The Colours: A spy thriller packed with intrigue and deception

by T. M. Parris

  “Oh, excuse me. I have a message to deliver to one of your guests.” She placed the envelope down. “Mr John Fairchild. I believe he’s staying here.”

  The manager’s eyes rested on the name, written on the envelope, for slightly too long before she looked at Rose again.

  “I can check to see if we have a guest of that name staying here.”

  Three taps on the keyboard.

  “I’m afraid not. This is not one of our guests. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I’m sure he is intending to stay here. I don’t suppose – if he does check in – you could let him know that Rose Clarke left a message for him?”

  “Rose Clarke?” she repeated.

  Rose got out a business card with her contact details on it. “Yes. Just in case, you understand.”

  The woman took the card and the envelope, saying nothing.

  “Thanks.” Rose walked away.

  She’d heard all kinds of rumours and second-hand reports about John Fairchild’s global network and the reach it gave him. Within a few days she would find out if any of them were true.

  Chapter 7

  The Trade Winds Cafe in Los Angeles was one of Fairchild’s more recent acquisitions. Or rather, it was an acquisition approved by him as controlling shareholder but proposed by his very capable manager, a Filipino woman by the name of Carmel. When Fairchild bought the Trade Winds chain a few years ago, Carmel was a mere assistant manager in the Manila outlet, but he soon put her in a role more suited to her skills. Trade Winds then was a pretty successful chain across eastern Asia, but it had become more global since. This was to Fairchild’s advantage, but not Zack’s, who didn’t hide that he thought the places were overpriced and over-rated.

  “A lot like you, Fairchild,” he said grumpily after his usual rant about the menu. They were sitting at the bar, each with a nautically-themed cocktail in front of them. “Not exactly a great result. Our agent was dead by the time we got to him. But they took their time over it. He was alive for several days. Seems they had a doctor standing by to make sure of it.”

  “Nice.” Fairchild sucked on his straw.

  “And Quesada is nowhere. Disappeared into the blue. Took off from that secret runway and never came down again.”

  “There are dozens of places he could be.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that.”

  “Well, it’s true, Zack. You had an opportunity to nail him and it went wrong, probably because someone in the local police has been terrorised into informing for him. If any of us had known about the airfield we’d have planned things differently. But if you didn’t know about that one, how many others could there be?”

  “Yeah, believe me, I’ve made that point to my superiors.”

  Who exactly Zack’s superiors were was something of a mystery, but they were pretty high up inside the CIA or some military intelligence outfit, and that was all Fairchild felt he needed to know. As long as the guy paid up, it didn’t matter to him.

  Zack sat back and stared around the place, his trademark mirrored shades not hiding the disapproving look on his face.

  “You ever thought of ditching all this junk and just running a bar?” he asked, looking at the fake paintings of sailboats, the plywood tea chests, the vaguely Asian-looking ceramics in every corner.

  “It’s the theme, Zack. Trade routes, adventurers, east meets west and all that. It’s quite a successful chain, you know. One of my more profitable investments.”

  “Yeah, well, good for you.”

  Maybe bragging about his business ventures wasn’t especially tactful in the circumstances.

  “I’m sorry about your man,” Fairchild said. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. The worst possible outcome of an undercover exercise gone wrong.” Fairchild had almost been there himself often enough to know. “At least you found the pot farm. That’s a few million less profit in the wrong hands, maybe a few thousand lives not ruined by drugs on the streets.”

  “You think? Hell, this guy will just move production somewhere else. He’s got people everywhere. The stuff just keeps coming. Doesn’t matter where the guy is hiding out. He can do everything through intermediaries. His name is on nothing. He’s got chains of operations, shell companies run by trusts run by nominees, yadi ya. All over Mexico, Colombia, the Caribbean, the world. No one knows what anyone else is doing. They can all claim they didn’t know what they were a part of. He even ran it all from prison for years.”

  “You need to get into his business affairs. Track down his money. Get hold of his assets and squeeze them dry.”

  “Good idea! Not so easy to do with all these offshore jurisdictions setting up sham companies then refusing to cooperate with law enforcement about who really owns them.”

  “You mean like Delaware? Isn’t Delaware one of the biggest centres in the world for setting up anonymous companies?”

  “No, I don’t mean Delaware, I mean Panama, Cayman Islands, the Bahamas, places like that.”

  “Places like the Seychelles? Though didn’t the CIA block investigations there? Almost like you have secrets of your own.”

  “Hey, the reason why the CIA needs anonymity is to nail all those other anonymous creeps. Like the ones selling drugs and recruiting terrorists. And the latter gets more attention than the former. Meaning Quesada has probably gotten away with it because he isn’t high enough priority to pursue.”

  “Why is this your area anyway, Zack? You’re not DEA.”

  “That agent was on loan from the CIA. I knew him. Former marine. Makes it personal.”

  “Fair enough. But to be honest, Zack, the USA has been losing the war on drugs for decades.”

  “Tell me about it. But this Quesada guy isn’t someone I’m going to forget about any time soon. He may be in the wind now but I’ll find him some day. I’m happy to bear a grudge. Don’t tell me you don’t sympathise with that, Fairchild.”

  Being the closest thing Fairchild had to a best friend, Zack knew all about Fairchild’s discovery of the existence of Gregory Sutherland, otherwise known as Grom, who had Fairchild’s parents killed thirty years ago. Finding this out ended Fairchild’s decades-long search for the truth about what had happened to his parents. The truth ought to bring closure, so Fairchild had expected all this time, but somehow it seemed only to lead on to other things.

  “Yes. But don’t hold your breath for a quick result. I’ve been chasing down Sutherland for six months and haven’t seen or heard anything. I expect he’ll come looking for me at some point.”

  “To kill you? Glad you can be so cool about it.”

  “That’s why I’d prefer to find him first. But he’s hardly the only one, is he? Quite a lot of people wouldn’t mind that, including Quesada now.”

  “Why? You got away, didn’t you?”

  “Only just.”

  “Only just is where you live, Fairchild. Come on, you love this stuff. Admit it.”

  Fairchild wasn’t so sure. Even to a friend like Zack he hadn’t confessed how much he’d thought about packing in the intelligence game and doing something normal. Those thoughts piled in on him more and more often, ever since he first met Rose Clarke, in fact. Soon after that he realised that she was, basically, all he wanted in life, despite this complicated edifice of businesses and private informants he’d set up across the world. Unfortunately, Rose Clarke wasn’t interested in him – didn’t even like him that much – and was much more motivated by her career in MI6. He couldn’t blame her for that. He should really stop thinking about her so often.

  “Well,” said Zack, after sucking up the remains of his rum cocktail, “Now I have to go lobby for more money to pursue this guy. Your last invoice practically cleaned out the US Treasury. Want to keep on Quesada’s tail?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? You got some other plans?”

  “I just like to keep my options open. I don’t work full time for the US government, Zack.”

  “Okay, okay! Go spend your money! Go sailing! Relax
on a beach for a while! Get laid! That’s what I’d do, if I didn’t have to go and explain myself to someone in Washington.”

  “Sure.”

  “Or,” said Zack, reading his long-time friend with some accuracy, “carry on searching for this Grom guy even though you’ve done that for six months and not found a trace, and are pretty sure he wants to kill you. Do you actually know that he’s still alive, by the way?”

  “I guess not.”

  Zack was looking at him carefully. At least he probably was, but it was hard to tell with the shades.

  “Does any of this searching involve that British intelligence officer who keeps showing up wherever you happen to be?”

  Fairchild tried to sound casual.

  “Keeps showing up? Hardly.”

  “Really? Hong Kong? Beijing? Tibet? Then Moscow all of a sudden?”

  “They were assignments. She was doing her job.”

  “And it had nothing to do with you? She’s bad news, Fairchild.”

  Zack made no secret of the fact that he had very little time for Rose Clarke. What Zack didn’t know was how damaging Fairchild’s involvement in Rose’s life had been for her. It was because Grom had learned of Fairchild’s feelings for Rose that the man had tricked her into getting caught in the middle of a particularly horrific siege, part of Russia’s recent abortive invasion of Georgia. Very few people, possibly nobody except Fairchild himself, who was there, really understood how affected she’d been by it. So no way was he going to drag Rose Clarke into anything relating to Grom. Or indeed anything at all. She was much better off without him.

  “Whatever, Zack,” he said. “If you get clearance to go after Quesada, let me know what you need and I’ll think about it.”

  “Oh, you’ll think about it, great. Listen, Fairchild, I want you on this. I want that bastard Quesada for what he did. Will you take it on? For an old friend? I mean, assuming nothing better comes along, that is.”

  It was gratifying when the CIA begged you for your time. Fairchild was about to say something reassuring when his phone rang. He looked at the display. It was an international call from the Hotel Negresco, Nice, France.

  Chapter 8

  M. Bernard had clients. No, these people were more important than clients. They were potential clients. Mr and Mrs Howard, from Iowa. Zoe showed them in, gave them her friendliest smile, sat them down at the big polished table in M. Bernard’s office, and brought them coffee.

  “Of course it’s not just about the tax benefits,” M. Bernard was saying as she set out the espresso cups. “Monaco offers fantastic quality of life. It’s a beautiful place, yes?”

  “Oh, yes!” The Howards nodded enthusiastically.

  “The mountains, the port, the coast, France and Italy right here. Very good infrastructure, healthcare, transport links. Of course there’s the food, too much temptation sometimes!”

  He smiled and patted his stomach. The Howards nodded along and chuckled, though it was only ever a half-smile with M. Bernard.

  “Zoe, can you stay for this?”

  Zoe stowed the coffee tray and got out her notebook so her boss could fire off instructions. This was where her languages came in useful – fluent English as well as Italian. Not that she’d be doing much of the talking.

  “So, you’re yet to fully explore the option of residency?”

  “Oh, that’s right!” said Mrs Howard. “Actually, we’re on vacation! We’re on a cruise, aren’t we, Hector, and just love the place so much we started thinking about retirement. We’ve always loved France!”

  “And Monaco,” corrected Hector. “So we’re not at all prepared, you see. We just walked in.”

  Who walks into a bank when they’re on vacation? Well, maybe in Monaco. M. Bernard nodded gravely.

  “Well, one of the criteria for Monaco residency is to demonstrate liquid assets of at least five hundred thousand Euros.”

  He didn’t want to waste time with tourists. But Mr Howard gave a quick nod.

  “That’s okay.”

  “In fact, our clients are generally wealthier than that. The cost of living here, it’s not insignificant. Thirty percent of the principality’s population are millionaires. It gives the place a certain feel, a certain – rarity.”

  The Howards nodded again. Mr. Bernard became a little more focused.

  “So, may I ask what kind of business you’re in back home?”

  “Vacuum cleaners!” Mr Howard sprang to attention. “Hector Howard Vacuums is the biggest retailer of vacuums in the Mid-West! ‘Let Hector clean your home!’ That’s on the billboards. It’s a household name, isn’t it, Pearl?”

  “Oh, yes! Forty years selling vacuums. Every home needs one! Always will, whatever happens.”

  “It’s all going online now,” said Hector. “Things have changed a lot. We got a buyout offer. It’s time to move on with our lives, isn’t it, Pearl? Cash in.”

  “That’s right. We’ve worked hard, and we deserve it.”

  “I see,” said M. Bernard. “So you might have a substantial lump sum to invest?”

  “No ‘might’ about it! That’s our life’s work, we built it up from scratch,” said Hector.

  “So we’ll definitely be joining your thirty percent here,” confirmed Pearl.

  They all laughed. That was what M. Bernard needed to hear.

  “Well, in that case, I’d suggest that Monaco offers some strong advantages over our neighbours, including zero income tax for residents, as you may know.”

  “Yeah, we heard something about that.” Hector had done a bit more research than he was letting on.

  “And as a bank which is specialised in wealth management services to foreign residents, we can offer you plenty of guidance in terms of investing your money efficiently. That might be – interesting?”

  “It might be, don’t you think, Pearl?”

  Pearl agreed.

  “Well, first, we can assist with a residency application itself. There are some forms, of course, you know how it is, and you need an address here in the principality.”

  “An address?” asked Pearl. “So we have to live here all the time? Not that we don’t love it, but – we want to do some travelling, don’t we?”

  Hector agreed.

  “Well, the rules state that to retain your residency you have to spend three months in every twelve here in Monaco,” said M. Bernard. “But – as you’ve seen, we have no border checks! So nobody can really know whether people are here or not. We come and go as we please. It’s how it is here.”

  They seemed happy with that. Well, thought Zoe, living in a luxury flat in Monaco for more than three months out of twelve could be pretty burdensome.

  “Then, of course, you’ll need a Monaco bank account for your personal use,” said M. Bernard. “Now, if you have funds that are surplus to your everyday needs, we can help you to manage that, and transfer the funds you require into your ordinary account as part of our seamless client service.”

  “When you say ‘manage’,” said Hector, “what do you mean by that?”

  “There are plenty of options open to you, but one might be to consider placing it offshore. That would put it beyond any domain that demands a tax contribution.”

  “That would sure be useful, Hector,” said Pearl. “I really don’t see why we should give up so much of our money to the government, do you? I mean, it was us who earned it.”

  “Indeed,” agreed M. Bernard. “And if you value privacy, these things can be set up in a way which distances you. If you wanted to – be discreet about what you were worth.”

  “We’d certainly like to keep our personal business that way,” said Hector. “When people find out what you got, they all seem to want a slice. Family, friends—”

  “Ex-wives,” said Pearl. Howard gave her a sharp look.

  “A common problem, I’m afraid.” M. Bernard was full of sympathy for the plight of the super-rich. “I should explain that Monaco is not in itself an offshore jurisdiction,
but many residents live here on a tax-free basis. And there’s no bar on setting up a foreign offshore company in a location such as Panama, or the Seychelles or the British Virgin Islands, and managing it through a fully authorised company here in Monaco. There would be no corporation tax.” The Howards were following every word. “We have no concept of ‘mind and management’, the idea that tax should be paid in the domain where the decisions are made. We have no double taxation agreements, no central registry of foreign offshore companies, and a banking system which is totally confidential. There is little to engage the nosey bureaucrat here.”

  “That’s interesting, isn’t it, Pearl?” said Hector.

  M. Bernard ploughed on. “And if privacy is important to you, I would recommend setting up these corporations with nominees as officers. That way, your name won’t appear on any public record of the company, regardless of jurisdiction. The association between yourself and the company will remain private. For even more discretion, you could choose the option of bearer shares. That means that no name appears on the shares, and the only record of ownership is on a register in the company’s domain which can be kept confidential. The shares would be stored in the vault here, to avoid anybody – finding them.”

  Finding out about them, was what he meant. Hector had a question.

  “These nominees? Who are they, exactly?”

  “They can be whoever you want, but the most straightforward approach is to use members of my staff here at the bank. That way, when you require any changes made, we’ll be able to action them straight away without having to pass on instructions to a third party.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” said Hector. “If I put all my money into an account that’s in your name, aren’t I just handing you all my money? I’m not sure I like that. I’m old-fashioned about these things, aren’t I, Pearl?”

  “You sure are, honey.”

  “Of course,” said M. Bernard. Zoe had heard this conversation a hundred times. “You must be absolutely sure you’re in control. So, we would draw up a management agreement which details exactly what powers you want to give us and what you want to retain for yourself. We would be able to convene company meetings and sign legal agreements, but only under your instructions. You have just as much control as you would as named directors or shareholders. But the instrument of control is a contract agreed between us, which remains confidential.”