He paused and looked at Badde.
“Did you know demand for 1B visas runs in the six figures, but only sixty-five thousand are issued? Meanwhile, the U.S. never issues all ten thousand EB-5s that are available each year. Which we are going to change.”
Santos then gestured, holding his arms wide.
“Anyway, so here I am,” he said. “And here we are.”
“Interesting,” Jan Harper said, sipped her rum, then added, “And there are some five hundred banks here, is that right?”
Santos nodded.
“Correct. Which is why OneWorld does all its business here. As you probably know, the Caymans are called the Switzerland of the Caribbean. For a couple main reasons. One, it has those five hundred-plus banks you mentioned. And, two, it has the confidential Relationships Preservation Law-in which Section Five imposes criminal penalties-fines and imprisonment-if someone attempts to share confidential information. That of course includes where funds come from and where they go, but everything else, too, including the names of the officers of a company.”
“Remarkable,” Jan said. “And it’s certainly kept everyone who’s investing with Diamond Development happy.”
Santos nodded again.
“That is why all our investment vehicles for Diamond Development are FINS-Focused Investment Niche Strategies. They’re highly diversified, include many EB-5s, and, being Cayman-based, the lid on them is kept tight.”
“Rapp,” Jan said, turning to Badde, who was draining his glass of rum with his straw, “that’s what I was talking about with Yuri. Reassuring him of the confidentiality and stability of the investment. .”
The Philadelphia Economic Gentrification Initiative’s first project had been to replace an abandoned factory on the banks of the Delaware with the new Lucky Stars Casino amp; Entertainment facility. Diamond Development-forty-nine percent was owned by Yuri Tikhonov through shell companies; minority-owned companies, including Urban Ventures LLC, which Badde had a small piece of, held the rest-was constructing a new indoor sports and live music coliseum that could fit sixty thousand fans under a retractable roof.
Jan went on: “. . especially since PEGI cuts through the red tape to get the EB-5 applicants approved. That’s critical. A typical investor could expect a seven to ten percent return on investment. A foreign national wanting U.S. citizenship will settle for around two percent-if they’re assured the project has Fed approval.”
“Exactly,” Santos said. “It’s equally critical for those borrowing the money, because they’re paying less interest.” He grinned. “Which of course allows for higher profits.”
Badde nodded.
“And that’s damn cheap ROI,” Santos added.
“ROI?” Badde said.
“Return on investment. Rapp, your hotel project is going to get a mighty sweet ROI.”
Badde grinned, then flashed his full toothy smile.
Then he felt his Go To Hell flip phone vibrate. He looked at the caller ID. It read gibberish: #01-0K0-30X–V34-X%K.
He ignored it.
[TWO]
Strawberry Mansion, Philadelphia
Saturday, December 15, 6:55 P.M.
“How long do we gotta stay down here?” Tyrone Hooks said, trying hard not to shiver as yet more cold water dripped on him from the roof of the tunnel.
Hooks could just barely make out in the dark tunnel the form of Reverend Josiah Cross sitting on an empty plastic milk crate. Both Hooks and Cross were wrapped in thick woolen blankets.
“Shhhh,” Cross said, glancing up at Hooks, who was standing. “Keep your voice down until we get to where it’s all clear.”
“I don’t know how much more of this cold I can take,” Hooks said.
“Cold I can deal with,” Cross said, then chuckled. “But that stinking smell of yours got old a long time ago.”
“Said I was sorry. Never been shot at before.”
–
Tyrone Hooks was no stranger to the sound of gunfire-for as long as he could remember, he had heard shots in his neighborhood on a regular basis, sometimes every night on weekends-and at the rally there had been no doubt in his mind that he was hearing shots fired in the crowd.
The real trouble was that he saw the black guy-he stood by a group of white people-aim and fire at him. Which had been why he automatically dropped to the stage.
He’d seen that Reverend Cross had done the same, and as Hooks tried to think quickly about what to do next-how to get the hell away from what he expected to be more bullets aimed at him-he suddenly felt a big hand roughly grabbing the back of his hoodie and dragging him from the stage.
Once on the sidewalk, his heart feeling as if it could beat through his chest at any second, he struggled to get to his feet. When Hooks looked up, he saw DiAndre Pringle pulling Reverend Cross from the stage and then dodging those rushing past as he tugged Cross toward the red doors of the ministry.
Pringle looked back over his shoulder.
“This way, Ty! C’mon! Move your ass!” he called to Hooks.
Hooks felt a hand on the small of his back pushing him toward the doorway.
–
Once they were all inside, and the red door was slammed shut, Hooks followed Cross and Pringle across the big room and to the staircase at the back of the row house.
Outside, the police sirens, more and more of them, were getting louder.
“Keep up, Ty,” Pringle said, and led them quickly down the wooden steps into the basement.
At the bottom, behind the back staircase, was a heavy wooden panel with shelving, made to look like the rest of the wood paneling of the basement. It was about the size of a narrow door-and, Hooks saw, for a reason.
Pringle gave a hard push on the left end of the panel, and it slid to the right, revealing a passageway with a raw earthen floor, walls reinforced by wooden beams, and a ceiling of chipped stone.
“Here, Rev,” Pringle said, handing Cross a small flashlight.
“What the hell is this?” Hooks said as he looked at where the dim beam lit the darkened hole.
“It began as an escape route, Ty,” Pringle said, “and it stored homemade moonshine and beer during Prohibition.”
“Escape from what?”
“From the cops, man!” Pringle said. “Just like now. Now stop fucking talking and get going!”
He shoved Hooks through the opening and slid shut the panel door.
Hooks looked down into the tunnel.
Cross, the dim flashlight beam bouncing off the rough-cut rock and the wooden beams, was leaving him behind.
Damn it!
Tyrone Hooks then noticed a familiar sickly sweet smell, and about the time he realized what it was, he sensed a very warm, moist spot in the back of his briefs.
Oh, man! I don’t remember doing that!
But. . I almost died!
Pulling out his cell phone, he lit up the screen, cursed that he had no service, then held the phone out before him, its light casting a green glow down into the tunnel.
He tried opening the panel door behind him. It did not budge.
Damn. Locked. .
Carefully, awkwardly, he rushed to catch up with Cross.
–
Five minutes later, Tyrone Hooks and Josiah Cross were standing before a wooden wall-what looked like a dead end-with empty plastic milk crates stacked next to it.
“Now what?” Hooks said. “We’re trapped?”
“No,” Cross said.
Hooks tapped his phone to light up the screen again.
“And there’s still no signal down here,” Hooks added.
He waved the screen light of the phone around at the stack of crates and then the wood panel that capped off the tunnel.
“What is this place?”
“What DiAndre said. An escape route back when booze was illegal. For when the cops cracked down on the market selling moonshine-at least the cops who didn’t take an envelope of cash, and maybe a bottle or two, to look the other way.”