Aaron Elkins: Twenty blue devils

Bertaud's telephone buzzed. Bertaud picked it up, listened with the faintest tck of irritation, and replaced it in its cradle.

"He's not there,” he said to Gideon. “He was released this morning."

Clearly, Nelson Lau was on pins and needles. “I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to come and see me,” he said, twiddling with his ballpoint pen.

"Kind of,” John said.

"I trust it wasn't any trouble.” He turned the pen with his fingers, round and round, tapping it on the desk at each half-rotation.

"Nope."

"It's just that I thought it would be better to talk here at the Papeete office, rather than back at the Hut. It's more private.” Round and round went the pen. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. “Don't you agree?” Tap.

"Nelson,” John said, “how about just telling me what you want to tell me? Also, if you don't stop fooling with that pen I'm gonna rip your arm off."

"Oh. Yes. Well.” He laid the pen down. Now his upper lip began to pulse with tiny puffs of air. The finicky little mustache twitched along with it. John tried looking out the window. Nelson's office had an expansive view of the busy quays and docks of Papeete Harbor.

"Let me give you some figures,” Nelson said, twitching away. “Mostly through our American operation we sell about six hundred thousand pounds of roasted beans a year in the form of our several coffees. Now, inasmuch as it takes a hundred pounds of green beans to make sixty pounds roasted, that means that we have either to harvest or to buy a total of a million pounds of green beans a year. Are you following me so far?"

"I think I'm managing to hang in there,” John said.

"Now then,” Nelson continued uneasily, “we can harvest only about two hundred thousand pounds a year here, from which it follows that we have to buy an additional eight hundred thousand pounds a year from other growers around the world. Now, of those eight hundred thousand-"

"Nelson, this is really interesting, but how about getting to the point? I've got a lot on my plate today."

"The point is-” said Nelson with heat, but then seemed to lose impetus. He sagged in his high-backed leather chair and crossly mumbled something.

John turned from the window. “What?"

"I said-I said I need your advice."

John forgot all about Nelson's mustache. He stared at him, amazed. “You what?" He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but these were words he had never in his life expected to hear from his older brother. No wonder the poor guy was looking so uncomfortable.

"As an FBI agent. You know about these things."

"What things, Nelson? What are you talking about?"

Nelson started fiddling with his pen again. Tap, tap, tap. “The thing is, I had it backward. We all had it backward. Tari wasn't stealing from us at all. Tari was right.” Tap, tap-

John took the pen out of Nelson's hand and placed it firmly in the pen-and-pencil caddy on the desk. “About what?"

"About our paying too much-ten times too much-in some cases twenty times too much-for some of the beans we buy from other suppliers."

"Is that right?” John murmured. Wheels began to turn. “Are you sure?"

Of course he was sure, Nelson said. He had spent the last two days poring over the books, and he was certain of his facts. Of the 800,000 pounds of beans purchased annually, 300,000 pounds came from two growers-about 100,000 from Java Green Mountain in Indonesia, and about 200,000 from the Colombian firm of Calvo Hermanos. And in virtually every order from these two suppliers, Paradise had been paying at least ten times the market value. Beans that should have cost $1.50 a pound had been ordered-and paid for-at $15 a pound. Beans that were bringing $2 on the international market had been entered on Paradise's books at $20. Paradise had been buying virtually the cheapest arabica beans available and paying the world's highest prices.

What's more, this had been going on for almost five years. The result was that they had been overpaying these two suppliers by about-Nelson had to swallow before he could get it out-$6 million a year.

"Six-!” John looked at him. “You're saying that in the last five years Paradise has overpaid something like thirty million bucks for its beans?"

"Exactly,” Nelson said wretchedly.

"Whew,” John said. “I think I'm starting to see why you have to charge thirty-eight bucks for a pound of coffee."

"It's not funny, John.” He sat there behind his handsome teak-and-leather desk, wringing his hands and looking miserable. “What's Nick going to say when I tell him?"

"Nelson,” John said gently, “how could this happen? Why did it take Tari to find out about it? Why didn't you see it before?"

Nelson reared back defensively. “It wasn't my job. Brian was supposed to stay on top of coffee prices, not me."

Ah. Brian. Things were beginning to add up. “But you're the comptroller."

"We don't work that way, John. We're a family, we don't go around checking on each other. The books balance and we make a profit; it never occurred to me to review the invoices themselves. Coffee prices are unbelievably complex. They change every day, sometimes more than once a day. You have to know the industry. And as you know, I'm no coffee expert-I've always been the first to admit that."

Not in John's hearing, he hadn't. “Look, Nel, tell me this: How do you make a profit? If you're paying ten times what you should for your beans, then you must-"

"Charge ten times what we should for our coffee. Yes, I suppose that's what you could say we've been doing. But not from any intent to overprice, you must understand that. Our prices necessarily reflect the value we put into the product in the way of labor, equipment, and costs. And the product is simply-"

” ‘The World's Most Expensive Coffee,’ “ John said.

Nelson frowned at him, as if deciding just how much offense he ought to take. Then he blinked and hesitated.

"'Bar None,'” he said.

For a second, they continued to look at each other, then burst into gales of laughter.

"Oh, dear…” Nelson said when he could speak. “Oh, dear… what are we laughing at anyway?"

"Probably all those yuppie types sitting around in all those latte bars, scarfing the stuff down and talking about how buttery it is, how chocolaty, how, how…"

"Piquant," Nelson said, beginning to shake again.

"And all the while,” laughed John, “they're drinking the cheapest crap in the world, only they can't tell the difference."

"And obviously,” said Nelson, “neither could we!"

And off they went again. This was certainly a new Nelson. It was the first time since they'd been children that they'd laughed together this way, and it felt good. Good God, if it kept up, he was liable to wind up actually liking the guy.

"Do you know what?” Nelson said when they quieted down. “You haven't called me Nel in thirty years. No one has."

John couldn't think of anything to say. “Yeah, well.” This was followed by a somewhat awkward pause.

"In any event,” said Nelson, “the reason I wanted to talk to you was to ask if this has the earmarks of something… something illegal. I don't mean on the part of Java Green Mountain and Calvo Hermanos, I mean on our part-that is, on the part of… of someone at Paradise."

"Yeah, it does,” John said. “It sounds like money-laundering."

Nelson winced. “That's what I was afraid you'd say.” He began to reach for the ballpoint pen again but at a guttural rumble from John he pulled his hand back and laid it in his lap. “But look, I'm not clear on what this money-laundering business is about. I thought I was, but I'm not. It has to do with drugs, doesn't it?"

"Usually, yeah."

"But where would drugs enter into this? We pay ten times as much as we should for green beans and we sell the finished product for ten times what it's worth. The growers do very well indeed, the consumers pay through the nose, and we make an innocent, modest profit. It's hardly a model of keen business practice, but where do drugs come into it? Where does money-laundering come into it?"