The Trophy Wife (21 page)

Childs's lips curled in anger. He bit off his words. “Bank … policy … is that she's … already dead.” They stared unblinking at each other. “You know she's alive,” Walter went on. “You heard her voice. In fact, she might be free right now if you had let me pay the lousy fifty-thousand-dollar ransom.”

Hogan broke off their eye contact and glanced down at his hands. “That's not fair. You know as well as I do that the fifty thousand was a side bet.”

“Well, the hundred million is for real, dammit,” Walter snapped back. “And that's what I've decided. I don't want to take any chances with Emily's life. I want to pay the hundred million just as I've been ordered.”

“Maybe Hollcroft will see it that way …” Andrew tried.

“No, he won't. He'll see it exactly the way a bank president has to see it, because it's not his wife. He'll follow policy.” Walter sagged slowly as if the air were being let out of him. “If we go to Jack, he'll summon the board. And that will be Emily's death sentence.” He looked pleadingly across the desk. “Let me send the money. I take full responsibility.”

Hogan's head shook so slowly that his gesture was nearly imperceptible. ”Security is
my
responsibility. I can't let anyone
give away a hundred million of the bank's money. No matter what the reason.”

“Then you're the one who's going to kill her,” Walter said. Even though they were only the width of the desk apart, they each disappeared into separate worlds of gloom.

They were called back by Walter's secretary, who brought in the usual morning coffee, setting cups before the two men. When she finished, Hogan took up the discussion. “We've gone in a complete circle and we're back to where we were yesterday. There are a hundred things wrong with the trap we've got set up in the Caymans. But it's the only play we have.”

Angela stood before the full-length mirror. Her hair was up, tucked under the soft canvas hat so that its color hardly showed. The floppy brim circled the sides of her face and the sunglasses provided the perfect mask. The poncho disguised her figure and the baggy pants even raised doubts about her sex. Even Walter, she thought, could pass her by without recognizing her.

The outfit itself was her biggest problem. Anyone looking for suspicious characters would be attracted to a costume that made someone impossible to recognize. But in George Town, broad-brimmed hats and opaque sunglasses were de rigueur. And loose, cool cottons were the standard cover for the thongs and bikinis that were ubiquitous on the beaches and at the pools. In the streets and shops surrounding the bank, there would probably be a hundred costumes similar to what she was wearing. She would be as inconspicuous as Angela Hilliard was ever going to get.

Her laptop computer was open on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, its power cord plugged in above the toaster, and a phone cord stretching from its base to a telephone jack on the kitchen wall. Angela had simply dialed into the PC in her New York office and then connected that computer to the bank's internal network.

Walter's password, which he had often encouraged her to use, had put her computer online with his server. Anytime he
downloaded a file, or connected to the network in order to move funds from one account to another, the information would write out on her screen just as it was appearing on his. As far as his computer dealings were concerned, she might just as well have been standing behind him, looking over his shoulder.

She glanced at the screen as she stepped into the kitchen for still another cup of coffee. Keep sharp, she had warned herself, and alert. She couldn't allow herself to settle into the relaxed mood of her surroundings.

There was nothing yet, which was hardly surprising. It was only 9:00
A.M.
Angela guessed that he would probably wait until his colleagues were buried in the day's work before he would key in the ransom transfer. His activities would go unnoticed until late in the day.

She could easily imagine die tension that was seizing Walter's hands and the pressure that was building up inside his head. Walter, she knew, was highly driven and completely obsessive. The danger he was confronting would take possession of all his senses. He had collapsed into her arms only a few nights earlier when his moment of truth was still many hours off. Now that he was down to his final minutes, he was probably becoming a basket case. She could only hope that he wouldn't crack. She was counting on his being able to face up to the dangers and make the only choice that was really left to him.

She took her coffee to the patio and looked up the length of the Seven Mile beach. Pure white sand was pasted on flat blue water to form a piece of impressionistic art. The first sun worshipers of the day were just beginning to migrate down to the water's edge.

This was the kind of place where she would like to live; a paradise with none of the uncertainties of the seasons, reserved for the rich and powerful, and next door to discreet banks that would let her manage her money. When people thought of her as power hungry, they imagined that she enjoyed flexing her financial muscle over subordinates at the bank and clients around the country. But that certainly wasn't
high on her list of priorities. The power she needed was the power to command any service and to gratify any need. Money bestowed that kind of power and she planned to have a great deal of it.

But for all its practical attributes, Grand Cayman struck her as a bit too sterile. Its history, a brief tale of European powers that had tried to foist the islands on one another, could be written on the back of a clam shell. It's only geopolitical importance was as a landing strip for resident seagulls and for the longer-range migrant birds. In truth, its real beauty was underwater, visible only to the divers who left its shores every morning.

Europe, she thought, would be more fitting. Perhaps a villa on the Riviera, or a white cement house above the harbor of one of the Greek isles. Or perhaps the Italian coast, south of Naples, where cities with centuries of history rose vertically from the sea.

She looked over her shoulder at the computer, its screen still blank. She could imagine Walter ringing his hands as he circled the machine next to his desk in New York. Come on, Walter, she thought. Let's get on with it.

Walter was, indeed, circling his desk like a caged animal. But he had yet to give thought to the small transfer that he and Andrew Hogan had agreed upon. Instead, he was waiting anxiously for the five $10,000 checks that were coming up from the cashier's office. He had called the appropriate officers at several of the other major banks that filled the blocks of east-side midtown. Each would be delighted to arrange for five hundred used twenties to be available for pickup. No problem whatsoever. “You going down to Atlantic City?” one of his business acquaintances had jibed. A closer friend had ventured that he would like to see the lady who was worth that much money.

He had already lied to his secretary, telling her about an opportunity to pick up a great-looking sailboat that he could put into charter service. “I hate to do this, but the guy is in the middle of a divorce and doesn't want the money to show up in his checking account. Could you … ?”

Joanne had agreed to leave early on her lunch hour, bring his checks to neighboring banks, and have the cash back to him before 2:00
P.M.

The messenger arrived and Walter hurriedly endorsed the bank checks. Then he sent the secretary on her way and turned his attention to the small account he was about to deliver to the Caymans. It was a wasted exercise, he thought. No one was going to come calling for the small amount he was wiring. But he had to go through the motions just to satisfy Andrew Hogan. Once Andrew saw the $10,000 transfer and thought he was completely on top of the situation, Walter planned to move the $100 million from his storage accounts.

Angela heard the electronic ping from her laptop and strolled around the kitchen counter to see what Walter was up to. First came an InterBank account number, followed almost instantly by the international routing number that identified the Folonari Cayman branch. Next was the Folonari account number, the one where the ransom instructions had directed that the funds be deposited. She found herself smiling at how easy it was. No masks, no guns, no getaway cars. Just “hello” and “thank you very much.” Probably even a “pleasure doing business with you. I hope we can be of service again.” It would all be completely polite and civil. Why would anyone stoop to armed robbery?

Next came Walter's authorization code. Somewhere in Milan, at Folonari's headquarters, an old mainframe was checking the code against its file of authorized wire transaction depositors. The cursor on Angela's screen blinked impatiently. It wasn't used to being kept waiting. Then Folonari's confirmation number printed across the screen. The branch could accept the funds with the same assurance, as if they were counting their way through a truckload of U.S. dollars. The sender had the money and had InterBank's authorization to transfer any amount.

Angela looked eagerly for the $100 million figure. She was stunned when the computer wrote out the number
$10,000.
“What the hell … ?” she heard herself mumble dumbly. She
hunched down close to the screen as if she suspected her eyes were deceiving her. There was no mistake. Walter was depositing only $10,000. She pulled away. Something was wrong. Someone was playing a game and it was a game in which she hadn't anticipated the rules. What was Walter up to?

She ran through a list of possibilities. He was transferring the funds in small amounts. Smart, because it would be more likely to go undetected than one large transfer. But $10,000? At that rate, it would take all day and a good part of the weekend to complete the deposit.

He was trying to bluff the kidnapper. “Take it or leave it,” he might be saying. “I'll let you walk with a few thousand and we'll forget any of this ever happened. Just release my wife and get out of my life.” That was a possible ploy, Angela decided, but not for Walter. He simply didn't have the guts for games of chicken, played at high speed.

Most probably this was simply a trial run. He had established the account and funded it out of the bank's coffers. He was waiting to be sure that the transaction went unchallenged before he sent the bulk of the money.

She poured herself still another cup of coffee, set it next to the computer, and climbed up onto one of the stools that served the counter. There had to be more coming. She sat patiently, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

An hour dragged past and Walter's server reported no action. Whatever he was doing, it didn't involve accessing the bank's internal accounts and records. Nor did it seem to involve any correspondence with outside banks. Something was terribly wrong.

She perked up when Walter's machine went back online. Maybe this was what she had been waiting for. But he keyed in a routine transaction and then went immediately back into darkness. Angela jumped down from the stool and switched off the machine. There was nothing happening in New York. She had to find out if anything was happening at the Folonari Cayman branch.

She took her huge canvas bag, which served not only as
a purse but also as a shopping bag, and locked the apartment door behind her. The sun was already high in the sky and its heat was radiating from the sidewalk and the black surface of the road. The beach, to her right, was dotted with cabanas and umbrellas and the oiled bodies of physically endowed vacationers. In the streets to her left, the day's commerce was in full bloom.

It was a quaint little town, ugly in the dilapidation of its structures, but pretty in the colorful commerce it housed. The wide, double doors of shops were thrown open, with merchandise migrating out into the streets. Coffeehouses had no front facades, their business reaching out until the tables were threatening to topple over the curb. Automobiles, mostly European and Japanese compacts, were parked with two wheels on the sidewalk and a steady flow of cars through the narrow space left in the roads amounted almost to a traffic jam.

She strolled passed the front entrance of the bank and noticed a tall man, probably in his thirties, leaning casually against the wall, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. His white complexion stood out among the native tans, his sports shirt was brand new, and his shoes weren't typical island ware. Was he watching the entrance, she wondered as she drew close? Or was he waiting for a wife who was spending her day on a shopping spree? His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but Angela thought she noticed his head turn to follow her as she passed. Had he spotted her? Or was he just bored enough to look at anyone?

Get hold of yourself, she chided. Anyone could look suspicious. If she were confident she could watch the bank without being recognized, then professionals would be even more difficult to recognize. She and Walter were both certain that a bonded courier would be the likely choice to pick up the money. She was looking for a courier who was prepared to walk down the street with $100 million in Folonari bearer bonds. She could expect a briefcase, probably chained to his wrist, a businesslike sedan that would wait at the curb, and jacketed driver, probably armed, who would be actively scanning the crowd.

Angela turned at the corner, crossed over, and headed back past the bank on the opposite side of the street, toward the import outlet where she would spend an hour examining cameras. She would select a display case just inside the open warehouse doors, giving her a vantage point that looked directly across at Folonari, with enough height to see over the heads of the shoppers.

Then, she saw him. It was the weasel of a man who had followed her into the first-class lounge and had waited outside the Boca Raton industrial park. He had replaced his wire frames with sunglasses and his business suit with a more casual costume. But, like the one in front of the bank, he was in a freshly unfolded sports shirt and heavy dark shoes. He was looking away from her, but his head was slowly panning in her direction. Angela turned away and moved into a souvenir shop to get off the street.