Saving Sophie: A Novel (5 page)

“Maybe Nizar forgets it is precisely on those tour buses that we will carry out our operation. Or maybe Nizar would do it by camel train.”

On a stuffed futon in the corner, Fa’iz Talib sat quietly, observing the banter. The eldest member of the group, he leaned his back against the wall. His head tilted forward and his wiry beard rested on his cream-colored kurta. From his knitted taqiyah to his laced sandals, his bearing bespoke composure and wisdom, affording him deference. “Vitriol among us does not further anybody’s plans,” he said. “What is your concern with the wedding incident, Arif? I, myself, authorized it.”

“I care nothing for the wedding party or the people who were shot, including the bride, who, some of you know, was treated at my home. I care only about jeopardizing our operation. The public perception—the newspapers, CNN—they pick it up and use it in their campaign to portray us as barbarians.”

“Maybe that’s not so bad. Anything that creates fear in the hearts of our oppressors suits our purpose, no?”

“I don’t dispute that. But the timing is bad. In the wake of our operation, it will focus attention on Hebron. It’s bound to bring more IDF, more Israeli police. The IDF will now go door-to-door to dig up a suspect. For a tiny act of retribution, the swatting of a few mosquitoes in a wedding party, it increases the risk of our exposure.”

The baker rubbed his grizzled beard and smiled. “But maybe they don’t come back so soon for weddings, huh?”

The others laughed.

Fa’iz held up a hand. “What’s done is done, let’s talk about the bus. What is our progress, Rami?”

“We have converted and painted an identical tour bus. It has a false floor. Undetectable. It will be ready well before we need it. Aziz has already taken a job as a Jerusalem tour bus driver and is dispatched twice a week.”

“And the bags, Arif?”

Al-Zahani nodded. “Coming along.”

Fa’iz stood and the others followed suit. They joined hands in a circle around the table.

“From the river to the sea,” Fa’iz said.

“From the Golan to the Gulf,” the group responded. “Blessed be the Sons of Canaan.”

E
IGHT

J
ACK SOMMERS’S FIRST ORDER
of business was to shop. He needed clothes, kitchen and bathroom essentials, and apartment furnishings. He had sufficient funds through his Panamanian debit cards, all issued in the name of Eugene Wilson. For a larger purchase, he knew he’d have to open an account at a local bank.

Sommers set out on Waikiki’s main thoroughfare. Fragrances of orchid leis hanging from Kalakaua’s sidewalk kiosks mingled with the ocean breezes. Palm trees lined the busy avenue, shading a stream of pedestrians from the morning sun.
A river of dawdlers in flip-flops,
he thought. Their slow progression would have irritated Jack at some earlier time, but not today. There were no deadlines, no appointments. Life was on temporary standstill.

Clothing stores were plentiful on Kalakaua, and Sommers needed clothes, but he was also wary of laying out too much money in any one store and becoming a conspicuous consumer who might stick out in some shopkeeper’s memory
. Buy a little here, buy a little there,
he thought.
Never too much at one place. Nothing too extravagant. Try not to return to the same place too often
.
New rules to live by.

Sommers needed to make Room 212 more livable. He bought an assortment of cleaning supplies and spent the afternoon scrubbing down the room. New bedding, new pillows, new pots and pans, and even a new window curtain helped to erase the gritty feeling he’d experienced when he first opened the door. He told Glenn that it would be unnecessary for the housekeeping staff to care for his room, that he would do it himself, thank you very much. Glenn responded, “You’re talking to the housekeeping staff, and you’re very welcome.”

The Coral Reef had no Internet service, but the coffee shop around the corner had free Wi-Fi. The library down the block had free Wi-Fi. He could get by. For transportation, a four-year-old, blue Acura in excellent condition was available at a nearby dealership. Sommers purchased the car with funds wired from his Panamanian account and titled the car in the name of Eugene Wilson at his Kaiulani Avenue address. His vehicle registration provided him with yet another ID. Things were starting to come together for him, and he was sure it would not be too much longer. He expected to hear good news any day.

*   *   *

D
AN GIBSON, A BUNDLE
of nerves since Harrington went missing, received a call from CPD detective O’Herrin. “Did you locate Dennis Harrington?” Dan asked cautiously, fearing the worst.

“Not yet, but we found his car. It was parked at the North Avenue Beach.”

“At the beach? Why would it be at the beach?”

O’Herrin paused. “We saw no indication of foul play. There may be all sorts of explanations. All we know is that his car was left in the lot at North Avenue. It was snow covered and locked. We had it towed to the pound at Randolph. I just thought I’d let you know. If you have a key, you can come and pick it up.”

“Will you keep looking for Dan? Will you canvass the area?”

“The immediate area is a vacant, snow-covered beach. We did take a look around, but we didn’t see anything. If you’re talking about canvassing the people who live in the high-rises across Lake Shore Drive, no, sir, we do not intend to do that. But we’ll keep his MP file open.”

“Is it against the law for me to post signs in the area? You know, like, ‘Call me if you have information.’”

“I don’t see the harm, sir.”

*   *   *

J
ENKINS HURRIEDLY ASSEMBLED HIS
firm’s executive board. The e-mail was short and to the point:
Emergency meeting in the conf. room. 2 pm. Serious situation. No excuses.

“Who owns this Loan Services account?” a partner asked after Gil had narrated his story.

“We don’t know yet,” Gil said. “I’ve requested all of the information from Exchange. It should be here soon.”

“Who’s at fault here, Walter?” another partner said. “Is this our fuckup?”

Jenkins gestured for Gil to answer.

“I hate to keep saying this, Preston,” Gil said, “but we don’t know yet. There may be several explanations for the missing funds.” He counted them off on his fingers. “One, the money may, in fact, be sitting at the bank and the bank is wrong, they’ll find their error and straighten it out. Hell, it might be a firestorm over nothing. Two, there could be some glitch in the Internet transfer and the Fed wire was never completed. Maybe the money is still in transit, in limbo somewhere. It’s happened before.” Gil looked around the room. “Either one of these would solve the problem.” He shrugged.

“Three, maybe it’s Exchange’s fault—maybe Greta signed more than one letter,” Gil continued. “Or somewhere between Greta and Midwestern, the document was corrupted by a third party.” He shrugged again. “Could be.”

“I thought you said that Harrington and Sommers signed off on the letter,” Preston said. “They both eyeballed and approved the goddamn letter.”

Gil nodded. “That’s true. I’m sorry, I guess we can forget about number three.” He held up four fingers. “Still, someone at Midwestern Title could have changed the numbers after the letter was approved by Sommers. I doubt it was Ellis, I’ve known him for a few years, but I guess you can’t exclude anyone. Also, it’s possible someone got into his file cabinet. Maybe another officer at Midwestern.

“Five, Harrington could have changed the numbers and slipped it by Sommers at the closing. Six, I guess you all know what’s coming. Sommers and Harrington could have jointly participated in a monstrous embezzlement. They’re both missing.” Gil looked around the room. “I recommend we notify our liability-insurance carrier immediately.”

“What are the limits of our policy?” a partner asked.

“Fifty million,” Jenkins said.

“So we could be holding the bag for thirty-eight million dollars?”

Jenkins nodded. “That’s true. If we’re found to be at fault, if it was stolen by one of our partners, or through the firm’s negligence, this partnership and every partner here could be liable for thirty-eight million dollars.”

“Shouldn’t we also notify the FBI?”

Just then, Jenkins’s secretary entered the room with an e-mail from Exchange and handed it to Jenkins. He read it and closed his eyes. He dropped the note on the table where Gil retrieved it and read it to the group:

“‘
Wire transfer for eighty-eight million dollars received yesterday by the New York branch of Exchange National to be credited to the account of Loan Services, Co. The account was opened by Richard Hudson, president of Loan Services, Co., on December twentieth with an initial deposit of one thousand dollars. At ten thirty
A.M.
, within minutes of the receipt of yesterday’s wire transfer, Mr. Hudson directed Exchange to immediately wire-transfer the entire balance to the First Republic Bank, Panama City, Republic of Panama, to be credited to the account of Capital Investment Funds, Inc., account no. 14-961245444. The transfer was completed at ten forty-five
A.M.
EST. The account was then closed. It appears that neither Mr. Hudson’s telephone number nor his address is valid. Duplicate copies of the documentation to follow.’”

There was silence in the room. The partners looked around, hoping that someone would offer up an answer, a solution.

“Does anyone know anything about this bank in Panama?” Jenkins said.

“I’ve never dealt with the First Republic Bank, but I’ve done business with other Panama banks,” a partner responded. “They have the second-largest international-banking center in the world, next to Switzerland. There are over a hundred international banks in Panama, with the tightest banking-secrecy laws in the world. Panama law prohibits bankers from disclosing any information about a private banking client to any person, including the United States government. Panama has enacted severe penalties for any violations.

“Accounts are easy to set up. You can do it from anywhere; you don’t have to be in Panama. All you need is two financial reference letters from banks or brokerage houses, bearing a notary stamp, the kind that every secretary in our office has sitting in her desk drawer. You also need a passport, but they’ll accept a photocopy. The documents are rarely, if ever, verified, especially if no credit is requested.”

Jenkins stood. “Enough. Susan, contact our insurance carrier and put them on notice of a possible claim. Gil, contact Tom Tryon at the US Attorney’s Office and schedule a meeting. I am going to contact a very good private investigator I know.”

Everyone rose to leave. “I don’t have to tell any of you,” Jenkins said, “that none of this information leaves this room. If it hits the street, it could ruin us. As of this time, our position is, and will remain, that we have done absolutely nothing wrong.”

*   *   *

S
OMMERS TURNED IN EARLY.
The last few days had frayed his nerves and he was exhausted, mentally and physically. He poured himself a small glass of Scotch from a bottle he kept within reach on the nightstand. Although he dozed off quickly, his sleep was fitful, beset by the same disturbing dreams. There he was, back again at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, standing by Alina. Her beautiful olive complexion had paled. She had lost so much weight. He stood frozen by her bedside. Everything he loved was slipping away and he could do nothing to stop it. Totally helpless. Totally useless.

Alina looked up from her bed and smiled weakly at him. “Take care of our little butterfly,” she said in a whisper. “Promise me you’ll take care of her, Jack. Don’t let her forget me.”

“Alina,” he pleaded. “Stop. You’re going to be fine. The doctors are treating you. They’ll cure you. They said they’re hopeful.”

“I love you, Jack. I’ve loved you since the day I met you.” She smiled and reached for his hand. “Remember that first day? I was playing the piano. You were wearing a tux. You were so handsome.”

He tried to grasp her hand, to lean over the bed, but the rail kept rising, higher and higher, blocking him, separating him, keeping him back. Alina withdrew farther and farther from his reach.

“Jack, stay strong. For me. For Sophie. For yourself. Remember our wedding vows: ‘So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this and this gives life to thee.’” Then, in a whisper: “Jack, it’s time. I have to go now.”

“No. It’s not time. Not yet. Stay with me, Alina. You know I can’t … I don’t want to be without you.”

She raised her hand and smiled. “But you have to.” He grabbed the bars of her bed rail. “Stay with me, please. Keep fighting. Sophie and I need you.”

“I can’t fight anymore, sweetheart. I’ve tried. Now I have to leave. From time to time, show Sophie my picture. Tell her that her mother loved her very much.”

“Alina,” he cried. “Wait. Let me call Dr. Stone.” He frantically tried to dial the doctor’s number, but the phone kept slipping from his hands. He looked down at Alina. She was fading in and out of focus.

“Take care of Sophie, she needs
you
now. You must stay strong for her. Good-bye, my love.” Alina’s eyes closed and the bed was suddenly empty.

He woke up in a sweat. “No!” he yelled. He reached for the Scotch, poured another shot, downed it, and flung the glass into the wall.
“Alina!”
he screamed.

It was 4:00
A.M.
, but Sommers needed to get out of the room. He grabbed a sweater and left the motel. The ocean breeze had cooled the night air. His walk was aimless, just one block and then the next, and soon he found himself back on Kalakaua, wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop.

The beachfront hotels were dark and quiet. Just past the Hyatt he came upon Kuhio Beach Park, where he took a seat on a wooden bench. The bright, gibbous moon reflected off the calm seas. Soon it would be dawn.

His dreams of Alina had shaken him to the core. They were a clarion reminder of his abject failures: he had failed to keep his promise, he had failed Alina, he had failed Sophie. Sommers felt as if every single internal organ was tied in a knot. He stared at the sea: calm, dark, peaceful.
Come join me,
it said.
I offer peace
.