“Here,” Dawson said, “read this.” He handed her a piece of legal-size paper. “A short time ago, I sent a copy to Freeman Ranson and the SEC Director of Enforcement. Congratulations. You are forever immune from prosecution of all crimes connected to these papers you are about to turn over to me. In addition, the money you stole from Stenman Partners’ accounts—which I understand included significant funds from several drug cartels—is yours to do with as you please. You may even transfer any of those monies to U.S. investments without interference. Sweetest deal we’ve ever offered, but still a bargain.”
“If you are talking about the five million I transferred to Neil’s account,” said Sarah, “all I have to say is: who gives a shit?”
“No, no. Not that. The eight-hundred million you moved from your account in Africa to your account in the Cayman Islands. It was a brilliant stroke, making the account numbers so similar nobody would notice.”
Dawson went on to highlight what had happened next. When Sarah had made the transfer phone-call on the beach, in full view of Morgan Stenman and her associates, she had moved a gigantic sum of money into a third account, also in her name.
Sarah acted unconcerned. “I don’t need to understand what you are talking about,” she said. “When Carlos looks into your eyes, and then slices your skin from your bones, an inch at a time, you will regret this charade. I’ve eaten and spit out little nothings like you. I will make you suffer.”
“Ever choked on a little nothing?” Dawson asked. “And Carlos? I don’t think I’ll be running into him any time soon. He has his hands full with DEA. With what we’re about to learn, thanks to your cooperation with those documents, he’ll be under a cloud of suspicion for dealing in drugs and drug money. He’ll be held, without bail, while these allegations are investigated. Convenient that Mexico’s president is a drug-fighter. We’ve received his assurances we can do with Carlos as we deem necessary.”
“You think so?” Sarah asked. “When he gets out—”
“When?” Dawson interrupted. “If . . . My friends at DEA inform me that the investigation will take at least a decade—and he may end up rooming with Manuel Noriega. You remember him? President of Panama? Maybe you did business with the prick before the U.S. military grabbed him and put him away. He’s been asking for a Spanish-speaking, scumbag amigo to rot in hell with. Nuñoz might be a good fit.”
Sarah ceased listening. Reaching for her cellular phone, she fully expected Dawson to stop her, but all he did was grin, listen, and look full of himself, as she confirmed that she had indeed moved funds to one of her accounts instead of Peter Neil’s.
“Fine, Goddammit,” she shouted to the banker at Cayman Island Trust. “I want to transfer the funds back. Put them in one of Stenman Partners’ accounts.”
The SEC agent imagined what the frightened voice on the other end of the phone was saying. He counted to four, then heard pretty much what he expected from Sarah Guzman: “I don’t have a damn password, you moron. I want to move the money back. How difficult can that be?”
This time Dawson counted to six before she again exploded: “I can’t get the password from Mr. Ayers for the simple reason that he set me up. This is . . .”
Nice touch, Dawson thought. Peter and Ayers had sucked Sarah in. Not a dime would ever be moved from that account without an all-important password. Peter didn’t know what it was. Only Ayers had that bit of vital intelligence.
Sarah’s phone conversation ended a minute later as she threatened to murder the banker, along with everyone else on Grand Cayman Island.
“Cartel money in my account is my death warrant,” she said to Dawson, her face aflame, “and that simpleton banker says he does not have access to transfer information. What do you want from me?”
“You talking to me?” Dawson asked. “Yes. I guess you are. I’ve already got everything I need in life. If safety’s a concern, I can place you in the Witness Protection Program. You interested?” Dawson’s motion sickness disappeared.
“I have my own protection, you fool. You can’t get away with this.”
“Get away with what, Mrs. Guzman? Giving you immunity? That’s a done deal. Can’t transport you to Mexico? We’re halfway there. Can’t take those documents?” Dawson nodded and the man who had escorted her into the cabin wrested Hannah Neil’s pages from her hands.
“We’ll drop you off within the hour,” Dawson continued, “and we’ve arranged for land transportation to your villa. Director Ackerman wants me to express his gratitude for your cooperation.”
“I won’t cooperate with you. I will renounce this immunity agreement.”
“I don’t blame you,” Dawson said, his smirk widening. “Nevertheless, we will honor the terms. We are men of our word. You are immune, and will remain so.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FERNANDO GUZMAN CHOSE THIS DAY TO SETTLE OLD SCORES. To gather courage, he focused on his brother’s death. Of one thing Fernando was certain: Sarah Brigston Guzman had done to her husband what she had done to her own father. She murdered them both.
As he approached the front gate without stopping, Fernando drove under the gate-arm, waved to the guard, and passed through without a search. In the old days, the soldiers had been steadfast and professional. Now? Now they were open to auction. For ten thousand U.S. dollars, Fernando could have parked an atomic bomb in the courtyard.
Fernando stumbled through that courtyard and down the esplanade, where he and his brother had once played as children, where he had not been welcome for the three years since Enriqué’s death. He continued up the stairs, no longer guarded by men with automatic weapons. A worker with a bucket and mop splashed water and cleaned the rust-colored esplanade. As Fernando passed, the worker nodded recognition before arching his back to continue his labors.
Fernando arrived at the heavy door with the brass knocker. He debated whether or not to knock. Out of habit, he knocked.
“Come in,” Sarah said.
Fernando opened the door and stepped in. He still shook at the sight of his sister-in-law. She not only had been a deadly force in his family’s life, but had schemed to torture him beyond human imagination. Despite the fact that her beauty had faded these last weeks, she still had the eyes of a devil. And as hard as he fought the thought, being in her presence sent him back into that hole for those three days. At night, he now slept with the lights on, and never again could he tolerate the dark. The risks of losing his mind were too great.
“Get out, Fernando,” she said, regarding him as nothing more than a silverfish, nibbling on a scrap of toilet paper. “I do not have time for you.”
She was on the phone, whispering to someone. Begging, Fernando guessed, for money, help, understanding, her life. He stood, unmoved and uncaring.
She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and repeated: “Out, you worthless old man.”
She looked away as Fernando pulled a handgun from his overcoat pocket. Nerves forced him to use both hands to steady his aim. But from ten feet, he did not miss.
For nearly a month after that climactic day at the beach, Peter and Kate didn’t have a single opportunity to talk at length in private. Peter was too busy with the legal system. He had arranged for Dawson to indict him on insider trading, knowing full well that the government would eventually drop the charges. But for the time being, Dawson made Peter look like a target, rather than a confederate. The ruse worked.