Off Kilter (9 page)

George Town, Grand Cayman

May 4

The
Admiral Risty
slid quietly into its slip at George Town Marina before five o’clock a.m. Collin prepared himself by reviewing his carefully devised plan on his computer, a plan put together without any help from Lukas. In the predawn darkness, Collin memorized, from his meticulously detailed fact sheet, the names, phone numbers, addresses, and account numbers he would need.

At 6:30 a.m., Collin emerged from below deck with a clean set of clothes that made him look like a wealthy tourist. The sky above was an azure blue with the golden sun just beginning to push its way above a line of silver clouds on the eastern horizon. A slight breeze blew from the southwest, warm and fragrant. The smell of the sea mixed with the island flora to create that uniquely Caribbean scent. The marina was full of majestic sailboats and proud yachts, lines and pulleys clanking gently in the morning breeze. As he looked around, he could see no one else moving about.

For the first time since he began his life on the run, Collin walked without his computer and its carrying case on his shoulder. He didn’t need it and felt it would only slow him down. The Captain was an honorable man and promised to remain at the marina until Collin returned. He also promised to guard the bag and the computer. A trust had been forged, and Collin knew he had nothing to worry about.

Collin told the Captain he’d be back by eight o’clock. He felt quite bare without his computer bag despite the trust in Captain Sewell and his crew. In fact, all he had on him was a wad of cash and a forged passport with a fake name. Nonetheless, he carried himself with a sense of confidence and purpose.

Collin was lucky enough to find a cab parked near the docks as he strode toward the main road that led back to town. His mind was focused and all synapses were firing, planning for contingencies.

Acting like every other impatient and entitled American tourist, Collin approached the taxi. He woke the sleeping driver and explained that he had to make several stops. The taxi driver grumbled about being awakened, but Collin shrugged that off and promised to make it worth his while, holding two one hundred dollar bills between his fingers.

The first stop was at the large outdoor market area. The shops were closed and wouldn’t open for a couple of hours the cab driver informed him. But after Collin illustrated his urgency by waving another hundred dollar bill, it turned out there was a friend of the driver’s who owned an army surplus store. He would open early if there was a reason convincing enough.

“Perfect,” said Collin. “Take me there, please”.

The army surplus store was only a few blocks away, and the driver forewarned the owner with a brief phone call. Collin was able to settle his business with the man quickly, leaving him smiling broadly and giving his friend, the cab driver, a thumbs-up.

The second stop wasn’t so much a stop as a drive-by. He ordered the driver to pass through the downtown area so he could scope out the bank that he would soon be visiting. He wanted to make sure no one was there. Early on a Saturday morning, he knew that was unlikely, but he had to erase any doubts. From there he asked the cabbie to drive him to the wealthy part of town, where garish white and columned mansions hid from sight behind massive walls, imposing gates, and stately trees. They wove their way through the neighborhood, the houses growing larger and farther apart as they climbed up a hillside. Once the correct house was located, Collin jumped out and handed the cab driver the two hundred dollar bills, which produced a large, toothy grin from the heretofore grumpy man. As the taxi drove away, Collin pulled out the cheap cell phone with the pre-paid minutes he had purchased at the surplus store and dialed a number from memory. He connected as the cab disappeared from view.

“Mr. Catangan, sir?” he said with all the authority and clout he could muster. “You don’t know me, but I have approximately $2.8 million dollars deposited in your bank. I have reason to believe that my security and the security of my money have been compromised. I need you to meet me at the end of your driveway and take me to your bank right away. You have sixty seconds to comply.”

“Who are you? And how did you get my personal cell phone number?”

Ignoring the question, Collin continued, following the script from memory. “Like I said, I am one of your clients. Your bank has had usury of my money for nearly two years.” This was a stretch and he knew it, but it sounded better than six months. “I believe this has been a benefit to you. If you do not want the United States government combing through your records, you will come out here immediately and take me to your bank.”

“I don’t believe your story. Why would I?” the bank president protested.

“Because the federal government of the United States is anxious to find and tax offshore accounts. I understand Interpol is doing the same. They are searching for accounts such as mine and people who aid and abet people like me. They can and have shut down others. They can and will shut you down if you don’t comply with my wish. All I have to do is tip them off. You know that I’m right, sir. I mean you no harm, and I expect you to treat me with respect and understanding as one of your clients. All I ask is that you escort me to your bank and help me withdraw my money so that you and I can both avoid a lengthy and uncomfortable investigation. If I can’t get to my money, sir, I’ll make sure that you and your bank suffer the consequences. The authorities would be more than willing to listen to my story. Is that reason enough?”

“I’ll be right out.”

The gamble paid off.

The heavy wrought iron gate shuddered momentarily, then began its arduous sweep inward toward the finely manicured lawn. The driveway curved slightly to the left toward the house. Collin followed it impatiently, not knowing what to expect. Maybe an armed guard, maybe a vicious dog. Instead, a very calm and dignified man, tall but portly, stood five feet above him on the whitewashed porch. He wore a white, nylon, Nike warm-up suit that was tight across the midsection and bright red Nike jogging shoes. His skin was dark and his countenance even darker. Thick arms crossed his chest; beady eyes watched Collin intently.

“This is highly unusual,” came the booming voice of a man who clearly held the upper hand as Collin approached the steps.

“My life is highly unusual these days, sir,” Collin responded quickly. These words and Collin’s calm, non-threatening demeanor caught the bank president off-guard. Collin assessed this immediately and continued his narrative with a conciliatory, analytical tone. “What I said on the phone is true. You know it. I know it. Otherwise, you would not be standing here talking to me. Neither of us is in a very good position right now. With an election approaching in the United States and the recent cyber attack on RBS, we both know it’s only going to get worse.”

The man nodded and unfolded his arms. Collin had stopped at the base of the steps to the porch. He had to tilt his head upward to make eye contact. The bank president squinted down at him through narrowed eyes. “Why not come to the bank during business hours?” asked Mr. Catangan.

“I was followed to George Town yesterday. The authorities know I’m here and are looking for me. I couldn’t take the chance. It would have compromised my security and brought unwanted attention to your fine institution.”

“So you did it for my protection?” Catangan said with a sarcastic chuckle.

“More for mine, to be honest. But this way you avoid embarrassment in front of your clients,” explained Collin.

Catangan pondered for a moment as he eyed Collin up and down, taking in the whole stature of the person who was so bold and so clever as to find him at his home and to threaten him—no, his livelihood—in such a direct and disturbing way. Yet the man at the base of his porch did not appear to be a physical threat. There was no sign of a weapon, nor any talk of such. He was not large, imposing, ill-tempered, or aggressive. No, it was a much more intelligent threat, and that scared him sufficiently. This man, this invader, wore a flower print, button up shirt, khaki pants, a straw hat, dark Tommy Bahama sunglasses, and functional trail sandals. He looked like any other well-to-do American tourist. The only odd thing about him was the empty backpack hanging loosely from his shoulders.

“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” Mr. Catangan finally admitted, as he gave an ever-so-subtle gesture with his hand and eyes toward one of the windows at the far end of the porch.

In that instant, Collin realized there was someone watching them. Probably more than one person, too. This could have gone horribly wrong had he tried brute force.

“We go alone, just the two of us, to your bank, and we go now. Otherwise, I push
send,
and a very incriminating e-mail goes to the Commission on Banking and Commerce here in your country and the Federal Trade Commission in mine.” Collin held his phone out with his thumb hovering over the screen.

“I understand. There is no need to get excited. I will comply with your wishes.  I have no interest in provoking any investigations that could adversely affect my business. Now come with me.”

Mr. Catangan nodded again nearly imperceptibly toward the window, then descended the stairs quickly and gracefully. Collin started backing up as soon as Catangan began to move but was surprised at how nimble and agile he was for such a large man. In an instant, the bank president was within a yard of Collin, and it was easy to see that he could close that distance in a flash if he wanted to.

This close, Catangan looked less fat and more athletic, though older. There were hints of white in the closely trimmed hair and beard that Collin hadn’t noticed before. Probably about fifty, give or take a couple of years.

The bank president strode along the curving driveway, beneath the abundant foliage of a line of trees that hid his home from plain view of the street. Collin fell into step several paces behind. As he reached the garage door and began punching in a code, Mr. Catangan turned to Collin and asked, “Why don’t you just transfer the money electronically? That’s how the money got to my bank in the first place, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But it’s those transactions, especially in large amounts, that Interpol is looking for.”

“Do it in small amounts, then, over several days’ time.”

“I don’t have that kind of time. They’re here on the island, probing. Neither of us wants to draw their attention now, do we?” countered Collin.

“If you’re worried about large transactions, doesn’t it seem peculiar to pull out $2.8 million in cash? Don’t you think that will raise some red flags?”

“It would if it weren’t for the fact that your bank is well-known for its discretion, for protecting the privacy and identity of its customers. That’s why I put so much money in your particular bank. You’ve earned a reputation and I’m sure you’re motivated to keep it intact.”

“You’ve done your research. Very well, have it your way. But be warned: the risk of walking through George Town with currency is great.”

“That’s another reason we’re doing this now and not during regular hours.”

*              *              *              *

After a short ride through town to the Grand Keys Bank of Grand Cayman, the two men climbed out of the sleek, black Land Rover and entered the bank through the back entrance long before any other employees arrived. Within twenty minutes, Collin exited the bank with his backpack full of US currency. $2.8 million dollars’ worth.

He took off the silk button up shirt, revealing a well-worn, white T-shirt with a washed out logo. Under the khaki pants, Collin sported faded cargo shorts. Swapping the wide brimmed, straw hat, he covered his head with a tattered baseball cap. He was now dressed as many of the American regulars on the island, including the sandals and the dark sunglasses. His hair was long enough to stick out in all directions from underneath the hat, covering his ears and his forehead. The sunglasses concealed much of his face, and the dark brown stubble helped disguise the rest of it. The backpack he had purchased at the army surplus store looked similar to what many locals and foreigners alike toted around.

Taking the money out was a risk Collin had to take. His research told him that the authorities were freezing suspicious accounts. That was not an acceptable alternative. The money meant much less to him than his family, but he knew it was vulnerable. He had to keep it away from the dreaded Komodos, if at all possible.

The realization that this game was becoming increasingly dangerous scared and thrilled him at the same time. With his own survival on the line, Collin’s brain was engaged like never before. He felt alive instead of alone. He felt vital instead of miserable. Twice in two days he had outsmarted and outmaneuvered his pursuers and, although he was not entirely safe yet, his confidence was at an all-time high.

After walking a few blocks through the streets of George Town with a forty pound backpack bulging with concealed cash over his shoulders, catching menacing glances from several men, Collin’s confidence evaporated. He could hardly hear anything except his heart beating, his pulse pounding in his ears. In that moment, he questioned the logic behind his decision, which only made things worse. Despite his attempts to relax, he could not control his head from pivoting all around and his eyes from darting in all directions. Carrying $2.8 million in a backpack had a way of messing with one’s mind.