Project Seduction

by Tatiana March

  "The way the system works is by allowing pesos in Colombia to be exchanged for dollars in the US without transporting the cash. A drug dealer in the US deposits cash dollars with an intermediary. A broker, if you like. An importer in Colombia deposits pesos with a Colombian broker.

  "The importer then travels to the US and receives cash dollars from the US broker. The drug dealer in turn withdraws pesos from the Colombian broker. Both have exchanged their cash into a different currency, and have moved it between the two countries.

  "The importer uses the dollars to buy household goods in the US, usually avoiding sales tax because he is dealing in cash. He smuggles the goods into Colombia and sells them on the black market, saving import duties and not paying income tax on the profits.

  "The drug dealer has repatriated his illegal earnings from the US to Colombia. The brokers each take a cut of around five percent, depending on the amount involved and their physical location."

  "And everyone is happy,” Mr. Diaz said.

  "Except for the authorities in both countries, who have lost tax revenue, and who must deal with the social problems caused by drug abuse and black market trade.” Georgina glanced up to see if her host was offended by the remark.

  "Every business has its social problems,” Mr. Diaz said evenly. “Tourism ruins the unspoiled corners of the world. Industry pollutes the air, and kills the fish in the rivers. Fashion makes women into sexual objects and causes young girls to starve themselves to death."

  "Yes,” Georgina said quietly. “You have a point there."

  "My business is no worse than most,” Mr. Diaz told her. “I would prefer the government to recognize that. Then I could pay my taxes, and stop being treated like a criminal."

  Georgina nodded but said nothing.

  "This peso system does not meet my needs,” Mr. Diaz said, abandoning his conciliatory tone. “I want my wealth in this country, and I want it legalized. What do you suggest?"

  "Real estate,” Georgina told him. “The best vehicle would be property development."

  Her host scrutinized her before he spoke. “I can't see how that could be done."

  Georgina touched her napkin to her lips and laid it down next to her plate. “Most people in your position hold some funds in a financial haven. As an insurance policy for the future."

  "Such as?"

  "The Cayman Islands. Switzerland. The Bahamas. It's getting harder these days. An organization called the FATF, the Financial Action task Force on Money Laundering, keeps a list of what is called NCCTs, or Non-Cooperative Countries and Territories. These are countries which have lax financial regulations. Every year, more and more countries are introducing legislation against money laundering, and as a result are coming off the list. Even Switzerland enacted a law in 2003 which allows banks to disclose details of clients who are suspected of serious crimes. However, there is a strong requirement of evidence before Swiss banks will make disclosure."

  "So you are recommending Switzerland?"

  Georgina shook her head. “I'm just giving you facts and data. I don't make any recommendations, or advise you to do anything."

  "I see. So, how is this real estate thing done?"

  "The money accumulated in the offshore location is lent to a US property company set up specifically for this purpose. The property company buys land in a good residential location. The company builds houses, paying as much of the expenses in cash as possible. Most building work can be subcontracted to individuals or small business. Many of them will be more than happy to accept cash. Once completed, the properties are rented out for a few years. Tax on the rental income is minimized since there will be interest to pay on the offshore loans. A few years later, the houses are sold. Corporation tax must be paid on the profits, but the expense is funded by the appreciation in the value of the houses. This could be substantial, if the development is well managed and in a good location."

  "So I gain twice,” Mr. Diaz said. “I launder the money, and make a profit on the real estate deal?"

  "That would depend on the state of the real estate market at the time,” Georgina cautioned. “But you could expect to make a substantial profit."

  "I like it.” Mr. Diaz nodded his head slowly. “I like it very much.” He untied the red scarf around his neck and used it to mop beads of perspiration from his brow. Then he stuffed the scarf into his pocket. “You will act as an intermediary. You find and engage a builder, and supervise him. You pick up the cash from here and deliver it to the builder, who in turn pays the subcontractors."

  "I'm afraid I can't get involved in the implementation,” Georgina protested. “I never do that."

  Mr. Diaz leveled his eyes at her. “This time you will,” he told her calmly. Then he rose to his feet. “You must excuse me. I'm an old man. I need my sleep."

  "I'm afraid I can't agree,” Georgina insisted, alarmed. “I can't do anything that would jeopardize my position at the bank."

  "That is precisely why you must,” Mr. Diaz explained. “I need insurance of your loyalty.” He straightened his chair against the table and gave her a brief nod. “Goodnight. I know it is early yet. Ramon will entertain you until you are ready for bed."

  As he turned to walk away, the door sprung open, and the more handsome of the two bodyguards strutted into the room. The two men exchanged a few words in Spanish. Then Mr. Diaz disappeared through the door, and Georgina was left alone with the young man.

  "Ramon will look after you now.” He puffed out his chest.

  Georgina struggled not to laugh. Ramon was dressed the same as his boss, in a tailored suit with narrow legs and a cropped jacket. His grin was nothing if not lecherous. Despite that, Georgina had a curious impression that left to his own devices, Ramon would much rather have stayed up in his room watching action movies.

  "I'm quite happy to just go upstairs and read a book,” Georgina told him.

  "No. Mr. Diaz say Ramon take care of you."

  "All right,” she said pleasantly. “What do you suggest?"

  "We go walk. Look at sunset."

  "That sounds good,” Georgina agreed. She glanced down her off-white linen suit and her high heeled sandals. “I'd better go and change first."

  "No change,” Ramon said. “You all right."

  "I'm not all right to go for a walk in these shoes,” Georgina protested, but Ramon had already caught her by the crook of her elbow and yanked her along.

  They crossed the big marble foyer and went down the same corridor the surly maid had vanished into. The clatter of dishes, accompanied by lively female voices told Georgina they were passing the kitchen. The door at the end of the corridor stood open, blocked only with a wire screen. Ramon swung the screen open with one hand and pulled her through in his wake.

  The air smelled of damp, mixed with odors of cooking wafting out through the kitchen windows. The setting sun hung like a great big fireball in the sky, and on the horizon a few ragged clouds burned pink and purple.

  "This way.” Ramon tugged at her hand. They rounded a corner, and continued along a cobblestone path which threatened to ruin Georgina's new Jimmy Choo sandals.

  "Slow down,” she pleaded. “These shoes weren't made for walking"

  "No need to walk any more.” Ramon threw a quick glance into the direction of the kitchen window. Then he grabbed hold of Georgina, and swooped down to kiss her.

  "Ramon,” she yelled, ducking down between his arms. “What are you doing?"

  "Mr. Diaz say, Ramon entertain lady guest."

  "This is not what Mr. Diaz meant,” Georgina said firmly.

  Ramon's eyes flicked back to the kitchen window, where a dark girl with her hair tucked into a white cap was pulling out of sight. “We can go now,” Ramon said.

  Georgina's anger melted. The poor lad was only trying to make a girl jealous. She didn't have the heart to scold him for his clumsy advances. “Mr. Diaz meant for you to show me the gardens,” Georgina explained with uncharacteristic patience. “Why don't we walk
over to the swimming pool? That way I can find my way there in the morning.” She felt as though she was talking to a large child.

  "The pool is this way.” Ramon strolled whistling ahead, seemingly pleased with how things were turning out.

  "Not so fast,” Georgina complained. She teetered along, picking her way between the cracks in the stone path.

  "Take off shoes,” Ramon said.

  Georgina stopped. “Aren't there snakes? Or scorpions?” She stared at the lawn which had been painstakingly watered into the arid landscape. Then she looked down, and accepted the narrow straps on her sandals offered no protection anyway. “All right,” she said, bending to slip the shoes off her feet. “Huh, that's better.” She stepped along the path gingerly, dangling the straps from her hand.

  Ramon reached out to take her other hand. He smiled at her, and launched into a soft lullaby in Spanish. “Her name is Carmen,” he said, interrupting his song.

  "Good luck,” Georgina said. “I don't think trying to kiss me outside the kitchen window will help you win her over."

  "Carmen kiss José,” Ramon pointed out.

  "I see.” Georgina nodded, lifting her brows. She seemed to have stumbled in the middle of some imported Colombian melodrama. “Who is José?"

  "The driver. He bring you in today."

  "Oh.” Georgina tried to remember, so that she could asses Ramon's chances against the competition. All she could picture was the back of the driver's head. That had looked remarkably similar to Ramon's, shiny black hair slicked down to a brown neck.

  "The pool.” Ramon gestured proudly at a kidney-shaped swimming pool tiled with mosaics that formed a picture of a butterfly at the bottom. The water lapped gently, making it look as though the butterfly's wings were in motion.

  A cabana stood to one side. A sloping gravel drive lead to a cluster of buildings further away from the main house.

  "Stables.” Ramon pointed to the direction of the buildings. “We ride tomorrow."

  "I don't know how to,” Georgina said with regret. “I'd like to go back now. I'm a little tired."

  Without a word of protest, Ramon escorted her back to the house. This time they went in through a different door. Up in her suite, Georgina soaked in the claw-footed tub that dominated the cavernous bathroom. Then she toweled herself dry and crawled into the big canopied bed.

  She ached with fatigue, but her fear was gone. Ramon had been a calming influence. He appeared totally harmless. If the level of threat around her rose no higher, she could relax. In five minutes, Georgina fell sound asleep.

  * * * *

  In the morning, the surly maid she recognized from the previous day brought breakfast up on a tray. There was everything from ham and eggs to three different kinds of Danish pastries. Appalled at the waste, Georgina nibbled at a piece of toast. Grandma Ethel's sermons about the starving children in Africa echoed in her mind, but even that couldn't make her eat.

  Mr. Diaz had issued her no instructions for the day. The maid came back exactly one hour later to collect the tray. Georgina tried to converse, but the maid pretended to only speak Spanish.

  In the end, Georgina decided it would be safe to explore on her own. She dressed in her white bikini. Over it, she slipped a loose cotton top, and a wide gathered skirt with an elasticized waist. After last night's experience, she chose to go in bare feet.

  There was nobody else at the pool. The wall of the cabana offered some shade against the low morning sun. No leafy trees grew in the gardens, only a few struggling palms. In the daylight, she saw that the lawn stopped a few paces on the other side of the pool, where the manicured vegetation withered to a barren field of earth.

  Georgina dragged a recliner into the shade. She stepped out of her skirt and pulled the cotton top over her head. After folding the clothes into a pillow, she stretched out on the recliner, and opened her book on the history of the world's currency markets.

  The book couldn't hold her attention. Her eyelids fluttered, and she drifted off to sleep.

  She woke with a shriek when someone trickled cold water over her belly.

  Another man, this one older, and not at all sweetly childish like Ramon, stood over her, looking down at her, pouring water over her from an icy pitcher. Long coppery tresses fell over his face. Muscular thighs strained against a pair of tight breeches. The tall riding boots on his feet were covered in dust.

  "Do you want to come for a swim?” he said.

  "It seems I already have,” Georgina replied. She sat up and pulled her knees to her chest. On the other side of the pool, in the middle of the drive heading out to the stables, a red sports car stood parked, blocking the way.

  "Who are you?” the man asked.

  "I'm a guest. Who are you?"

  "I'm the son and heir.” He gave her a disarming grin. “Or I'm a stable boy. It depends on my father's mood on any particular day."

  "Oh?” Georgina said.

  "I'm from the wrong side of the blanket, but as he has no other sons, he's stuck with me as his only option."

  "Oh,” Georgina said again. “You don't sound Colombian."

  "I went to boarding school in England. I was supposed to go to university there, but I got thrown out of school before I could finish. I was shipped out to America."

  "What did you get expelled for?"

  "Family business. Drugs."

  "Oh,” Georgina said. Then she blushed, because it must have been the tenth time she'd said ‘Oh'.

  "Come on,” the man said. “The water's nice and cold at this time of day."

  "What's your name?” Georgina asked.

  "Sebastian. And you're Georgina."

  "How do you know?"

  "My father told me. He said I should look after you today.” As he said the words, he swept her body with a look that left no doubt of his interest.

  Georgina's eyes narrowed into slits as she assessed him. What was happening to her? Men had never come on to her like that before. Could it be that since she'd become sexually active, she'd begun to emit some kind of signals that suggested she was available?

  "What does looking after me entail?” she asked him cautiously.

  Sebastian leered. His eyes roamed over the white bikini. “I'm sure we can think of something,” he told her. “It gets really hot in the middle of the afternoon. The usual custom is to retire for a siesta."

  "Oh,” Georgina said before she could stop herself. Then she bounced up and strode over to the pool. The man was so disconcertingly handsome. She got all tongue-tied when his bold eyes explored her body. She'd thought herself cured of all that awkwardness, but she'd been wrong.

  The water enveloped her as she lowered herself down the wide curving steps. A sound of running feet followed her, and then a splash. A brown torso dove past her and broke the surface a few yards ahead of her.

  "Come on,” Sebastian called out, shaking water from his long hair. “It's not that cold.” He swam up to her and pulled her off balance, toppling her in.

  Georgina shrieked, and it was only partly because the water was so cold. A more immediate worry was that her tiny white bikini was fine when lying down. It didn't seem to be designed to stay in place during vigorous motion. She reached behind her back to adjust the straps.

  "Just take it off,” Sebastian said. “I'm not wearing anything."

  Through the water, she realized he was telling the truth.

  * * * *

  Rick stamped his foot on the gas in the rented Corvette and picked up speed. It had taken him an eternity to get past the tractor that had slowed his progress to a crawl. Damn his decision to cut through on Route 79 and Route 74. He should have stayed on the Interstate.

  The call from Domenico Diaz that morning gnawed in his gut, like an icy grip of fear. What did the old man mean, when he said he needed help to persuade Georgina to cooperate? She was supposed to have already made it clear that her financial expertise was for sale. What more could possibly be required?

  Rick shuddered as h
e considered the methods of persuasion men like Domenico Diaz employed. He cursed the impulse that had made him agree to Georgina's plan.

  Tapping his fingers impatiently against the dashboard, he calculated how much longer. Another hour at least. He ought to make it to Palm Springs for midday. If he did, he might get a chance to talk to Georgina in private before everyone gathered together for lunch.

  Rick drove another fifteen miles until he needed the directions he'd scribbled down along the edge of yesterday's newspaper. A left turn here, then another three miles north. He ignored the rolling hills, only becoming interested in his surroundings when he reached the suburban development and had to navigate.

  He spotted the security fence from a distance. Pulling up to the steel box, he gave his name, tilting his face up to the camera.

  The gate opened slowly, and Rick drove through.

  After parking in the circular drive, he went up to the front door. Next to the wrought iron knocker he located a button. He pressed. Overhead, the camera whirred as it focused on him. Rick raised a hand in a lazy salute and waited until a black-clad maid opened the door. She told him Mr. Diaz was resting, but would see him after lunch. When Rick asked, the maid informed her Miss Coleman was at the pool.

  Rick strode over, cursing the damn suit that made his skin itch in the autumn heat. When he rounded the corner of the cobblestone path, he took in the scene ahead of him, stopped for an instant, and then hurried the rest of the way.

  Georgina floated in the pool, doing a slow backstroke. An athletic young man, dressed in nothing but a pair of riding breeches, stood next to a circular garden table. His long hair hung dripping wet down to his shoulders. Drops of water clung to his arms and chest. It was clear that he had only just got out of the water. He poured a drink out of a pitcher into a glass, watching Georgina through hooded eyes.

  Then he must have heard Rick's footsteps, because he turned around.

  "Hola,” he said. “You're Rick Camacho, right?"

  "It depends,” Rick said. “Who are you?"

  "I'm Sebastian Glennon. Domenico Diaz is my father. He told me to expect you."