Stenman’s expression indicated she did not. The phone rang again. Again, Stenman answered. This time she placed the caller on speaker. It was the Swiss National branch manager.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for the last fifteen minutes . . .” said the manager. He explained his concern over the transfer of $800 million out of five accounts and the rapid movement of those funds to Mauritius Trust Bank. “I know what you do is none of my affair, but I decided to call and—”
“Are you suggesting that I am missing close to a billion dollars?” said Stenman. “This had better be a bad joke . . . Who authorized the transfer?”
“I’m not supposed—”
“Who authorized the goddamn transfer?” she repeated, her voice full of death.
“Your attorney. Mr. Ayers. Just a while ago. At first there was a problem—something about the acoustics in a bathroom—but then things cleared up. This isn’t our fault, ma’am. Mr. Ayers has authorization to move funds from one account to another. You and a Mr. Peter Neil then authorized the final transfer from your joint account.”
Stenman vibrated. Peter tried hard to look shocked. “I . . . I’ll move the money back,” he stammered. “I didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Here.” Stenman handed Peter the phone. “Make the damn call and get me my money back. Now.”
Peter pulled the phone number from his wallet and placed the call to his 24-hour/7-day-a-week African banker. When he got through, he expressed a desire to transfer all of his funds to one of Stenman’s Swiss accounts.
“I am happy to do so, sir,” the banker said, his accented voice resonating from the speaker, “but are you certain you wish to do that? We have a minimum transfer fee of $100 on this type of account.”
“I don’t care about the fee,” Peter said, raising his voice in a manner meant to express impatience. “Do it.”
“But, sir, it does not make sense to pay one-hundred dollars to transfer one dollar.”
“This is Morgan Stenman,” Stenman shouted, “and I demand to know what you are talking about?”
“Mr. Neil? Are you there?”
“Yes,” Peter answered. “But what’s this about one dollar? I was told that someone transferred $800 million to my Mauritius Trust account from Swiss National. Check again.”
After a moment of awkward silence, the unhappy voice returned, “I am sorry, Mr. Neil, but no transfer was made to your account. You have only the one dollar used to set up the account.”
Peter took the slip of paper Ayers had supplied him and Stenman for fund transfer. “My account number is 7392968127.”
“Well, there,” the banker said, his voice registering relief. “That is the problem. The number you just read is not your account number.”
“What? Not my number? . . .”
Peter held up Ayers’ instructions and his account slip, pretending to look for what he already knew. Stenman leaned in, then grabbed the two papers and shook. She held the numbers side by side:
7392698127
7392968127
“The six and the nine are reversed,” she said, her eyes wild. “We never sent the money to your account. They set me up.”
Peter knew the “they” meant Ayers and Guzman.
“We transferred those funds to someone else’s account. Whose account is this?” she screamed into the speaker.
“I’ve already—”
“Do you know who I am?” Stenman said, practically spitting at the African banker.
“Yes,” he said through a croaking voice.
“Then you either tell me, or I ruin you. Who?”
“It was recently opened,” he began, “under Mr. Ayers’ authorization as a biometric account for Ms. Sarah Guzman. The account has already been emptied, however. Ms. Guzman called, not fifteen minutes ago, and moved everything to a Cayman bank.”
“They took my money and got themselves immunity in the bargain,” Stenman said, now having heard more than enough.
Peter didn’t need to explain. Stenman had figured it out. He and Morgan had sent the money to an account in Sarah Guzman’s name, with Morgan assuming it was Peter’s account. Sarah then made her call, from the beach, authorizing a transfer from that account to another ofher accounts in the Caymans. What Peter would never explain was that poor Sarah only did what Ayers told her to do. Sarah was under the impression that she had moved a mere five million dollars to Peter’s Cayman account. How was she supposed to remember all of her account numbers? After all, she had so many.
Just then, a shot reverberated from outside. Peter’s look of shock was genuine.
A few seconds later, the guard who had taken off after Ayers returned. “I had to, Ms. Stenman.”
“You had to what?”
“Mr. Ayers. He had a gun. I shot him. He’s dead.”
Peter didn’t hear the sirens. This time, when the police cuffed him and read him his rights, he was oblivious to his own situation. Jason Ayers was dead. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
As they escorted Peter, Stenman, and her three friends to the county jail, Peter wept.
A smiling, good-looking man reached for Sarah Guzman’s hand and guided her on board the yacht. In the outboard motorboat, bobbing ten feet below the larger boat’s deck, Carlos watched and prepared himself to follow. Taking no chances, he had a 9mm in hand and at the ready. Carlos focused on his aunt and the man assisting her up the last rung of the ladder. The moment she stepped onto the deck, Carlos put his free hand on the side of the skiff to raise and steady himself.
At that precise moment, a hand thrust itself from the water and snatched Carlos’ wrist, nailing it in place against the edge of the motorboat. A thick man in a black wetsuit broke the ocean’s choppy surface and tugged down, using his weight as leverage. Carlos lost his balance as the small craft tipped. The man who had met them at the beach—seated to Carlos’ back—started forward, his move perfectly timed. He gripped Carlos’ gun-hand and twisted. The boat then rocked in the opposite direction—buckling Carlos’ knees a second time—as two additional wetsuits effortlessly slung themselves on board from the far side. In less than five seconds, Carlos had eight-hundred pounds of Drug Enforcement personnel roughing him up. His weapon, now useless, lay at his feet. With a wet, rubber arm around his neck, he could barely breathe.
The moment Sarah took her final step up, the engine of the larger craft revved and the boat lurched. “Follow me, Ms. Guzman,” the helpful man said. “We have a surprise for you.” He had to yell over the sounds of the powerful engine.
Sarah looked for Carlos, but the boat took a sharp turn and the cabin blocked her view. “Where is Carlos?” she asked, her voice lost in the wind.
The man shook his head and pointed to his ear, indicating he could-n’t hear her. When Sarah’s straw-brimmed hat flew off and tumbleweeded astern, the now not-so-helpful man made no move to retrieve it. She watched an ocean wave gobble the accessory.
“Did you hear me?” she shouted.
The man shrugged, then tromped towards the cabin. When he turned and motioned, Sarah stumbled forward. Her hair stiffened in the wind like straw. Once they stepped down and entered the cabin, the interior calm was eerie. A small, skinny man with fishbowl glasses sat behind a built-in table. He looked happy and familiar.
It took a second, but Sarah recognized Agent Oliver Dawson from his photograph. It was an epiphany, coming like a searchlight through a previously pitch-black cave. She had never been so unprepared. A trap had been sprung and there was nowhere to go. Impotent rage washed over her. In that moment, her mind searched for novel ways to bring an end to people’s lives: Neil? Dawson? Ayers? Friends? Family? Others? “You’ve kidnapped me,” she said, clutching the documents she had just received. “And you’re not even with the SEC any more.”