Dirty White

by Brian Freemantle

  At a meeting with Faltham the day before the review with the senior managers, Farr said, “Seems we’ve got a pretty sound operation running here.”

  “Always knew we had,” said Faltham. “Thought what you’re going to do, when you leave?”

  Farr gave an uncertain movement of his shoulders. “Maybe go back to England.”

  “You haven’t been back to England for twenty years,” said the other broker. “It would be like a foreign country to you; is a foreign country to you, in fact.”

  “Maybe stay here then.”

  “To do what?” persisted Faltham.

  “Don’t know. Haven’t thought about it.”

  Faltham hesitated, wondering if he could go as far as he wanted. Chancing it, he said, “I think Harriet and Howard would have expected your grief. But they wouldn’t have wanted you to become a recluse because of it.”

  Farr winced, as if the sound of their names caused him physical pain. “There’s a lot you don’t know,” he said.

  “I think I know enough to say that,” insisted Faltham.

  “Thank you,” said Farr. “For all you’ve done.”

  “Like you said,” reminded Faltham, “it’s a pretty sound operation. Pity to jeopardize it.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” said Farr. “You’ve been a good friend. I recognize it—and I’m grateful.”

  “I don’t want to take over,” said Faltham. “I want things to stay as they are. Your getting out would be like running away, I don’t think it’s necessary; in fact, I think it’s stupid. Drama for the sake of drama; there’s already been too much of that.”

  “You’re being very honest,” said Farr, in mild rebuke.

  “Why don’t you be?” invited Faltham.

  “How?”

  “Still want to quit?”

  Farr smiled, near embarrassment. “No,” he admitted.

  “Good,” said Faltham briskly. “Let’s have the meeting, because we’ve prepared for it after all and it’ll be a worthwhile review and afterward go on …” The man hesitated at the last moment but then finished. “… like we were before.”

  Which is what they did. Scarletti’s trial was the only interruption but when it came Farr was glad. He had recovered sufficiently from the deaths of Harriet and Howard and had become irritated at the FBI protection and wanted it over. There was the blaze of pretrial publicity, and this time it continued through the trial because the grand jury had been a closed hearing but the trial was public. He saw Brennan and Seymour and Harrop again for the pretrial preparation, and the district attorney kept to his word and publicly exonerated Farr’s firm of any criminal activity. The murders had emerged by now, of course: no mention was made of Farr’s involvement with Harriet, but Farr became a focal point of the trial because of what had happened to the boy. After the trial there were television and newspaper requests for personal interviews, and two different legal firms made contact on behalf of publishers who wanted him to write—or have ghostwritten, if he preferred—a book on what had happened. Farr rejected them all. At the trial itself Farr spent almost a week on the witness stand, cross-examined again and again by Scarletti’s lawyer, whose name was Manson. The man concentrated, predictably, upon Farr’s identification of Scarletti—about which the broker remained adamant—and during the questioning it emerged that Manson had attempted to subpoena Jorge Gomez but failed because the American court writ had no validity in Colombia and the man had refused to attend voluntarily.

  Farr was surprised—and pleased—at how successfully he endured the pressure. Only on the first day—responding to Harrop’s lead about the creation of the company, when he remembered his and Harriet’s arrival on the island—and then at the beginning of Manson’s cross-examination—again distressed by memories of the beach-side bungalow—did Farr come near to any sort of breakdown, but he managed to prevent it both times. Because he was a primary witness, the judge ordered him to remain in court in the event of any reexamination arising from a later point, and so Farr was there when the jury, after a comparatively short retirement of only three hours, returned the guilty verdict and the judge imposed a sentence upon Scarletti that totaled eighteen years. He also imposed seizure orders on the property and investments made in the name of the company Farr had established for the man, further ordering that the other named director, Jorge Herrera Gomez, should forfeit his investments unless that named director appeared before an American court successfully to argue that the money had been obtained from a source other than criminal activity. There were further comments about the smashing of a major Cosa Nostra family and the promise that such activities—particularly drug trafficking—would continue to be vigorously pursued by the country’s enforcement agencies. Farr sat listening, anxious for it finally to end—glad, at last, that it had.

  Something lifted from his shoulders when he rose, with dutiful respect, for the judge to leave the chamber, and he watched Scarletti being led away and the court break up. For no more than seconds—he was once more able to control and disguise it—the grief was worse than at any other time during the trial, at the awareness that this would have been the moment when he and Harriet would have finally been able set about a new, untouched, unendangered, unimpeachable life. He became aware of Brennan beside him, urging him into the side conference room. Obediently Farr followed. Seymour was there, with the other three FBI technicians who formed the Caymans operation, and Harrop as well. The district attorney had arranged drinks, Californian champagne as well as hard booze, and busied himself about the room filling glasses. When he turned from the prepared table, his own drink in his hand, he looked at the broker and said seriously, “This wasn’t how it was meant to be—not as any of us would have wanted it. Walter Farr did something no one else could have done and all of us here in this room know the personal cost. So this isn’t a celebration; it couldn’t be. It comes down to thanking Walter. He has already had our sympathy. Now he has our thanks …” The lawyer raised his glass and everyone responded. Farr wished they hadn’t, because he felt self-conscious and irritated.

  The broker smiled distantly and muttered, “Thank you.” He wanted desperately to leave this room and these people whom he never again wanted to see. Brennan came up, extending his hand, and, self-conscious still, Farr responded.

  “Like I said before,” reminded the FBI supervisor. “It’s not much of a satisfaction. But now we’ve done it. At least you know that the person responsible for killing Harriet is going to serve a minimum of eighteen years.”

  “Yes,” remembered Farr. “You said it before.”

  Jorge Gomez acknowledged the mistake but at first only privately, to himself. Ramos deserved the humiliation: he had been told to double-check Lang’s findings and he had failed, costing Gomez the arrest and the indictment hearing but worst of all seven hundred and fifty million dollars because the fucking judge knew full well that to attempt to reclaim the money would provide the proof they’d been too stupid to get from elsewhere. But Gomez acknowledged, too, that he’d acted upon impulse, in the frustrated heat of an angry moment, before he’d properly had time to consider and assess the full implications. He had escaped—escaped the sort of incarceration that Scarletti faced and which had always been his secret, wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night terror. But only just, by the imperceptible width of an empty shadow. He would never be so lucky again—which meant that with whatever passport or whatever identity he chose to travel he could never again maintain the frequency of the previous visits to America. They had taken photographs and fingerprints and, although his counsel had demanded their return for destruction after the grand jury clearance, Gomez knew damned well that the bastards would have taken duplicates and that his profile was recorded on every monitoring facility the immigration and customs authorities possessed. He needed an emissary, someone whom he could trust absolutely and who was accustomed, and free, to move about to reestablish the vital contacts. An emissary like Ramos, who was family—a blood tie. Ramos had h
is limitations, certainly; he was not able to operate as brilliantly or as effectively as Gomez knew he could on his own, but he was still capable.

  Gomez was reluctant to make the apology, however, and so he tried initially to find someone else. He deputed a total of three, all of whom failed to make any sort of proper contact with American outlets, and because of the near embarrassment—the relegation of his name and reputation among the American families who mattered and the openly laughing traffickers in Colombia—Gomez stopped trying. It had to be Ramos, as he’d known it had to be Ramos for a long time but had refused to accept it.

  Ramos responded to the summons like the loyal and well-paid employee he was supposed to be, halting deferentially as he entered the main room of the finca. Gomez urged the man further in and personally poured the drinks. Anxious to get it over, he said, “I was hasty, after returning from America.”

  Ramos used his drink to cover his reaction, guessing what the meeting meant but wanting everything to come from the other man. Bastard, he thought.

  Reluctantly Gomez said, “I shouldn’t have done what I did that day; I was upset after everything that happened. It was a mistake.”

  “Yes,” said Ramos, sure of his advantage now.

  Gomez’s discomfort worsened at his awareness that Ramos knew. Bastard, he thought, in turn. He said, “I want to apologize. Restore things as they were between us.”

  “Yes,” said Ramos again, determined to make as much as possible of the moment.

  Gomez had to turn away on the pretense of going again to the drinks, to control his anger at the other man’s awkwardness. “So how is it?” he said, with his back to the other man. “Can it be like it was before?”

  Ramos’s face was prepared by the time Gomez turned back, feigning relief that the temporary misunderstanding had been resolved. “Of course,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

  Gomez came across the room and enveloped the man in an embrace, which Ramos reciprocated, each perfectly concealing the distastefulness they felt at the physical contact with the other.

  “Forgive me,” said Gomez.

  “Of course,” echoed Ramos. Bastard, he thought again. The attack—the shaming—had been in front of everyone and the apology in private, known only to the two of them. And too late—far too late. Ramos had already made contact with Julio Cesar Navarra and there had been two meetings between them, at La Paz and at Santa Cruz. And another one was planned, in two days’ time.

  Ramos suffered from the altitude of La Paz. He felt perpetual near-nausea and a lightheadedness after just one drink. Still he held back from the recognized remedy, the tea mixed with the official coca from which the unofficial cocaine was refined, nervous of feeling out toward the fire. Navarra had decreed the Sucre Palace for their meeting place and Ramos found a suite waiting when he arrived. He was expectant now, as he stood gazing over the bustling Avenue 16 de Julio, impatient for the Bolivian. Ramos was determined to repay Gomez for what the man had publicly done to him; and to make him suffer far greater humiliation.

  The Bolivian trafficker arrived boisterously, heavy with gold and protectors. He insisted that the bodyguards come into the suite with him, but the two conspirators withdrew to the window area to discuss the reason for Ramos’s visit.

  Navarra heard Ramos out and said, “I don’t understand how this is going to make it easy.”

  “He’s dependent upon me,” insisted Ramos.

  “He can’t be absolutely dependent.”

  “He hasn’t got any choice. He’s marked now and he knows it.”

  “How are you going to do it?”

  Ramos smiled at the other man, savoring the thought. “My way,” he said enigmatically.

  “Kill him?”

  “Something better than that,” said Ramos.

  A week later Ramos successfully entered America through the circuitous route via Canada. The Canadian crossing was chosen because Ramos’s destination was Chicago and the Accadio family. But the Colombian did not stop at Chicago. He went instead directly to New York and spent a lot of time on 63rd Street ensuring that the FBI surveillance and the protection had been removed. He also established the regular movements of Walter Farr.

  Ramos made the approach on the third night, fifteen minutes after seeing Farr enter and watching the lights prick on throughout the house. Farr personally answered the chain-secured door, frowning through the restricted gap.

  “I know who killed the woman,” announced Ramos. “The boy, as well.”

  30

  Farr had considered vengeance, of course. It had been his all-consuming, never-discarded desire in those unwashed, uncaring weeks, immediately after the deaths, when he retreated inside himself. He had fantasized about going to Colombia on some sort of suicide mission, seeking Gomez out and killing the man, careless of his own fate. Even after everything Faltham and the others had done, the idea still recurred, a daydream he was rational enough to accept could never come true because he would never succeed on his own.

  Now Farr gazed fixedly across the room at the strangely still, hard-bodied man whom he’d admitted to the house fifteen minutes earlier, trying to keep other thoughts out of his mind, recognizing the chance he had never dared hope for and determined not to lose it. The approach, and the man, had to be genuine because there was nothing whatsoever for him to gain. A falling-out of thieves? That was the obvious conjecture. Just as it was obvious that, if the man knew as much as he boasted, then he had to have been very much, perhaps personally, involved in the slaughter and mutilation of Harriet and Howard. Farr swallowed against the bile that came into his throat. The only thing that mattered was getting Gomez. Anything else was a distraction. For the moment at least.

  “You want Gomez arrested?” queried Farr. “Jailed?”

  Ramos smiled at the prospect. “It would be the ultimate humiliation for him.”

  “You could provide sufficient evidence of trafficking?”

  “As much as you—or the FBI—want.”

  “Where is he living?”

  “Medellin. He has houses there. I could tell you where,” offered Ramos eagerly.

  “Why not go to the Colombian authorities?”

  Ramos laughed openly at the naiveté, stretching out his hand to form a cup. “He’s got everyone like that in Colombia,” he said. Ramos waved his hand. “That’s his favorite expression, his boast. If I went to the authorities, it would be me who was arrested. Killed probably.”

  “Why have you come to me?” demanded Farr abruptly.

  “I told you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “OK,” said Ramos, moving into his carefully rehearsed lie. “I’ll admit it, I’ve worked for him. Still do, for the moment. I didn’t realize, for a long time, what sort of man he was. How evil. The killings—of the woman and the boy—finally convinced me.”

  Farr gripped one hand over the other to control the shaking. The desire that was surging through him was to leap across the few feet separating them and pummel and beat and smash and kill the lying bastard. Had he actually touched Harriet? Howard? Tight-lipped, he said, “Tell me about that?”

  Ramos looked curiously back at the broker. Then he said, “There was never any intention to let them go. They were as good as dead the moment his people got them. He said he wanted an example made.”

  “Said to you?”

  Ramos shook his head quickly. “I wasn’t involved. You must believe me. He has trained men—killers—to do that sort of thing. He laughed about it when he got back to Medellin. That’s how I know.”

  “He trusts you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Farr shook his head. “I can’t believe, having been arrested once, that he would take another risk.”

  Ramos smiled conspiratorially. “Money’s the key,” he said. “Money and his vanity. He tried to be number one and he failed. The other traffickers in Colombia are laughing at him. That’s why he’s sent me here, to try to set something up with th
e Chicago family. That’s important for his pride. And it’s important, too, to recover his money. You washed it; you know how much he lost. He’ll be careful—far more careful than he was before—but if the lure is big enough, he’ll finally go for it.”

  “And when he does, you want me to set him up for the FBI?”

  Ramos nodded. “You did it once. You’ve got a personal reason for doing it again.”

  “Yes,” agreed Farr reflectively. “I’ve got a reason for doing it again.” The broker was quite in control now and confident that he could remain so. He said, “I’d need a lot from you.”

  “Anything you ask.”

  “How often could you get here—not necessarily New York, anywhere in the United States? I could always meet you.”

  Ramos gave an expression of uncertainty. “It depends how things go in Chicago. Probably once a month. How long would it take to set things up?”

  “I don’t know,” said Farr, purposely vague. “I don’t know yet exactly what I could set up.” As the thoughts came to him, Farr hurried on, “He’ll look for reassurance. If he thought other people—people he respected or knew at least—were channeling their money the same way, he’d probably be more inclined to go along.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Ramos doubtfully. “What are you asking?”

  “Do you know such people; other traffickers?”

  Could he achieve everything—get rid of Navarra and Gomez and take over the whole empire—in the same move? For a fleeting moment, Ramos experienced a sensation of faintness at the overwhelming prospect. He said, “It is possible.”

  “Think about it,” urged Farr.

  “You could fix it with the FBI?”

  “Of course. There hasn’t been any contact since the trial but it’s only a matter of a telephone call.” He stopped, frightened that the control of which he was so sure might be slipping. He forced himself on, “Don’t forget that Harriet Becker was an FBI agent. The Bureau wants whoever did it.”