who was caught by the use of the word integrity, supposed that, if this were the sort of conversation that Lang believed it to be, then that assurance would have provided some safeguard for him. Deciding that he had shown sufficient caution, and wanting to learn more, Farr said, “You’d like a commitment today? Now?”
“Yes,” said Lang. “I think we’ve discussed enough for you to indicate how you feel.”
Just the two of them, so it would always be deniable, thought Farr. He said, “I would like to know more—need to know more—but in principle I think I shall be pleased to act for your clients …” He paused, deciding to maintain the caution. “Predominantly through you,” he added.
Lang patted his pink hands together in satisfaction. “I’m delighted, absolutely delighted. And I know my clients will be, as well. Delighted, too, that I haven’t had them waste their time today.”
Farr frowned at the remark. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I told you that I carried out an extensive investigation of investment and brokerage firms in the city,” Lang reminded him. “It was necessarily time-consuming. My clients, one particularly, are busy men. They are anxious to get the matter settled and, as both happen to be in New York, I suggested that, if our encounter were satisfactorily concluded, we should meet.”
“Today?” demanded Farr, surprised.
Lang looked briefly at a slim gold watch. “They are arriving in about five minutes—surely you’ll be able to stay?”
“Of course,” said Farr, with no alternative. Things were going too fast. He’d never imagined becoming as involved as this. He’d seen his function as creating the machinery—which he’d done—but then overseeing everything from a distance. He felt hollow-stomached and wondered if this was the fear that he’d been so proud of avoiding in Boston.
As if on cue, an intercom sounded. Lang nodded into the hand-held receiver, so Farr could not hear what was announced from outside, and said, “Thank you. Please show them in.”
The lawyer rose and instinctively Farr did the same, turning to greet the new arrivals, intent on the detail he guessed Brennan would demand later. Both comparatively small men, both neat and unobtrusive, both unsmiling. One darker skinned than the other. Latin, probably.
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Walter Farr, the investment broker about whom I told you. I’m glad to say that he’s agreed to act for us, if we decide to continue,” said Lang.
The darker of the two extended his hand. Farr shook it, then that of the second man, waiting for the introductions to be completed, so he could learn the names. They weren’t.
“We’ve only discussed things in the most general terms,” continued the lawyer. “I thought you’d best describe the facilities you want.”
“It’s very simple,” said Scarletti. “The best return. No gambling. No declaration. And everything untraceable. You understand that?”
The accent was American, Farr noticed; the voice that of a man accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed.
“Completely,” he said.
“You’ve been told the sort of figures?” asked Gomez.
Definitely Latin, decided Farr; maybe Spanish or South American. Good English but with a blurred accent. He said, “I was told between fifty and one hundred million.”
“So set it out for us,” instructed Gomez. “Tell us how you’d best invest a hundred million.”
Farr shrugged, holding out his hands. “There are a number of ways,” he said. “It’s very difficult for me, without any warning whatsoever, to come up with anything definite.”
“Just sketch a scenario,” insisted Scarletti.
Farr realized it was a test. Lang had carried out the vetting but now these two needed to be convinced that he could provide what they wanted. It would have to be good if he was to influence not just these two commanding, unknown men but Lang as well: Farr had already determined from their initial conversation that Lang knew a lot about currency manipulation. Farr coughed, preparing himself, and then said, “The object of the exercise is to translate large sums of money which can’t be officially recognized into assets which can be …” To gain time, he turned to Lang and said, “You’re aware, of course, what a fiduciary account is, with a bank …?”
Lang responded as the broker had hoped, embarking on a simple explanation. “It’s the same as a trust,” said the man, talking to Scarletti and Gomez. “It’s organized by some banks in tax-haven countries and the beauty of it is that the bank virtually acts as the trustee, so all the dealings are done in the bank’s name …”
“… It separates the name of the holder from the account itself,” completed Farr. “The Cayman Islands, where I am now established, operates such systems. We could establish a company in which you had whatever shareholding division you wanted and in the name of that company open a further, separate fiduciary account. We are now trading upon the established reputation of the bank. Literally. The company instructs the bank to buy shares. This can be here in America or anywhere else. I understand the difficulties of so much liquid money and, as you are operating through Caymans, I would recommend that any purchases are made here in America. It’s simpler, but not absolutely essential. The order is placed in the bank’s name, no one else’s. All you need to do is ensure that, on the necessary completion date, the money is available to the bank to make the purchase. You do this through a New York brokerage house. The money is hand-delivered by a courier. The brokerage house wires that the deposit has been made and the money is debited from the account of the brokerage house to the foreign bank. The brokerage house merely pays the money into its account, to balance the books. Your money hasn’t even left America but now you own however many million dollars worth of shares you’ve decided to buy. If you buy into gilt-edged in any major country in the world, your investment is just that. The main thing is that it’s no longer a hoard of unusable money, but negotiable. Your gilt-edged stocks will gain you, untaxed, a normal rate of interest—say ten, maybe fourteen percent on long-term. It’s not a lot—I could recommend something as safe but with a higher yield—but …” Farr paused, looked to Scarletti. “No gambling, you said. If you invest a hundred million and leave it at its m
ost basic, long-term fourteen percent, you’re seeing an obvious return of fourteen million dollars on your original investment, with no danger to that investment.”
Farr stopped, needing to rest.
Gomez said, “That seems remarkably simple.”
“It is,” assured Farr. “There are, of course, more complicated arrangements. You could, for instance, not move directly through your Caymans-established fiduciary account. You could move sideways once, or twice, more. The Swiss—although their banking system isn’t as secure from investigation as many people believe it to be—operate another system, known as an omnibus account. It works virtually in the same way as a fiduciary but goes one stage further, creating an additional buffer. Your Cayman company sets up the fiduciary account at one international bank—which loses your identity once—and then that bank opens up with a lawyer in Switzerland an omnibus account in the name of a second company, of which you’re directors. Now you’re twice removed from any association with the source of the money. I made the point of the Swiss banking system not being as secure as many people believe it to be …” Farr avoided directly mentioning drugs. Instead he said, “There are legal provisions between the United States and Switzerland for bank accounts to be made publicly available if the proceeds can be proved in court to have been obtained criminally. And seized, by the Swiss …”
Farr paused again, conscious of the looks that passed between the two unidentified men and also of the lawyer’s approval, apparent from the way he was nodding, of the exposition. He began again. “Having distanced you twice, therefore, it would make practical sense to remain safe and insert another buffer. We do this by instructing your Swiss lawyer not to incorporate in Switzerland but in Liechtenstein. There are three sorts of company we would establish there—if you want me to itemize them individually, I will, but for your needs I would recommend the anstalt. Effectively, it is a corporation without any issued, and therefore traceable, shares. It is controlled by a founders’ certificate, which is a bearer instrument, like a bearer check. The company does not, according to Liechtenstein law, have to be profit-making. Nor even to operate as a business. It becomes a holding or investment company. It is not subject to any sort of internal inquiry—and certainly not external investigation—and can have financial interest in foreign firms or even exercise control of them.” Farr tried to gauge the men’s reactions. “You asked for a scenario and I’ve sketched one out for you. Let’s say we’ve gone through all the processes and you now have a hundred million in your Liechtenstein-based company. You can now, through Liechtenstein, purchase one hundred million worth of property here, a constantly appreciating and realizable asset, gain tax relief as a foreign corporation investing in America and further receive an income from the simple rental or leasing of that property. Not only have you distanced yourself three times but you’ve created three separate ways of increasing the value of your money and they are all yielding at the same time.”
For several moments there was complete silence in the room. Scarletti broke it, the tone of his voice indicating his admiration at what had been outlined. “You could set it all up, just as you’ve explained?”
“Everything,” Farr assured him.
“No tax at all?” queried Gomez.
“Minimal, if we were finally incorporated in Liechtenstein. The security is worth it. Liechtenstein law does not require that the names of the real owners of the company even be registered: only the name of the company and the lawyer who manages it.”
“How can we retain—prove—ownership, then?” demanded the alert Scarletti.
“By a trust agreement, which you hold in a simple safe deposit box.”
“U.S. tax relief, on our own invested money?” sniggered Scarletti.
“Very generous tax relief,” said Farr.
“I like it,” said Scarletti. “I like it very much indeed. I don’t think I want to hear about any more schemes. I like the one you’ve just told us about.”
“Me, too,” said Gomez. He had a warm, grownup feeling, the sort of comfort he’d experienced on his initial visit to the mahogany room of polish smells and expensive cigar odor.
To the lawyer, Scarletti said politely, “Thank you for taking so much trouble and being so successful …” Addressing Farr, the man continued, “I think we’re going to have a very long and mutually beneficial relationship.”
“Very beneficial,” echoed Gomez, in complete agreement.
“Shit!” exploded Brennan, when Farr called him two hours later. “Holy shit!”
Brennan said shit again, when Farr returned that same night to the Caymans and went through the encounter in as much detail as he could recall in the lounge of the bungalow he shared with Harriet. They were all there, unspeaking as he talked. After expressing his anger, Brennan said, “It’s got to be right. And we haven’t got a thing. Not a damned thing! Why the hell didn’t you tell me!”
“I did,” protested Farr, angered himself at being criticized in front of Harriet.
“I listened to the tape,” retorted Brennan. “You just said a leading lawyer.”
“I thought he was straight,” apologized Farr, wishing he didn’t have to.
“No names?” queried Seymour.
Farr shook his head. “Although I’m sure one of them was Latin, like I said.”
“They’re being very careful,” said Seymour. “Classically so. Not providing names is careful, and insisting on the meeting as soon as you’d agreed, to prevent any outside contact or second thoughts, is careful.”
“I’ll have to know the names eventually,” said Farr.
“I wanted everything,” said Brennan. “From the very beginning. You should have been wired.”
“Wired?”
“I could have fixed you up with a personal system,” offered the ever-helpful Batty. “Body mike, small recorder. Stuff like that.”
“You weren’t searched, were you?” asked Harriet.
“No,” said Farr.
“Shit.” Brennan’s mind was apparently blocked by one obscenity. “It would have worked, too!”
“How was it left?” asked Seymour.
“Like I said: that I would work with them. And that Lang would contact me.”
“To go ahead with the sort of scheme you outlined?” said Brennan.
“That’s as I understood it,” said the broker.
“Who the hell are they?” demanded the exasperated FBI supervisor.
“We’ve got Lang,” pointed out Harriet. “We can start working backwards from him.”
Brennan nodded. “Quietly,” he cautioned. “Very quietly. We already know how careful he is. If he becomes even slightly suspicious, he’ll close everything down and we’ll lose him … lose everything.” He stopped, head bent, and then looked up toward Farr. “You’ve got a lot of files to go through back in Washington,” he said. “We’ve got a case, certainly; just like we set out to get. Now we need some luck.”
The need was met, indirectly, through Lang, the minute efficiency of computers and the fact that a small-time mobster called Harry Peel stopped for a drink on his way back from hand-delivering to the New York attorney the cash payment for setting up the meeting with Walter Farr.
At the Hoover Building they made available to Farr a corner office which actually overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue, with a view of the Capitol. Only Brennan accompanied him to Washington and in the office on the first day the FBI man said there was no hurry and that Farr should take all the time he wanted; it would be a boring task but at the moment there was no other way.
Brennan brought in photographs not only from their own archives but from the other antinarcotic agencies—the Drug Enforcement Administration, the IRS, Customs, the Marshalls’ Service and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. At Brennan’s hopeful suggestion, Farr concentrated initially upon people with convictions whose clearly identifiable official pictures were on record. Farr began diligently enough but the process was repetitive and increasingly he foun
d himself staring up at the government building thinking how much he missed Harriet and wondering about Howards—about whom he telephoned Eastham that night, to be told by the director that there was still no improvement.
On the second day Farr isolated what he thought was a possibility and for a moment there was brief excitement until Brennan checked through the computer and discovered that the man—a Peruvian—had been murdered in Lima, eighteen months earlier.
That night Harry Peel stopped for his drink. And had several. Peel was a gofer, a trusted messenger and odd-job man for the Scarletti organization with a twenty-year history of petty crime. Ironically Scarletti had insisted upon the payment being made to Lang in person, and that the person should travel by road precisely to minimize the risk of any link being discovered. Peel reached Manhattan by midday, delivered his package, obtained a sealed and addressed receipt, and was heading south again by early afternoon, having stopped in New York to eat. His car number had already been recorded by the FBI surveillance team monitoring Lang’s Pearl Street office. It was still early when he stopped at the roadhouse in Trenton, intending to have just a couple—but became engrossed in the ballgame on television and the barmaid’s nice ass. She was willing to put it out, too, but it meant his having to stay until she got off duty at midnight, by which time he was quite drunk. She didn’t live far away but he almost missed the slip off the turnpike, and by suddenly swerving hit a truck in front of a police car. The breathalyzer was positive and Peel spent the night in a cell instead of in the cocktail waitress’s bed. Strictly in accordance with the regulations, all his possessions were listed.
Brennan’s computer checks on all vehicles record at Lang’s Pearl Street office threw up Peel’s name from registers by midafternoon the following day. The FBI man was excited to find that Peel had a record and disappointed when Farr at once dismissed the file picture. It was routine to check through Philadelphia for Peel’s most recent activities, which produced the previous night’s arrest. Brennan was later to admit he didn’t know what prompted him to telephone Trenton: it was pure luck that the arresting officer had been in the building and that the man had idly mentioned that in Peel’s possession had been a sealed letter addressed to Antonio Scarletti. No, apologized the man in response to Brennan’s gabbled inquiry, he didn’t know what was in the envelope: Peel had been bailed and everything returned to him.
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