THE SPYMASTER & ME: 27) THE DOUBLE BLIND

A Throwback Thursday Memoir of Intrigue & Lunacy

Clair George reached into his net and produced Howard Hart, a specialist in banking and financial investigations.  Hart did his magic and met us at the Hilton Hotel in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia.

"What have you gotten me into this time?" asked Hart, clearly shaken.

"What do you mean?" said Clair.

"Is this some big-time mafia boss we're investigating?" Hart whispered.

"Of course not," Clair guffawed and looked at me.  "Tell Howard the story."

And quite a story it was.  I gave him a thumbnail sketch.

Hart relaxed.  "I've never experienced this much difficulty with a Swiss bank," he said."The way my agents were acting, I was sure we were dealing with a dangerous Russian mob boss."

He then presented his findings.

We Bounce back to Europe

The 30 year-old jumbo shuddered and creaked as it launched into the Washington night.  Reclining aboard Virgin's Upper Class:  The spymaster and me.

We’d decided the only way to convey our findings to the countess was mug-to-mug, preferably in a quiet corner of a luxury hotel on the French Riviera. 

It would be a quick trip, only three-nights in Europe—92 hours from departure to rebound.  I caught another kip on the connection to Nice, so I was in fine form when we checked into La Reserve de Beaulieu.  The Swiss Banker had made reservations for us in this serene, elegant setting by the sea.

Just past five o’clock, the countess and her banker appeared in the hotel parlor.  She looked frailer than before.  An enlarged spleen and medication to shrink it had drained feistiness from her soul, meat from her bones, color from her cheeks.

"I think we’ll retire from this business," said the countess as she seated herself.  "I can't go on."

I didn't care.  The money had been good, the ride even better, but this soap opera begged for cancellation. And what better venue for a concluding episode than La Reserve in Beaulieu?

I arranged my notes and spoke:  "Lara has two accounts at UBS in Geneva.  Both are password-numbered and managed by the Gray Fiduciary.  The first account is in U.S. dollars." I recited the dual-coded account number.  "This is the one of interest."

The Swiss Banker was mortified that we were able to provide such information  "I close my account at UBS tomorrow," he muttered.

"Don't bother," I said, looking him straight in the eye.  "Our man can do this with every Swiss bank.  Now, the interesting thing about this account is that it shows a debit of $7,361.  However, as we delve further into the file and cut through smoke and mirrors, we find a notation that $460,000 is, and I quote, 'assigned to this account.’  This, we're told, is known as The Double Blind."

The Swiss Banker looked at me, an almost-indiscernible twitch in his right eye.  "We all do this," he said quietly.

"The account," I continued, "was used to transfer substantial funds to an account owned by [name deleted] of Grand Cayman into the Cayman National Bank.  The money went to a Dump Account, comprised of funds belonging to a number of clients.  Because these funds are commingled, only [deleted] knows who owns what in the money pool."  I paused.  "The purpose of this technique is to launder money."

The countess turned to her banker.  "But why does my daughter wash her money?"

"To avoid the tax," he replied, shrugging, like, doesn't everybody?

I continued:  "Based on the very significant steps taken to Double Blind the funds and transfer them into a Dump Account in the Caymans, our man believed he was tracking a big-time criminal, not a wealthy heiress.  Moreover, our man found reason to believe that money is being channeled to third parties through the Dump Account.

Our client’s antenna shot up.  "But to who?"

"Our source thinks he can penetrate the Dump Account and find out," Clair finally piped up.  "We think we can go beyond the dump."

This intrigued the Swiss Banker, who was amazed we'd obtained as much as we had.

Meeting adjourned, Clair and I ordered cocktails.

"Did you see the look on that banker's face when I recited Lara’s confidential bank account details?" I said.

"We terrify him," said Clair.

We had already learned, in dealings with other clients, that, indeed, we frightened people.

"So far," I said, "we've got The Double Blind and Beyond the Dump.  What's next, The Triple Monkey?"

Next morning began with another session with the countess and her banker, mostly a rehash.

At noon, Clair announced that he and I had to depart.  This came as a shock to the countess.   Already ornery, she chose this moment to vent her swollen spleen.  It was expensive to bring us to Europe, she whined, so why must we hurry off?  She rose to feed her Yorkshire terrier, muttering that other sleuths were needed to do her bidding.

I let her stomp off.  Clair accepted her outburst with a shrug.  But the banker intervened.  "There is enough time," he said to her.  "We can finish our business."

"So no lunch,” the countess grumbled.   “We have sandwiches here and continue our business."

But our business was done, and we were down to gossip.  The countess had not heard from her daughter in months, not even when her health seemed grave.

I walked the countess through the parlor to La Reserve's lobby.  It was difficult for her to muster the emotional uplift she would normally exude at this juncture; her malfunctioning spleen was in control.  Instead, she wept a tear for her grandson. "I've tried so hard," she croaked.

"One day," I said, "he will know the truth about what you've done."

Despite her tantrum over the shortness of our visit, the countess saw us off in time to catch an earlier connection to London than planned.

An Immigration inspector at Heathrow asked Clair what he'd be doing in London.

"Absolutely nothing," replied Clair.

Said the inspector:  "That's the first honest answer I've heard in years.”

Top priority in London (for me) was a scavenger hunt:  Cuban cigars, Hill's absinthe and avocado shaving cream. 

Although Clair threatened to turn me in for smuggling Cuban cigars into the USA, he came to my aid when a Customs inspector eyed my bag, which was filled with contraband. "Who won the Mets-Braves game last night?" Clair asked him.

The inspector did a blank.  "Was there a game last night?"

Clair shrugged.  "Maybe not.  I'm probably confused by jet lag."

I was already out the door.

Six weeks passed.  Howard Hart had not gotten Beyond the Dump and I was headed to Europe, solo, for a scolding by the countess.  If that happened, it was my intention to end it all there and then.

I was buoyant from other sub rosa adventures when I arrived at our client’s villa, a poinsettia in hand.

"It's beautiful!" the countess squealed in delight.  "Something to drink?"

A new bond was forged upon discovering we both enjoy Fernet-Branca, an herbal digestif most people find medicinally bitter.

The countess had dined two weeks earlier with her grandson and a genuine relationship blossomed between the two.

Lara, in contrast, remained estranged from her mother, from the world.  But she was an oddball, simple as that.

Main thing:  Little more was left for the spymaster and me to do.  That was how I pre-empted a scolding.  "It's ridiculous that you keep us on," I told the countess.

"But... but..."

"You have a fine relationship with your grandson," I said.  "You're on good terms with the boy's father."  I paused.  "Lara needs a therapist, but it's something she has to recognize herself."

"But... but… what if she moves back to New Mexico?"

"So what if she does?" I posed.  "She doesn't talk to you when she's here in Europe."

"But my grandson?"

"He'll decide for himself where he wants to attend college.  The trend, generally, is that kids flee their parents, go as far away as possible."  I paused.  "As for our tasks:  We can't go on waiting forever to get Beyond the Dump.  What else could you possibly want us to do?"