“She’s armed,” I said. “She’s my bodyguard. She can come in or stay in the hall, but she’s not giving up her weapon.”
Mr. Sumo looked at Sanchez, the only other person present. The reporter was sitting in one of the room’s four booths and had overheard the exchange. I was relieved when he said, “Mr. Geller, Ms. Layton, welcome.” He waved us to his booth.
Mr. Sumo reverted to rest mode, but I never saw him take his eyes off the door.
David Sanchez was a small, compact man with slick black hair, and very telegenic. He wore a nice tan, tropical suit, and open shirt with a crisp collar.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said. We shook hands and sat down.
Sanchez apologized to Sherri. “I’m sorry I interrogated you on the phone. Some very bad people don’t like my reporting on their corruption. They would love to have a private chat with me. I had to check you out.” He looked at me and added, “And you, too, Mr. Geller.” Sanchez smiled. “Anyone fired from the CIA for criticizing Walldrum can’t be all bad … and your trip to Russia …” His voice trailed off. He shook his head and gave us an admiring smile. “How can I help you?”
I showed him Bowen’s picture and business card. “Do you know this guy?”
“Wild Bill Bowen, cowboy boots and all, I know him.” There was distaste in Sanchez’s tone. “He’s the resident fixer and bagman for one of Panama’s less reputable law firms, Talcott, Ilyich. They help the rich—especially the unsavory rich—hide their money from tax collectors.”
“Does his law firm do much business with Russians?”
“Definitely.”
“Is there a connection between the Panama Walldrum Tower and Talcott, Ilyich?”
“What are you really after, Mr. Geller?”
“Information on Ted Walldrum’s business activities in Panama, specifically the construction of the Panama Walldrum Tower.”
“Tell me what you already know.”
“A source told me that millions of dollars were skimmed from the Tower’s construction loan and shipped offshore. If that much was really skimmed, Walldrum wouldn’t have had enough money left to complete the Tower. I want to know if he skimmed it, how he did it, and how much.”
“I hadn’t heard about the skimming, but I’m not surprised. This is Panama,” Sanchez reminded us, where corruption was routine. He continued, “As far as I know, Walldrum’s firm paid the usual bribes to the usual politicians and labor leaders, and completed his building on schedule.”
Sherri asked, “If our source was accurate, could Walldrum have gotten a loan to replace money skimmed from the original construction loan?”
“Do you know approximately how much was skimmed?”
“North of a hundred and fifty million dollars, according to our sources.”
Sanchez shook his head. “To get a loan that size, Walldrum would have had to justify a second mortgage and give the lender a lien on his building. I found just one lien, held by the Allgemeine Volksbank, the bank that issued the original construction loan for Walldrum’s building.”
Sanchez continued, “Anyway, why would Walldrum steal money and take out a loan to replace it? He would incur another debt, with interest. It doesn’t make financial sense. That would also create a paper trail for investigators like me to follow.”
He gave it more thought. “The only reason you would do something like that is if you were going to take the skim and run to a hideaway on the far side of the world. The only thing Walldrum ran for was President of the United States.”
The second mortgage sounded like a dead end. If money had been skimmed, there had to be another angle.
Sherri interrupted my thoughts with a question to Sanchez. “Did you uncover anything out of the ordinary about financial management at the Walldrum Tower?”
“I did. Walldrum admits his firm sold a lot of condos to Russians, all over the world, in fact. I looked into who was buying his condos in Panama and if there was a whiff of money laundering. I couldn’t find laundering, but I did find odd patterns.”
“Such as … ?” I asked.
“First, because people are superstitious, high-rise builders tend to skip thirteen when they number their floors. The numbering sequence usually skips from twelve to fourteen. Savvy builders have one set of elevators that go from the lobby to the twelfth floor and another set of elevators that go from the lobby directly to the fourteenth floor and above.”
“But not the Panama Walldrum high-rise,” I guessed.
“Right. Evidently, Russians aren’t superstitious. They bought all of the condos on the thirteenth floor in the Panama Walldrum Tower, and it was the first floor to sell out.
“The second odd thing is the Russians bought the entire thirteenth floor before construction began and didn’t get a discount. Normally, buyers get a discount if they buy in early and another discount if they buy on a less desirable floor—like floor thirteen.”
“You’re sure all the buyers were Russian?” asked Sherri.
“They tried to hide their identies behind LLCs—limited liability corporations—but they were sloppy. They’re Russians, take my word. Talcott, Ilyich established many of the LLCs the Russians used to purchase condos in the Walldrum Tower.”
I felt we were on to something. “What else can you tell us about the condos?”
“The majority of Russians who hid behind LLCs bought condos on the thirteenth floor or higher. They bought out entire floors and none of the condos on the all-Russian floors participate in the rental program. That’s odd for a condo-hotel. One of the selling points is that owners get a return on the investment by putting their condos up for rent when they’re away.”
“What if the condo is the owner’s permanent home?” Sherri wanted to know.
“That’s the catch. The purchase contract doesn’t allow owners to live in their condos year-round.”
I was puzzled. “How does a condo-hotel make money if it can’t rent condos?”
“My question, exactly,” replied Sanchez. “I cultivated an informant on the hotel staff. He told me the hotel only rents condos on floors one through twelve and on the penthouse floors, even when they have a waiting list.
“I tried to get access to the Russian-owned floors, but that proved to be impossible. Security is tight.”
“How tight?” Sherri, our security expert, wanted to know.
“Very. The security contract for the building is held by a Russian firm with mob connections. Security is divided into two divisions. Division 1 consist mainly of locals who provide security for those floors of the hotel where the owners allow their condos to be rented, basically the first twelve floors and some of the penthouse floors.
“The staff for Division 2 is exclusively Russian. They provide security for the grounds and the all-Russian floors. The Division 2 security force, the condo owners, and the hotel manager are the only ones with access keys to the Russian-only floors.
“Owners, renters, and registered guests on floors one through twelve have an elevator key that limits their access to those floors. For those same categories on the penthouse floors, their access is limited to the floor on which they’re staying. They don’t have access to floors above or below. Fire doors have a lockout system that prevents guests from gaining entry to other floors by walking up or down stairs, except in emergencies.
“I asked my informant to try for a look at the non-renting, Russian-only floors. One day, he texted me: ‘I know why Russians don’t rent their condos. You need to see it. Talk later.’ On his way home that night, he was robbed and killed. Do you believe in coincidences, Mr. Geller?”
“Do you, Mr. Sanchez?”
Neither of us did.
Finally, I thought we were on to something. I told Sanchez, “I need to see those floors where they don’t rent the condos.”
Sherri wanted to know, “What’s their perimeter security like?”
Sanchez shook his head. “You don’t want to go that way. My informant told me that perimete
r security is tight: cameras, infrared imaging, silent alarms, the complete package. Overkill for a hotel, but it’s there.”
I asked Sanchez, “How would you go about getting a look at those Russian-only floors?”
“I’ve thought a lot about that since my source was killed. I’d do it from the inside. Rent a condo on the twelfth floor and find a way to go up, or rent a penthouse condo and find a way down.”
We called a cab and left David Sanchez with our thanks and the promise of an exclusive.
* * *
I had a lot on my mind as we rode back to the hotel. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Jill caught on that I wasn’t coming to Mexico City. She would guess I was either dead or in Panama, and she’d head for Panama. Her game was still a mystery to me, but whatever Jill was up to, I wanted to see Walldrum’s all-Russian condo floors before she arrived. And there was the Russian hood, who had tried to kidnap me in London. Was he still after me? If so, what did he want? Would he come to Panama to get it?
However, I couldn’t let those concerns distract me from my ten-million-dollar mission. Back at our hotel, Sherri called the Walldrum Tower and got us a twelfth-floor condo rental, beginning that night.
“We’re arriving on a late flight,” she told the reservation clerk.
To execute our assault on the Walldrum Tower, we needed a plan. The ever-resourceful Tony-D had begun planning before I arrived in Panama. He had employed his architectural chops and a serious bribe to get us the building’s blueprints. Back in my bungalow, we went over them and Tony-D quickly reached the same conclusion as the reporter, David Sanchez: “This building is tight. The only way to get from the twelfth floor to the thirteenth floor is up the elevator shaft. We climb up the shaft and jimmy the elevator doors open.”
I asked, “What if the doors are alarmed?”
“They might be,” Tony-D admitted. “I’ll check the doors to see if they’re wired. If they are, I’ll try to run a bypass.”
“What if there’s an alarm and we can’t bypass it?” asked Sherri.
Tony-D suggested, “Let it ring. Security will think it’s a short circuit. We go to one of the condos, pick the lock, and hide in a closet. It would take them all night to search every room on the floor. They’ll check a few condos, give up, and reset the alarm.”
“What if the condos have alarms?” I was playing devil’s advocate.
“We pick the locks on as many as we can and let security think the electronics have gone whacko.”
“That’s not a very sophisticated plan, Tony.”
“Maybe you should dismiss me and bring in the ‘mission impossible’ team.”
“Go to hell.”
Tony-D smiled. “I’ll be happy to, as long as I’m properly compensated for the trip.”
We weren’t going anywhere unless we had the proper equipment. Tony-D compiled a list of what we needed. I called David Sanchez and asked him to find a willing supplier for us—at a generous premium over retail. Our equipment was delivered to the hotel two hours later.
We decided to keep our bungalows as emergency rendezvous positions, but we dressed like travelers, packed like burglars, and headed for the Panama Walldrum Tower.
It was 11 p.m. when we checked into our condo and swept it for bugs—audio and video. Finding none, Tony-D and I prepared our equipment for the climb up the elevator shaft. Then, all of us got some sleep.
We allowed for a security shift change at midnight and time for the incoming shift to make their first rounds. At 1:30 a.m., Sherri went down to the lobby on a pretext and brought one of the elevators up to the twelfth floor. Tony-D and I climbed through the roof panel, replaced it, and shinnied up the cables to floor thirteen.
Sherri stayed in the condo, our base of operations. She kept in touch with Tony-D by radio and followed our progress on two screens receiving feed from our body cameras. If we got into serious trouble, Sherri’s job was to pull a fire alarm, creating enough chaos for us to escape.
Suspended in a safety rig, Tony-D examined the shaft side of the elevator doors and found no alarms. I jimmied the doors open and we entered the dark hallway of the mysterious thirteenth floor. We turned on our flashlights. The hall stretched to infinity both ways from the elevator. It was a mirror image of the twelfth floor: crystal chandeliers, textured wallpaper, generous molding, and carpet thick enough for a wild boar hunt.
Tony-D said, “This is top quality material.”
“Let’s look inside the condos,” I whispered.
We turned our flashlights off in case we stumbled into an occupied residence. I picked the lock of the nearest condo door and waited for an alarm to announce us. Nothing. I pushed the door open a bit. No “beep-beep-beep,” telling me to enter the security code into the key pad. We stepped inside. I didn’t feel carpet under my feet.
The windows were blacked out, but even in the dark the condo gave off an empty feel. I flicked on my flashlight and examined the room.
Tony-D whispered, “What the hell?” and turned on his flashlight.
I said, “Let’s check the rest of the rooms.”
We went through the condo playing our flashlights over the floors and walls.
When we met back at the entrance, Tony-D suggested, “Let’s check next door.”
We did. The second condo was exactly like the first.
I told Tony-D, “We need to check more condos.”
He grunted. “We need to check another floor. You finish down here. I’ll go up to fourteen.” Tony-D disappeared into the elevator shaft through the propped-open doors.
None of the condo doors were alarmed. Moving quickly from one unit to another, I popped the locks, walked in, and took a quick look. It didn’t take long to see what I needed to know. Inside the thirteenth-floor condos, I saw no carpeting, no wallpaper, no crystal chandeliers, no molding, no appliance, no furniture. They were empty, concrete boxes with electrical cables dangling from the walls and ceilings. Some crook with a sense of humor had left yellow signs in the foyer of each condo: “Under renovation.”
That explained how Walldrum could skim millions from the construction budget. He left whole floors unfinished. Although the Russians paid millions for those empty, concrete boxes, Walldrum wasn’t scamming them. That’s how he laundered their money.
“Hold it right there.” The command came in Spanish from behind me. “Put your hands up and turn around slowly.” Another voice repeated the commands in English.
I thought of dropping the flashlight and diving for a dark corner, but the guards had flashlights on me and I was unarmed. When I turned, they were momentarily caught in the beam of my flashlight. These guys looked more like a Russian version of Seal Team Six than security guards: combat load-bearing vests, fingerless black gloves, black fatigues, and boots. One had a Heckler and Koch submachine gun, the other had a pistol. Both weapons had flashlight attachments and the beams were on me.
A thick Russian accent demanded, “What the fuck are you doing up here?”
I responded in Russian. “Looking for a condo.”
Something came out of the darkness and hit my head, knocking me flat on my back.
The guard behind the Heckler and Koch ordered, “Search him.”
The searcher said, “On your knees. Hands behind your head.”
He gave me a quick pat-down, but missed my body cam. He found my condo key. “Registered guest,” he announced, surprised. “Condo 1202.”
He tossed my cell phone on the floor and rummaged through my wallet. “Oleg Stasevich from St. Petersburg.” That announcement was followed by a derisive grunt.
Beneath my undershirt, I wore a leather wallet secured around my neck with a rawhide string. The guard ripped it off me.
“What’s this?” He holstered his pistol and held the wallet under my nose. In the glare of his partner’s flashlight, he pulled it open and took out Viktor Lukovsky’s envelope with the double eagle, red wax seal.
“Look.” He showed his partner. I got a glimpse o
f the tattoo Viktor told me about.
“Where did you get this?” asked the guard with the Heckler and Koch.
“My boss gave it to me. Use my phone to call him collect if you have questions. His number’s there with the tattoo. He calls me Ricky.”
In spite of the flashlight’s glare, I saw silhouettes of the guards turn toward each other. The one with the Heckler and Koch handed over his weapon to the other guard. “Keep him covered. I’ll make the call.” He took my phone and went into the hall.
I heard one side of a muffled Russian conversation drift in from the corridor. The guard came back inside and handed me the phone. “Your boss wants to talk to you.”
I turned the speaker off and said, “Da?”
Viktor Lukovsky growled, “Am I on speaker?”
“Nyet.” I continued in Russian for the guards. Viktor spoke English.
“What the fuck are you doing in Panama?”
“Looking for a condo.”
“Good. I told him you were scouting condos for me. Stick with that story.”
“I’ll take care of it right away. Any other instructions?”
“He said you’re staying in the Tower. Go to your room, pack your suitcase, and jump out the fucking window, if you have to, but don’t be there when the sun comes up.” There was concern in Viktor’s voice. He added, “You haven’t heard the last of this. That guy’s going to report you to his boss. When he does, people may want you to explain yourself to their power tools. So, get out of there, now! I mean out of Panama!”
He continued to grumble. “Even if you get away, I may have to spend a few million on one of those worthless condos to save your ass … and mine.”
The President’s Dossier Page 22