Off Kilter (12 page)

His mind was filled with steps from the meticulously constructed plan, a checklist of things he knew he needed to do to accomplish his goal of repositioning all of his money, not just what he was carrying. There was another $27 million out there. Some of it was safe in banks that Lukas had determined were not on the law enforcement radar. Another $9.5 million in various banks would be easy to transfer to InterCon Bank because the accounts were each under $1 million. Collin’s primary concern today was to physically move the $7 million dollars from other banks in Panama City to InterCon.

Concerns about guarding his fortune and following the outline from Lukas swirled as he maneuvered between the huts and brick buildings of Porvenir.

Sliding in and out of Panama without detection was paramount. So far, so good. Thanks to Captain Sewell, getting into Panama had turned out much easier than he had anticipated. Landing here in the Kuna Islands and dealing with the affable native people in Porvenir was a stroke of good fortune that he hoped would continue.

Next goal: Get to Panama City.

He had to get to the local airport, which necessitated finding a taxi, which were not plentiful. The town was so small and so poor, there was hardly a vehicle in sight other than hand-carved boats and rickety bicycles. The first and only cabbie he found required some convincing, oddly enough, but he came around when Collin showed him he had a stack of Panamanian currency.

The airstrip looked more like a long-neglected sidewalk. It was about as wide as a two-lane alley. Cracked concrete with green clumps of grass pushing through, patched in several places, and two sets of yellow Xs marking the ends made up the landing strip. One small building with a make-shift Formica counter served as the airport’s nerve center.

Collin swallowed hard as he surveyed the scene. A pang of discomfort rose inside him and squeezed at his sternum. A few deep breaths and a quick bit of research on his phone helped restore a sense of calm. Apparently everything worked. Planes came and went without incident several times a week. No reports of crashes or fatalities on the Internet.

He also learned there was an outgoing flight from Porvenir to Panama City with empty seats at 12:40.

Things being lax as they were on this obscure island, Collin was able to pay cash for his ticket and walk onto the twelve-seat, twin-engine, commuter plane without question, let alone a search of his person or bags. Lukas had not steered Collin wrong, which added to his confidence.

Next obstacle, however, would be clearing customs in Panama City. As a foreigner coming through Kuna Yala, there would be a higher risk of drawing attention. Lukas assured him he would take care of the details by the end of the twenty-minute flight.

As he walked off the plane in Panama City, Collin’s palms were sweaty, as was his brow. He had to maintain control and play it cool.

The secret to getting through unfamiliar situations, he knew, was to act like you had done it a hundred times before. Confidence was the magic ingredient, the thing that made it all work.

Collin summoned the courage he needed to exude confidence. He donned his sunglasses and secured his bags in his grip. He painted a determined look on his face, steely and convincing, as he walked through the terminal with an all-business swagger. No problems.

Out of compulsion, he dug his phone out and did the one-handed texting thing.
Anything I should know?
he asked Lukas.

Inside the terminal, there were crowds of people of all sorts, mostly Latin Americans, but there were quite a number of Europeans, Americans, and other white people. There were tourists, business people, college students, and local merchants moving this way and that. The bulging backpack, however, made Collin feel conspicuous. No one else was wearing such a large, conspicuous pack. He felt like he was standing out, and he didn’t want that.

The phone dinged. Lukas’s reply:
My contact will meet you at Line 4. Have some US currency with your docs. $200 should be plenty. Nothing to worry about. You’ll be fine.

Collin followed the instructions and made his way to Line 4. The man behind the glass seemed no different than any of the other customs agents. Taking a deep breath, Collin stepped forward when the agent motioned for him, mustering all the serenity he could as he presented his papers. The man’s hands were quick and adept. The money slid discreetly from Collin’s passport under a loose piece of paper. As the man looked at Collin’s passport, not a trace of interest on his face, he said without so much as looking up, “It is an honor to welcome you to Panama, Señor Spencer. We wish you the best on your expedition.” The thirty-something-year-old official managed a smile and a nod of his head as he took in Professor Spencer and his large backpack. He then flipped the pages of the passport, pounded a stamp onto one of them with gusto and authority, and handed it back to Collin. “Next,” he said as he waved to the person behind Collin.

Exhaling in relief, Collin picked up his bags and moved swiftly toward the exit, eager to get away from the crowds, the security, and so many unknowns.

He turned a corner and came upon a short man wearing a three piece suit and chauffeur’s hat holding a plastic placard that read: Welcome Nigel Spencer.

Collin walked right past it, lost in a tangle of complex thoughts. When it finally dawned on him several paces later, he turned to the man and introduced himself. The limousine took him to The Executive Hotel. Uniquely positioned in the heart of Panama City’s thriving financial district, the hotel towered above the bustling city. Every bank he needed to visit would be in walking distance.

He fired off a text to Lukas as he stood outside the front lobby:
Nice touch. Seems a little overboard.

Not for a guest of the govt
was the reply.

What?
Collin shot back.

Part of your cover. It’ll work. Much safer, too.

Preferable to Collin would be a small budget hotel with free Internet, where he could come and go unnoticed. But, trusting Lukas, he tipped the chauffeur and reached for his overstuffed pack and the smaller backpack. He clutched the computer bag in the other hand. Within seconds, two friendly bellhops were at his side, offering assistance that Collin was not used to. His resistance was useless and short-lived. He had to pause when the young bellhop asked his name.

“I shall take this to your room, Señor Spencer.”

When they arrived at his room, Collin tipped him with American money and thanked him for his help. Instantly realizing his mistake, Collin’s eyes opened wide and his words caught in his throat. Collin was supposed to be a Brit. Why would a Brit be carrying US currency? Plus, he had forgotten to use the proper accent, his Yankee pronunciation flowing out before his brain could catch up.

“Gracias,” said the young bellhop who gawked curiously at the money.

Too many people paying him too much attention and two mistakes that could haunt him. He had to get his work done and get out of town. It was already two o’clock in the afternoon. The bank would close in three hours.

He had to prepare the money for deposit. Pouring the cash wrapped in duct tape onto the bed, Collin stopped to take it in. It was a big pile—more money than he and Amy had ever dreamed of. He pulled out his pocket knife and began ripping open the gray bricks, pushing away the thoughts of what he’d lost in exchange for it. His knees gave way as her face flashed in his mind. This time, though, it wasn’t the pretty, smiling face he liked to remember. This time it was the face with worry and dread painted on it after paying bills. He caught himself on the edge of the bed and slumped to the floor. With his face in his hands, he broke down, unable to restrain the pent up angst. “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m sorry we never had enough,” he mumbled just above a whisper.

Panama City, Panama

May 13

Collin awoke with a start when the incessant knocking at the door finally registered. Quickly checking his surroundings, he jumped to his feet but struggled to maintain his balance. Seeing the stacks of cash spread out on the bed, he stopped in his tracks. His mind clicked on, and he remembered where he was and how he got there. The knocking continued, accompanied by a gentleman’s lightly accented voice. “Señor Spencer? Is everything all right?”

Blinking hard and rubbing his eyes, he zeroed in on the clock to get his bearings. It read 2:48. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’ll be right with you,” Collin stammered in his best British accent, trying to hide his uneasiness. Scrambling to the side of the bed, he grabbed the large pack and swept the stacks of money into it, dropping it in the closet as he walked to the door. “So sorry to keep you waiting. I’m afraid I dozed off there for a few moments,” Collin said, playing off his scattered demeanor.

The man introduced himself as the manager of the hotel and told Collin what an honor it was to have someone so prominent staying at his hotel. Hosting guests of the government was not something they took lightly. Collin thanked him and modestly deflected the compliments. “I’m just a curious professor searching for links between the ancient Mayans and aboriginals of the Caribbean islands,” he said.

“I see,” said the manager. “It’s just that we usually have more than a few hours notice of the arrival of such distinguished guests. We did not have adequate time to prepare one of our presidential suites.”

“Right. No apologies necessary. My office, I’m afraid, must have missed that particular detail.”

“Yes, yes, perhaps you are right. Or, perhaps it is because you arrived by boat at Isla El Porvenir,” the manager said, his head cocked slightly. “It is so difficult to predict the wind and the seas.” His eyes narrowed in anticipation of Collin’s response.

Collin was caught completely off-guard. Again, he consciously maintained a cheery, naïve smile. However, he knew his eyes widened and his chin dropped as the man spoke. He felt exposed and it was difficult to conceal his discomfort. “Yes, we had a change of plans that necessitated alternate travel arrangements.” He turned away and cleared his throat.

“No matter the purpose for your visit, your business is welcome here at The Executive Hotel and much appreciated, Señor Spencer. I trust your stay here will be peaceful and trouble-free. We wish to provide you a token of our hospitality.” The manager’s face was like a mask, completely unreadable. His choice of words obviously meant to convey a level of wariness. He motioned behind him, and another man pushed a small cart holding a silver bucket of ice and champagne into view. The manager moved out of the way, and the cart-pushing attendant looked to Collin for approval. The hesitation was momentary but noticeable, he was sure. He awkwardly motioned for the man to enter.

“You are too kind, my dear sir. Muchas gracias,” he said with terrible pronunciation.

The manager and the cart pusher each gave a slight bow as they exited. “We hope you enjoy your stay, Señor Spencer,” the manager said. Then he backed away.

Thoroughly flustered, Collin closed the door and moved to the center of the room to survey the cart. He circled it twice, peering at it from every angle. Lukas had instilled in him a high level of skepticism, perhaps bordering on paranoia, so he pushed the cart into the bathroom and closed the door. If there was a camera on the cart, it would record nothing but darkness.

One valuable hour had elapsed. Collin scrambled to gather his paperwork and pack. He felt ill-prepared, but time was running out. As a precaution, he shoved the computer bag into the in-closet safe. He grabbed the backpack and headed out because he didn’t have time to buy a more business-like briefcase to carry the cash.

Walking the streets with $2.7 million was a scary proposition anywhere, but even more so in an unfamiliar place. Even though he only had to walk two blocks to his destination, it felt as if it took an eternity. His head swiveled about continually, expecting an attack.

He exhaled in relief as he walked through the front doors of InterCon Bank. Once inside, he was escorted by a young-looking vice president to a private office halfway down a corridor that required a key to enter. As Lukas had promised, the transaction went smoothly and quickly. No prying questions were asked of him, and no scrutiny of his person or papers took place. The most difficult part was finding the obscure office which housed the bank. With the transfers he initiated on his computer earlier, he had already consolidated nearly $11 million in a numbered account at InterCon. This deposit brought his total over $13.5 million.

His watch said 3:37. Two more banks, both within three blocks, held large amounts of his money. He politely requested the young VP to allow him time to return. The vice president promised he would personally attend to all of Collin’s transactions.

His first stop was at another well-kept secret of the ultra rich. PanAmerican Global Assets was a favorite off-shore shelter used primarily by American and Brazilian multinational corporations. Without so much as a sideways glance, the operators there allowed Collin to liquidate $4.15 million dollars, which caused every pouch of his pack to bulge. As he wrestled the pack onto his back, he estimated it to weigh about ninety pounds.

At 4:17 p.m., Collin pushed the electronic buzzer at the entrance of InterCon Bank. The same young man let him into the otherwise empty office. Fifteen minutes later, Collin had an electronic verification that his funds had been received into his account.

One more bank to visit. One more favor to ask of his new friend at InterCon.

“I cannot let you in after five o’clock. The doors lock, and my code will not open them again,” the manager informed him.

The second bank was much closer – around the corner and halfway down the block. It held another $2.25 million. Collin couldn’t risk leaving his funds in banks that were on the target list for Interpol and the FBI. It would feel akin to leaving one of his children alone in the car at the mall. Since electronic transactions were being monitored, direct withdrawal, while fraught with tangible risks, was his best option.

Despite his ability to correctly code in his nineteen-digit account number from memory, Collin’s request raised the eyebrows of the assistant manager who was called to help with the transaction. Collin was escorted into a back office and asked to wait for the bank president.

As he sat, a line of perspiration formed on his upper lip. He squirmed in his seat and fidgeted with the straps on his pack. When the bank president entered the room, Collin half expected the National Guard to enter with him it had taken so long. The man’s face was stern, his gaze penetrating. He huffed as he took his seat in the high-backed leather chair opposite Collin, a ponderous mahogany desk between them. “What is the reason for your hasty withdrawal from our bank, Mr. Stevens, is it?”

“Yes, it is. I guess the reason is simple. I’m paranoid. There are too many reports that the security and anonymity of accounts like mine have been compromised in recent days,” said Collin. His voice was steady, though his stomach was not.

“I resent the implication of your statement. You cast doubt upon our security measures.”

“Not necessarily. But ever since RBS was hacked and millions of dollars went missing, I am rightfully protective and worried. I know you serve your clients well. I chose your bank because of its fine reputation, and once this blows over, if there are no untoward reports concerning this fine institution, I shall redeposit this money and, perhaps, more.”

The president’s eyebrows arched in response, but he said nothing. His eyes burrowed through Collin’s, but Collin held his gaze and continued his hastily contrived story. “You see, I must be more cautious than others. This sum represents more than my life savings. I keep it here because I must hide it to avoid detection by my government, who wants to steal it from me. I cannot afford to lose any portion of this money. Unlike some of your other clients, I don’t have the ability to make back this kind of money, even if I work two lifetimes.”

“This is a very large cash withdrawal. You realize how dangerous this is, don’t you?”

“I do. But I have made arrangements to keep it secure until, like I said, this whole thing blows over.”

“Why not transfer it out electronically?” asked the banker.

“They have computers that look for those kinds of large transfers.”

“If it’s done right, you avoid the risk of carrying cash.”

“Maybe, but I’m more comfortable doing it this way,” Collin said, checking his watch. It was 4:52.

“I see you checking the time. This is an urgent matter for you?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You can see that I am in a rather difficult spot, Mr. Stevens. I am asked to trust you despite the fact that I cannot verify your identity. Your money was transferred in electronically. We have no signature. We have no fingerprints. We have no retina scan. Those would be our normal security protocols when amounts this large are withdrawn. How do I know you are who you say you are—just a paranoid accountholder?”

“I understand your security concerns, but who else might I be?”

“You could be a criminal, a very clever thief. With all of the hacking lately and all the government scrutiny, it pays for someone in my position to be extremely careful, does it not?”

“If I was that clever, I would have moved my money and more a long time ago.”

“Or you could be a government regulator coming to monitor the handling of unusual transactions.”

“I could be. But I would not be in such a hurry if that were true.”

The bank president leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, studying Collin. His eyes darted to his computer screen and back to Collin. “I believe you. You have an honest face, and I do not want to scare away a good client. Your withdrawal is ready. Please keep our bank in mind for your future needs, Mr. Stevens.”

“You have made a very nervous man feel much better. I will indeed bring my money back when the time is right,” said Collin as he stood and held out a hand. The two men shook hands, and Collin exited the office. He was promptly greeted by a shapely young lady holding the handle of a roller bag, which she offered to him.

Collin’s watch said 4:56 as he rolled the small fortune out the door. On the sidewalk, he picked up the pace until he was running, the wheels of the suitcase clacking on the sidewalk behind him. A sense of sweet relief bubbled up as he rounded the corner and made his way toward InterCon Bank. After he concluded the last transaction, Collin made sure to provide the kind and diligent VP a special reward for going the extra mile.

When Collin returned to The Executive Hotel, the head bellhop approached him with a look of concern on his face. “Señor Spencer, what happened to you? You look distressed and your pack, it is now empty. I believe it was full when you left, was it not? Is everything all right?”

Collin shook his head and said, “No . . . I mean, yes, I’m all right. Thank you.”

“What happened to your things? Were you robbed?”

“Nothing like that. I had to take some supplies to a colleague, that’s all.” Under pressure, he somehow was able to pull out a credible story.

“But you look very stressed, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“I’m fine, I assure you. Just tired.” Collin was aware that his accent was not holding up. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and smiled thinly. “It’s been a long day for me. I’ve had much to do in preparation for my expedition,” Collin said as he continued awkwardly past the bellhop toward the elevator. He turned just in time to see the bellhop give a gesture across the lobby to a fellow worker who shrugged, then pushed through the large glass doors to the outside. A dinging sound chimed as the elevator door opened. Collin stood frozen in place watching this exchange. A man in a gray suit entered the elevator ahead of Collin and impatiently punched the buttons, prompting Collin to step forward just before the doors closed. For a moment, he could not even remember what floor his room was on, feeling the glare from Mr. Gray Suit as he hesitated to speak.

Even after returning to his room, Collin struggled to control his breathing and to stop sweating. His nerves felt like they were on fire. There was something troubling about the interaction with the hotel staff. First, the manager and the mysterious bottle of champagne. Now the bellhops. It left him feeling anxious. Maybe Lukas would know something.

He checked the bathroom to see if the cart was still there. Yep, no one had moved it. Maybe it was bugged; maybe it wasn’t. Taking chances was not a good option at this point, however. He draped a bath towel over the cart as a precaution, then closed the door again, unsure what else to do.

Lukas did not answer his phone, so Collin sent him a text:
Something’s not right here. Not sure what to do. Pls advise.

Hunger was stabbing at his stomach. He had been so preoccupied with the business at hand that he had forgotten about lunch. A quiet meal in his room sounded nice, but with all the weirdness in this hotel, the idea of room service was disquieting. But so was going out to eat because he’d have to cross the lobby and risk interactions with the bellhop,
twice
.