Dirty White

by Brian Freemantle

  “So there’ll need to be close contact,” persisted Farr.

  “Close contact,” conceded Lang.

  Farr had made another recordable telephone call to the Caymans office, advising his return flight, so he presumed their New York arrival was fully monitored. He considered going north to Boston to try to settle the uncertainty with Howard, but rejected the idea because what happened to Howard depended so much upon what he had just done and he wanted that settled more quickly. The time difference between Europe and America was to his advantage, so he was able to make a Miami and then a Caymans connection, completing the trip, exhausted, in one day. From Harriet’s unembarrassed, uninhibited greeting Farr knew she had missed him as much as he’d missed her; she was hand-holding and proprietorially close to him while he verbally sketched out to the entire group the result of his journey.

  “Marvelous,” said Brennan with his quicksilver enthusiasm. “Absolutely bloody marvelous.”

  Enjoying the praise in front of Harriet and wanting more, Farr said, “There were some things I couldn’t get, though.”

  “Nothing that we can’t pick up from: you’ve made it very easy for us.”

  “Did your people follow Lang on that last-but-one day? The day he signed the trust agreement which will name Scarletti and Gomez?”

  Brennan nodded. “He went from the hotel to the rue de Monthoux and from the rue de Monthoux directly back to the hotel, without any deviation.”

  “So the document isn’t in a Swiss bank,” reflected Farr. “I thought it might be where he’d put it.”

  “Looks like somewhere more conveniently close. An American bank would be just as good, for that purpose at least …” The supervisor paused, producing a folder of photographs with the satisfaction of a conjuror managing to extract a rabbit from the hat at his first-ever attempt. “We’ve got enough pictures to cover walls and make home movies for years,” said the man.

  Farr took some time studying the photographs that had been snatched of him and Lang in Geneva, impressed at how they’d been taken to leave no doubt about Lang’s presence at all times; there were two of Lang entering the Swiss lawyer’s premises which showed the nameplate on the door. Looking up to Brennan, he said, “I tried, all the time. Never managed to isolate one of your people.”

  “Which means Lang couldn’t have done so either,” came in Seymour confidently. “As was intended.”

  “Do you think he was still carrying a mike baffler?” said the eager Batty, locked into his unusual expertise.

  When the trip had been planned, Farr and Brennan had agreed he should not be equipped with personal apparatus—more because of the dangers of its being exposed by electronic airport security checks than by accidental discovery. There had been some general talk about Farr’s trying openly to use the sort of dictation machine frequently employed by businessmen, and he actually took one in his briefcase but didn’t use it, determining that Lang would have identified it as something unusual. Farr said, “I don’t know. I didn’t consider putting it to the test. It wouldn’t have worked.”

  “You were quite right,” said Brennan, still effusive in his praise. “There was no point in risking what you’d already got.”

  “What now?” asked Farr.

  “We channel their money and appear to do what we’re supposed to do. That’s Harvey’s job. From now on, we take over more of the general operation.”

  Not before time, thought Farr, relieved. He said, “Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” said Brennan. “You’ve done a terrific job. I’ve talked to Schuster, incidentally, in Boston. Told him just that. He’s happy to extend.”

  Farr was too exhausted to properly make love that night to Harriet, though he was anxious to do so, physically to prove to her how much he’d missed her. The following day Farr called Halpern to say he felt Howard should leave Eastham at the end of six months.

  “It could be taking a chance,” warned the director.

  “His schooling is at risk,” said Farr.

  “So is his future,” said Halpern, heavily.

  “He set his mind to six months,” said Farr. “Having his entry postponed, after trying so hard, is just the sort of thing to put him back where he started.”

  “It’s your decision,” said the psychiatrist.

  Later, at lunch in the Lobster Pot with Harriet, Farr said, “Have I done the right thing?”

  “I hope so, my darling,” said Harriet. “I hope so.”

  Gomez’s temperament—his machismo—meant that he should demonstrate to the Bolivian that he had lost. He enjoyed parading himself in front of Navarra, willingly going to the Beni province instead of trying to persuade Navarra to come to him. Ostensibly the purpose of the visit was to discuss the progress of their operation, but Gomez indulged himself by openly complaining to the gold-chained, jewel-bedecked trafficker of the man’s failure to maintain sufficient shipments to provide not only Scarletti direct but the European markets which had been opened, as the result of Scarletti’s influence, in Palermo. Tight-faced and narrow-lipped, Navarra endured the humiliation and the rebuke. Gomez extended the insult by asking if Navarra thought it necessary for Gomez to send in some of his own people better to ensure that the consignments were maintained. Navarra said, tight-voiced as well, that it wouldn’t be necessary; Gomez accepted the assurance, but his tone of voice indicated that his agreement was on a “this time but no more” basis and that he could always go elsewhere.

  Gomez chose to travel directly from Bolivia to America, as always by a circuitous route—this time from La Paz south to Rio de Janeiro and then overflying the United States completely, to Toronto, then south again—and on an easily obtained but quite genuine passport with another identity. Self-indulgent again, he used the name Rodriquez.

  His demeanor for his meeting with the American Mafia chieftain was quite different: not subservient or even respectful; rather, he approached him as an equal.

  “It was worrying that the FBI were on to you,” said Scarletti.

  “They’re not, not any longer,” insisted the Colombian. “According to the investigation agencies, Jorge Herrera Gomez is dead.”

  “You quite sure about that?” demanded Scarletti, with equal insistence.

  Gomez wasn’t, but he chose to exaggerate. “What I did was possible only because of the number of officials I have in Colombia entirely dependent upon me,” he boasted. “Some are in the narcotics division. I’ve had them check it out. Officially the file on me is closed.”

  The American smiled admiringly. “That was a pretty smart trick,” he said. Almost immediately he became serious again. “Why the fuck did Navarra try to put an informant in?”

  “Because he’s greedy and he’s stupid,” dismissed Gomez. “Don’t worry about Navarra. I can handle him.”

  “I worry about anything that can possibly upset an arrangement as sweet as we’ve got going,” said Scarletti.

  “That’s foolproof,” said Gomez. “We both know that. Everything is ready: which is why I wanted this meeting. I think it’s time to start. I’ve waited too long already.”

  Scarletti hesitated, but only briefly. “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s make the money grow.”

  21

  Farr was still necessary—essential for the liaison with Lang in New York—but the day-to-day running became the responsibility of the others, mainly that of Harvey Mann, heavily assisted by Harriet. After the complete incorporation of the Cayman company and the creation of the linkup subsidiary enterprises in Switzerland and Liechtenstein, Farr made frequent trips to Manhattan, suggesting the investment possibilities to the lawyer and making sure he was on hand when the first money transfer was affected: a movement into the Caymans, and then beyond, of 75,000,000 dollars. The purchase orders had to return through the Caymans bank, which meant Farr’s brokerage firm got notification of the expenditure—because the accounts had to balance—but not of the object of that expenditure. To find how that money was spent, Farr was f
orceful in his suggestions to Lang. They were all for property and complete details of each were made available to two separate FBI task forces specifically established to monitor any changes in the property ownership. Two task forces were hardly necessary because it was a simple matter of checking land registers and ownership records, a boring but productive job. Lang deferred to Farr’s suggestion on two occasions, committing fifty million dollars of the initial installment into deals the investment broker proposed. Lang continued to trust Farr; a total of one hundred and twenty million dollars from two subsequent installments moved out through Farr’s Manhattan office in courier-delivered cash deposits, which subsequently became land investments located by the FBI teams.

  The concentration was on the Scarletti-Gomez operation but the advantage to the FBI of the Caymans’ setup extended beyond that. The Bureau decided to go ahead and make a case against the Chicago computer embezzlers, and Harvey Mann became suspicious of three other sets of financial movements; when checked, they were found to be criminal as well, two actually involving drug money. Brennan was appointed overall supervisor, which involved his being away from the Caymans for comparatively long periods.

  “He’s done it,” said Harriet.

  “Who’s done what?” queried Farr.

  “Peter Brennan,” said the woman. “Set out to make his name with this. Looks like he’s done it. Riding on your back.”

  Farr frowned. They were in the bungalow, alone. Harriet had cooked dinner and they were still finishing the wine in the bottle, he in the easy chair with its view of the ocean, Harriet at his feet. “What’s that all about?”

  “I know how these things go,” she said. “He’ll get all the credit; you’ll be relegated to the rank of mechanic.”

  “I didn’t set it up for any credit,” said Farr. He felt down, turning her face so that she had to look up to him. “And I benefited far more than I thought I was going to anyway.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So maybe it’s time to talk about it,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged against his knee. “I don’t know; I still can’t believe things have worked out like this.”

  “Do you love me?”

  She looked fully up to him. “You know damned well I do.”

  “And I love you. So why don’t we forget all about the circumstances, which aren’t important anyway, and you agree to marry me?”

  “Marry you!” Harriet swiveled, kneeling in front of him. “You’re asking me to marry you!”

  Farr laughed at her. “I should be the one kneeling and you should be the one sitting down.”

  She didn’t laugh with him. “Marry you?” she repeated doubtfully.

  “Of course,” he said. “What else do you think we should do?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I hadn’t wanted to think about it,” she conceded.

  “Think about it now,” he insisted. “This whole thing’s coming to an end, right?”

  “Right,” she agreed.

  “So what do you want to happen when it’s all over? For me to go back to Manhattan and you to go back to some West Coast FBI office, and that to be the end of it?”

  “No,” she said immediately. “No, I’dont want that.”

  “So let’s get married,” he said. “Is there any reason why we shouldn’t?”

  Harriet raised and dropped her arm against his knee, the gesture of someone unable to find the right words. “I suppose not,” she said. She giggled girlishly, extending it into a laugh. “No!” she said. “There’s no reason at all!” She rose further and he pulled her toward him and kissed her.

  He said, “That’s not much of an agreement.”

  Harriet sat back, mock-serious, on her heels. “I am honored to accept your proposal of marriage,” she said. The seriousness became real. “It’ll mean leaving the Bureau?”

  “Of course,” said Farr. “Does that matter to you?”

  “I suppose not,” she said. Excitement rising again, she said, “Can I tell the others?”

  “Why not?”

  “Will we live in New York?”

  “That’s where I work. We can live outside, if you want. Certainly have a weekend place.”

  “I don’t know what I want,” she said. She tightened and then relaxed her shoulders. “I’m so happy,” she said.

  “So am I.”

  Later, in bed, after love, she said quietly, “I hoped, you know. I always hoped. But then I thought it might have just been the sort of affair where you say you love each other but don’t really.”

  Brennan returned the following day, more hurried than usual. He called the office from the airport to ensure they were all together there, and as soon as he entered the building he smiled and announced, “We’re ready to go.”

  “When?” demanded Seymour.

  “Washington says right away. The appointment has been made with the district attorney …” He looked directly toward Farr. “The Bureau lawyers think it would be a good idea if you attended with me. Because everything emanates from Manhattan, it looks like a New York prosecution …” He included the others again. “In Washington everyone is delighted. Confident, too.”

  Farr experienced an odd sensation, a feeling of reluctance that everything was coming to an end. Despite the strains—and now that Howard appeared satisfactorily to have recovered—there had been an exhilaration about what he had been called upon to do. But the reluctance passed. It would be good to get back to New York, to a regulated environment which he knew and understood. With Harriet. He said, “How soon do we go back?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Brennan.

  “As we’re all together it seems like a good moment to make another announcement,” said Harriet. “Walter and I are getting married.”

  For a moment there was complete silence in the room. Then Seymour said, “Looks like everything has worked out well for everyone.”

  “Guess what!” said Batty. “That’ll be on tape and video. Two different systems, too.”

  Illogically—an illogicality he at once, irritably, conceded to himself—Farr expected the district attorney to be Alvin Schuster, whom he already knew. The New York attorney was an altogether different man—thin, constantly moving his hands and worrying his spectacles, with an unthought-out, stop-start style of talking. His name was William Harrop and Farr wondered at once what sort of impression the man conveyed in a courtroom. An FBI lawyer, Jack Webster, accompanied them from Washington for the meeting and they assembled in a rear office of the justice building, with a smoke-grimed view of back alleys. Farr thought it depressing compared with the surroundings in which he’d worked over the previous few months.

  “I’ve read the file,” declared Harrop at once, after the introductions. “Now I’ve got to decide if there’s a case. Which is what I want you to help me with. So thank you for coming; thank you very much indeed.”

  “Decide if there’s a case,” said Webster, allowing the surprise. “It’s a hell of a case.”

  “What about entrapment?” demanded the state lawyer.

  “No!” refused Webster. “We were very careful about that, obviously. That’s the reason for Mr. Farr’s involvement. For the defense to succeed with an argument of entrapment, they have to show that we inveigled the accused into doing something—committing a crime—which they would not otherwise have considered.”

  “I’m aware of the definition,” said Harrop.

  “Then surely you can see that it isn’t a defense,” said Webster. “Farr created a perfectly legitimate offshore branch of his business. Through it he moved a great deal of legitimate business. The approach on behalf of Scarletti and Gomez came from Lang. Nothing—absolutely nothing—began from us. I’m sure they’ll try entrapment. It’s the obvious defense. I’m convinced a judge will find in our favor.”

  “You’ve no doubt, either, that the criminal liaison agreeme
nts between the United States and Switzerland and the Caymans will operate effectively?” persisted the nervous lawyer.

  “Once we can prove, as I’m sure that we can prove, that the money channeled through both countries was the result of criminal narcotics enterprise, then no, I haven’t any doubt whatsoever.”

  Harrop nodded, head bent over a yellow legal pad at what appeared from where Farr was sitting to be a list of reminders to himself. The district attorney looked up and said, “OK, I asked those questions because I wanted your views upon them. I’m inclined to agree with you. There’s an aspect of the evidence I’m not entirely sure of, however.”

  “What?” came in Brennan.

  “Gomez,” said Harrop, shortly. “Scarletti, too, but Gomez most of all. At least with Scarletti you’ve backup documentation: Bureau files. The only Gomez on any enforcement files died in a plane crash …” Harrop nodded toward the investment broker. “And, according to Mr. Farr, the pictures of that man are not those of the person whom he met in Lang’s office.”

  “So it’s a different Gomez,” said Brennan.

  “Where is he?” asked Harrop, not responding to the FBI supervisor’s impatience. He nodded again toward Farr. “We have evidence of a meeting in a lawyer’s office, but the corroboration is only possible from Lang’s staff, who might choose to deny it. There are photographs and film, certainly, of a New York lawyer named Norman Lang visiting the Caymans; and, later, documentary proof of the apparent reason for that meeting, with the names of Gomez and Scarletti on incorporation documents. All the tape recordings are scrambled but I’d never succeed in a million years getting past any defense lawyer the suggestion that it was because Lang was wired to defeat them. At the moment I think I’ve got a very good case for a conspiracy between a lawyer and an investment broker. The only positive link to Scarletti and Gomez is their apparent signatures upon a document giving Lang power of attorney. And our version is a copy that Lang gave to Farr, not the original …”

  “But Farr saw them!” interrupted Brennan, his exasperation growing. “That day in Lang’s office.”