The Moneychangers (67 page)

"Maybe they were searching for something," Innes suggested. "But what?" "When you were on the way out," Wainwright asked, "did you get any idea what the acti
vity was about?" "for ultima vez
, yo no se." Juanita shook her head.

"I told you I was too shocked at seeing Miles to see anything else." She hesitated. "Well, there were those men in the garage moving that funny furniture."

"Yes," Innes said. "You told us about that. It's odd, all right, but we haven't thought of an explanation for it." "Wait a minutel Maybe there is one."

Innes and Juanita looked at Wainwright. He was frowning. He appeared to be concentrating, working something out. "That activity Juanita heard…

Supposing they weren't searching for something but were packing up, preparing to move?"

"Could be," Innes acknowledged. "But what they'd be moving would be machinery.

Printing machines, supplies. Not furniture." "Unless,', Wainwright said, "the furniture was a cover. Hollow furniture."

They stared at each other. The answer hit them both at the same time. "For God's sake," Innes shouted. "That moving vanl" Wainwright was already reversing the car, spinning the wheel hard in a tight, fast turn. Innes seized the portable radio. He transmitted tensely,

"Strongthrust group leader to all special units. Converge on large gray house, stands back near east end Earlham Avenue.

Look for Alliance Van Lines moving van. Halt and detain occupants. City limits call in ad cars i
n vicinity. Code 10-13." Code 10-
13 meant: Maximum speed, wide open, lights and siren. Innes switched on their own siren. Wainwright put his foot down hard. "Christ!" Innes said; he sounded close to tears. "We went by it twice. And last time they were almost loaded."

***

"When you leave here," Marino instructed the driver of the tractor-semi, "head for the West Coast. Take it easy, do everything the way you would with a regular load, and rest up every night. But keep in touch, you know where to call.

And if you don't get fresh orders on the way, you'll get them in L.A." "Okay, Mr. Marino,"

the driver said.

He was a reliable foe who knew the score, also that he would get a kingsized bonus for the personal risk he was running.

But he had done the same thing other times before, when Tony Bear had kept the counterfeit center equipment on the road and out of harm's way, moving it around the country like a floating crap game until any heat was off.

"Well then," the driver said, "everything's loaded. I guess I'll roll. So long, Mr. Marino."

Tony Bear nodded, feeling relief. He had been unusually antsy during the packing and loading operation, a feeling which had kept him here, overseeing and keeping the pressure on, though he knew he was being un-smart to stay.

Normally he kept safely distant from the working front line of any of his operations, making sure there was no evidence to connect him in the event that something fouled up.

Others were paid to take those kinds of risks and raps if necessary.

The thing was, though, the counterfeit caper, starting as chickenshit, had become such a big-time moneymaker in the real sense that from once having been the least of his interests, it was now near the top of the list. Good organization had mad
e it that way; that and taking u
Itra-precautions a description Tony Bear liked such as moving out now.

Strictly speaking, he didn't believe this present move was necessary at least not yet because he was sure Eastin had been lying when he said he had found out this location from Danny Kerrigan and had passed the information on. Tony Bear believed Kerrigan on that one, though the old fart had talked too much, and was going to have some unpleasant surprises soon which would cure him of a loose tongue. If Eastin had known what he said he did, and passed it on, the cops and bank clicks would have swarmed here long ago, Tony Bear wasn't surprised it,
at the lie. He knew how people under torture passed through successive mental doors of desperation, switching from lies to truth, then back to lies again if they thought it was something their torturers wanted to hear.

It was always an interesting game outguessing them. Tony Bear enjoyed those kinds of games.

Despite all that, moving out, using the emergency rush arrangements set up with the mob-owned trucking company, was the smart thing to do.

As usual ultra-smart. If in doubt, move. And now the loading was done, it was time to get rid of what was left of the stoolie.

A detail Angelo would attend to. Meanwhile, Tony Bear decided, it was high time he got the hell away from here himself.

In exceptional good humor, he chuckled. Ultra-smart. It was then he heard the faint but growing sound of converging sirens and, minutes later, knew he had not been smart at all.

"Better move it, Harryl" the young ambulance steward called forward to the driver.

"This one
doesn't have time to spare." "F
rom the look of the guy," the driver said he kept his eyes directed ahead, using flashers and warbling siren to weave daringly through early rush hour traffic "from the look of him, we'd both be doing the poor bastard a favor if we pulled over for a beer."

"Knock it off, Harry." The steward, whose qualifications were somewhat less than those of a male nurse, glanced toward Juanita. She was perched on a jump seat, straining around him to see Miles, her face intent, lips moving. "Sorry, miss. Guess we forgot you were there. On this job we get a bit case-hardened." It took her a moment to absorb what was said. She asked,

"How is he?" "In bad shape. No sense fooling you." The young paramedic had injected a quarter grain of morphine subcutaneously.

He had a blood-pressure cuff in place and now was sloshing water on Miles's face. Miles was semiconscious and, despite the morphin
e, moaning in pain. All the
time the steward went on talking. "He's in shock. That can kill him, if the burns don't.

This water's to wash the acid away, though it's late. As to his eyes, I wouldn't want. .. Say, what the hell happened in therel"

Juanita shook her head, not wanting to waste time and effort in talk. She reached out, seeking to touch Miles, even through the blanket covering him.

Tears fined her eyes. She pleaded, uncertain she was being heard, "Forgive met Oh, forgive met" "He your husband?" the steward asked. He began putting splints, secured by cotton bandages, around Miles's hands. "No." "Boyfriend?"

"Yes." The tears were flowing faster. Was she still his friend? Need she have betrayed him? Here and now she wanted forgiveness, just as he had once asked forgiveness of her it seemed long ago, though it was not. She knew it was no use.

"Hold this," the steward said. He placed a mask over Miles's face and handed her a portable oxygen bottle. She heard a hiss as the oxygen went on and grasped the bottle as if, through her touch, she could communicate, as she had wanted to communicate ever since they had found Miles, unconscious, bleeding, burned, still nailed to the table in the house.

Juanita and Nolan Wainwright had followed the federal agents and local police into the big gray mansion, Wainwright having held her back until he made sure there was not going to be any shooting.

There had been none; not even any resistance apparently, the people inside having decided they were outflanked and outnumbered.

It was Wainwright, his face more strained than she had ever seen it, who carefully, as gently as he could, pried loose the nails and released Miles's mangled hands.

Dalrymple, ashen, cursing softly, held Eastin while, one by one, the nails came out. Juanita had been vaguely aware of other men, who had been in the house, lined up and handcuffed, but she hadn't cared. When the ambulance came she stayed close to the stretcher brought for Miles.

She followed it out and into the ambulance. No one tried to stop her. Now she began praying. The words came readily; words from long ago. ..

“
Virgen
Maria… that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help or sought thy intercessfon was left unaided. Inspired by that confidence I by unto you… Something the ambulance steward had said, but she hadn't taken in, played back in her subconscious. Miles's eyes. They were burned with the remainder of his face. Her voice trembled. "W
ill
he be blind?" "The specialists will have to answer that. Soon's we get to Emergency he'll get the best treatment.

There isn't a lot more I can do right here." Juanita thought: there wasn't anything she could do either. Except to stay with Miles, as she would, with love and devotion for as long as he wanted a
nd needed her. That, and pray…
Oh Virgen Madre de las virgines!… To thee I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions but hear and answer me. Amen. Some colonnaded buildings flashed by. "We're almost there," the steward said. He had his fingers on Miles's pulse. "He's still alive "

24

In the fifteen days since official investigation was begun by the SEC into the l
abyrinthine finances of Suprana
tional, Roscoe Heyward had prayed for a miracle to avert total catastrophe. Heyward himself attended meetings
with other SuNatCo creditors, their objective to keep the multinational giant operating and viable if they could. It had proven impossible.

The more deeply investigators probed, the worse the financial debacle appeared. It seemed probable, too, that criminal charges of fraud would eventually be laid against some of Supranational's officers, including G. G. Quartermain, assuming Big George could ever be enticed back from his Costa Rica hideaway at the moment an unlikely prospect.

Therefore, in early November, a petition of bankruptcy under Section 77 of the Bankruptcy Act was filed on behalf of Supranational Corporation.

Though it had been expected and feared, the immediate repercussions were worldwide. Several large creditors, as well as associated companies and many individuals, were considered likely to go down the drain along with SuNatCo.

Whether First Mercantile American Bank would be one of them, or if the bank could survive its enormous loss, was still an open question.

No longer an open question as Heyward fully realized was the subject of his own career. At FMA, as the author of the greatest calamity in the bank's one-hundred
year history, he was virtually finished. What remained at issue was whether he, personally, would be legally liable under regulations of the Federal Reserve, the Comptroller of the Currency, and the SEC.

Obviously, there were those who thought so. Yesterday, an SEC official, whom Heyward knew well, advised him,

"Roscoe, as a friend, I suggest you get yourself a lawyer." In his office, soon after the opening of the business day, Heyward's hands tremb
led as he read The Wall Street J
ournal's page one story on the Supranational bankruptcy petition.

He was interrupted by his senior secretary, Mrs. Callaghan. "Mr. Heyward Mr. Austin is here." Without waiting to be told, Harold Austin hurried in.
In contrast to his normal role,
the aging playboy today merely looked an overdressed old man. His face was drawn, serious, and pale; pouches beneath his eyes were rings of age and lack of sleep.

He wasted no time in preliminaries. "Have you heard anything from Quartermain?" Heyward motioned to the Journal.

"Only what I read." In the past two weeks he had tried several times to telephone Big George in Costa Rica, without success.

The SuNatCo chairman was staying incommunicado. Reports filtering out described him as living in feudal splendor, with a small army of thugs to guard him, and said he had no intention, ever, of returning to the United States.

It was accepted that Costa Rica would not respond to U.S. extradition proceedings, as other swindlers and fugitives had already proved.

"I'm going down the tube," the Honorable Harold said. His voice was close to breaking. "I put the family trust heavily into SuNatCo and I'm in hock myself for money I raised to buy Q-Investments."

"What about Q-Investments?" Heyward had tried to find out earlier the status of Ouartermain's private group which owed two million dollars to FMA in addition to the fifty million owing by Supranational. "You mean you didn't hear?" Heyward flared, "If I did, would I be asking?" "I found out last night from Inchbeck. That son of a bitch Quartermain sold out all Q-Investments holdings mostly stock in SuNatCo subsidiaries when the group share prices were at their peak.

There must have been a swimming pool full of cash."

Including FMA's two million, Heyward thought. He asked,

"What happened to it?" "The bastard transferred everything into offshore shell companies of his own, then moved the money out of them, so all Q-Investments is left with is shares in the shells just worthless paper."

To Heyward's disgust, Austin began to blubber. "The real money… my money… could be in Costa Rica, the Bahamas, Switzerland… Roscoe, you've got to help me get it back… Otherwise I'm floished… broke." Heyward said tersely, "There's no way I can help you,

Harold." He was worried enough about his own part in Q-Investments without concerning himself with Austin's. "But if you hear anything new… if there's any hope…" "If there is, I'll let you know." As quickly as he could, Heyward eased Austin out of the office. He had no sooner gone than Mrs. Callaghan said on the intercom, "There's a reporter calling from Newsday.