Armand and I stepped off the plane just before noon, and Ibrahim was waiting for us as promised, leaning casually by his car with a slight grin. After a quick round of handshakes and greetings, he led us through Comoros, where the midday sun was high, casting sharp shadows across the cityscape.
Once checked into our hotel, we freshened up, barely an hour passed before Ibrahim was back to pick us up. We headed to the bank, where the manager—a tall, wiry man with piercing eyes—suddenly paused when he recognized Armand. His eyes widened, clearly caught off guard, before he composed himself and invited us to his office.
Settling into the plush leather chairs, I decided to get straight to the point. "We're here to transfer the funds to Utah," I informed the manager firmly. He nodded, folding his hands in front of him as he replied, "Moving that amount will require at least a week."
Ibrahim gave a single, approving nod. "That'll be fine. I'll be around to follow up."
