The Lazarus Trap (35 page)

VAL, BERT, AND GERALD SHARED A TAXI INTO ST. HELIER, THE CAPITAL of both Jersey and the Channel Islands. The town was fairy-tale clean and laced with sea salt and safe mysteries. Not even the pelting rain could wash away the island's romantic feel. Early morning tourists clambered about the cobblestone lanes, so enchanted they accepted the windswept chill as part of the magic. The wealth on display was very discreet, like a lady's subtle hint of silk.

The taxi let them off by a church tea shop down the block from the Syntec Bank of Jersey. By the time they'd settled at a table with their tea and scones, a numbness had invaded Val's bones. He felt enveloped within an altered state somewhere between exhaustion and an electric high. Val was no longer angry. The day held no space for such mundane elements as personal feelings. The three of them shared a rapidly cooling pot of tea and waited for the clock to crawl once around the dial.

At nine sharp they watched through the tea shop's front window as two uniformed guards rolled back the curved steel gates sealing the bank's entrance. Silently, Val and the others left by the shop's side exit.

When they arrived at the bank, Bert took up station under the front awning. “You get yourself in there and save the day, lad. We'll camp out here and wait your word.”

“You both know what to do?”

“We've been over it a dozen times, mate. More.”

Gerald almost smiled. Not quite, but almost. “I don't suppose it would help to say the fate of the world rests in your arms.”

“No. It wouldn't.” Val entered the bank alone.

Syntec bank's public chamber was a long, narrow hall with brass-caged teller's windows down the right-hand wall. Brass footrails ringed the oval marble writing stand. Brass chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. The floor was marble, the front windows high and arched. The back of the room was given over to executive stalls with waist-level mahogany partitions. The woodwork gleamed. The entire chamber smelled of centuries of money and polish and the subtle terrors Val carried in with him.

Val took off the raincoat and shook it. His clothes were borrowed from Gerald. They consisted of a grey flannel suit, Oxford shirt, and a silk tie printed with the emblem from Gerald's college. He felt only marginally better dressed than when he wore the bellhop's uniform. Then again, it probably was not the clothes that constricted his gut and made it hard to draw a decent breath.

A guard approached. “Can I help you?”

“I'm here to see Mr. Francis Richards.”

“Is
Sir
Francis expecting you?” The guard gave gentle emphasis to the title.

“I called earlier this morning and left a message on the bank's answering machine.”

“Certainly, sir. May I have your name?”

“Jeffrey Adams.”

“Very good, sir. If you'll just come this way.” The sentry guided Val to the rear of the chamber, where a receptionist was already on her feet. “A Mr. Jeffrey Adams to see Sir Francis.”

“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Adams?”

“My visit came up at the last moment. I called before you were open and asked for this meeting.”

“Are you a client of Sir Francis?”

“In a manner of speaking. But we've never met.”

“Might I trouble you for some form of ID?” When Val handed over his fake passport, she said, “If you'll just wait here a moment, I will see if Sir Francis is available.”

When the receptionist cupped the phone to her ear and turned slightly away, Val asked the guard, “What is Sir Francis's position?”

“Senior account executive, sir.”

The receptionist swiftly returned. “If you'll just come this way, sir.”

Val was ushered upstairs and into an antechamber of rosewood paneling. Cigar smoke hung vaguely in the air, like a lingering fragrance of the previous day's millions. Val found the odor faintly nauseous and breathed through his mouth. His heart sounded loud as gunfire.

A slender man approached with outstretched hand. “Mr.

Adams?”

“That's right.”

“Francis Richards. What a delight. Received your message first thing this morning. Shame about the weather, don't you agree? Tragic spring we're having. Lashes of rain and cold and no end in sight. Won't you come this way?”

Richards wore a double-breasted navy jacket with gold-embossed buttons. A scarf matching his overloud tie dangled slightly from his breast pocket. An ornate family crest was woven into this same pocket. His hair was long and foppishly styled. His teeth were huge as he smiled Val into his office. “I believe you'll find that chair quite comfortable.”

The office was rather cramped and narrow. But a royal crest matching the one on Richards's jacket hung from the wall behind his desk. Val took the seat before the desk as directed and looked carefully about. The room's only window overlooked the rainwashed street. A photograph of a grand estate hung from the right-hand wall. The manor looked enormous. But the photograph was in black and white, and the man standing upon the front steps was dressed in a bygone style.

Richards crossed behind his desk. “I checked our records after hearing your message, Mr. Adams. I failed to find any record of your being a client of our bank. Not that you're not welcome, of course. It's just we do rather like to keep tabs of whose money we're holding.”

Val would normally have disliked the man and his upper-crust bray on sight. Today, however, he considered him ideal. No man, dressed like a titled duke and bearing his overarched accent, would be doing duty as a bank staffer unless he possessed more title than cash. He pointed to the photograph. “That's some spread.”

“Ah. Yes. It is rather nice. Or was, I suppose I should say. Lost in the Depression, along with far too much else. I really should dispose of the wretched photo.”

Val nodded slowly. He could well understand why Terrance had chosen to do business with this man.

Richards steepled his fingers. “Is there something I might do for you today, Mr. Adams? We are rather pressed for time, you see, and—”

“My name is not Adams.”

Richards froze. “Pardon me?”

“It is Valentine Haines.”

“Haines, Haines. Now that is a name I do recognize.” He slid his chair over and tapped into his computer terminal. “Of course. Mr. Haines.” Then a light dawned. “Did I not hear something of your recent demise?”

“All false, I'm afraid.”

“And how frightfully glad I am to hear it. I don't suppose you happen to have any form of identification on you.”

“No. But you have my photograph in your records.” Stored in advance, to ensure personal security and access to their funds. “Along with my fingerprints.”

“Indeed we do.” Richards turned to his credenza and came up with an electronic pad. “If I might ask you to be so kind?”

Val pressed his hand onto the glass screen. And waited.

It did not take long. “Verified and confirmed.” Richards was now all smooth professional. “What might we do for you today, Mr. Haines? Or should we remain with Adams?”

“I'm here to make a withdrawal.”

“Certainly, sir. How much would you be after?”

“Two million, two hundred and eighteen thousand dollars.”

The banker tabbed the keyboard. “But that's—”

“All of it,” Val confirmed. “Plus any interest I've earned. And I want it in cash.”

Matt did the innocent's walk across the street to the bank entrance. Ambling along, collar up against the wet, not looking at anything really. Just minding his own business and headed inside. Going up the stairs, he slowed enough to give both the blokes a careful look. Up close the muscle to his left didn't look any more familiar than from the window. Which didn't mean Jocko was wrong. The two men gave Matt an inspection of their own, using the cold eye of blokes who know their way around a tight corner.

For a moment Matt hesitated. He did the pocket-pat, like he belonged there at the bank if only he could find his papers. Thinking maybe he should go back for Jocko. But if they were there guarding the man Matt was after, leaving and coming back would only alert them. And what good would it do? Matt's orders were to call in soon as they spotted the bloke. Nothing more. Having a dust-up on a dank street in the middle of this poxy town was not on the list.

No, best just play the hand and act like he owned the place.

Which might've worked, only one of the heavies decided to follow Matt into the bank.

Inside, the bloke just stood there by the entrance. Hovering. Ready.

Matt gave the place a quick look-round. The bank was almost empty. Three customers up front, all women. One old geezer in the back, talking soft like he'd spent years learning how to handle coin. Definitely not their man. Which meant either their bloke was upstairs somewhere, or Jocko was wrong.

What to do?

Matt sighted the guard sauntering over. Taking it slow. Not wanting a fuss.

Matt turned and left. The muscle followed him out.

Matt scampered down the stairs and across the street and into the hotel and up the stairs and into the room.

Jocko was all over him in a flash. “What'd you see?”

Matt collapsed into the chair. “Go bring me a tea and two fried-egg sandwiches.”

“Was it our guy?”

“He wasn't there, was he?”

“So he's upstairs somewhere?”

“If it was him.”

“What do we do?”

“We wait.” Matt snapped his fingers. “Large tea. Extra milk. Hot mustard and white toast, and the eggs better be fried up hard enough I can nail them to the wall.”

“What if it's him?”

“We call it in. Say he's just arriving.” Matt didn't take his eyes off the bank's only entrance. “Now hop to it. I need you back here and ready.”

THE BANKER PUT UP A RATHER HIGHBROWED PROTEST AT VAL'S demand for over two million dollars in cash. But obviously Val was not the first person to come in seeking that sort of withdrawal. The papers were eventually filled out and passed over for Val's signature.

The conversation drifted over inconsequential matters as the money was gathered. Suddenly Val spied a face in a window across the narrow street. He leaned forward, searching his memory. But he couldn't be certain. Then he spotted a second man, a larger one whom Val had seen much closer and for far longer than the narrow-faced man. Suddenly he was back on the ferry.

Val stood and turned his chair around. When he reseated himself, he realized the banker was observing him with mild alarm.

“The light,” Val said. “It bothers me.”

The banker stared out his window. “But it's raining cats and dogs.”

“Exactly,” Val said.

The banker's secretary returned with a polished rosewood tray. On it resided a very substantial block of cash. Richards could not completely hide his avarice as he surveyed the money. “Perhaps you might like to count it,” he suggested brightly. “Then you can be on your—”

“We're not done yet,” Val said. He turned to the secretary and asked, “Would you mind leaving us alone?”

Richards gave her a befuddled nod. “Give us another moment, would you, Fiona?”

“Certainly, sir.”

When the door closed again, Val reached into his jacket pocket and brought out several sheets of paper. He handed over the first page, which held the six strings of numbers they had found on Terrance's computer. “Have a look at these, please.”

The banker's eyes rounded as he read the data. He swung his chair around and tapped into his computer. His eyebrows crawled up into his hairline.

It was the response Val had been seeking. The one they desperately needed for this to work. Val interpreted for him. “Your bank holds deposits totaling four hundred and eighteen million dollars. These accounts are in the names of Val Haines and Marjorie Copeland. As you have heard, Mrs. Copeland died in the explosion that destroyed your New York offices. This leaves me the sole holder of these funds.”