Sunstroke

by Madge Swindells

  Would he remember what I had looked like almost two years ago? Our encounter had lasted for only a few minutes, but I had never forgotten an agonizing second of it. Of course, it had been dark and the room badly lit.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Borovoi?’ I said. Were his eyes mocking me? No, surely it was my imagination. If he had recognized me, would he give me away? Of course he would.

  ‘We’ve met before, Miss Hunter. Do you remember?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I heard myself stammer.

  Now Borovoi would tell Cassellari who I was. And then?

  ‘And where did you two meet?’ Cassellari sounded like a kindly old uncle, but I knew otherwise. I shuddered.

  ‘At the casino a few nights back. I must congratulate you on your winning streak, Miss Hunter.’

  He turned away, leaving me to wonder why he was protecting me and for just how long he would continue to do so.

  Chapter 55

  ‘This way, Naomi. Everyone is on the terrace. It’s delightful there at this time of the evening.’ Cassellari led me towards the doorway, before turning to speak to his housekeeper.

  I hesitated. The aroma of old sherry and pure malt whisky, the lavish surroundings and Carla’s beautiful dress and jewellery nauseated me. It was so absolutely wrong. Here were the dregs of the human race. I looked away to where the moon’s ghostly reflection glittered and shimmered. A few lights flickered from yachts passing the island. Exotic, scented shrubs and tobacco flowers filled the balmy air with their fragrance. There’s no justice in this world, I reflected bitterly.

  Carla smiled, looking delighted. She beckoned me to her. I was surprised that she was there, but why? Hadn’t I long since realized that her story was fiction? Tonight, she looked regal and beautiful, in a black brocade dress with a high neck and puffed sleeves. As if in a dream, I crossed the terrace and shook hands as she introduced me to everyone present, but my concentration was flawed. Listening to the small-talk, I felt alienated. Their world of parties, fashions, first nights and constant travel was foreign to me. Besides, Borovoi’s face had brought a vivid recall of that terrible night when we last met. I could not banish the image of Brigit dead in a pool of blood.

  Borovoi had been described by Major Barnard as a former agent of the KGB, but since the Soviet system had collapsed, he might well be a banker, I reasoned. Or perhaps he was part of the move to link Russian and European drug interests. Or had he remained with the Russian police? In which case, was he still after Wolf? And did that make us allies? No, I decided emphatically.

  ‘You shivered.’ Borovoi touched my arm. ‘You feel cold, Miss Hunter. We are up in the mountains where it is always cooler at night. Australians are used to something hotter, yes? Come inside. With your permission, Signor Cassellari…’ Taking me by the arm, he led me inside.

  ‘You look frightened,’ he muttered close to my ear. ‘Don’t be. We are in each other’s hands, Mrs Moller. I am trying to sell Cassellari half of my bank. Do you understand me?’ He hung on to my arm and gave me a slight shake. ‘Pull yourself together.’

  I glanced over my shoulder, but the others were still on the terrace. ‘You know who Wolf Moller is and you know why I am looking for him, Mr Borovoi. If I help you, you must help me.’

  ‘I agree.’

  His fingers were digging into my arm. ‘Remove your hand or it’s no deal.’

  ‘That’s better!’ His low chuckle of derision annoyed me as I moved away from him. His bank? What bank? And did that mean that he was no longer connected with the Russian police? Nothing made sense.

  *

  Everyone followed us inside where we clustered around an antique ebony table while Carla fussed over her seating plan. She was opposite me, on Cassellari’s right while I was on his left. Next to me was Cassellari’s son, misnamed Angelo, who looked to be around forty with his hard, toffee-brown eyes, fancy moustache and greasy, crinkly hair. He had his father’s features, which was his misfortune.

  Beside him was Frans Aquitton, from Panama. I studied him surreptitiously, memorizing his name and face: blue eyes too close together, under a thatch of ash blond hair, and a disappointed mouth. At the end of the table was Carla’s son, Paolo, who had inherited his mother’s beauty, but who had a warmer, more sensuous appeal. Beside him, and almost opposite me, sat Cesare de Sica, an Italian of around Cassellari’s age, whom I guessed was his financial adviser. A man to beware of. I noted his shrewd grey eyes, pinched features and mobile lips; he smiled often, spoke little, but missed nothing. Lastly, there was Borovoi.

  It didn’t take long to realize that I was being tested. If I passed, I would be accepted into their circle. If I failed, God help me. Cassellari welcomed me ostentatiously, proposing a toast in my honour. ‘I think you’ve all heard of Miss Naomi Hunter, sitting here beside me, who walked off with a cool four million under the eyes of the FBI and the bankers. You’re probably wondering how she did it. Well, so am I. Tell us, Miss Hunter, how did you evade the charges?

  It was a question I had anticipated. ‘Don’t explain, don’t complain,’ was my motto. Cassellari and company were waiting for my reply.

  I smiled with more confidence than I felt. ‘Really, it was a mistake. There was no such crime. Just a story the press created. The FBI soon realized this and let me go.’ Pleading innocence was a good line. Hadn’t everyone in Pollsmoor constantly whined that they were not guilty?

  ‘All kinds of people made this mistake, Miss Hunter,’

  Cassellari muttered. ‘American philanthropists to the tune of four million dollars, for instance. That’s why the FBI investigated.’

  The kindly-uncle act was becoming an effort.

  ‘You can talk freely. You are among friends here, my dear.’

  I should be so lucky. There was a long silence. I had to speak. What else could I do? I stumbled through a naive explanation of something that had never happened. ‘The police could never find a link between the Friends of Unita scam and myself.’

  No one seemed to find that very satisfactory so I embroidered slightly. ‘The FBI’s main problem was that there was nothing to link me to the cash. They could not follow the trail. They had no idea who was the final recipient, nor who set up the many bank accounts the cash travelled through.’

  Borovoi cut in. ‘Miss Hunter does not wish to divulge her home territory,’ he said. ‘No doubt she chose her bank’s domicile with the utmost care. Had she chosen any one of the private-enterprise banks in Russia, the authorities could not have discovered who set up the account, or how much it contained. Ah-ha! I can see from your eyes that I’m getting warm, aren’t I, Miss Hunter?’

  I nodded, and tried to look annoyed. Borovoi had saved me again. Why?

  *

  Dinner was excellent, lobster bisque, pate, roast partridges and lastly cream puffs, but I was too tense to eat. I toyed with my food, wishing I could escape from Angelo’s foot nudging mine, followed by his groping hand under the tablecloth.

  While Borovoi was boasting about the advance in democratic banking in his country, Angelo took the opportunity to whisper in my ear, ‘You are very beautiful, Naomi. You turn me on. Perhaps we could meet later?’

  ‘It could never get that much later.’

  His foot continued to caress mine.

  The conversation increased as the wine flowed, and it was about money, naturally, and the increasingly high cost and risk of laundering it. The guests asked me every question they could think of, other than the one they wanted to ask: Was I for real?

  ‘Our problem,’ Cassellari began, looking at me, ‘is that the rules of the game are changing. It’s getting tougher daily. Some of our best agents are in prison. Men with powerful legitimate businesses. Even some brokers on the New York stock exchange. Four were sentenced recently, getting from twenty to forty years.’

  ‘It’s a powerful deterrent,’ de Sica admitted. ‘No one wants to take this kind of risk. The FBI have been following a paper trail all over the States and Europe, even to wire-t
apping some big institutions.’

  ‘Take the case of Rene Laurent, one of our associates,’ Cassellari added. ‘His cash went round the globe several times over a period of months, but the Feds caught up with him.’ He seemed to lose track of his story as he paused to gaze at me suspiciously.

  ‘Yet you, Miss Hunter, outwitted all of them,’ Angelo muttered.

  That was my cue to present my credentials again. ‘You need the financial know-how. That’s all. The problem is, almost everything that’s documented can be traced. In a way, it’s similar to a fox hunt. The fox can circle the globe several times over many years, if he has the stamina, but what’s the point of this if he leaves a trail that can be followed by the hunters, ad infinitum, as your associate did? So what does our fox do? He breaks the trail as often as he can. He wipes out his scent by lying low in a river, or paddling upstream, or even climbing a tree. The latter is not always successful, of course.’

  ‘If it were only so simple,’ Paolo answered, looking more contemptuous than amused.

  ‘What do you know about it?’ Angelo snarled at him, and not for the first time. There was no love lost between them, I realized. Instinctively I knew I had to do better than this.

  ‘Banking, finance and broking services leave a paper chain and that’s how these men get caught. Let’s imagine we’re talking about a million-dollar cash payment. In South Africa, for instance, you could walk into the Gold Coin Exchange and buy a million dollars’ worth of gold coins with cash, no questions asked, and carry the gold out in a suitcase.’

  ‘You’d need some help,’ Paolo muttered.

  ‘True. But there’s no computer on earth that can trace your footsteps as you emerge from the Exchange. You have broken the paper trail. You can take your coins anywhere without fear of being traced. The point is to break the trail as often as possible – change the amount, change the currency, change into other mediums. All this can confuse the enemy totally.’

  I seemed to be winning at last. De Sica was nodding his approval and, after a cautious moment of watching his adviser, Cassellari followed him.

  ‘Another safe bet is to move into one of the many private banks that have mushroomed in Russia, or an adjacent East European country. Pakistan recently legislated to protect the secrecy of foreign cash deposits. In Czechoslovakia there are a 150 new banks and no fraud squad. Poland offers a stable background, a convertible national currency and the right to transfer money abroad.’

  Borovoi was looking agitated. He said, ‘Gentlemen, the whole of Eastern Europe is one big launderette, so why are you trying to launder your money in America? Surely it’s the most dangerous place in the world for you.’

  I had to back him. I had no alternative.

  ‘My own choice, Signor Cassellari, is Russia. More than a thousand new private-enterprise banks are ready and able to launder your cash, no questions asked. Total privacy guaranteed. How else can they get foreign currency?’

  ‘Getting the cash to Russia is dangerous.’ Cassellari shot me a disapproving glance. ‘Sooner or later there will be a leak and then whoof! That’s the end of it. Armed robbery is the norm there. Then there’s the danger of the bank going bust, or defrauding you… Add to that the incredible power the police have to wipe out crime, and specifically money-laundering, and you have a situation fraught with danger.’

  ‘The real winners will buy their own bank and set up a courier service from a sea port to the bank. It’s easy to send your currency on your own ships to Odessa. Two hundred thousand US dollars is sufficient to register and set up a bank in Moscow. Personally I would advise a partnership with a Russian national. I could do some research for you, find the right man for the job.’

  ‘Brave words, young lady. We’ll see if you succeed with our first joint attempt.’

  I caught my breath. Had I passed?

  ‘You must understand that the risks are high, Signor Cassellari. Half of your business undertaking consists of money-laundering. It’s just as important as earning the cash. I would expect a ten per cent cut. Double my normal rate.’

  Angelo’s foot stopped pressing mine as he anxiously scanned his father’s face.

  Cassellari burst out laughing. ‘You really are an ambitious young woman, Naomi.’ He used my first name unexpectedly. ‘I’ll discuss terms with you tomorrow.’

  As I gazed into his implacable eyes, I felt a tremor of anxiety. Outsmarting Cassellari would lead to early annihilation. I would hand everything over to Borovoi at my first opportunity, but meantime use the project to probe his connection with Wolf.

  Cassellari’s hand reached out and squeezed mine. After a short pause, I squeezed back. He gave me a look in which admiration and suspicion were equally matched. I felt only the latter as I beamed back at him.

  *

  By the time I arrived for breakfast, Borovoi had left. I felt relieved enough to swim and play tennis with Angelo, which kept him at a safe distance. The rest of the weekend was spent discussing strategy and terms with Cassellari and de Sica. We finally agreed that I would test my ideas by ferrying ten million dollars from Odessa to Moscow, depositing the cash in a suitable free-enterprise Moscow bank.

  On behalf of Cassellari, I would begin negotiations to purchase a licence to set up a bank, or otherwise find a suitable partner for him. He and his advisers would follow when the legwork was done. If I succeeded I would receive five per cent of the final deposit. The air was potent with menace as they warned me against failure.

  I flew back to Monaco, feeling satisfied that I was moving towards my goal at last. I had time to kill, something I liked to avoid for my thoughts went back to Nicky and the last time I had seen him, looking so excited about the trip to the airport and his coming birthday party. ‘Mummy’s on the way, Nicky,’ I whispered. ‘God willing, I’ll find you somewhere in Russia.’

  Chapter 56

  On my first evening in Odessa I explored the beautiful old city, much of which had been built in Venetian times. As I stood on the famous Potemkin steps, looking down on the harbour crowded with ships of all nations, I wondered if Nicky lived somewhere in the Ukraine. I was thrilled to think that I might be in the same country as my son, but also frustrated that I did not know where to start looking.

  Soon I began to worry that I might miss the call while I w'as sightseeing, so I returned to my hotel room, determined to stay there. I sat there for days, until eventually I began to have trouble sleeping. I would calculate the odds of ever finding Nicky. Around dawn, I would be exhausted enough to take a brief nap and then the whole sorry routine would start again. I had my food sent up, and I spent my days hugging the television set. My only relief from gloom was plugging the modem of my lap-top into the telephone and sending my nightly report to Father and reading his latest letter to me.

  On the sixth morning, I woke with a start to hear the telephone ringing in a strange, high-pitched tone. Where was I? After a split second of panic I remembered and groped for the receiver.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Naomi Hunter?’ It was a woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The address you want is sixteen Petrovka Street. Ask for Mikhail Voy-na-Kry-na. Come at once, please.’

  The name sounded more Slav than Russian. I wanted to ask her how to spell it, but an impersonal click terminated the conversation. I wrote it down phonetically, hoping I had remembered the sounds correctly.

  At last! But why had it come on a Saturday? The implications made me feel uneasy for it meant that I had to guard the dollars until Monday when I could get them to the bank. But at least I could swing into action.

  It was a lovely August morning, still cool, with a white mist drifting over the sea. Dressed in holiday gear, jeans, a T-shirt and sandals, I emerged from the hotel and called a taxi. It was sheer heaven to get out of my room and drive through the city. I decided that to arrive luggageless in a taxi at a dockside location and then to leave shortly afterwards carrying two heavy suitcases would be to invite the susp
icions of the driver, so I paid off the driver a block away.

  I hurried along the shabby Petrovka Street adjoining the dockside until I found number sixteen, a dingy basement apartment. A man hovered in the doorway. He was stocky and weathered, with cunning blue eyes, fleshy lips and straw-like hair.

  ‘I am Mikhail. Come in, come in.’ He pulled me through the doorway by one arm and gazed nervously up and down the road before shutting the door. Then he shook hands solemnly. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Naomi Hunter.’

  ‘Welcome, Miss Hunter. We must be quick.’

  A nervous, swarthy woman, whom I took to be his wife, hovered behind him, watching contemptuously as he handed me two British-made, scuffed and much-labelled suitcases. I insisted on inspecting the contents, and only closed the suitcases when I had assured myself that the hundred-dollar notes amounted to five million dollars per suitcase.

  ‘Okay, that’s fine. Well done. Would you please call me a taxi, Mikhail?’

  ‘There is no telephone here.’

  ‘What about your neighbours?’

  He shook his head. ‘My job is finished. Now it is your turn.’ Unbelievably, he walked out of the room, leaving me with his wife.

  ‘Madame, where is the nearest telephone?’

  She scowled. ‘No English.’ That was a lie. She had spoken to me on the telephone, I recognized her voice.

  She opened the door and slammed it behind me, clearly glad to get rid of me.

  I felt nervous as I set off towards the nearest bus stop. I had heard that armed gangs patrolled the streets demanding protection money so that taxi drivers were never without a spare carton of cigarettes, a bottle of vodka or a few dollars to pay off their ‘protectors’.

  There was no sign of a taxi or a bus stop. It was past eleven, the August sun was reaching its zenith and I was sweating profusely as I climbed a steep, cobbled road towards the city. I had just stopped for a rest when a police car drew up beside me.