Big Mango (9786167611037) (8 page)

“You mean, what would I do if I actually knew
where the $400,000,000 was?”

Wuntz shrugged. “Okay, we’ll play it your
way.”

“I’d grab as much as I could carry and find a
nice warm beach in a country without any extradition treaties.”

“Exactly.” Wuntz steepled his fingers, pursed
his lips and tried to look professorial. “You’d run, Eddie. You’d
run straight to the money.”

“Give me a break, Wuntz. Even if I did know
where the money was, it sure as hell wouldn’t be buried in a box in
my backyard. We’re talking about maybe ten tons of gold and
currency. It’d be in bank accounts, invested in stocks, bonds, and
real estate. Stuff like that.”

Wuntz looked unimpressed. “Doesn’t make any
difference. The principle’s the same.”

He held up his open hand when Eddie started
to interrupt.

“If you feel threatened enough, you’ll check
the money to be sure it’s safe, whatever form it’s in. That’s human
nature.”

“And of course if I did that—”

“You got it now,” Wuntz nodded vigorously.
“Whoever is sending you these photographs would be right behind
you. He’s probably got people watching you.”

Winnebago glanced around quickly and rubbed
at the side of his face. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Maybe he even has a way of checking your
bank accounts, seeing if you move money from one account to
another, shit like that,” Wuntz went on. “He’s probably all over
your ass right now and you don’t even know it.”

“You think that’s it, huh? You think that’s
what the pictures are all about?” Eddie mused.

Wuntz clicked his tongue against the roof of
his mouth a couple of times. “That’s sure as shit the way I’d get
to you. More effective than torture. Neater, too.”

The more Eddie thought about Wuntz’s theory,
the more sense it made; and the more sense it made, the better he
felt.

If Wuntz was right, all he really had to do
was sit tight and this would all eventually go away. When he didn’t
do anything out of the ordinary, whoever was behind the pictures
would get sick of watching a garden-variety San Francisco lawyer go
about his daily business, realize that Eddie didn’t know anything
about the money, and give up.

And what could the Secret Service do to him?
After all, he didn’t know anything about Operation Voltaire and he
couldn’t tell them where the money was no matter how many times
they asked him. After a while they would have to give up, too.

Yeah, Eddie decided, Wuntz was giving him
good advice. All he had to do was keep his nose clean, go about his
business, and in a few weeks this would all turn into nothing but a
story he would someday tell some woman when he was trying to make
his life sound interesting to her. Wuntz was a pretty savvy
guy.

Eddie kept thinking that for a long time
after they left Washington Square that night and went their
separate ways. In fact, he kept thinking that all through the rest
of the weekend and all the way up until he walked into his office
on Monday morning and saw the look on Joshua’s face.

Joshua held Eddie’s eyes while he tilted his
head slowly in the direction of the inner office’s closed door and
pursed his lips into a long, silent whistle.

‘Secret Service?’ Eddie mouthed.

Joshua replied by shaking his head and
allowing his eyebrows to begin a slow migration toward the ceiling.
All in a flash, Eddie saw something as clearly as he had ever seen
anything in his entire life.

Kelly Wuntz was about to turn out to be one
really dumb son of a bitch after all.

“MR.
Rupert, he said his
name was,” Joshua stage whispered. “Marinus Rupert.”

“And you believed that?”

“No, but what do I care? How about that
Chinese guy last week who insisted we call him O.J. Simpson?”

“Do we at least know what this Mr. Marinus
wants?” Eddie asked with a hint of irritation.

“Mr. Rupert. Marinus is his first name.”

“As long as he remembers. What does he
want?”

Joshua gave Eddie a tired look and went back
to typing, so he took a deep breath and opened the door to his
office.

The man turned out to be not at all what
Eddie had expected, although when he thought about it later, he
realized he wasn’t sure
what
he had expected.

Marinus Rupert could have passed for fifty,
but Eddie guessed he was probably a lot older. He was a handsome
man, trim and well dressed with a patrician face that made Eddie
think of Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr. as he had looked in the sixties.
The man certainly didn’t strike Eddie as the kind who went around
using a phony name. Maybe his name really was Marinus Rupert. Poor
bastard.

“Thank you for seeing me without an
appointment, Mr. Dare.”

Eddie offered his hand. “No problem.”

The man’s voice was deep and smooth and had
authority to it. His accent tagged him as English, but he could
just as well have been a colonial of some kind.

As they made small talk, Eddie looked Rupert
over carefully. More than anything else, he looked rich: a suit
that was obviously custom tailored; small gold links glinting
against the cuffs of his snow-white shirt; a wristwatch so
exclusive that Eddie couldn’t immediately identify the make; and
expensively barbered dark hair, graying in perfect symmetry at both
temples.

“So what can I do for you, Mr. Rupert?” Eddie
asked when he got bored with sizing the man up.

“I’m sure you realize Rupert isn’t my real
name, Mr. Dare, and I know you realize it or I wouldn’t be here.”
The man looked mildly amused. “Nevertheless, why don’t we just
continue to use it for a while. Just between us.”

That was interesting, Eddie thought.

“Okay,” he said. “And you can use the name
Eddie Dare for me since that actually is my name.”

The man smiled broadly as if he found Eddie’s
response delightfully witty.

“No, actually it’s not, sport. Rupert Edward
Dare is your real name. Eddie is just the charmingly American
diminutive you began using when you became a voice for the criminal
classes. I’m sure your usual clientele likes it, but then I’m not
your usual clientele, am I?”

“I see,” Eddie said, but of course he didn’t
see anything.

“That’s why I selected Rupert as my surname
for this meeting. I thought it might amuse you.”

“I’m amused all to hell. What about the
Marinus part?’

“That was my mother’s maiden name.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not.”

The man smiled again, an automatic-looking
flicker of the corners of his mouth, and then briskly changed the
subject.

“I know quite a lot about you, Mr. Dare.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about you.”

“And you won’t. Not unless I want you to. Not
a thing.”

Eddie looked at the man and waited for him to
continue, but he seemed in no hurry. He just sat and flicked his
smile on and off a few times.

Finally Eddie leaned back in his chair,
folded his arms across his chest, propped his feet on the desk, and
crossed his legs at the ankle.

“Okay, buddy, I give up. You’ve got the
floor.”

Rupert nodded as if he were satisfied and
rose from his chair. He walked to a window and stood there quietly
looking down at Grant Street, his back to the room.

“I need your help to collect some money,
Eddie. I may call you Eddie, may I not?”

Eddie said nothing.

“Good.” The man spoke again without turning
from the window. “It’s quite a lot of money actually.”

Eddie wondered for a moment if the man was
looking at anything in particular or if he was only letting his
eyes drift generally over the throng of people down below surging
along Grant. It was a crush that always made Eddie think of Hong
Kong: a vast swarm of mostly elderly Chinese, pushing and shoving,
filling the sidewalks and eventually the street, overwhelming with
sheer numbers those motor vehicles foolish enough to challenge
them.

“Do you ever miss the old days at Wren &
Simon, Eddie?”

The question felt like a slap and Eddie
immediately realized that was exactly how it had been intended.

“That’s none of your business.”

“When you tried those two big money
laundering cases back in…’87 was it?”

“1988.”

“It looked like you were really going places
then.”

“I did go places.”

“So you did,” Rupert chuckled, looking
around. “So you did, Eddie.”

Briskly turning away from the window, he
returned to the chair where he had been before. He settled himself
again, taking his time about it, and then began to tap his right
forefinger slowly against his cheek. It was a stagy gesture of a
man who wanted to look like he was thinking and Eddie thought it
appeared ridiculous.

“They should never have kicked you out of the
firm, you know.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“You were doing the best you could to keep a
very greedy and quite stupid banker out of jail. As I recall he
worked for…who was it?”

Eddie stayed silent. He knew the man didn’t
expect him to answer.

“It doesn’t really matter. Anyway, you did
what good lawyers always do, didn’t you, Eddie? Good lawyers always
represent their clients to the best of their ability. Everyone
understands that. It’s just that sometimes they have to get their
hands a little dirty to do it, don’t they?”

“My hands didn’t get dirty.”

“Some of your partners thought they did.”

“They were wrong.”

Eddie abruptly swung his feet back onto the
floor and leaned toward the man, his forearms resting on the
desk.

“That’s all I’m saying about that. You can
change the subject or get the hell out of here. I don’t really care
which.”

Rupert raised both hands in mock surrender.
“Easy, Eddie. No offense. I’m on your side here.”

“Then that makes two of us. Tell me what you
want or take off.”

“Whatever you say,” Rupert nodded pleasantly.
“I’m here to become one of your clients.”

“I’m not sure I want you for a client.”

“Oh, I think you do. I’m really a very
interesting guy when you get to know me.”

Eddie searched the man’s eyes for some clue
as to where this was going, but he found none. “Before we talk
about anything like that,” he said, “there are still a few
formalities to deal with. You know, little things like who the hell
you are and what you want me to do.”

“I already told you. I want you to help me
collect some money. We’ll get to the rest of it later.”

The man was putting on a performance that
suggested he needed something a little less routine than
foreclosing a mortgage on a strip mall he had sold to a bunch of
proctologists in Palo Alto. Was he talking about hot money of some
kind? The man didn’t look the sort for laundering drug money, but
then Eddie wasn’t absolutely sure what ‘the sort’ looked like when
you got up to what was obviously this guy’s level. Most of Eddie’s
recent clients had been a lot lower down the food chain.
Embezzlement maybe? Bribery? Arms smuggling?

“The amount involved is roughly
$400,000,000.”

Some people believed in coincidence as a
fundamental force in their lives, and some didn’t. Eddie had never
thought much about it one way or the other. Until now.

What was the possibility this was just a
coincidence? What was the chance that two separate conversations in
his office on two consecutive days were each about a different
$400,000,000? Eddie did the math and easily came up with the right
answer.

Zero.

He eyed the man for a while without saying
anything. Rupert just smiled blandly.

“I don’t know anything about the money you’re
looking for,” Eddie finally said.

“If you don’t know anything about it, how do
you know what money I’m looking for?”

“Because a Secret Service agent sitting right
there on Friday was looking for $400,000,000, too. He even told me
a little story about it. Just enough for me to be able to tell him
the same thing I’m telling you. I don’t know anything about it, and
I can’t help you.”

Eddie thought he saw a quick flicker of
uncertainty in the man’s eyes, and he pounced. “By the way, what
was the point of sending me those photographs?”

“Photographs?”

Whatever Eddie thought he had seen before was
gone now. The man’s voice was level and untroubled, if clearly
puzzled.

“What photographs are you talking about?”

“Never mind.” Eddie mentally kicked himself
for bringing up the pictures without thinking more carefully. His
bewilderment was making him stupid. “It doesn’t matter.”

Rupert nodded absentmindedly several times,
apparently thinking of something else entirely, and then to Eddie’s
relief let his mention of the photographs slip by without
comment.

“What exactly did you tell the Secret
Service?” he asked instead.

“That I couldn’t help them.”

“Anything else?” The man seemed to be making
an effort to remain casual.

“I told them I was in Saigon in 1975 and my
company was assigned to support the evacuation, but I had nothing
to do with the Bank of Vietnam or the money they’re looking
for.”

The man remained silent. Eddie noticed he had
stopped smiling and wondered what that meant.

“We rode shotgun on the last convoy out to
Tan Son Nhut before the North Vietnamese started shelling it and
flight operations were stopped,” Eddie added. “After that we helped
with the helicopter evacuation from the embassy and were lifted out
off the rooftop pad. I didn’t have any $400,000,000 with me when I
went off that roof, and as far as I could tell neither did anyone
else. That’s it. I just can’t help you.”

The man began nodding slowly as if he were a
teacher drilling an exceptionally dim pupil, one who simply needed
some gentle encouragement to come up with the right answer.