“As I’ve said, there were no problems. It actually looks more authentic than my real one, which hasn’t been used that much. These things cost us a thousand bucks, if you’ll remember.”
“Oh yes. How could I forget?”
“Get on a plane, Mark, and get out of the country.”
“I’m thinking about it. I’ll keep you posted.”
Mark placed his laptop and some files into a larger briefcase, the one from his street lawyer days, and packed a small carry-on bag with some clothing and a toothbrush. The room was a wreck and he was sick of it. After spending nine nights there he saw no need to check out at the front desk. The room charges were covered for two more days. So he walked away, leaving behind dirty clothing that belonged to both him and Todd, stacks of paperwork, none of which was incriminating, some magazines, discarded toiletries, and the rented printer, from which he had removed the memory chip. He walked a few blocks, hailed a cab, and rode to JFK, where he paid $650 cash for a round-trip ticket to Bridgetown, Barbados. The guard at passport control was half-asleep and hardly looked at his documents. He killed an hour in a lounge, took off at 10:10, and landed in Miami on time at 1:05 a.m. He found a bench in an empty gate and tried to sleep, but it was a long night.
—
THREE MILES AWAY, Special Agent Wynne and two colleagues once again entered the offices of Cohen-Cutler. Ian Mayweather and a partner were waiting. Now that the firm was cooperating, albeit by the coercion of court orders, some of the pressure was off and the air was almost cordial. A secretary brought in coffee and they sat around a small table.
Wynne began with “Well, it was a long night. We went through the list you gave us, made a bunch of phone calls, and compared names with our records from Swift Bank. It appears as though all thirteen hundred are bogus clients. We have a court order freezing all disbursements for forty-eight hours.”
Mayweather was not surprised. His team of grunts had worked through the night as well and reached the same conclusion. They also had the file on Frazier and Lucero and the charges they were facing in D.C. Mayweather said, “We’re cooperating. Whatever you say. But you’re not going to check all 220,000 of our clients, are you?”
“No. It appears as though the other firms are legit. Give us some time and we’ll back off when we’re satisfied the fraud is contained to this small group.”
“Very well. What’s up with Frazier and Lucero?”
“Don’t know where they are, but we’ll find them. The money you wired to them yesterday was immediately wired to a bank offshore, so they barely managed to get it out of the country. We suspect they’re on the run, but they’ve proven to be, let’s say, unsophisticated.”
“If the money’s offshore you can’t touch it, right?”
“Right, but we can certainly touch them. Once we have them in custody and locked up, they’ll be eager to cut a deal. We’ll get the money back.”
“Great. My problem is the settlement. There’s still a lot of money in play and I’ve got a bunch of lawyers screaming at me. Please hurry.”
“We’re on it.”
—
AT NINE, MARK finished another double espresso and headed for his gate. At a U.S. Postal Service drop box, he placed a small padded envelope into the slot, and kept walking. It was addressed to a reporter at the Washington Post, a tough investigative journalist he had been following for weeks. Inside the envelope was one of Gordy’s thumb drives.
As he waited in line at his gate, he called his mother and fed her a story about a long trip he and Todd were taking together. They would be gone for months and not available by phone, but he would check in whenever possible. The mess in D.C. was under control and nothing to worry about. Heads up for a FedEx package today. There’s some money in it, to be used at your discretion, but please don’t waste it on a lawyer for Louie. Love you, Mom.
He boarded without incident and took his seat by a window. He opened his laptop, logged in, and saw an e-mail from Jenny Valdez at Cohen-Cutler. The disbursements for attorneys’ fees were being delayed until further notice due to an “unspecified problem.” He read it again and closed his computer. Surely, with such a massive settlement, problems were bound to occur, so it had nothing to do with them. Right? He closed his eyes and was breathing deeply when a flight attendant announced over the speaker that there would be a slight delay due to a problem with “documentation.” The flight was packed with vacationers headed for the islands, some of whom appeared to have spent time in a bar before boarding. There were groans, but also laughter and shouting.
The clock ticked slowly as Mark’s blood pressure rose and his heart pounded. The flight attendants brought out the drink carts and the booze was on the house. Mark asked for a double rum punch and drained it in two gulps. He was about to ask for another when something jolted the aircraft, and it started moving back. As it taxied away from the terminal, he texted Todd and said he was about to take off. Minutes later, he watched from his window as Miami disappeared through the clouds.
43
Pursuant to Todd’s instruction, Zola went to the Senegal Post Bank early Thursday, and took her lawyer with her. Idina Sanga agreed, for a fee of course, to help facilitate the opening of an account. They had an appointment with a vice president, a pleasant lady who spoke no English. Idina explained in French that her client was an American who was moving to Dakar to be with her family. Zola produced her passport, New Jersey driver’s license, and a copy of the apartment lease. Her story was that her American boyfriend, who was quite wealthy, wished to send her some money for support and also to buy a home. He traveled the world with his ventures and planned to spend time in Senegal. There was even the likelihood that he would open an office there. The story flowed well and convinced the vice president. The fact that Zola was represented by a lawyer with a good reputation helped immensely. Idina stressed the need for extreme privacy and explained that a lot of money would soon arrive by wire. An initial deposit that equaled about $1,000 U.S. was agreed upon, and the paperwork was reviewed by Idina. Bank cards would soon be in the mail. The transaction took less than an hour. Back in the apartment, Zola e-mailed the bank account information to Todd.
When Mark landed in Bridgetown at 1:20, Todd met him at the gate. “Nice tan,” Mark observed.
“Thanks, but I’m ready to get out of here.”
“Talk to me.”
They ducked into a bar and ordered beers. In a corner, they sat at a small table and took long drinks. Mark wiped his mouth and said, “You seem rather jumpy.”
“I am. Look, I know you’re thinking about a few days on the beach, but we’re on the run now. I mean, really on the run. The FBI can trace the wire to our bank.”