The Sentinels: Fortunes of War

by Gordon Zuckerman

  “Well, that’s a waste,” Ian said. “It’s difficult to imagine that someone as beautiful as Claudine doesn’t have a personal life! Tony must have hurt her more than we realized.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jacques said. “Claudine has a very rich life and is still able to come up with innovative ideas on the spur of the moment. In fact…” He gave Mike a meaningful look.

  “Yes, of course,” Ian said. “So what is it that you gents need so urgently to discuss?”

  When Jacques finished explaining the situation with the German industrialists and their money, including Claudine’s plan, Ian sat in silence. “One can’t possibly live in London and not be deeply worried about what will happen when this blasted thing is over,” Ian said slowly. “Ever since I finished my military service after returning from Berkeley, I’ve been buying art, antiques, and first editions from frightened people—good people who feel they have no choice but to sell their precious possessions to survive in Hitler’s new world. What I find especially heart wrenching is that most of these people are old friends of my family’s. Many had been among our best customers.”

  He lifted his glass and set it back down without taking a drink. “Every day, I witness the high cost of war. You’ve seen the bombings firsthand. Regardless of how hard we Londoners try to appear calm, we know that more are on the way.” He looked at them both for a moment, and then took a long pull at his beer. The loud noise he created when he slammed the heavy beer mug down on the table sounded like a judge pounding a gavel. “I would welcome the chance to help put a quicker end to the war and to prevent this horror from happening again. Nothing would please me more!”

  “Ian, are you sure you understand the implications of what we’re planning?” Jacques asked. “Once we start, there’ll be no turning back. No matter how painstakingly we duplicate the bonds, it will only be a question of time before they’re discovered. Although it’s a risk that we’ll all be taking, your position here in London will leave you the most exposed.”

  “In London, we are risking our lives every day,” Ian said. “At least I’ll be doing something that matters, instead of standing on the sidelines.”

  “That’s settled, then. Let’s get down to details,” Mike said. “Exactly how are you going to create these bonds so that they will pass the test of the most skilled authenticator?”

  “Reproducing the bonds won’t be our biggest problem,” Ian said thoughtfully. “Doing it in such a way that they can’t be traced back to us will be our greatest challenge. I believe our best course is to break down the total process into four parts, making each appear as normal, everyday work.”

  “I don’t know about you, but stealing one hundred million dollars isn’t exactly something I do every day,” Mike said.

  “No, and that’s why we need to not make it look like some amateur undertaking. The mechanics are straightforward enough,” Ian said. “Not too long ago, we had to solve a similar problem. Why don’t I describe what we did in that situation? First, to prepare the plates, we will need originals of the exact types of bonds we plan on duplicating. I should think Claudine could take care of that end.”

  “After having heard her detailed description, I’d certainly say that’s possible,” Jacques said.

  “The second step involves the actual printing,” Ian went on. “To complete it, I must have precisely the same serial numbers and denominations used by the issuing bank—all of the duplicate bonds need to match up with the master list.”

  “That step could be difficult,” Mike said. “Those lists are provided to each major bank to aid in any verification process they may need to perform. Demaureux Bank will certainly receive a copy. The problem is that this information only becomes established after the bonds have been printed. We’ll have to wait for the printing before that data can be produced.”

  “I can live with that as long as everybody understands the necessary delay,” Ian said. “The third step requires copies of each bank president’s signature. If you can get me those, along with the exact sort of pen they’ll be using to sign, I can approach the special—what should we call them—artists our company sometimes employs. These chaps are so good, the bank presidents themselves won’t be able to tell which bonds they signed and which they didn’t.”

  “How do you know these, um, artists will do what we’re asking and keep it confidential?” Mike asked.

  “This may come as a surprise to you,” Ian said, “but not all the first-edition restoration we are asked to do is on the level. Parts of some rare book to complete a long-sought collection can be missing or damaged beyond repair. We are occasionally asked to re-create them in such a manner that their insertion can’t be detected by even the most discriminating authenticators. The fees for the professionals whom we use to do this work are very high for the relatively few who can afford to hire them. Any future use of their services depends upon them being totally discreet, and they know it.”

  “Ian, never in my wildest imagination was I expecting such a forthcoming answer,” Jacques said.

  “Well, we still have one more problem,” Mike said. “How will we transport the duplicates out of England to the countries where the gold center banks are located?”

  “And now, we come to the fourth step—the first editions,” Ian responded. “Meyer & Co. regularly receives damaged books from customers all over the world. We have them shipped directly to London, restore them, and ship them back. Customs officials are so familiar with our work that they rarely inspect our incoming or outgoing shipments.”

  “But surely you won’t just tuck the bonds into the books?” Mike said.

  “Not quite. We’ve been asked to forge a few minor papers in the past—historical notes, mostly. For that, we have developed a technique in which the old pages in a book can be split and documents can be placed between the two sides. Then, we glue the sides back together and rebind the pages into the book. No customs agent has ever discovered this technique.”

  “Can you still move around during wartime with the same freedom you described last week?” Mike asked. “You may have to take delivery on the other end.”

  “As long as my travels involve the appearance of legitimate business activity, no one seems to question my movements. Now, tell me, who else is involved in all this?”

  “A few more familiar faces,” Jacques answered. “As long as none of the money we get is deposited into the banking system, a trail won’t be established. That’s essential to our safety and success, and that’s where Tony comes in. His wine business would give us a great place to bury at least twenty-five million dollars. Only thing is—we haven’t asked him yet.”

  Pausing to reach into his briefcase, Mike extracted another copy of Tony’s investment memorandum, which he had given to Jacques on the plane. “This is what gave us the idea. It describes Tony’s whole setup. You might want to read it in your spare time.”

  Ian eyed the small print dubiously. “I doubt I’ll ever have that much spare time. But I do have a question. What are your plans for the rest of the money? Seventy-five million dollars in bonds would be rather a lot to keep in safe-deposit boxes.”

  “We might cash another fifteen million dollars for short-term operating expenses, leaving sixty million dollars in bonds to remain bound in the first editions. The question isn’t the money, it’s where to keep that many books,” Jacques said.

  Ian said, “I have friends and clients in many countries who have been more than happy to store first editions in their private collections for safekeeping. It would be like hiding trees in a forest. In addition, we would have the ability to retrieve those editions anytime we needed to do so.”

  “My goodness, man. I do believe you’ve thought of everything,” Mike said.

  As if on cue, Emily and Natalie entered the room. Ian smiled. “I do believe this celebration calls for something stronger than beer.”

  “What are we celebrating?” Natalie asked as she flowed into Jacques’ arms. “Is the w
ar over? Someone’s getting married? Or is it simply the return of my prince?”

  When it became obvious that Jacques and Mike were not going to divulge anything, Emily looked straight at Ian, expecting some kind of an explanation.

  Just then, Maggie walked in with a tray of glasses and the best Scotch in the house. “All right, that’s enough business for one night,” she announced. “It’s time for all of you young folks to start having fun.”

  That they did. The five, with Maggie in tow, closed down the French Club; the after-hours jazz spots in Soho were next. It seemed as though Emily, Ian, and Natalie knew most of the jazz clubs in London. Maggie knew the rest. It was obvious to Jacques they were intent on visiting them all in one night.

  ______

  The next morning, Jacques woke up in a Claridge’s suite with a real hangover. His first thought was, I will never allow Ian to lead me astray again.

  His second thought was, Who is this beside me?

  Slowly, the fog began to clear. He looked over at Natalie’s smiling face, waiting for him to awaken.

  Natalie brought him a Ramos Gin Fizz in a tall glass with an even taller straw. “Here, drink this while I rub your back.”

  He watched Natalie in the mirror. She looks as fresh as a daisy. How does she do it? She matched me drink for drink.

  “What time is it?” he mumbled.

  “It’s time for you to take a shower and buy a hungry girl brunch.”

  “Brunch? Is it that late?” Jacques groaned and sat up.

  Later, as he stood in the shower, he tried to piece together the events of the prior evening. By two in the morning, things had started getting hazy, and by four, his memory was a total blank.

  I can’t even remember if Natalie and I had sex. Worse, I can’t think of a tactful way to ask.

  As he stepped from the shower, he hoped that she’d fill in the empty spots over brunch.

  It has only been a week since we left New York, but it feels like a lifetime. I just wish I hadn’t blanked out during the best parts.

  Chapter 12

  WHAT SHE SAW

  Doris Claybourne had been watching, as usual, when Cecelia disembarked from the elevator, hunted for her keys, and entered her apartment. That silly girl. Doesn’t she know she ought to have her keys in her hand when she gets out of the cab?

  Doris was lonely. She lived by herself in an apartment on the same floor as Cecelia. She liked to know what was going on, so anytime she heard the elevator doors or apartment doors on her hall opening and closing, she would climb on the stool she kept by her front door and peer out the transom. She watched as Cecelia fumbled in her purse, finally found her keys, and went inside. Doris climbed down from her stool, shaking her head. Silly girl.

  But then, only minutes later, Doris heard Cecelia’s door open again.

  Normally, when she comes home this late, it means she is in for the night. Stepping onto the stool, Doris got a good view of two men escorting Cecelia toward the elevator.

  Now, that is strange. Why didn’t I see those men when they arrived?

  The men didn’t much resemble any of the usual visitors at Cecelia’s apartment, that was for sure. And why wasn’t she carrying her purse just now?

  The more Doris thought about what she had seen, the more worried she became. She stepped down from the stool and started to pace around her apartment. It really isn’t any of my business. But how could I live with myself if something happened to her? She reached for her phone.

  ______

  The sergeant on duty received the call and wrote down what Doris Claybourne had seen, assuring her that it was probably nothing. He handed the report to the new lieutenant, Carlson, who was heading home after a long shift.

  “Lieutenant, this call we just got… looks like it’s on your way home,” the sergeant said, smirking. “Should only take a few minutes.”

  ______

  Arriving at the address on the complaint, the lieutenant took the elevator up to Doris Claybourne’s floor.

  Doris, hearing the elevator come to a stop, had already mounted her stool. She saw the young policeman looking at the apartment numbers. Climbing down, she opened the door and invited him in.

  Politely declining her offer of tea and cookies, Carlson asked, “Would you mind telling me exactly what you saw this evening?”

  She did, in detail.

  Almost an hour later, after finishing his notes, the lieutenant left, a little miffed at the sergeant. Only a few minutes, huh, Sarge? Now I gotta check out this old lady’s story.

  Fighting sleep, he headed straight for the superintendent’s room, hoping to gain clearance to enter Cecelia’s apartment.

  Carlson knew right away that something was wrong. Suddenly alert, he scanned the young woman’s apartment, noticing keys sprawled on a small table next to a purse.

  ______

  The night sergeant on duty was clearing his desk for the next shift when Carlson’s call came in.

  “Sarge, that call you got from Doris Claybourne turned out to be for real. It looks like we have an abduction on our hands.”

  “Write up anything you’ve got and leave it on the captain’s desk. She still has a while to go before we declare her a missing person.”

  Carlson’s report was sitting neatly on the desk when Captain Philips walked into his office the next morning. He glanced at it casually until he saw Cecelia’s name. Then he picked up the phone and called the FBI.

  ______

  Hours later, Roger Malone, chairman of the U.S. Federal Reserve, was sitting in his office in Washington, D.C., carefully reading the report the FBI had compiled. Due to its serious nature, he had read it twice before deciding to contact Cecelia’s employer, Pete Ferrari, chairman of California’s American West National Bank, who also happened to be his old friend.

  “Pete, I’m calling with some bad news. It seems one of your employees may have been kidnapped—a Miss Cecelia Chang.”

  “What? That’s horrible. How can that be?”

  Roger briefly explained the police report and asked, “Do you know anything that can help me on this?”

  “Well, I don’t know much about her personally, other than that she is in charge of our Pacific Rim operations and is the daughter of one of our biggest clients in Hong Kong. Could that have something to do with it—ransom?”

  “I’m afraid it’s something more serious than that. Pete, what I’m about to say is in the strictest confidence.”

  “I understand.”

  “Here in Washington, we think there may be a much larger and more dangerous game going on. For some time, we’ve been receiving vague reports and hearing rumors about a paramilitary organization operating in the United States, code-named Samson—sort of a modern-day Pinkerton Detective Agency, only these guys are selling their services to our enemies.”

  “What does that have to do with Cecelia?”

  “For the last five years, Miss Chang has been involved with a highly classified U.S. government operation that moved the private wealth of many enemies of Japan for safekeeping. Her work has been invaluable, but our shadow reports tell us that Japanese officials may have caught on to this program and retained Samson’s services.”

  “Roger, this is all a little hard to believe.”

  “I can imagine what you’re feeling,” Roger said. “But there have been other recent attempts in Hong Kong, Singapore, Sydney, and Manila—all by the Japanese government and all designed to stop the flow of unauthorized shipments of gold bullion and gold bearer bonds out of these financial centers.”

  “Who are these Samson members? I mean, exactly what are we dealing with?”

  “Unfortunately, we know exactly how this organization came about,” Roger said. “Even worse, the British and American governments were initially involved in providing financial support.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you remember, in the ’30s, a military coup took place in Venezuela. The new government was threatening to n
ationalize the country’s oil industry, similar to what had occurred in Mexico. Had that happened, it would have threatened the entire Western hemisphere’s supply of petroleum. At the time, the American government was already concerned about possible involvement in a European war. To ensure access to oil, the British and American governments, together with local oil companies, funded a paramilitary organization, Samson, to protect their interests.”

  “That’s unbelievable. It sounds like a very professional organization, capable of carrying out some real harm.”

  “It is. As it turned out, Juan Pablo Perez, a young Venezuelan engineer educated in America, succeeded in negotiating new contracts between Venezuela and the oil companies, and the oil was never nationalized. Since there was no further need for Samson, the governments suspended funding and it was believed, until recently, that the organization had been disbanded. But if, in fact, they are involved with Miss Chang’s abduction, it means we have a well-trained paramilitary group, employed by the Japanese government, operating right here inside the United States.”

  “And what does it mean for Cecelia?” Pete asked.

  “They may have been hired to abduct her, find out what she knows, and possibly kill her.”

  “My God! If they’re capable of that kind of action, what are you doing to get her back? Why haven’t I heard a word about this kidnapping in the news?”

  “We don’t want to alert Samson or their clients that we are aware of their existence. The less they know about what we know, the better our chances are of recovering her unharmed.”

  “What can I do to help?” Pete asked.

  “Believe me when I say that this case has Washington’s full attention. All the stops are being pulled out. But it’s a very sensitive matter. Since you know Miss Chang personally, is there someone you could contact close to her, to tell them only of her suspected kidnapping? You might learn something, no matter how insignificant it may seem, that could help us immensely.”

  “If I find anything out, I’ll call you immediately,” Pete said.