“As we’ve discussed about a dozen times.”
“Yes, and that’s as far as they can go, at least with the money. But when they can’t find us there they might want to look here. There’s nothing to gain by hanging around the island. Zola opened the account this morning in Dakar with no problems. The hang-up with the last disbursement may or may not be related to us, but why take the chance? For all we know, the Feds could be one step behind us. Let’s move on while they’re still scrambling.”
Mark took another drink and shrugged. “Whatever. I guess I can get some sun in Dakar.”
“There are some fabulous beaches there, with resorts that rival anything here. And it looks like we’ll have plenty of time to play by the pool.”
They drained their beers, walked outside into a blinding sun, and caught a cab to the Second Royal Bank, where they waited an hour to see Mr. Rudolph Richard. Todd introduced Mark as his partner in York & Orange, and explained that they wished to wire $3 million of their account to a bank in Dakar. Mr. Richard was curious but did not pry. Whatever his clients wished was fine with him. They withdrew $20,000 in cash and left the bank. At the airport, they studied routes and saw that almost all went through Miami or JFK, places they preferred to avoid. They paid $5,200 in cash for two one-way packages, and left Barbados at 5:10 p.m. bound for London Gatwick, forty-two hundred miles and eleven hours away. En route, Mark checked his e-mails, and the one from the account manager at Citibank in Brooklyn informed him that the second wire had not arrived. “We can forget that million for attorneys’ fees,” he mumbled to Todd.
“Well, we really didn’t earn it,” Todd quipped.
They drank beers for two hours at Gatwick before boarding a flight for Algeria, a thousand miles away. The layover there was eight hours, an interminable time in a hot and crowded airport. However, as the miles passed and the cultures changed, they became convinced that they were leaving the bad guys farther and farther behind. Two thousand miles and five hours later, they landed in Dakar at 11:30 at night. Though it was late, the airport was bustling with loud music and aggressive vendors offering jewelry, leather goods, and fresh fruits. Outside the main entrance, the beggars flocked to those arrivals with lighter skin—whites and Asians. Mark and Todd were jostled but managed to find a cab. Twenty minutes later they arrived in front of the Radisson Blu Hotel at the Sea Plaza.
Zola had reserved two poolside rooms in her name and paid for a week’s stay. Evidently, she had schmoozed well because Mark and Todd were greeted like dignitaries. No one asked to see their passports.
It was their first visit to Africa and neither ventured a guess as to how long it would last. Their pasts were a mess. Their futures were uncertain. So, somewhere along the way they decided to live in the present with no regrets. Life could be worse. They could be studying for the bar exam.
—
AROUND NOON SATURDAY, as the midday sun baked the ceramic tile walkways around the pool and along the terraces, Mark staggered out of his room, squinted into the blinding light, rubbed his eyes, walked to the edge of the water, and fell in. Salt water, pleasant and warm. He dog-paddled back and forth for a few laps, then gave up. He sat in the shallow end with the water touching his chin and tried to remember where he was a week ago. Washington. The morning after a drinking session with his law school pals. The day after their appearance in court with Phil Sarrano, and all those angry people after them. The day he was supposed to graduate from Foggy Bottom, then go forth and conquer the world.
It wasn’t conquered but it was certainly different. Some weeks drag by and nothing happens. Others, like this one, are so tumultuous you can’t keep up with the days. A week ago they were dreaming of the money. Now it was tucked away in a Senegalese bank where no one could find it.
Because their bodies were tuned to the same clock, Todd soon emerged and made a splash. He gave no thought to swimming laps, but instead waved over a cabana boy and ordered drinks. After two rounds, they took showers and dressed in the clothes they’d been wearing. Shopping was high on their list.
Their partner, however, wore something they’d never seen before. Zola arrived at the hotel restaurant in a bright red and yellow dress that flowed to the floor. With a necklace of large colorful beads and balls, and a flower in her hair, she looked very African. They hugged and carried on, but were careful not to attract too much attention. The restaurant was half-full of guests, almost all of whom were European.
As they sat down, Todd said, “You look beautiful.”
Mark said, “Zola, let’s get married.”
Todd said, “Hey, I was going to ask.”
Zola said, “Sorry, no more white boys. Far too much trouble. I’m going to find a nice African dude I can boss around.”
“You’ve been bossing us around for three years,” Mark said.
“Yeah, but you talk back and you lie a lot. I want a guy who never speaks unless spoken to and always tells the truth.”
“Good luck,” Todd said.
A waitress stopped by and they ordered drinks. Beers for the boys, tea for Zola. They asked about her family. They were safe and happy. After the initial jail scare, things settled down. They had not seen the police nor had they heard from other authorities. She and Bo were thinking about renting a small apartment near their parents; they needed some space. Abdou was back home in Senegal, in Muslim territory, and was reasserting his dominance. But he and Fanta were already bored because they were not working. After four months of idleness in detention, they needed to get busy. All in all, their lives were good, if a bit unsettled. Their lawyer was working to revive their citizenship and secure documentation.
Zola wanted the details of the last two weeks, beginning with their arrests, their escape to Brooklyn, then on to Barbados. Mark and Todd alternated stories and everything was funny. The waitress returned with the drinks, and Zola insisted they order chicken yassa, a traditional Senegalese dish of roasted chicken and onion sauce. When the waitress left, Todd and Mark resumed their storytelling. The scene in Judge Abbott’s courtroom—when half the spectators seemed ready to rush the bar and grab them—required both of their efforts because all three were laughing so hard.