The Informant

by James Grippando

  He fumbled in his briefcase for the right passport. The disguise was hot for the tropics, not something he’d want to wear all day. Accordingly, he had two sets of identification. He’d entered the country as Charles Ackroyd, “Charlie,” the Nordic god who had won over Valerie’s heart and wallet back in Maryland. He would enter the bank, however, as Eric Venters—the tall, dark, and not so handsome creation staring back at him in the mirror. Perfect.

  Around 11:00 A.M. he arrived by Jeep in St. Johns, the island’s capital and only real city. Nearly a third of the island’s population resided in the old city that had stood for centuries on gentle slopes above the large bay. Near the boatyard, fishermen made lobster pots and mended their nets. Many older streets were still lined with traditional two-story buildings of wood and stone with balconies that hung over the narrow, cracked sidewalks. The Charter Bank was in a modern strip mall near a cluster of clothing shops and computer stores.

  Hannon parked his Jeep in a space directly in front of the bank. He was dressed in the same khaki slacks and blue blazer he’d worn on the plane from New York, but he had a fresh white shirt and conservative striped necktie for added credibility. The drive along All Saints Road had been comfortably cool in the open-air Jeep, but now that he’d stopped he was feeling the heat. He dabbed the sweat from his brow and started toward the mall.

  Hannon stopped at the curb, somewhat surprised by what he saw. The Charter Bank didn’t appear to be much of a bank at all. It shared a main entrance with a dozen other banks, all with their small signs posted outside the door—everything from “Charter Bank of Antigua” to something as silly as “Joe’s Bank of the Caribbean.” He’d heard of offshore havens, but somehow this was on a much smaller scale than even he had anticipated.

  He opened the glass door and stepped inside. It had no leather couches, expensive artwork or rich wood paneling. The walls were bare beige and the furnishings simple. Two women were busy at computer terminals on metal desks. A man dressed in casual slacks and a short-sleeve shirt was talking on the telephone near the fax machines. Hannon noticed no tellers, guards or security cameras. He felt as if he’d entered a travel agency rather than a bank.

  One of the women rose from her desk. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes,” he said with assurance. “My name’s Eric Venters. I’m here to close my account. But first I’d like to enter my safe-deposit box.”

  “I can handle the box for you,” she said. “You’ll have to see Mr. Jeffries about closing the account. Come with me, please.”

  Hannon followed her to a cubicle in the corner. It was a small area of privacy where one customer at a time could enter his safe-deposit box. Hannon bristled as she checked his identification—passport and driver’s license—against the records on file, fearing she might focus on the height discrepancy that Rollins had warned him about. It went smoothly, however. As he’d expected, the bank had a written application, but no picture ID on file with which to compare his passport. That kind of formality would definitely have scared away the drug-smuggling, money-laundering clientele that kept this particular offshore haven in business. In two minutes she returned with a rectangular metal box. She placed it on the table in front of him.

  “Just signal me when you’re through,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Hannon looked around discreetly before entering the box, to make sure he had total privacy. He slid open the metal top and smiled as he peered inside. It was completely empty, save for a 9mm pistol and three ammunition clips.

  Without question, the most dangerous part of Rollins’s plan was the physical retrieval of the money. As yet, there was no reason to believe that the Tribune had called in the FBI. Even if it had, Antigua’s bank secrecy laws probably would keep them off the trail. It was no secret, however, that bank secrecy could conceivably be broken by well-paid informants. Even Rollins had been savvy enough to make sure he was armed in case something went wrong.

  Hannon removed his jacket and wrapped it around the gun and ammunition clip. It muffled the distinctive sound of a gun being loaded. He put the jacket back on and tucked the loaded gun in his breast pocket. The two other clips went in his pants pocket. He closed the box, then stood up to signal that he was finished. It took a moment to get the woman’s attention, since the bank was very sensitive to its customers’ privacy. Finally, she came.

  “Mr. Jeffries will see you about closing your account now,” she said.

  Hannon nodded with appreciation and headed across the room. Jeffries was a portly man, roughly twenty years older and a foot shorter than Hannon. He had thin, jet black hair but a salt-and-pepper mustache that obviously didn’t get the same dye he used on his head. He greeted Hannon with a firm handshake and polite smile, then offered the chair facing his desk.

  “Mrs. Flannery told me you wish to close your account with us,” he said in a distinctly West Indian accent.

  “Yes. I’d like the balance in cash, please. American dollars.”

  “Cash,” he said with a slightly troubled look. “I see. Well, that shouldn’t present too much of a problem, I hope. At all events, I’ve taken the liberty of pulling up your account information. We show a balance of two hundred thirty-eight thousand dollars. Pity how those wire transfer fees add up, isn’t it?” he said with a banker’s smile. Drawing no response from Hannon, he slid three standard forms across the desk. “If you’ll just sign here, here, and here, please.”

  Hannon looked it over, then signed carefully. He’d practiced for more than an hour that morning, trying to get it perfect.

  The banker smiled. “All right. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” He rose and headed across the room, then disappeared through a locked door to the back. Hannon sat quietly, but he remained alert. He presumed the bank was checking the signature on file. After a minute the door opened, and Jeffries was still smiling. A good sign.

  He laid a friendly hand on Hannon’s shoulder. “I need just another moment,” he said. Then he headed for the computer terminals across the room.

  Hannon watched out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t see the terminal screen, and he wasn’t sure what he was doing. Jeffries had said he’d already taken the liberty of pulling up his account information. He glanced across the desk to see what was there. The account application, a record of account activity—and a photocopy of the signature card. He felt a tug of suspicion. If the signature card was here, what had Jeffries been doing back there?

  He glanced again across the room. Jeffries was on the telephone. He was too far away, however, to overhear the conversation. Hannon tried to read his lips or even the expression on his face, but the banker turned his back. Finally, he hung up. He was dialing again—yet another phone call. Hannon glanced at the two women at their terminals. Neither made eye contact with him. Jeffries was now off the phone and walking toward him. He was still smiling, but it seemed more plastic than ever.

  “Everything is all set, Mr. Venters. I pulled a few strings. It should only take about forty-five minutes.”

  Hannon grimaced. “Forty-five minutes for what?”

  “Your cash, of course. As an IBC, we don’t keep any cash on the premises. It has to be delivered from the Eastern Caribbean Central Bank. I’m sure we explained that to you when you opened your account.”

  Hannon smiled uneasily. “Oh, of course. It must have slipped my mind.”

  “Can I get you some coffee or something while you’re waiting?”

  “No, thank you.” Hannon sighed and leaned back in his chair, thinking.

  Jeffries reached for his phone, then stopped and smiled. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Venters. But I have some business to conduct on behalf of other customers. Private matters of course. Would you mind waiting over there?” With a nod he pointed to the chair by the door.

  “Not at all,” said Hannon as he rose from the chair. He had an uneasy feeling as he slowly crossed the room. Rollins hadn’t said anything about there being no cash on the premises. Then again, it wo
uld have been just like that idiot to leave out the most important detail. Hannon lowered himself into the armchair and exchanged glances with Jeffries from across the room. The banker was still wearing his plastic smile. It’s so fucking annoying, that plastic smile.

  Hannon picked a magazine from the coffee table. He pretended to read, but his eyes roamed above the pages as he carefully cased the exits. The front door appeared to be the only way out. The door to the back was locked—Jeffries had used a key. There was no telling where it might lead, or even if there was an exit out the back. Hannon glanced back at Jeffries, then at the women at their terminals. They all seemed to be doing exactly what they’d been doing all along. Nothing unusual. Then again, if Jeffries had called the cops, that’s exactly what they would have told him to do until they got there.

  Hannon checked his watch. Ten minutes had passed. It was ghastly hot beneath the wig. He was sweating. His gut wrenched at the sudden thought of his rubber nose and mustache coming unglued. Paranoia? he asked himself.

  He glanced across the room, trying to remain calm. One of the women got up from her desk and went to the back room. It was the woman who’d checked his identification against the records on file. Maybe she had noticed the height discrepancy. Or maybe she remembered Rollins from when he’d opened the account. Maybe I should have kept that asshole alive.

  Twenty minutes passed, and the woman still hadn’t returned. The other one got up and disappeared through the same door. They both were gone. It was just him and Jeffries, all by themselves. Hannon scooted to the edge of the seat. His antennae were up for the smallest aberration. Suddenly, he heard the rumbling noise of a big truck pulling up right outside the door.

  Jeffries looked up from his desk. “That must be them,” he said. “How about that? Nearly twenty minutes early.”

  Hannon felt a rush of adrenaline. Nothing ever happened early in the islands. The door swung open. Two men in uniform led the way, both with sidearms in their holsters. Hannon didn’t like the looks on their faces. They had to be cops. On impulse, he reached for his weapon.

  “Gun!” shouted Jeffries as he ducked behind his desk.

  The lead guard drew his gun from his holster, but Hannon was quicker. The room exploded in gunfire. He hit the guard with two shots in the chest before he could fire. His white shirt erupted with a bright crimson stain.

  The second guard dove for cover behind the potted plant. Hannon fired repeatedly while running for the door. The guard crashed into the computers and landed in a heap beside the plant. The women in the back screamed at the gunshots, but Hannon never stopped. He burst through the door and ran through the parking lot, digging for his keys. The Jeep started right up and squealed away. He was standing on the accelerator all the way down the road, pushing the needle past 150 kph, flying past cars, pedestrians, and a herd of stunned goats.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 37

  mike was critiquing the eleven o’clock news from the couch, channel surfing among three different networks that all claimed to have the same “exclusive” lead story, when the phone rang. He hit the mute button just as the wide-eyed anchor launched a “shocking live report” of a neighborhood disturbance involving “scores of angry residents,” most of whom could be seen in the background laughing and slapping high fives after managing to get their faces on television. The oblivious reporter kept right on sensationalizing. It suddenly hit Mike that if anyone was wondering what “cacophony” looked like, they should just watch the evening news with the sound turned off.

  He reached across the coffee table and grabbed the portable on the half-ring. It was Zack from Key West, calling to say he wouldn’t be back for a few days. Mike could hear a live band and laughter in the background. Zack sounded a little drunk and breathless, like he’d been dancing.

  “One other thing,” said Zack. “Very important. The maid comes tomorrow, and I think I left my BFR out on the dresser. Can you stash it away for me?”

  Mike smirked. The BFR was Zack’s “big fucking ring.” He was forever paranoid that the maid would find it, hock it, and use the proceeds to buy her own third-world country. “I’ll check just as soon as I hang up,” he lied. “Have fun.”

  He switched off the phone and hit the television remote, bringing the audio back to the news. He was just about to cut away from a story on Princess Di—the sum and substance of what most American newscasts pawned off as “international news”—when a blurb on Antigua caught his attention.

  “In a bizarre but tragic story,” said the anchor, “two security guards were gunned down by an American man who was withdrawing his own money from a bank in Antigua.”

  Mike quickly remembered what Victoria had said about the money having disappeared in Antigua. He leaned forward with interest and increased the volume.

  “The gunman, who police describe as a white male in his thirties, approximately six foot six inches tall, arrived at the Charter Bank of Antigua this morning to close an account of nearly a quarter million U.S. dollars. When security guards arrived with his money, the man inexplicably pulled out a pistol and opened fire, killing both guards. He then fled without the money. Crazy world out there, isn’t it? The suspect remains at large.

  “Finally in international news, Kitty Van Dorn, our world news correspondent from Milan, has this exclusive Channel 8 interview with Italian supermodel—”

  Mike switched off the set, but he kept staring straight ahead at the blank screen, his mind awhirl. The man was American. He was withdrawing a quarter million dollars, the same amount of money he’d paid to his informant. The bank was in Antigua, exactly where Victoria had said the money had landed. It couldn’t be coincidence. It had to be their man.

  Mike quickly organized his thoughts. He’d want to see the police file, possibly a sketch of the suspect. He’d want to interview the bank employees, any witnesses to the shooting.

  He picked up the phone and started to call Victoria, then stopped. If the story had already reached the nightly news in Miami, the FBI must have known about it by now. Victoria must have made the same connection he had. Yet she hadn’t called him.

  Fine, he thought. If that’s the way she wants to play it. Every man for himself. He canceled her number and dialed another.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’d like information on flights from Miami to Antigua. Tonight, please. One passenger.”

  Karen was getting ready for bed when Mike stopped by on his way to the airport. She still hadn’t completely forgiven him for the way he’d rushed off to see Aaron Fields the last time he’d come by, but the worried look in his eyes made her put that aside. She sensed he simply wanted to hear from someone he trusted that he was doing the right thing, for he stayed just long enough to explain why he was going. It wasn’t just a matter of finding the money. The money was the only connection to his informant, and the informant was the only connection to the killer. This was the only lead he had.

  He made it sound so logical, the same dispassionate way some of her partners at the law firm might have approached it. She wondered for a moment if that weren’t the inherent flaw in their marriage, this peculiar shared ability of lawyers and journalists to put their emotions aside and be so damned objective. Marriage didn’t amount to much with emotion on the side.

  She was still wide awake by 2:00 A.M., lying in the dark and listening to a stiff wind beat against the house. Shadows moved across the bedroom as bending tree limbs played tricks with the streetlamp outside her window. She thought some old reruns on Lifetime might help her sleep, but it only depressed her to think that everyone on thirtysomething was now forty-something pushing fifty. She switched off the set and sank into the pillows, well on her way to a night of staring at the ceiling.

  The wind blew harder, rattling the French doors that led to the pool. The shadows grew longer and shook more violently. Even though she and Mike had been living separately, knowing that he was leaving the country made her feel more alone, more vulnerable. As a little girl, she used
to pull the covers over her head to hide from the monsters lurking in the closet. Now, however, the demons were in her head. They’d been there since college, when that man had crawled in her window and forced her into bed….

  He was finally pulling away. Not fast enough for her, but she didn’t dare push him off and set him off again.

  The cold barrel of the revolver pressing up beneath her chin and pointing at her brain kept her perfectly still, lying on her back. She’d willed herself numb during the act, but she was starting to feel ripped from a lack of lubrication. Rug burns covered her elbows and knees from the attack in the hallway, and her head was still throbbing from the way he’d slammed it against the wall when entering from the rear. Her right eye was completely swollen shut, and the salty taste of blood trickled down the back of her throat from a gash on her lip. She’d put up a fight and paid the price.

  Her eyes fluttered open as she finally felt the weight of his body lift from on top of her. His wide face was a blur, sweaty and distorted beneath a dark nylon stocking. His breath still wreaked of stale bourbon. Even in the darkness, she could see the stains of her own blood on his Bon Jovi T-shirt. Her own nightshirt lay in a shredded heap at the foot of the bed. She prayed it was over as the room slowly came back into focus.

  He was upright on the bed, kneeling between her legs and towering over her as the gun finally pulled away from the base of her chin.

  “Move and you die,” he said.

  She stared up at the ceiling, hoping for the sound of him buckling his pants and zipping his fly—some signal that it was over. But she didn’t hear it. She lowered her eyes, and her line of sight cut slowly across the ceiling, over to the fan, down to the top his head, to his shoulders and below. Her eyes locked on his groin. He was spitting on himself to make up for her dryness. He’s coming back again!

  Her throat went dry and her whole body shook, but she clenched her fist to regain control. She grimaced without making a sound as he probed between her legs, inserting his saliva. Out of the corner of her eye she glanced at the nightstand. Instinctively, her hand began to slide beneath the pillow at her side. It moved at a patient, imperceptible pace, until she’d stretched her entire arm as far as she could. She gripped the edge of the mattress and took a deep breath, coiling up her strength.