Dominique spread the blanket out and tossed him a cold beer. “Greatest show on earth,” she said. “Come sit.”
Hannon sat beside her on the blanket. She was leaning back on her elbows, her long legs stretched out in front of her. The hike had them both perspiring a little, and he could see her brown nipples faintly through her top. They sipped cold beer as she pointed out the sights. Frye’s Point, Darkwood Beach, and Johnson’s Point were the nearest beaches, mile-long strips of sand that had yet to be developed.
“When I was a little girl, there were lots of beaches like those right down there. If your family drove up for a Sunday picnic and somebody was already there, you just left them alone and drove on to the next one. These days, you’re lucky to find only one hotel per beach.” Her eyes drifted slowly toward the
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horizon, where the sun was beginning to dip into the glistening Caribbean. “This is truly my favorite place in the whole world,” she said with a nostalgic grin. “Sometimes I wish I could just stay here forever.”
Hannon smirked, then finished his beer and opened another, staring down at the sailboats below. From this height, they cut across the blue-green waters like graceful white swans.
“Hey,” she said, her eyes brightening. “Maybe we’ll see the green flash.”
“What’s that? Some Antiguan comic-book hero?”
“No,” she laughed. Then she sat up quickly, excited he’d never heard of it. “It’s an island tradition. A little ribbon of green color stretches across the horizon just as the last bit of sun slips away for the night. You can only see it in places like the Caribbean, where there’s no dust or pollution. Even then, it’s hard to see it. But if you do, they say it brings you luck.”
He shot her a glance, thinking her enthusiasm peculiar.
“I don’t really believe in luck.”
“You should,” she said as she scooted closer to him on the blanket. Her eyes were playing games with him. “I bet you have all kinds of luck and don’t even know it.
Has anyone ever read your palm?”
He shook his head.
“Mind if I do?” she said with a sly smile.
He hesitated, then relaxed his hand as she took it gently in hers and uncurled his fingers. She was sitting cross-legged, staring down into his palm.
“Wow,” she said as she dragged her nail along one of the creases. “I can see you’re going to be a rich man. Or maybe you are already.”
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“Soon,” he quipped, thinking of the Charter Bank.
She sipped her beer, then found another crease. “Here’s your lifeline, right here.”
“Long?”
“Looks to me like you should’ve keeled over yesterday.
Kidding,” she said, giving him a friendly elbow. “Yes, it’s long. And I’d venture to say it’s a happy one, too.”
“What makes you say that?”
She flattened her hand against his, comparing size.
“Because you’ve got the biggest hands I’ve ever seen,” she said, eyebrows dancing. “A girl doesn’t have to be a palm reader to know what
that
means.”
He quickly withdrew his hand. His expression turned cold as he stood up, towering over her.
“What’s wrong?” she said, looking up nervously.
He was sneering, all traces of warmth having vanished from his face. “That’s what you think, isn’t it? Big tall guy. Must be hung like a mule.”
“I was just teasing.”
“I don’t like to be teased.”
“Sorry, mate. Let’s just drop it, okay?”
He drew a deep breath, but his face flushed red. “That’s what you came out here for, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“To see the biggest cock you’ve ever seen.”
“No,” she winced. Her lip started to quiver, a combination of fear and anger. “I don’t care about that.”
His eyes narrowed and filled with contempt. “You
liar
.”
She swallowed hard, suddenly afraid to speak. “I—
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I think I want to go home now.” She pushed herself up, but he knocked her right back down.
“Siddown!”
She started to squirm away, but he stepped hard on her ankle, pinning her on the spot, as if he had a rat by the tail.
“You’re hurting me.” She reached for her ankle, but his look made her back off.
“What did you think, this would be some kind of X-rated freak show? Something you could go back and tell your girlfriends about?”
She cowered against the blanket. Her voice trembled.
“Take it easy, all right? I won’t tell anyone anything. Just let me go.”
“Don’t
lie
to me! You talked. I know
you talked
!”
A tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t even know you!
What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about me! You fucking talked about
me
.”
Her fear became panic as she watched his expression turn steadily colder, to something beyond reason. It was as if he were speaking to someone else.
She brushed a mosquito from her hair, then finally forced herself to look him in the eye.
“Look,” she said in a desperate tone, “I’m sorry if I said something wrong. Please. I’ll walk myself back. I know the way. Just let me go.”
“Go?” he said with a sadistic scowl. “I thought you said you wanted to stay here forever.”
Her mouth opened, but the words didn’t come. It was getting darker, harder to see, but she watched closely as he reached into his pocket.
“Forever’s a long time, Dominique.”
Her eyes were locked on the hand slipping from 266
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his pocket. He had something wadded in a white cloth napkin.
His voice became lower, more threatening. “Forever,”
he said. “Hasn’t anyone ever warned you to be careful what you ask for?”
He dropped the napkin, revealing the knife.
She was about to scream, but he was right on top of her, pinning her to the ground. She couldn’t shout, couldn’t bite, couldn’t even breathe. Her skull seemed to flatten beneath the pressure, against the ground. It covered her entire face, half her head, from chin to crown.
It was the biggest hand she’d ever seen.
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t
he Charter Bank of Antigua opened for business at nine o’clock Monday morning, but Hannon didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself by being the first customer of the day. He ate a leisurely English breakfast of poached eggs and tomatoes alone in his room while reviewing the bank records he’d taken from Rollins.
At five minutes till ten, he started to apply the disguise.
His Aryan complexion was already darker from the Clinique self-tanner he’d applied before going to bed.
Brown contact lenses covered his icy blue eyes. A latex cap and brown wig went over the sandy blond hair. The epoxy irritated his nostrils, but he shook it off, knowing that the rubberized nose would make his chiseled profile unrecognizable. The padding strapped around his waist gave him a middle-aged paunch. Finally, a thick brown mustache and tortoiseshell eyeglasses made him look almost Middle Eastern.
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He fumbled in his briefcase for the right passport. The disguise was hot for the tropics, not something he’d want to wear all day. Accordingly, he had two sets of identification. He’d entered the country as Charles Ackroyd,
“Charlie,” the Nordic god who had won over Valerie’s heart and wallet back in Maryland. He would enter the bank, however, as Eric Venters—the tall, dark, and not so handsome creation staring back at him in the mirror.
Perfect
.
Around 11:00 A.M. he arrived by Jeep in St. Johns, the island’s capital and only real city. Nearly a third of the island’s population resided in the old city that had stood for centuries on gentle slopes above the large bay. Near the boatyard, fishermen made lobster pots and mended their nets. Many older streets were still lined with traditional two-story buildings of wood and stone with balconies that hung over the narrow, cracked sidewalks. The Charter Bank was in a modern strip mall near a cluster of clothing shops and computer stores.
Hannon parked his Jeep in a space directly in front of the bank. He was dressed in the same khaki slacks and blue blazer he’d worn on the plane from New York, but he had a fresh white shirt and conservative striped necktie for added credibility. The drive along All Saints Road had been comfortably cool in the open-air Jeep, but now that he’d stopped he was feeling the heat. He dabbed the sweat from his brow and started toward the mall.
Hannon stopped at the curb, somewhat surprised by what he saw. The Charter Bank didn’t appear to be much of a bank at all. It shared a main entrance with a 269
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dozen other banks, all with their small signs posted outside the door—everything from “Charter Bank of Antigua”
to something as silly as “Joe’s Bank of the Caribbean.”
He’d heard of offshore havens, but somehow this was on a much smaller scale than even he had anticipated.
He opened the glass door and stepped inside. It had no leather couches, expensive artwork or rich wood paneling. The walls were bare beige and the furnishings simple. Two women were busy at computer terminals on metal desks. A man dressed in casual slacks and a short-sleeve shirt was talking on the telephone near the fax machines. Hannon noticed no tellers, guards or security cameras. He felt as if he’d entered a travel agency rather than a bank.
One of the women rose from her desk. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes,” he said with assurance. “My name’s Eric Venters.
I’m here to close my account. But first I’d like to enter my safe-deposit box.”
“I can handle the box for you,” she said. “You’ll have to see Mr. Jeffries about closing the account. Come with me, please.”
Hannon followed her to a cubicle in the corner. It was a small area of privacy where one customer at a time could enter his safe-deposit box. Hannon bristled as she checked his identification—passport and driver’s license—against the records on file, fearing she might focus on the height discrepancy that Rollins had warned him about. It went smoothly, however. As he’d expected, the bank had a written application, but no picture ID on file with which to compare his passport.
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That kind of formality would definitely have scared away the drug-smuggling, money-laundering clientele that kept this particular offshore haven in business. In two minutes she returned with a rectangular metal box. She placed it on the table in front of him.
“Just signal me when you’re through,” she said.
“Thank you.” Hannon looked around discreetly before entering the box, to make sure he had total privacy. He slid open the metal top and smiled as he peered inside.
It was completely empty, save for a 9mm pistol and three ammunition clips.
Without question, the most dangerous part of Rollins’s plan was the physical retrieval of the money. As yet, there was no reason to believe that the
Tribune
had called in the FBI. Even if it had, Antigua’s bank secrecy laws probably would keep them off the trail. It was no secret, however, that bank secrecy could conceivably be broken by well-paid informants. Even Rollins had been savvy enough to make sure he was armed in case something went wrong.
Hannon removed his jacket and wrapped it around the gun and ammunition clip. It muffled the distinctive sound of a gun being loaded. He put the jacket back on and tucked the loaded gun in his breast pocket. The two other clips went in his pants pocket. He closed the box, then stood up to signal that he was finished. It took a moment to get the woman’s attention, since the bank was very sensitive to its customers’ privacy. Finally, she came.
“Mr. Jeffries will see you about closing your account now,” she said.
Hannon nodded with appreciation and headed 271
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across the room. Jeffries was a portly man, roughly twenty years older and a foot shorter than Hannon. He had thin, jet black hair but a salt-and-pepper mustache that obviously didn’t get the same dye he used on his head. He greeted Hannon with a firm handshake and polite smile, then offered the chair facing his desk.
“Mrs. Flannery told me you wish to close your account with us,” he said in a distinctly West Indian accent.
“Yes. I’d like the balance in cash, please. American dollars.”
“Cash,” he said with a slightly troubled look. “I see.
Well, that shouldn’t present too much of a problem, I hope. At all events, I’ve taken the liberty of pulling up your account information. We show a balance of two hundred thirty-eight thousand dollars. Pity how those wire transfer fees add up, isn’t it?” he said with a banker’s smile. Drawing no response from Hannon, he slid three standard forms across the desk. “If you’ll just sign here, here, and here, please.”
Hannon looked it over, then signed carefully. He’d practiced for more than an hour that morning, trying to get it perfect.
The banker smiled. “All right. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” He rose and headed across the room, then disappeared through a locked door to the back. Hannon sat quietly, but he remained alert. He presumed the bank was checking the signature on file. After a minute the door opened, and Jeffries was still smiling. A good sign.
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James Grippando
need just another moment,” he said. Then he headed for the computer terminals across the room.
Hannon watched out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t see the terminal screen, and he wasn’t sure what he was doing. Jeffries had said he’d already taken the liberty of pulling up his account information. He glanced across the desk to see what was there. The account application, a record of account activity—and a photocopy of the signature card. He felt a tug of suspicion. If the signature card was here, what had Jeffries been doing back
there?
He glanced again across the room. Jeffries was on the telephone. He was too far away, however, to overhear the conversation. Hannon tried to read his lips or even the expression on his face, but the banker turned his back.
Finally, he hung up. He was dialing again—yet another phone call. Hannon glanced at the two women at their terminals. Neither made eye contact with him. Jeffries was now off the phone and walking toward him. He was still smiling, but it seemed more plastic than ever.