Fraudulent Transfers Read online

  “Where the hell have you been?” Veronica asked in a voice that expressed more relief than anger. “I was just about to leave you here to fend for yourself and head for the yacht harbor.”

  “Veronica, it isn’t easy being chased around an unfamiliar airport in the middle of the Caribbean by someone who just saw $22 million slip out the door of his bank and who is accompanied by a guard with a gun.”

  After all that excitement, the ten minute ride to the yacht harbor was uneventful, although I did tell the driver he needed to hurry and, at least by Grand Cayman Island standards, he tried to comply. Gus and his plane were there, with Gus sitting in a portable lawn chair, smoking a cigar, drinking a beer and reading the Wall Street Journal. We exited the taxi and hurried out onto the dock with our roller bags to meet him. Gus folded his paper and stood up as we approached. He was probably in his mid sixties, six foot two and 200 pounds, with a short, ragged salt and pepper beard. He was wearing shorts, a tee shirt with a picture of a swordfish on the back, flip flops and a Miami Dolphins baseball cap. His skin was a combination of tanned and sunburned, and had the texture of an old baseball glove.

  “Hello folks. Right on time, I see. I’m Gus.”

  “Hi Gus. We’re your fare for the day. We are, I think, Jack and Veronica.”

  “Yep. Those were the names I was expecting. Glad to meet you. Ready to go?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but it looks awfully stormy out there. Is it safe to fly in this weather?”

  “Probably,” he said as he loaded our roller bags into the back of the plane.

  With some help from Gus, we climbed in, stepping first onto the port side pontoon. I took the co-pilot seat. Veronica crawled into the back seat which, in a pinch, could hold two relatively small people. Gus untied the plane from the dock, gave it a shove, jumped from the dock onto the port side pontoon and then gracefully pulled himself up into the cabin. Once there, he closed and locked the cabin door, put on his seat belt and told us to do the same. He then cranked the engine, which sputtered for a moment and spit out a large cloud of blue smoke before firing up. The plane vibrated and rattled as Gus taxied out into the choppy waters of the bay next to Governor’s Creek Yacht Club.

  “Were we expecting someone else? There’s a black Mercedes that just came roaring into the parking lot at the yacht club.”

  “No Gus,” I said, “but it might be prudent if you got us the heck out of here as quickly as possible. The guys in that car are not happy with us and at least one of them has a gun.”

  Gus pointed us north, into the wind, and floored it, or whatever you do in a seaplane to bring it up to take-off speed. After what seemed like a half mile but was probably less, the plane slowly lifted off the water, and banked to the right, heading us in an easterly direction. The plane made a bumpy and noisy climb to maybe a thousand feet and then leveled off.

  “Gus,” I shouted over the noise, “we seem to be heading east. We were told we’d be going to Belize, which is west. Am I missing something here?”

  “Well, I’ve been told that I need to do what I can to confuse people who might want to know where you’re headed. Like maybe the guys in that Mercedes. So we’re going to go east for fifty miles or so, toward Jamaica, and then we’ll go back west.”

  “Do you have enough fuel on board for that?” I asked.

  “Probably,” Gus said.

  Since I was tired of yelling, and tired generally, I didn’t ask any more questions until we made our turn back to the west and Gus brought the plane down to where we were just a few feet above the water.

  “Gus, we’re flying awfully low. Is that safe?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “Have you heard the expression ‘flying under the radar?’ That’s what we’re doing. Our flight going east would have been monitored by the radar system at Owen Roberts International Airport. After fifty miles, we’re out of radar range for that airport. I don’t want us to be picked up again by the radar as we head west. So we’re flying low. Anyone believing you’re on this plane and looking for you will think we’re heading for Jamaica.”

  Gus kept the plane in this just-above-the-water mode for the next hour or so, even though the north wind, coming in on the right side of the plane, was bouncing us around in what I, at least, considered a perilous manner, with the left wing tip occasionally touching the top of a wave. After that, Gus brought the plane back up to the thousand foot level we had started with. But now the problem (as perceived by the passengers at least) became visibility. We were flying through thick, heavy clouds and we could see absolutely nothing.

  “So Gus. How can you see where we’re going?”

  “I can’t. I’m using instruments. Most of them are still working on this plane.”

  “Most of them? Is that safe?”

  “Probably.”

  About thirty miles out from land, the clouds parted and in the distance we could begin to see what we assumed was the coast of Belize or Mexico or some other Central American country. At that point, I began to relax and Veronica actually fell asleep.

  “So Gus, how did you end up flying a seaplane in the Caribbean?” I asked.

  “I used to fly big jets for Delta, but that was boring. Those planes fly themselves. The pilot’s main job is to try to stay awake. So I bagged my highly paid job with Delta, bought myself a trapped out floatplane in Petersburg, Alaska, and started doing floatplane charters up and down the Inside Passage. That solved the boring problem in spades. But it gets cold and dark and rainy in Alaska in the winter and at my age body parts start to hurt in that weather. So I decided it was time for a change of venue and an opportunity came along to buy this plane and set up shop down here, and I took it. The plane is registered in the U.S. but I rarely go back to the States. I have an apartment in Costa Rica and another one in Jamaica, and I split my time between the two places.”

  “What about family?” I asked.

  “No family. Wife and kids died in a car accident thirty years ago. I didn’t want to risk having something like that ever happen again, so it’s just me and my plane.”

  “Don’t you worry about hurricanes?” Veronica, now back awake, asked from the rear seat.

  “I’ll take hurricanes any day compared to the storms that would come out of nowhere and whip down the Inside Passage. We know a hurricane is coming days and sometimes even weeks before it gets here. And we can track its progress and monitor its path and wind speeds. When a hurricane comes along, I take the plane someplace safe and just wait it out. You couldn’t do that in Alaska.”

  “Where, exactly, are you taking us?” I asked Gus.

  “My instructions are to take you to Ambergris Caye. In case you don’t know, that’s an island off the east coast of Belize. You’re staying at a hotel called the Seahorse Lodge. Very nice. As soon as we land, I’ll call them and they’ll come pick you up.”

  “And how do we get home from here?”

  “I don’t know. My responsibility ends when I get you to Ambergris Caye without whoever might be chasing you knowing where you are. The way this usually works, though, is that you will take a flight back to Belize City in a plane that was probably built when Carter was president and then you fly from there to someplace in Mexico and from there back to Houston or Dallas or Miami.”

  Fifteen minutes later Gus landed his plane in calm seas and taxied to a floatplane dock in downtown San Pedro, the only town on Ambergris Caye (at least the only town anyone has ever heard of). It was now after 5:00 p.m. but in this part of the world, there was still ample daylight. The water around Ambergris Caye was the color of an emerald and the beach was pure white. While taxiing to the dock, Gus called the Seahorse Lodge and told whoever answered the phone that Mr. McConnell and Ms. Stailey were awaiting pickup at the floatplane dock. Apparently, the hotel was expecting Jack and Veronica, and not Jonathan and Sarah. Since neither Seymour Wheeler nor any of the other people involved in the funds transfer Veronica had just man
aged to hijack knew our real names, this was, we decided, a part of Ed’s plan to keep us out of harm’s way. Gus helped us exit the plane without falling in the water, retrieved our bags from the back of the plane and loaded them into the Seahorse Lodge courtesy vehicle, a well-preserved mid-sixties Volkswagen bus. We thanked him, shook his hand and gave him a wave as he jumped back onto the plane, fired up the engine and taxied over to a fuel station a short distance away. Before he left us, Gus said he was going on to Belize City on the mainland to visit a friend and would then be heading to Costa Rica in the morning. No one in the nature of a customs or immigration officer paid us a visit as we exited the seaplane and climbed into the Seahorse Lodge courtesy vehicle.

  The Seahorse Lodge, just to the south of San Pedro’s business district (such as it is), was indeed a nice place, with a main lodge building where breakfast was served and that had limited television service, and seven individual cabanas where guests stayed. The buildings were all one story, with stucco exteriors in a pale yellow color, and red tile roofs. We were assigned to the most northerly of the cabanas, which had two bedrooms, a large bathroom with a see through glass shower and rain-type showerhead, a nicely furnished living/dining room with an unobstructed view of the ocean a mere sixty feet away, and a small kitchen. The bathroom, I noted, was equipped with Sea Scent Body Lotion. I pointed this out to Veronica who informed me she was ready any time for another back/front rub. However, the room also came equipped with a chilled bottle of Cakebread chardonnay, an upscale wine from the Napa Valley, so we postponed Veronica’s body lotion treatment, opened the bottle of wine and took it outside to the patio area in front of our cabana, where there was a small table, two comfortable wooden chairs and a spectacular view of the ocean, capped by a now-darkening sky.

  “Veronica, a toast to you. An amazing job.”

  “And a toast to you, and to Ed, for coming up with this plan.”

  “That was mostly Ed. I just did what he told me to do. Speaking of Ed, we need to call him and tell him we’re here, and get his instructions for what happens next.”

  I found my cell phone, which still had some battery life left, and called Ed on his cell. Even though we were well off the beaten path, there was a good connection. Since no one else was around—the three cabanas closest to us seemed to be vacant—I put the phone in speaker mode.

  “Hello Jack. And Veronica?”

  “Hi Ed,” we said simultaneously.

  “Gus, your seaplane pilot, called me to tell me he had delivered his passengers to Ambergris Caye, as instructed. I hope the hotel I picked out for you is satisfactory.”

  “The hotel is wonderful,” I replied. “We’re sitting out on the patio in front of our beachfront cabana enjoying the last hour of daylight and drinking the bottle of wine you presumably ordered for our arrival. There are beautiful clouds off to the east that are shining bright orange from the setting sun. Where did you find Gus, by the way?”

  “A referral from a professional colleague who used to be on the police force in George Town. How did he do?”

  “He did great, although it took us awhile to adjust to the idea that he actually knew what he was doing and wasn’t just a thrill seeker. And he could do with a newer plane. But what’s going on back there? Is the horse really back in the barn?”

  “Yes indeed. The $22 million and some change is safely parked in an account at the San Francisco Federal Reserve Bank and all parts of the transfer, including the transfer out of Bayfield Bank back to San Francisco that Veronica was able to originate, are firmed up and final. By now, Bounce’s client, whoever it is, is mad as hell wanting to know why its money isn’t where it’s supposed to be in an account somewhere in Nigeria.”

  “What happens to the money?” I asked.

  “In the morning, there will be a wire transfer back to Front Street Bank in an amount that will allow the bank to redeposit $4.8 million into the Williston and Turnbull clearing account plus an amount to cover Williston and Turnbull’s legal fees and some interest. That deposit will take place two days from now--on Friday, December 30—the last day of the standstill agreement. Mike Lawrence will call Williston and give him the news, once the redeposit has been made. He will also call Josephine Haughton and let her know the redeposit has been made. There will be an amount in the wire transfer to Front Street Bank to cover your firm’s fees and my fees, and the costs we have incurred along the way, plus a little extra to compensate Front Street Bank for pain and suffering and emotional distress. By the way, included in the wire transfer to Front Street Bank is money to cover another two days for you at the Seahorse Lodge. So you’re booked and paid for through Friday night. Mike Lawrence has OK’d this, without a pout, and Veronica’s boss said she can take her time getting back to work. You guys are, of course, heroes at the Fed right now and, based on a phone call I had this afternoon with Sam Donaldson at the Fed’s legal department back in Washington, the possibility that certain illegal acts may have occurred during the course of our operation will not be a subject of inquiry. He seems to be a firm believer in the fight-fire-with-fire approach to addressing criminal activity affecting the U.S. banking system. Plus, as Veronica knows, he’s getting ready to retire so he’s not too worried about criticism of his handling of Operation Bounce. Also, Jack, your secretary Stephanie has assured me that all is well at the offices of McConnell Jones and Knight, and there is no hurry for you to return. In fact, she suggested that the more time you took getting back the better.”

  “What happens to the rest of the money?”

  “A small amount will go to Merchant’s Bank to cover its legal expense. After that, there’s already a big tug of war going on between the Fed and FCEN--the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. The Fed has the upper hand here based on the theory that possession is nine tenths of the law.”

  “I hope you’ll include a few home run hours in your invoice to Front Street Bank.”

  “There may be a couple of those, relating perhaps to the time we spent tracking down Padilla and Pollard, but nothing else.”

  “Speaking of Pollard, what’s happening to him?”

  “He was on duty with me all morning today monitoring the funds transfers from Seattle to Houston to Miami to George Town, and digging out the changed account name Veronica needed to move the money back out of Bayfield Bank. We couldn’t have pulled this off without his help. After we knew our mission was successful, Pollard, as planned, met with a lawyer from the U.S. Attorney’s office in San Francisco and he told her the entire story about his gambling, the loan from Triangle Capital, and the extortion that followed. With the help of a lawyer from Wiley Monfort’s firm, Pollard worked out a plea bargain. He’ll plead guilty to one count of violating the Bank Secrecy Act, pay a $50,000 fine and be placed on probation for a year. And he’s actually being given a job of sorts, as a contract consultant under a different name, with FCEN back in Virginia. FCEN thinks he can be of considerable help to it in shutting down money laundering operations on the West Coast and elsewhere. He’ll take a cut in pay but, all things considered, this is a great outcome for him. For his safety, he came to work today with bags packed and, at this moment, he’s on a plane back to Washington. Pollard’s secretary at the bank is taking care of Molly, his dog, until he gets situated back east. Wiley Monfort thinks there won’t be a problem getting the deed of trust to Triangle Capital stripped off his house in Tiburon, so that property can be sold, Pollard can settle up with his ex-wife, pay his $50,000 fine and have some money left over to adjust to his new life. Although it’s unlikely that Bounce will have a pulse after its client gets done with it, FCEN will provide Pollard with a new identity, and with physical protection for a few months, just to be sure no one is coming after him.”

  “Speaking of protection and all, what about you—and us?” Veronica asked.

  “Our names won’t show up anywhere as having had any involvement with any of this. Also, as I said with regard to Pollard, it is highly predictable that Bounce is now going
to be out of business and everyone associated with it that doesn’t get caught and arrested will be in hiding. The people whose crimes generated the money that Bounce was hired to launder out of the country are going to lay low. If those people do decide on retribution, it will be against the principals at Bounce and won’t go any farther than that. I’d still lock my doors if I were you, but I don’t think you’re at risk.”

  “Have you by any chance made arrangements to get us home?”

  “Yes, of course. I run a full service travel agency operation here. You have a flight out of San Pedro Saturday morning at 10:00 a.m., on Maya Island airlines, back to Belize City. From there, you’ll be flying on TACA airlines to Mexico City. Then you’re on an American Airlines flight to Houston. If everything is on schedule, you’ll be in Houston by 4:30 Saturday afternoon. Once you get to Houston, Veronica is booked on an American Airlines flight to San Francisco and Jack, you’re on a United flight back to Colorado Springs through Denver. You’re traveling as Jack and Veronica. With the help of Sam Donaldson at Fed legal, we’ve made sure there won’t be any security, immigration or customs issues arising from the fact that there is no record of either of you ever leaving the country.”

  “And what are your plans?” Veronica asked, already into her second glass of the chardonnay.

  “I’m done here so I’m flying back to LA tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll be heading to Dallas in my motor home. I have a new assignment there from MasterCard, which has been stung with a major identity theft problem involving some six hundred thousand credit card accounts. Hackers got into the computer system of a large, must remain nameless, Internet retailer and stole credit card information from transactions that took place over a six week period. Fraudulent use of this information is just now showing up as cardholders get their billing statements for the holiday shopping season. MasterCard is stuck in the middle of a big fight between the banks issuing the credit cards and the Internet merchant whose system was breached. The law is to the effect that, as between cardholders and the card issuing banks, the banks suffer the loss. However, they think the merchant that allowed the data breach to occur should suffer the loss. Both the banks and the merchant think MasterCard should suffer the loss. So it’s a three-way finger pointing exercise. And in the meantime, the bad guys are nowhere to be found. Sound familiar?”