Targets of Revenge (14 page)

“Mingling is good.”

Farrar stood, unlocked the office door, and called in Dendera. He told her to outfit Sandor with appropriate gear, wetsuit and tank. “We will have this available for you in the morning,” he explained, “although I’m sure they will provide the necessary equipment.”

“All I need to do is get myself invited, is that it?”

“Yes.”

When the girl finished setting everything aside Sandor said, “Thank you,” then waited until she left them alone again. “Can I buy you dinner someplace interesting tonight? Before I start trolling in the local bars.”

“No, my friend, it is best we are not seen together. Not yet, anyway. Only a few people know of our history, and we should keep that to a minimum.” As he said it, Sandor again felt the specter of Farrar’s son enter the room. “For now you must be on your own. Especially when you visit these bankers.”

Sandor nodded.

Farrar gave him the information on the two banks.

“You’ll make the calls to set up the appointments?”

“Not I, but trust me, the calls will be made and the meetings will be arranged. I will phone your hotel and leave word of the times for each.” Then he recited the names of a few clubs. “Tonight you should make the rounds, after your meetings. By then word about you will be out. And the Russians will be easy to spot,” he added with a brief chuckle. “Look for cheap women, gaudy gold jewelry, and bottles of Cristal.”

“Who’s going to be wearing the gaudy jewelry?” Sandor asked with a grin. “The cheap women or the Russian men?”

“The men of course,” Farrar said.

S
ANDOR RETURNED TO
the Ritz, where he rested for an hour, then changed into the white shirt and tan gabardine Dunhill suit he had the valet press while he was out. Sliding the sleek Rohrbaugh in his back pocket, he set out to make the acquaintance of the two crooked bankers Farrar had identified.

His first stop was the Sharm el-Sheikh International Reserve. It was headquartered in a modern building not far from SOHO Square. One of the many charms of this resort town is how everything is centrally located.

Sandor entered the bank, a high-ceilinged space defined by tall, smoked glass windows that did their best to contain the cool air that flowed in through numerous vents situated around the perimeter of the large room. The teller stations were located behind a long row of windows off to the right. Sandor approached a young woman seated at a desk to the left. He gave his name and told her he was there to see the bank president. She made a call, confirmed his appointment, then rose to show him to the elevator that would take him up one floor to the executive suite.

On the second floor he was greeted by another woman, who led him into a spacious office where the bank official was already standing.

“A pleasure, Mr. Sandor.” He extended a friendly hand, then pointed his guest to a seat at a small, round conference table.

The woman who had ushered him in asked Sandor if he wanted
anything in the way of coffee, water or refreshments, but he politely declined. She nodded, said, “Very well, please let me know if you change your mind,” then showed herself out and pulled the door closed behind her.

As the two men took their seats facing each other, the banker flashed a gleaming white smile that Sandor figured he must use quite a bit. He was elegantly attired in a dark gray suit, powder blue shirt, and dark Hermès print tie. “Well, Mr. Sandor, I must say you arrive with the highest recommendations.” Sandor noticed that he did not mention from whom these recommendations had come. Whatever Farrar had done to set this meeting on short notice, he had clearly made an impression.

“As does your bank,” Sandor assured him. “I am told that you operate with the utmost efficiency. And discretion.”

The banker nodded appreciatively. “After security, of course, I believe discretion is the most important of the many services we provide.”

“Excellent. I therefore take it that we can dispense with any unnecessary discussion about the nature of my interest in banking here.”

The man sat back slightly. “Ah, the famous American bluntness surfaces at the very start of our relationship. Then I also say ‘excellent.’ It certainly saves time.”

For a fleeting moment Sandor reflected on the fact that he was sitting across from a man whose illicit actions facilitate the movement of large funds among major drug sellers and drug buyers, criminals of various stripe and, ultimately, terrorists. Given the option, he would have enjoyed pulling out the compact 9mm in his back pocket and tapping the bastard twice in the forehead. For now he reminded himself that he was hunting bigger game. He forced a smile and asked, “How can we best move our relationship forward?”

The banker’s eyes lit up. “Are you saying that you are prepared to open an account?”

“I’m saying that I am prepared to learn what will be involved in establishing this account so I might speak to the others involved and make an informed decision.”

“Ah well,” the man said with a hint of disappointment—he was
well aware that his was not the only game in town. “I will do my best to answer your questions.”

What followed was an oblique description of how the Sharm el-Sheikh International Reserve catered to unique customers for whom anonymity and a minimum vapor trail produced by the movement of their funds was an absolute priority. The man was smooth, Sandor would have to give him that. A recording of their conversation would not have yielded a single incriminating statement. He was a master of theoretical, vague, and noncommittal speech. Yet, by the time he was done, Sandor knew enough to satisfy himself that he was in the right place to begin tracking the flow of money generated by the narcotics trade emanating from South America. He was also convinced these criminals were smart to be laundering their funds in this small Egyptian town.

“Forgive a direct question,” Sandor interrupted as the man was reciting a mind-numbing litany of bank regulations. “But are you saying that your bank does not make moral judgments about the nature of the businesses in which its customers engage?”

The banker thought that one over. “Let us say, our bank does not inquire into those dealings. We limit our involvement to the handling of our customers’ financial transactions.”

Sandor forced another smile, then said, “Good, good. Please continue.”

When they concluded their meeting and stood to shake hands, it was difficult again for Sandor to resist his natural impulse—this time to rip the man’s arm out of its socket and beat him to death with it. Instead he said, “This has been most helpful. You will be hearing from my man tomorrow.” He then leaned forward and said quietly, “His name is James Bergenn, and he will produce the appropriate identification for you.” Moving back, as if the utterance of that name was the most sensitive thing he had to say, he added, “Please provide him all of the courtesies and attention you have so generously given me. He will be the person with whom you will have most of your dealings on our behalf.”

“Understood,” the banker said without repeating the name. “Until tomorrow then.”

As Sandor left he was not certain his performance had been completely convincing, but he did not care. The man might make calls, but he would learn nothing more about his potential new customer other than his scheduled meeting, later today, with the president of his institution’s chief rival, the Bank of the Nile Valley. Hopefully that would be sufficient to convince both bankers that Sandor was a serious player, giving each of them motivation to keep their discussions confidential lest their indiscretion become discovered and their prospective client end up taking his business somewhere else altogether.

Consequently, when Sandor began his meeting at the Bank of the Nile Valley two hours later, he decided to begin with the admission that he was considering one of two local institutions and wanted to be candid in that regard. The official here was less friendly and more cautious, but the resultant discussion ended up yielding substantially the same information. When their meeting came to a close, Sandor felt he had enough of corrupt bankers to last him a lifetime.

He wanted to find his way to the nearest bar, where he could give his hands a good wash with hot water and then wrap himself around a cold cocktail, but he thought better of it and returned to his hotel instead. Using his encrypted cell phone he called Craig Raabe and gave him as much information as he had gathered to date. Then he changed back to a more casual outfit and prepared to head out on the town.

————

Meanwhile, the rival bankers with whom Sandor had spent his afternoon were exchanging pleasantries in a brief telephone conversation.

“May the blessings of Allah be with you,” intoned the man from the Bank of the Nile Valley.

“And with you,” his counterpart replied.

“An interesting visit, was it not?” There was no need for further identification of the subject at hand.

“Interesting, yes. And a bit worrisome.”

“His referrals were impeccable.”

“A matter easily arranged, you agree?”

“I do.”

“And no actual transaction was initiated.”

“Nor with me.”

“Which raises the delicate question of what we owe to our current clients.”

“To warn them, you mean?”

“Let us say, to alert them to the possibility of competition.”

“Or worse.”

“Yes. Enemy action would be worse.”

There was a brief silence, then the man from the Bank of the Nile Valley suggested they meet for a drink at their club.

“Excellent idea,” came the reply.

S
ANDOR BEGAN HIS
pub crawl at Little Buddha, which, among other things, lays claim to a reputation as the longest continuously operating bar in the Middle East. It was the first place on Farrar’s list of popular nightclubs.

Sandor asked for a small table in the corner of the restaurant area that allowed him to sit with his back to the wall and afforded a line of vision to both the entrance and the hallway leading to the restrooms. He ate sushi and drank mediocre sake served in a small ceramic carafe, then paid the check and made his way toward the real action. Finding a spot at the bar where he had a similar view of his surroundings, he ordered a Grey Goose, straight up and very cold, with a few slivers of ice to keep it that way and three olives to keep the vodka company.

As he took his first taste of the chilled drink he made a silent toast to Farrar and how he had organized those meetings on short notice, mobilizing his people to do whatever was necessary to convince the two bankers that they were being introduced to a major player. When that information spread through the proper circles it would become particularly helpful in dealing with the Russians. Sandor nodded to himself. Farrar was one of the few people who had never let him down. The reason for such loyalty, which in this case was driven by Sandor having risked his life to save Farrar’s wayward son, did not matter. Most people tend to have short and convenient memories, a trait that never ceased to disappoint Sandor. He was grateful that his Egyptian friend was not so afflicted.

He replaced his glass on the bar and took some time scanning the crowded room. He was not at it for long when he saw her approach from his right.

“Hello,” she said, which Sandor figured was the only pickup line a beautiful woman needs.

She was certainly beautiful, and perfectly balanced on a pair of narrow heels that were long enough to be registered as lethal weapons. Sandor was just over six feet tall, and the shoes lifted her to his eye level.

He said, “Hello to you too.”

She didn’t smile. Instead she continued to stare into his dark, intense eyes with an unblinking gaze that can only be managed with a fair amount of practice. “Buy a thirsty girl a drink?”

Sandor conceded the staring contest and had a look at the rest of her. She was wearing a reasonably short tan skirt and a reasonably skimpy white silk top, a combination that provided a reasonably good view of her considerable assets. When he finished the visual tour he returned his attention to her sea-green eyes. “Whatever you’re thirsty for,” he said, “I’m buying.”

She didn’t give in all the way with a huge smile or anything close to that, but she did part her lips enough to reveal very white, very even teeth that showed up quite nicely against her tan complexion. “Well then,” she said, “whatever you’re drinking I’m thirsty for.”

Sandor called the bartender over and told him to shake up another vodka, then turned back to her. “I’m Jordan,” he said, offering his hand.

She took it, her grip warm and dry and firm. “You can call me Lilli.”

He stuck out his lower lip, as if what she allowed him to call her was something that deserved careful consideration. “I can call you Lilli? Is that because Lilli is really your name, or is there some other reason?”

Now she did smile, and he could see why she hadn’t been in any rush to use that part of her arsenal. It was dazzling, and she had no reason to waste it early on. “It’s actually Lillian,” she said.

“Ah.”

“It was my grandmother’s name. Always felt sort of old-fashioned to me.” Before Sandor had a chance to tell her what a lovely name it was, or something obvious like that, she added, “Maybe I’ll use it when I’m a grandmother myself. What do you think?”

“I think a rose, by any other name, still looks pretty good.”

“Thanks.”

“So, Lillian a.k.a. Lilli, what are you doing in Sharm el-Sheikh?”

“You mean, why is a nice girl like me in a bar like this asking a stranger like you to buy her a drink?”

“As I recall, you explained that already. You’re thirsty, right?”

She flashed some more teeth and said, “That’s right, I did.”

“What I actually meant was, who are you? Are you a tourist, an adventuress, maybe the director of hospitality here at Little Buddha?”

“How about two out of three.”

The bartender placed a martini glass before her, filled to the rim with the clear, cold liquid. When she lifted it, her hand was as steady as a diamond cutter.