Dirty White

by Brian Freemantle

  Five minutes after replacing the telephone, Brennan was in the corner office with its view of the Capitol.

  “What about him?” he asked, putting a photograph of Scarletti in front of the tired-eyed investment broker.

  “Definitely,” said Farr at once.

  That same afternoon Harriet made contact with New York. A message from Lang had been relayed through Farr’s Manhattan office: the lawyer confirmed that they wanted to proceed and asked for a further meeting.

  “This time we’ll be ready,” said Brennan exuberantly. “We’ve caught up and we’re going to get the bastards by the balls.”

  “We still don’t know who the other one is,” Farr reminded him.

  “It’ll come,” said Brennan. “It’ll come.”

  18

  Brennan supervised the preparations for the meeting with the lawyer with the care he’d counseled at the Washington identification meeting. He irritated Batty and Jones by insisting that they check every piece of monitoring equipment in the Cayman office and then stood by while the two technical experts rehearsed Walter Farr in the use of the personalized recording device that the supervisor had determined was necessary. Harriet watched, too, and Farr stood self-consciously in front of her, embarrassed at the theatricality of it all. There was a physical discomfort, too; although the pack was comparatively small and specifically tailored for its purpose, the investment broker was acutely aware of it. It was essential, of course, to prevent the system being accidentally revealed, which was difficult with the sort of relaxed clothing to which Farr had now become accustomed and which Brennan agreed Lang would expect him to wear. Again under Brennan’s guidance, they selected a lightweight summer suit, to provide a concealing jacket, but discarded a shoulder holster for the recorder because, when Brennan and Seymour had Farr reluctantly go through a series of movements—walking and sitting and behaving as he might in normal circumstances—they decided that the risk of the lawyer noticing it was too great. They substituted a pack that clipped onto his trouser waistband, in the center of his back, which enabled the wires to be trailed up his back and down his left arm to the minute microphone mounted in a wristlet band, which appeared to be a sort of metal strip people sometimes wear to protect against rheumatism. Brennan insisted that Farr model the pack by walking and sitting as before. Farr protested that it was difficult to sit properly with the device in the small of his back, but Brennan said the concealment was so good that he would have to accept the inconvenience. Farr felt the wires up his back and down his sleeve, satisfying himself they didn’t cause bulges in the thin cloth; he looked at the wrist microphone and said he felt like Dick Tracy: Brennan said that was OK because Dick Tracy always got the bad guys. Throughout the day—and the night—before Lang arrived from New York, Brennan had Farr wear the machine to become accustomed to it. Batty had carefully explained the simple operation required to activate it.

  “I feel bloody stupid,” Farr said that night to Harriet when they were alone in bed.

  “You’re doing fine,” she said. “It always feels strange—is strange—the first time. Nervous?”

  Farr considered the question. “I had a strange sensation when I met them in New York, but I think that was excitement rather than fear. I’m not apprehensive about tomorrow: that’ll just be business, after all.”

  Harriet came closer to him, so that she could actually put her head on his shoulder. “I’m very proud of you.”

  Farr smiled in the darkness, pleased at the praise. “How long could it take? Arrest and a trial, I mean?”

  She shrugged against him. “There’s no specified period. Why?”

  “Don’t we have something to decide, when it’s all over?”

  Momentarily, he was conscious of her stiffening beside him. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk about things like that,” she said, with her customary reluctance to make commitments.

  “We will talk about it,” he said.

  “Later,” she said. “Not now.”

  Batty went first to Owen Roberts airport, wanting to secure a discreet position for the car from which he would photograph the lawyer’s arrival. Farr drove out early, too—sitting forward in his driver’s seat because of the intrusive backpack—and gave no sign of recognition when he saw the FBI technician sitting easily in the car, apparently engrossed in that day’s edition of the Miami Herald. Farr wondered where the camera was hidden. Having got there early, he had nothing to do. He went into the tiny bar, for its air conditioning more than for a drink, and contented himself with Seven-Up. The incoming flight from Miami was on time and Lang was one of the first to disembark, carrying hand baggage and with no need to wait for luggage clearance. The man was dressed predictably in his lawyer’s black and the heat seemed to affect him, so that he appeared more pink-faced than he had in New York. The greeting was restrained and businesslike. Directly beyond the arrival section Farr feigned a moment of forgetfulness about the position of his car, to enable Batty to get his pictures.

  “Thank God for air conditioning,” said the lawyer, as they set off on the short journey to Georgetown, confirming Farr’s impression of the man’s discomfort.

  “I’m told it gets even hotter in August,” said Farr, using the movement of securing his seatbelt to activate the tape. “Think you’ll have time for any sunbathing?”

  Lang shook his head. “This is strictly business: I’m confirmed for the evening flight tonight.”

  “I’d rather thought you might stay longer?” encouraged Farr.

  There was another headshake. “I think we can settle everything in a day.”

  How long would it be, wondered Farr, before the other man said something that could be incriminating? He said, “I was glad of the decision to go ahead.”

  “I think I’ve already made clear that my clients thought it was an impressive exposition.”

  “Today I’ll get formal instructions? Sufficient details to go ahead with the incorporation … set everything up?”

  “I hope so,” said the lawyer guardedly.

  Farr parked intentionally some way from the office, in the parking lot on Edward Street. It meant they had to walk practically the length of the road, past the courts office and the Comart store and the post office, all the while approaching the office where Jones was concealed with another camera. Lang was extremely flushed by the time they reached the sanctuary of the air conditioning.

  “Why not take your jacket off?” suggested Farr, nervously aware as he spoke that it was something he couldn’t do himself.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” said the lawyer.

  Harriet and Harvey Mann were seated in the large, open-plan front office, appearing to work. Farr made introductions, to which Lang responded perfunctorily, uninterested in hirelings. They went almost immediately into Farr’s personal office, where the visitor’s chair was positioned perfectly for the movie camera installed in the supposed burglar alarm, in the corner of the room beyond Farr’s desk.

  “Right,” said Farr. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what it is you require. I’ll need to know the names of people for whom I’m operating and precisely what sort of arrangement they require.” He leaned forward over his desk to avoid the discomfort of sitting back against his own recorder and to place his wrist nearer to the lawyer; Farr presumed his speaking had caused the office-installed microphones to operate.

  “I want a company incorporated here, to operate a fiduciary account. My clients feel, having discussed things with you in New York, that they want the company here to move sideways, through an establishment in Europe. I would expect you to arrange that, but I shall carry out the actual negotiations, once I’ve satisfied myself the arrangements are satisfactory …”

  “In New York we talked of three separations,” reminded Farr. “Would you want a Swiss lawyer to create an anstalt in Liechtenstein?”

  “Yes,” said Lang at once.

  “From the figures we discussed in New York, we are going to have a series of interli
nked companies with a very great deal of liquidity,” said Farr.

  “Again, my clients accept your advice about investment in America …” Lang permitted himself a brief smile. “I think they will feel more comfortable having their investments close at hand.”

  Not when the trap is sprung, thought Farr: if the money were channeled back into America, it would become liable to seizure when the case was proven, even if it had been translated into property development. Brennan—and everyone else—should be extremely pleased at the way everything was working out: exactly as they had hoped, in fact. Deciding it was time for the question to be asked, Farr said, “If I’m going satisfactorily to act for your clients, I’ll need their names. We were never properly introduced in New York, remember?”

  “Like I said in New York,” came back Lang, “my clients are cautious men who enjoy discretion and seek anonymity …” The man hesitated. “I think our discussions—and my inquiries—have progressed sufficiently for me to be able to tell you at this stage. The incorporation of the company here will be in the names of Jorge Herrera Gomez and Antonio Scarletti. For each I have power of attorney: signatory authority.”

  They had it! thought Farr, feeling the excitement churn through him. They had the second name and confirmation of the first. And they knew that Scarletti headed the Bruno Family in Philadelphia—which was further confirmation that the money was illegal and that they weren’t wasting their time, as they had with the Chicago business. He said, “I’ll need formal proof of that. It’s a requirement, you understand.”

  Lang unclipped a snakeskin briefcase and offered the broker a series of prepared papers. “There’s a notarized proof of power of attorney …” the man said. “There is further a contractual letter between yourself and myself instructing you to proceed on the lines we have discussed. I would expect to receive from you, today, a contractual agreement. You’ll see that my documentation requires a very detailed accounting to be maintained, certainly from this point of the operation: it is, after all, the base from which everything will emanate … I will accept your signature on the copy of my contract as being your formal agreement …” Lang waited, and Farr realized the lawyer expected him to sign immediately.

  Farr studied the letter. It was a fairly standard document, setting out terms between himself and Lang: Farr would have been happier if the names of Scarletti and Gomez were included, but the power of attorney obviated the need for that, and the broker decided it would have been tactically wrong to try to get them written in. He had enough—more than enough—from today’s meeting and to try to obtain more would be to risk everything. He said, “It all seems straightforward and satisfactory.”

  “I can assure you it is,” said the lawyer with one of his faint smiles. “It’s entirely legal and binding but it guarantees that all-important requirement of discretion.”

  “It would need to be witnessed, of course,” said Farr. “Would you accept the signature of one of my staff?”

  “I think so,” said Lang.

  Farr buzzed for Harriet. When she entered he addressed her by name, for the benefit of the tape recordings, and set out with as much verbal detail as he felt he dared what he wanted her to do. Harriet played her part perfectly, holding back from any special interest in the paper, as if she were frequently called upon to perform such a function.

  “How long do you imagine it will take to establish everything?” asked Lang, as the woman left the room.

  “Maybe a month,” said Farr, remembering the quickness of his own incorporation. “And it’s time we can usefully occupy. The essentials of the European part of the operation can be arranged while the formalities are being dealt with here. So that, as soon as we are formed here, we can trigger the formation in Switzerland and Liechtenstein.”

  “Good,” said the lawyer. “Very good. Everything seems to have been resolved even faster than I thought it would.”

  The conclusion of a deal traditionally demanded a celebration, Farr realized—certainly a deal that would apparently give him such a strong personal return. He sat back slightly, so that he could feel the pressure of the recorder against his back. Lang would expect the offer at least. He said, “Your plane isn’t due out for some hours yet. Why don’t we eat and maybe I can show you something of the island, now that we’ve concluded the business necessities?”

  “That would be nice. And kind of you.”

  Farr had Harriet make the luncheon reservation for them, to ensure that they would know where he was going and follow if they felt like it. Although the Grand Old House was not a personal favorite, he guessed Lang might know of its reputation and want to be taken there. Because of the restaurant’s closeness to the office, Farr drove first out along Seven Mile Beach, pointing out the development and saying, quite sincerely, that he believed the main island and certainly the two smaller ones were ideal property investments. Carefully playing his role, Farr said he was considering investing some of his own profits from their arrangement in the islands. Lang did not respond to the invitation but repeated the guaranteed commission of fifteen percent. They went as far as the Turtle Farm and then retraced their route, to arrive at the restaurant.

  Lang was fastidious about eating as he was about everything else, ignoring anything adventurous and settling upon a steak, which he hardly touched. He refused wine, limiting himself to mineral water. Farr was careful to judge his timing, saying in the middle of the meal that he was looking forward to their partnership and wondering about the number of times it would be necessary for him to meet Scarletti and Gomez.

  Lang stopped eating altogether, frowning at the broker. “I thought you understood that I had complete power of attorney?”

  Shit! thought Farr. He said, “Of course I understood. I’m just a little surprised that, with so much money involved, they wouldn’t expect closer contact.”

  “I told you in New York that they are busy men. Señor Gomez doesn’t actually live in the United States. They will decide the degree and extent of contact they require.”

  Farr tried to think of an acceptable way to ask the question. Finally he said, “I don’t suppose any legislation or laws in Señor Gomez’s country preclude the sort of arrangement we’ve discussed?”

  “I thought the sort of arrangement to which we’ve agreed precluded the difficulty of internal regulations,” said Lang.

  He’d tried and failed to discover where Gomez lived. It would be wrong to pressure, Farr decided. “Of course. It was a thoughtless question.”

  “My clients have come to you because they believed you were someone who would not allow thoughtlessness,” said Lang.

  The investment broker was silenced by the rebuke, awkwardly aware that he had gone almost too far. Trying to recover, he said, “I think we should define thoughtlessness. I was instinctively trying to anticipate any problems, before they arose. That is why I asked the question.”

  Lang remained staring at him for several moments, knife and fork suspended over the plate. Finally he said, “Of course.”

  Farr did not think he had succeeded particularly well and was angry with himself at the original mistake and his failure to rectify it. Insistently he said, “I’m very determined that nothing will go wrong.”

  “Mr. Farr,” said the lawyer. “If I feared anything might go wrong, I wouldn’t have linked with you and your company in the first place.”

  Farr felt a further anger, not just at the patronizing tone but at the belated realization that it was all on tape and Harriet would be able to hear his mistake and his stumbling efforts to cover it. Still foundering, he said, “I would hope that this might be the first of a series of productive relationships between us.”

  “I think it might be a good idea for us to see how this one goes first, don’t you?” asked Lang, obviously dominating the exchange.

  “I know exactly how this is going to go,” said Farr, allowing himself the satisfaction. “It’s going to be an overwhelming success: we will achieve everything we want. And
more.”

  “I’m looking forward to that,” said the lawyer. “Very much.”

  They took their coffee in the grounds, sitting beneath the encompassing trees and staring out over the eye-hurting brightness of the Caribbean. Farr wondered if any of the others had followed to take more photographs. Farr remembered Harriet’s bedroom remark about being proud of him and hoped he hadn’t failed her, on the transcript. He’d know soon enough: Brennan was attaching a great deal of importance to the meeting.

  Although there was nothing more for them to discuss, Farr expected Lang to return with him to the office but when he suggested it the lawyer said that they had discussed all that was necessary and that he would prefer to return to the airport to catch a flight to Miami which would connect with a plane arriving in Manhattan earlier than planned.

  Under the pretext of ensuring accuracy, Farr leaned forward, for the benefit of the mike, and again went through everything they had discussed. He undertook to contact the lawyer as soon as he thought it reasonable to extend into Europe. The earlier mistakes—no, he corrected himself, not mistakes; misjudgments, at the most—unsettled Farr and he decided against calling the office to tell them what he was doing.

  Instead, he drove directly to Owen Roberts. There were seats available on the flight two hours earlier than that on which Lang was booked, so the lawyer transferred.

  “I’m sure everything is going to work out just fine,” said Lang while he waited for the flight to be called.

  “I intend to make it so,” said Farr.

  “You won’t forget my wish to conduct all the negotiations personally in Europe—call me the moment you begin to make the moves?”