At that moment the phone rings; Charlie steps forward and answers the call over speakerphone.
-Hello.
"Congratulations," Bendini says in his Jersey accent in full swing. Ribbie Henson is already the proud owner and sole shareholder of Sunshine Distributors Partnership, Limited, in the Virgin Islands, which is owned by CEP Woldwide in Nauru, which is owned by Maritime Holding Services in Vanuatu, which is owned by Martin Duckworth in Antigua.
Four capes, destination point in Antigua. When the law decides to investigate it will take months to sort through all the paperwork.
"Seems to me you're already in business, folks. You just have to make sure you send my money.
The moment the line goes silent, the fax machine starts working. I swear I almost had a heart attack.
Over the next five minutes, the fax machine vomits out the rest of the paperwork—from bylaws to articles of association—everything we need to open the account of a brand new corporation. I check the time on the wall clock: we have two hours left. Mary requested the documentation by noon. Shit. The three of us know this can't work like the Tanner Drew thing. No stolen passwords. It must be done according to the rules.
-We can do it? Charlie asks.
"If you want, we can deliver the original letter to Mary right now," Shep suggests. My Duckworth accounts are already prepared, since they belonged to the real Duckworth...
"No way," I interrupt. As you said yourself... we choose where the money goes. Shep is tempted to argue but quickly realizes that he can't win. If the first transfer goes to him, he'll have his duffel bag full of cash and we risk leaving empty-handed. Even Charlie doesn't want to take that risk.
"Okay," Shep says. But if you have no intention of using the existing Duckworth account, I would take the money out of the country as soon as possible. That way, the money would no longer be in the United States and we would not have an obligation to report. You know the law: Anything suspicious finds its way to the IRS, which means they'll follow your trail anywhere.
Charlie nods and pulls a small wad of red paper out of my briefcase. The Red Sheet: The main list of the partners' preferred foreign banks, including those that are open 24 hours a day. It's on red paper so no one can photocopy it.
"I vote for Switzerland," Charlie says. One of those fucking numbered accounts with an impossible to discover password.
"Sorry to disappoint you, kid, but Swiss bank accounts aren't what they used to be," Shep says. Contrary to what Hollywood would have you believe, Swiss anonymous accounts have been abolished since 1977.
"What about the Cayman Islands?"
"Too much Grisham," Shep says. Also, even there they are changing their policy regarding bank accounts. People's heads got so hot after reading The Cover that the US had to intervene. Since then they have been working with the authorities for years.
So which is the best...
"You don't have to limit yourself to one place," says Shep. A quick transfer from New York to the Caymans is suspicious no matter who sends it, and if the bank clerk raises an eyebrow that means "Hello IRS." It's the first principle in money laundering: you want to send it to a bank abroad because they are the least likely to be willing to cooperate with the law. But if you transfer it too quickly, reputable banks here will identify it as suspicious and be quick to put the IRS on your trail. What do you do then? You make short jumps—logical jumps—that way you avoid being looked at twice. Shep picks up a bun and places it on the table. We are in the United States, what is the main place where we have deposits abroad?
"England," I say.
"England, that's it," Shep replies, placing another bun a few inches from the first. The epicenter of international banking operations; Mary makes about thirty transfers to England every day. She won't think twice. Now, once you are in London, where is the nearest place? Her—she places another bun. France is the easiest place and there's nothing suspicious about it, right? And once your money is there, their rules are less strict, which means the world opens up a bit more. "Another bun." Personally, I lean towards Latvia: it's not too far away... it's a slightly permissive republic... the government hasn't decided yet if they like us. And when it comes to international investigations, Latvians only help us half the time, which means it's a perfect place for an investigator to waste time. Two more scones quickly land on the table. From there you go to the Marshall Islands and from there you jump to Antigua, close to home. By the time the money gets there, what started out as black money is now untraceable, it's clean.
-And that's it? Charlie asks, looking from Shep to me.
"Do you have any idea how long it takes to investigate in foreign territory?" Shep points to the first scone, then the second, then the third. Bing, bing, bing, bing, bing. That's why they call it the Rule of Five. Five well-chosen countries and that's it. In the secret service it took us between six months and a year to investigate with no guarantee of success.
"Ohhh honey, pass me the cream cheese," Charlie sings.
Even I smile. I try to hide it, but Charlie sees it in my eyes. With that alone he already feels happy.
I lean across the table, examine the Red Sheet, and choose a bench for each territory. Five banks in an hour.
"Listen, I have to go see Lapidus," Shep says as he picks up his coat. How about we meet in my office at half past eleven?
I nod, Charlie says thanks, and Shep leaves the conference room.
As the door closes behind him, I turn the phone's speakerphone back on, lean across the desk, and dial the number for the bank in Antigua.
"I have a business card in case you need it," Charlie says. I shake my head. There is a reason for choosing the law firm.
"Hi, I'd like to speak to Rupa Missakian." I read the name on the red page.
Five minutes later I have transmitted the tax identification number and all the other vital information to open the first bank account of Sunshine Distributors. To round out the deal, I'm including Duckworth's date of birth and a personally selected password. We have absolutely no problem. Thank you, Red Leaf.
When I unplug the phone's speakerphone, Charlie points to her Wonder Woman watch with its magical lasso second hand. Twenty minutes in all. We have forty minutes to open another four accounts. Dislike.
"Come on, Coach, I've got my skates on," Charlie says. I want to get on the track.
Saying nothing, I tear two pages off the Red Sheet and slide them across the table. On one it says France and on the other Marshall Islands. Charlie picks up the phone that he has to the right of him; I run to the one on my right. Opposite corners. Our fingers fly over the keyboards.
-Speak English? I ask a stranger in Latvia. Yes... I'm looking for Feodor Svantanich or whoever keeps track of him.
"Hello, I'm trying to reach Lucinda Llanos," Charlie says. Or whoever keeps track of him.
There is a short pause.
"Hello," we say in unison. I would like to open a corporate account. "Okay, can you read me the number one more time?" Charlie asks a Frenchman he insists on calling Inspector Clouseau. He writes down the number and hands it to me, "Tell your English contact it's HB7272250."
"Here we go…HB7272250," I tell the London representative. Once it has arrived, we want the money transferred to that number as soon as possible.
"Thanks again for your help, Clouseau," Charlie adds. I'll tell all my rich friends about you.
"Great," I say. I'll check it out tomorrow, and then hopefully we can start talking about some of our other overseas business.
Translation: Do a good job and I'll send you so much business that this three million will look like small change. It is the third time we have played this game, that is, giving the account number of a bank to the bank that precedes it.
"Yeah…yeah…that would be great," Charlie says, turning into a really-I-have-to-hang up tone. Take a croissant for me.
Charlie jumps out of her chair when he puts down the receiver.
"Yyyyyyyyyyyy…we're done," he says as soon as he hangs up the phone.
My eyes fly to the clock. Eleven, thirty and five.
"Damn," he whispered. I re-stack the loose pages of the Red Sheet and put it in my briefcase.
"Come on, let's get out of here," Charlie says, running for the door.
As I follow him, he pushes the chairs back under the table. Charlie picks up the buns and places them on the tray. Clean and organized. Just as we found it.
"I have the coats," I say, grabbing them off the back of one of the armchairs.
Charlie doesn't care. He keeps running. And before the receptionist notices the blur passing in front of her desk, we're gone.
"Where the hell were you guys?" Braiding your hair? Shep asks when we enter his office.