Since Patricia’s stroke and subsequent passing, Roland and I had had only one brief phone conversation—from a pay phone at the Gold Coast Equestrian Center, as opposed to the Brookville Country Club, which seemed to be cursed. He had told me not to worry, that he would take care of it. But he had refused to get specific over the phone, which, given the nature of our dealings, was understandable.
Such was the reason I had flown to Switzerland last night—to sit down with him face-to-face and get to the bottom of things.
This time, however, I was smart.
Rather than taking a commercial flight and running the risk of getting arrested for stewardess-groping, I had flown over on a private jet, a plush Gulfstream III. Danny had flown over too, and he was waiting for me at the hotel, which is to say there was a ninety percent shot that he was getting scrummed by four Swiss hookers.
So here I was, with a smile on my face and frustration in my heart, as I watched Roland and his wife devour the dessert table.
Finally I ran out of patience, and said with great kindness, “You know, you guys are truly wonderful hosts. I can’t begin to thank you enough. But, unfortunately, I have to catch a flight back to the States, so if it’s okay, Roland, can we get down to business now?” I raised my eyebrows and smiled bashfully.
The Master Forger smiled broadly. “Of course, my friend.” He turned to his wife. “Why don’t you start preparing dinner, my darling?”
Dinner? I thought. Sweet Jesus!
She nodded eagerly and excused herself, at which point Roland reached over to the coffee table and grabbed two more chocolate-covered strawberries, numbers twenty-one and twenty-two, if memory served me correctly.
I took a deep breath and said, “In light of Patricia’s death, Roland, my biggest concern is how to get the money out of the UBP accounts. And, then, after that, what name do I use going forward? You know, one of the things that made me feel comfortable was being able to use Patricia’s name. I really trusted her. And I loved her too. Who would’ve thought she’d pass away so fast?” I shook my head and let out a deep sigh.
The Master Forger shrugged and said, “Patricia’s death is sad, of course, but there is no need to worry. The money has been moved to two other banks, neither of which has ever laid eyes on Patricia Mellor. All necessary documents have been created, and each of them bears Patricia’s original signature, or what would certainly pass for it. The documents have been backdated to the appropriate dates, of course, before her death. Your money is safe, my friend. Nothing has changed.”
“But whose name is it in?”
“Patricia Mellor’s, of course. There is no finer nominee than a dead person, my friend. No one at either of the new banks has seen Patricia Mellor, and the money is in the accounts of your bearer corporations, to which you hold the certificates.” The Master Forger shrugged, as if to say, “None of this is a big deal in the world of master forgery.” Then he said, “The only reason I moved the money out of Union Banc is because Saurel has fallen out of favor there. Better safe than sorry, I figured.”
Master Forger! Master Forger!He had turned out to be everything I’d hoped for. Yes, the Master Forger was worth his considerable weight in gold, or close to it. Still, he had managed to turn death into… life!And that was just how Aunt Patricia would have wanted it. Her name would live on forever in the seedy underbelly of the Swiss banking system. In essence, the Master Forger had immortalized her. Dying the way she had…so fast…she had never gotten the chance to say good-bye. Oh, but I’d be willing to bet that one of her final thoughts was a tiny worry that her unexpected passing would cause her favorite nephew-in-law a problem.
The Master Forger leaned forward and picked up two more chocolate-covered strawberries, numbers twenty-three and twenty-four, and started chomping. I said, “You know, Roland, I was very fond of Saurel when I first met him, but I’m having second thoughts now. He speaks to Kaminsky all the time, and it makes me uncomfortable. I’d just as soon not do any more business with Union Banc, if that’s okay with you.”
“I will always abide by your decisions,” replied the Master Forger, “and in this case I think your decision is a wise one. But, either way, you need not worry about Jean Jacques Saurel. In spite of him being French, he still lives in Switzerland, and the United States government has no power over him. He will not betray you.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I replied, “but it’s not a matter of trust. I just don’t like people knowing my business, especially a guy like Kaminsky.” I smiled, trying to make light of the whole thing. “Anyway, I’ve been trying to reach Saurel for over a week now, but his office says he’s away on business.”
The Master Forger nodded. “Yes, he is in the United States, I believe. Seeing clients.”
“Really? I had no idea.” For some odd reason, I found that troubling, although I couldn’t have explained why.
Matter-of-factly, Roland said, “Yes, he has many clients there. I know a few, but not most of them.”
I nodded, dismissing my premonition as nothing more than worthless paranoia. Fifteen minutes later I was standing outside his front door, holding a doggie bag of Swiss delicacies. The Master Forger and I exchanged a warm hug. “Au revoir!”I said, which was French for until I return.
In retrospect, good-byewould have been much more appropriate.
I finally walked through the door of our Westhampton Beach house on Friday morning, a little after ten. All I wanted was to go upstairs and hold Chandler in my arms and then make love to the Duchess and go to sleep. But I never got the chance. I was home for less than thirty seconds when the phone rang.
It was Gary Deluca. “I’m really sorry to bother you,” said the Drizzler, “but I’ve been trying to reach you for over a day. I thought you’d want to know that Gary Kaminsky got indicted yesterday morning. He’s sitting in a Miami jail, being held without bail.”
“Really?” I replied casually. I was in that state of extreme weariness where you can’t fully fathom the consequences of what you’re hearing, or at least not immediately. “What did he get indicted for?”
“Money laundering,” Deluca said tonelessly. “Does the name Jean Jacques Saurel ring a bell?”
That one got me—woke me right the fuck up! “Maybe…I think I met him when I was in Switzerland that time. Why?”
“Because he got indicted too,” said the Bearer of Bad News. “He’s sitting in jail with Kaminsky; he’s also being held without bail.”
CHAPTER 29
DESPERATE MEASURES
As I sat in my kitchen, plowing through the indictment, I found the whole thing mind-boggling. How many Swiss bankers were there? There had to be at least ten thousand of them in Geneva alone, and I had to choose the one who’d been dumb enough to get himself arrested on U.S. soil. What were the chances of that? Even more ironic was that he’d gotten himself indicted on a completely unrelated charge, something having to do with laundering drug money through offshore boat racing.
Meanwhile, it didn’t take the Duchess long to realize that something was terribly wrong, simply because I hadn’t pounced on her the moment I’d walked through the door. But without even trying, I knew I couldn’t get it up. I had resisted letting the word impotententer my thoughts, because it had so many negative connotations to a true man of power, which I still considered myself to be, in spite of falling victim to the reckless behavior of my Swiss banker. So I preferred to think of myself as being a limp dick or a spaghetti dick, which was far more palatable than the heinous Iword.
Either way, my penis had sought refuge inside my lower abdomen—shrinking to the size of a number-two pencil eraser—so I told the Duchess that I was sick and jet-lagged.