"It was on with two little spikes,” Rick told her. “It hurt like hell."
"Poor little baby,” Georgina crooned. “I'll kiss it better."
"Kiss, hell,” he said. “I know something that will help a lot better."
Then he rolled her over and covered her body with his.
Monday morning, Georgina waited impatiently for Annabel to arrive at work.
"Can you try to get me an appointment with Benedict Seidler?” Georgina asked. “It's urgent."
Benedict Seidler was the Chief Executive Officer of Pacific Bank. Georgina had only met him a few times, and she had never requested an appointment before.
"He's flying out to London tomorrow,” Annabel said. “If you don't get to see him today, it won't be for another couple of weeks."
"How do you know that?” Georgina stood by Annabel's desk, watching Annabel take a pair of Manolo Blahniks out of her leather tote bag and change from the running shoes she wore for the walk in from the bus stop.
"I had lunch with Rachel on Friday."
"Rachel?"
"The girl who wears towering high heels. Dark hair, cut to about here.” Annabel lined her hand against her collarbone. “You've spoken to her in the break room."
"I don't think I know her."
Annabel closed her tote and shoved it under her desk. “Rachel is Mr. Seidler's admin."
"Oh,” Georgina said. “That tall girl."
"You're such an innocent,” Annabel groaned. “She's no taller than you. It's the heels she wears."
"Whatever.” Georgina swatted the air. “Can you call her and try to get me an audience. It's important."
"Leave it to me.” Annabel wheeled her chair around and punched a number into the telephone.
Ten minutes later, Annabel buzzed Georgina on the intercom. “Rachel says Mr. Seidler had already asked to see you before he flies out. He's waiting for you right now. Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Not that I know of,” Georgina said, but a sudden unease churned inside her. Could her flippant statements in front of the drug baron at the Marriott have reached the bank's security department before she had the opportunity to explain? It could all backfire horribly. She might end up losing her job over a few stupid comments.
Up on the twelfth floor, a thick wall-to-wall carpet muted her footsteps. The rare occasions when Georgina had been inside the sanctuary of Pacific Bank's top management before she'd been amazed by how un-businesslike the surroundings were. Hardly a single computer in sight, but plenty of expensive art, and a collection of executive toys, such as a golf putting lane, and a miniature basketball hoop.
Benedict Seidler was a tall man with a domed forehead and a complexion rendered leathery by outdoor pursuits. He got up from behind his vast desk and ushered Georgina into one of the low leather chairs arranged around a coffee table.
"I hear you wanted to talk to me about something,” Mr. Seidler said. There was a hint of continental Europe in his speech.
"Yes.” Georgina sat down and folded her hands in her lap. “I'm requesting your permission to assist the police in a money laundering investigation.” She explained the plan to him, including a sanitized version of how she had become involved.
"This police officer, Mr. Matisse, what is his rank?
Georgina frowned. It had never crossed her mind to ask. “I'm afraid I don't know. But I have his phone number. You can ask him yourself. He is expecting your call.” She handed him a folded piece of paper with Rick's name, the words ‘San Diego Police Department', and a telephone number neatly printed on it.
"Very interesting.” Mr. Seidler kept nodding as he muttered to himself. “An excellent way for the bank to contribute to the community. You have my permission."
"Do I need to notify anyone else?” Georgina said. “Like Jefferson Myers, the Head of Compliance?"
"Interesting you should mention that,” Benedict Seidler said, leaning forward in his seat. “Did you know that Jefferson Myers is planning to retire in the spring?"
"No,” Georgina said. Her heartbeat speeded up. “I didn't know that."
"Very good,” Benedict Seidler said. “That is what I wanted to talk to you about. You kept your apartment in London, did you not? Relocating back there wouldn't be a problem for you?"
An hour later, when Georgina returned to the tenth floor, she floated on air.
Annabel welcomed her with a dazzling smile. “Let's go into your office. You can tell me all about it,” Annabel said.
"Did you know?” Georgina barely dared to speak, in case it was all a dream.
"I knew they were considering you. Have they offered it to you?"
"Not yet,” Georgina said. “I need to go through a formal interview process. They need to make a firm decision before Christmas. That's when they'll announce that Jefferson Myers is retiring."
"Georgina Coleman, Head of Compliance. How does that sound?” Annabel beamed at her.
"I don't understand why they're offering it to me,” Georgina said with a perplexed shake of her head. “Not to David Pearlman, the section head who is Simon's boss. Those two have always taken the credit for everything I've done."
"Simon and David are lazy,” Annabel explained. “When they used your work, they couldn't be bothered to re-type your emails. They just forwarded them to Jefferson Myers, after first deleting your name from the top."
Georgina's brows knitted. “How did Mr. Seidler know about that?"
"He didn't. But Jefferson Myers did.” Annabel grinned. “You know that little button at the top right corner of your emails? After the address string?"
"No,” Georgina said. “I've never used it."
"It shows the entire chain of an email, even if you delete the previous sender's details."
"Oh,” Georgina said.
Annabel gave her a smug nod. “Jefferson Myers clicks on that button a lot. He recommended you."
"I see.” Georgina shrugged her shoulders, as if extra weight had already been heaped upon them. “There is something else. I'm going to be involved in another project."
"Not another project,” Annabel cried. “Trent called me when he got home on Saturday night. He told me how upset you got at the Marriott."
"This is different,” Georgina said firmly. “It's a work project. A criminal investigation. I'll tell you more about it later. I may need to ask for your help."
"Criminal investigation?” Annabel said in a low voice. “Promise me you won't take any risks. I hate violence."
"I'm only going to be doing what I normally do for the bank,” Georgina reassured her. “There'll be no violence."
"There's always violence when there's too much greed,” Annabel said quietly. “And once you're sucked into it, it's difficult to get out."
"Don't worry.” Georgina turned to her keyboard and let her fingers fly. “Let me just finish a couple of emails. Oh, and Mr. Seidler asked me for a statistical analysis of all recent transactions. I'll send a big file to the high-speed printer. Can you go and pick it up as it comes out. The data is confidential. I'll work on it at home tonight."
Annabel seemed a bit pale all of a sudden, Georgina thought fleetingly. Then she forgot everything else, as she focused her mind on her job.
A surly middle-aged maid clad in black escorted Georgina down from the second floor guest suite where she'd been shown upon her arrival ten minutes ago. They halted by a pair of double doors carved out of solid mahogany. With a silent nod, the maid turned the handle and pushed the right side open. Then she quietly disappeared across the marble hall.
Georgina stepped through. The dimly lit room with paneled walls was best described as a library. A huge stone fireplace covered most of the left wall, adding to the Gothic atmosphere.
In the centre of the room stood a small dining table set for two. Georgina strolled about, pretending to admire the massive armoires filled with musty books. In reality, she was scanning her surroundings to assess where the security cameras would be hidden.
Rick had stayed with her all through that night almost a week ago, the last time they had seen each other. Instead of sleeping, he had alternated between making love to her, and drilling her on the dangers of undercover work.
Never let your guard down. Always assume someone is watching and listening.
Phones don't need to be contaminated with electronic bugs any more. Modern technology has changed all that. Anyone with the right contacts can have turnkey access to your conversations, without ever going anywhere near your telephone.
Don't be fooled into believing there has to be a hidden microphone inside the room for someone to eavesdrop. A parabolic microphone, or a laser microphone can pick up your voice from outside, even through glass, unless the window is the patterned kind which will refract vibrations. If you have to talk, whisper into the other person's ear. The safest place is in the bathroom, with the tap running hard.
And just because someone can't hear you, don't assume they can't find out what you are saying. You could be on videotape. Someone with the right skills could be employed to watch and read your lips.
When Georgina called the number Rick had given her, it had to be from a public telephone, and she must make sure her face was hidden while she spoke.
Always be on your guard.
Rick had left her at dawn, already distant and preoccupied. A few hours later, Andy had came by to say goodbye, her excitement over visiting her grandmother in Washington only marred by the prospect of a long separation from her father.
Separation from her father. Georgina let out an anguished sigh. What about
her
? She wouldn't be able to see Rick, maybe for months. She didn't even know where he was. All she had was a telephone number to report her progress. If she was lucky, they might occasionally connect her to him.
Her only support would come from someone by the name of Roy Harris. He hadn't even appeared yet, and all she would be able to discuss with him were things that didn't really matter if they were overheard.
She was all alone. She hadn't felt this alone since she was a little girl, missing the parents she had so suddenly lost.
In the foyer outside the room, footsteps clicked against the marble floor. Georgina drew a long breath. Then she faced the source of the sounds.
"Miss Coleman. Welcome to my home. Did you have a good journey?” Domenico Diaz stood in the doorway. He smiled at her, but did not approach to shake her hand.
"Yes, thank you, I had a very comfortable drive. Thank you for sending the car."
"My pleasure.” This time, Mr. Diaz was dressed to honor his heritage. The suit remained dark and plain, but the cut was different, with narrow trousers and a short jacket cropped at the waist. Instead of a tie he wore an ornately tied scarf in deep hues of red.
Georgina waited, unsure of what to do or say. She had a strange feeling of being under scrutiny. She forced herself not to continue searching for the cameras she hadn't been able to locate.
"Is your accommodation satisfactory?” her host asked.
"Thank you, yes, my room is very comfortable."
"Tomorrow, I will show you around. Do you ride?"
"I'm afraid not."
"In which case you will enjoy an afternoon by the pool."
Georgina gave him a soft laugh. “Yes. I think that will be more suitable for my humble talents."
"I'm sure your talents are many and varied.” Mr. Diaz strolled to the table and pulled out a chair, inclining his head as an invitation for her to sit down. “Shall we eat?"
"Yes.” Georgina took her seat and spread the embroidered napkin across her lap. Thank heavens for the instinct which had directed her to dress in a conservative cream linen suit instead of jeans.
They talked a few minutes about the weather, how it was starting to cool as the autumn drew in, and about the location of the house on the outskirts of Palm Springs. Domenico Diaz had purchased the estate a decade ago from the original owner, who'd built it between the wars. The furnishings, which came with the house, were original.
"I know that the grandeur is a bit faded,” Mr. Diaz said with good humor. “But I like it. The house and I suit each other."
"Yes.” Georgina raised her glass and took a sip of the velvety red wine. “Everything is an excellent vintage. You and the house and the wine."
Another silent maid dressed in black entered bearing a tray. After she had finished serving and closed the door behind her, Mr. Diaz became businesslike. “Did Mr. Camacho explain I wish to engage your services?"
Georgina nodded. “I wouldn't be here if he hadn't. As much as I'm sure I'll enjoy the weekend, my time is precious."
"I will naturally compensate you at the appropriate rate."
"I charge for my time,” Georgina told him. “The results will be up to you."
"Agreed.” Mr. Diaz unfolded a napkin, showing no interest in discussing the scale of her fees. “Tell me, what is this money laundering you mentioned?"
"I'm sure you are aware of the process, although perhaps you don't recognize the name that's used to describe it,” Georgina said. “It's called the BMPE. The Black Market Peso Exchange. It is the largest money laundering system known to the authorities. Around five billion dollars of drug proceeds are moved from the US into Colombia every year using this route."
"How does it work?"
"The process first emerged because of currency restrictions, rather than the need to move drug profits across borders. The Columbian central bank didn't allow pesos to be exchanged for dollars without paperwork to prove that import permits had been obtained, which would have ensured that Colombian import duties, and tax on profits at resale, would be paid."
Mr. Diaz shook his head. “It's always taxes in the end,” he said. “It's death and taxes that will get us all."
Georgina caught her breath so sharply a sip of wine went down the wrong way. She snatched up her napkin and coughed into it, using the excuse to shield her face. She knew her eyes betrayed her fear.
He knows
, she thought.
He knows
. She peered over the edge of the cloth, and saw Mr. Diaz helping himself to another portion of the delicious red snapper he had described as
'Guaginango a la Vera Cruz'
.