by Ian Hamilton
“Perhaps.”
“Is he a senior officer?”
“No, so we have to assume he has the ability to get the right people to listen to him.”
“And is that likely?”
“I think so.”
“Still, you would need to be very careful about how you approach him and what you say to him initially. You could not tell him the entire truth, of course, and you would need to rely on him to parse it with regard to his superiors. At the start he would need to feel them out to see if a deal would even be contemplated. So no names at that point, just a sort of general outline, but with enough bait to see if they are willing to be enticed.”
“Uncle, I’d rather do the parsing myself until the level of interest can be gauged. I mean, I think I do trust this man, but I still need to confirm just how much.”
“That is wise.”
“One step at a time, eh? That’s what you taught me.”
He sat back, his eyes raised towards the ceiling. Ava thought she saw tears in them, and turned away. “How soon do you think you can contact him?” he asked.
“It’s Sunday morning where he is and he won’t be at work, but I have his private number. I’ll call him when I get back to the hotel. But, Uncle, I’m still nervous about this. You’re right when you say we need maximum distance between the information and ourselves . . . And you know, an idea just came to me that might help us achieve that,” she said. “Tell me, could we open a numbered bank account with our friends at the Kowloon Light and Power Bank?”
“Of course.”
“But could we open one that wasn’t impossible to trace? One that anyone with any savvy could find their way into and locate the real account holder?”
“Why would we do that?”
“I would want the name Andy Cameron attached to the account.”
“The banker who is dead?”
“Yes.”
Uncle smiled. “Yes, I think the Kowloon bank could arrange all that.”
“Well, I think we’ve just acquired a new client.”
( 38 )
They left the restaurant without paying for their meal. The owner had refused to give a bill to Uncle, and after a few minutes of protest, Uncle thanked him and left an HK$200 tip.
The streets had calmed down. It was getting too late for families and it was still too early for most of the nightclubs and karaoke bars to open. They walked downhill towards the Mandarin, Uncle’s arm again looped through Ava’s. They had gone only about half the distance when he stopped and took a deep breath. She looked at him and saw that he was pale. As she started to say something he lurched towards the street, stopped at the curb, and bent over. Ava reached out to give him support, but he threw one arm back as if to fend her off. Then he coughed, took a couple of rapid breaths, and threw up on the road. Ava watched in horror, not sure what to do, not sure if there was anything she could do. After several heaves his stomach began to empty, and though his body still racked, he had nothing left to throw up.
Ava went over to him again. She looked down at the mess on the pavement and saw streaks of red.
He slowly raised himself, wiping at his mouth with his jacket sleeve. Ava grasped his arm and squeezed as reassuringly as she could. Uncle shook his head as if he was trying to clear it. “I cannot handle some kinds of food anymore,” he said.
There was a 7-Eleven two doors from where they stood. “Wait here,” Ava said. She bought a bottle of water and a sleeve of tissues. When she came back, Uncle was leaning against the wall, his face ashen and gaunt. She opened the water and passed it to him. He sipped lightly, no more than wetting his lips. When she gave him a tissue, he patted his sweaty brow. “I’m worried about you,” she said.
“No reason to be. I am just an old man having an old man’s aches and pains.”
“Uncle, you would tell me if it was more than that, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” he said.
He held her arm the rest of the way to the hotel. Neither of them spoke until they saw Sonny standing by the Mercedes. “I will go straight home. You call me there after you talk to your Mountie,” Uncle said.
“Okay, I’ll call. Even if I don’t reach him, I’ll let you know.”
“Good. One way or another we need to close this case. We owe it to our clients to do the best we can for them.”
“Yes, Uncle, we owe it to our clients.”
( 39 )
Ava had met Marc Lafontaine on a job in Guyana, where he worked at the Canadian High Commission in Georgetown. He was a sergeant, divorced, with three daughters living in Ottawa. He had made a play for Ava. When she turned him down, he handled it with grace and actually showed concern for her well-being in a country where homosexuality was a crime punishable by a jail term, or worse.
She had met him only briefly but under difficult circumstances. At the time it would have been easy for him to fob her off or pass on her story and situation to local authorities to win their favour. Instead he had been honest, supportive, and steadfast — the stereotypical Mountie of dime novels and movies. None of that meant he would still be in Guyana. None of that meant he would remember her. None of that meant he would be prepared to step outside the normal parameters of his job. And even if he was, none of that meant he would know whom to call or be smart enough to sell what Ava was offering.
But she trusted Lafontaine, and that was the overriding priority. He wouldn’t lie to her. If he couldn’t or wouldn’t do what she wanted, he wouldn’t string her along or misuse whatever she told him. She just wished she hadn’t made it seem so sure to Uncle that Lafontaine was a viable contact. What was worse, she had no backup — it was Lafontaine or no one. And if it turned out to be no one, then the job was over, and she would be left kicking her heels in Hong Kong while she waited for Uncle’s doctor to return.
She went into her computer to find Lafontaine’s number. She opened her phone, removed the Toronto SIM card, and replaced it with a Hong Kong card that would read simply UNKNOWN CALLER on the other end. She phoned Guyana.
“Hello?” a tentative voice said.
“Is this Marc Lafontaine?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Ava Lee. I hope you remember me.”
“Under most circumstances you would be a hard woman to forget. Considering what went on here, you can be certain I remember you,” he said.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
“It’s Sunday morning and I’m sitting on my apartment balcony with a beer in my hand, watching the Demerara River sludge by.”
“Some things don’t change.”
“In Guyana nothing ever changes that much. Is that why you are calling? Has the dreaded Captain Robbins resurfaced in your life?”
“No.”
“Good, because right now he’s being particularly nasty, and I wouldn’t like to think you were one of his targets.”
“He and I reached an understanding.”
“I don’t think I want to know the details.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you.”
“No problem. It’s enough to know that someone fought him to a draw.”
“Actually, I think I did better than a draw.”
Lafontaine laughed. “So here it is Sunday morning, and I’m sitting on my balcony with a beer in my hand, and Ava Lee calls me from — where?”
“Hong Kong.”
“I don’t imagine this is social.”
“No.”
“What could possibly be going on in Hong Kong that’s connected to Guyana? Or what’s going on here that’s caught your attention?”
“Neither of the above. I have a proposition to make that involves you on a personal level.”
“Ava, how on earth can that be possible?”
“It’s a bit complicated.”
“Everything about you is complicated.”
“I have to say that in this case, you’re not wrong.”
“Are you going to make me guess?”
�
��No, because you couldn’t. And until two days ago I couldn’t have thought up this situation myself, even if I were chemically stimulated.”
“Have you ever been chemically stimulated?”
“No, I make do with wine, but I hope you get the picture.”
“I make do with beer, and speaking of which, I need another. Give me a minute.”
She heard footsteps, a fridge opening and closing, a bottle being uncapped, and then more footsteps, followed by a sigh. “Okay, just so I’m absolutely clear, you’re calling me on a personal matter?”
“No, it’s business, and I’m sorry if I’m being vague. What I meant by involving you on a personal level is that I need someone to act as a go-between, a negotiator, if you will.”
“I’m an RCMP officer. I don’t freelance.”
“I know. What I need you to do is negotiate with the RCMP for me, on behalf of a client.”
“Do you have any idea how strange that sounds?”
“A bit.”
“Okay, that aside, negotiate what?”
“My client has some information that he wants to pass along — actually, information he wants to sell.”
“Ava, what could that possibly have to do with me? I’m a one-man band in a South American backwater. What kind of authority or influence do you think I have?”
“Marc, the client has hired my firm to represent his interests. Our firm has decided that the RCMP are the best fit for the information he has to sell. You’re the only Mountie I trust enough to have even a preliminary discussion with. That’s the reason for the phone call.”
“You’ve met me exactly twice.”
“I know. But my partner, who is an elderly Chinese man with a colourful past, has often said to me that when it comes to trust, there is no test. If your instincts tell you to trust someone, there should be no degrees. Naive or not, I trust you.”
“And I like to think — egotistical or not — that I am worthy of that trust.”
“So can we talk with the understanding that whatever I say will be kept strictly between us, unless I decide otherwise?”
“Sure,” he said softly. “You’ve already spiced up what would have been a hot, humid, and empty Sunday. You have my attention and my word, although I have to be truthful and say I’m not sure what benefit you can expect from sharing confidences with me.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Obviously. I just don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations.”
“Point taken — and this phone line is secure?”
“Worried about Captain Robbins again?”
“Yes.”
“The line is secure.”
“Okay, so let me try to explain as simply as possible what’s happened. Like I said, we have a client, whom I can’t name right now, who has been managing a bank in Indonesia. There’s been a rift between him and the bank’s owners, and he’s decided to resign his position and move to a safer environment.”
“What did he do, abscond with bank funds?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“So why did you use the word safer?”
“Because if the bank owners find him, they’ll kill him.”
“Ah, now that’s something I didn’t expect to hear. What could your Indonesian banker have done to justify that?”
“He isn’t Indonesian; he’s Scottish. And the bank owners aren’t Indonesian either. They’re Italian.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I know, it sounds convoluted, but it really isn’t.”
“So far I’m not convinced.”
Ava had been sitting at the desk. Now she moved to the bed, propped up the pillows, and lay back. She drew a deep breath. “Have you heard of the ’Ndrangheta?”
“Of course.”
“What do you know about them?”
“They’re a mob — a big, powerful Italian mob.”
“They’re the bank’s owners.”
Lafontaine went silent. She heard him breathing, and then what sounded like a beer bottle being placed on a glass table. “Did you hear me?” she asked.
“How in hell do you know something like that?”
“My client managed the bank for them.”
“And you believe him?”
“When he left Indonesia, he was carrying with him enough information to convince anyone of that fact.”
“You said earlier there was a rift between him and them. What happened?”
“He was indiscreet and they found out. He managed to leave before they could get their hands on him.”
“So he’s in hiding?”
“Yes, and he approached us to help him find a way to make that permanent.”
“How could you do that?”
“He needs to start a new life. He needs to relocate his family. He knows he’ll never be able to work again, so he needs money.”
“And he hired you to find him the money?”
“Yes, that’s what we do — find money. This case is a bit different than most, but money is money.”
Lafontaine became quiet again. Ava was wondering if he had gone to fetch another beer when he said, “I’m still not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”
“I understand it’s a lot to wrap your head around. I had the same problem. Let me put things into context.”
“Please.”
“This bank in Indonesia was purchased six years ago, using a local law firm as the cover, by the ’Ndrangheta for the explicit purpose of laundering money. They shipped in cash and the banker took in the cash as equity, converted it to the local currency, and then loaned it out in some very specific markets — Rome, Caracas, New York, Toronto — to buy real estate. The loans went to companies, families, and friends who were associated with the ’Ndrangheta. The loans were completely phony, of course; nothing was ever repaid. The banker ran several sets of books to keep the Indonesian authorities satisfied, but the reality was that it was strictly cash in, cash out. The gang ends up owning a worldwide real estate empire bought with laundered money.”
“Holy shit.”
“It isn’t something that could be invented.”
“And let me guess,” Lafontaine said slowly. “Your client has a copy of the bank records.”
“He does indeed.”
“How much detail?”
“Every single transaction is recorded — who bought what, where, when, and for how much.”
“And you’re convinced the information is legit?”
“I’ve gone through it in detail with him. I’m confident it will stand up to any level of scrutiny.”
“So?”
“So?”
“Now he wants to sell the information.”
“Exactly,” Ava said.
“This is about as far off my watch, my expertise, my rank, as you could possibly get.”
“Let me clarify something right away,” Ava said. “My client has no interest in shopping this information around. He isn’t interested in getting into bids. He initially told us to stick to the countries that were directly involved, then thought better of that and forbade us from talking to the Italians, the Venezuelans, or the Indonesians. That left us with the Americans and Canadians. My partner didn’t feel that the Americans could keep their information sources secure. So, Marc, we’re talking to you, and you alone.”
“You mean you’re talking to me as a member of the RCMP?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. It starts and ends with you. If you feel that you can’t contact the force, or that you can’t fairly represent our position, then you and I will forget we ever had this conversation. My client will have to figure another way — without my being involved — to meet his future needs. Because, Marc, this is as far as I take it.”
“You want me to negotiate a deal with the force on your behalf?”
“I want you to open some doors for me and at least initiate discussions.”
“Under what pretext?”
“Pardon?”
“Marc, this is the point where the trust we talked about earlier becomes paramount.”
“Meaning?”
“The client came to us because that’s how he wants all communication handled.”
“He won’t talk to anyone but you?”
“Yes.”
“They won’t like that.”
“We believe the information he has can speak for itself. They won’t need him.”
“That still doesn’t explain how I was brought into the loop. If I approach Ottawa — and I emphasize the if — they’re going to ask me why I was chosen to be the conduit.”
“About nine months ago you met a woman in Guyana named Jennie Kwong. She came to the High Commission for help, help that you provided. She remembered you. You’re the only Mountie she knows.”
“Jennie Kwong?”
“I have a Hong Kong passport in that name.”
“Ava Lee?”
“As of now, between you and me, and you and them, there is no Ava Lee. Only Jennie Kwong. If you can’t go with that, we can stop talking right now. What I need you to promise, regardless of what you decide to do, is that my real name will be kept entirely out of any conversation.”
“I gave you my word.”
“I know, and I’m sorry if I seem paranoid.”
“You’re really afraid of those Italians.”
“Absolutely.”
“So this Jennie Kwong contacts me on behalf of this Scottish banker and asks me to do what?”
“Help her get to first base — put her in contact with people who can start a decision-making process.”
“To buy the bank records?”
“Of course. That’s what it’s about from my client’s side.”
“Does he have a number in mind?”
“Thirty million U.S. dollars.”
“You have got to be joking!”
“Of course not. And let me say I think he’s being generous at that price. We’re talking about billions of dollars that have been illegally laundered and used to buy real estate. I’m quite sure that if the authorities in most of the countries I mentioned had access to the records we have, they could seize nearly all those properties and turn around and flip them for a profit. On top of confiscating the properties in Canada, the RCMP could also do well by selling the information to other jurisdictions.”