Aaron Elkins: Twenty blue devils

"It's pretty complicated, Nelson. I'd rather-"

"I think I can manage to hang in there,” Nelson said. Definitely a new Nelson.

All right, then, John said. The Colombian drug cartels had a long-established system of working with their American dealers. The American dealers-importers, they were called in the trade-didn't pay for the dope up front, they maintained open “accounts” with their Colombian sources and settled only after the stuff had been sold on the streets.

"Sound business practice,” said Nelson with something close to approval. “Receipts first, then payments. It's a question of cash flow. Any sensible businessman would prefer to handle it that way."

But these “businessmen” had a problem unique to international drug-trafficking, John explained. Most of the money that was collected was in great armloads of small-and medium-denomination bills-truckloads, really, amounting to many millions of dollars. The question was: How did you get it out of the country and into Colombia? And the problem was that you couldn't carry more than $10,000 out of the United States unless you declared it with Customs, something these guys were not eager to do. And you couldn't put all that cash in a bank checking account and draw a check on it either, because banks had to report deposits of $10,000 or more.

One way of getting around this involved smurfing, which-

"Ah…smurfing?” Nelson said.

Smurfing, said John. Multiple bank transactions of seven, or eight, or nine thousand dollars-anything under ten. A van holding maybe fifteen runners shows up in the financial district of a big city in the morning just as the banks open. The runners pile out, head for the banks, and buy cashier's checks (which can be made out to any name you want, and which usually don't require identification). Then they run off to the next bank with another load of cash, and the next, and the next. A single runner can convert $150,000 in a day. And the following day they're in another city doing it all over again.

"But why is it called smurfing?” Nelson wanted to know.

"Because of the way they all scoot off from the delivery van like a bunch of little Smurfs. You know."

Nelson didn't know. “In any case, I fail to see what this has to do with us,” he said irritably.

Patience, John counseled. Once the cash was smurfed into checks it would be “layered,” that is, electronically transferred from Account A in Bank I to Account B in Bank 2, splitting it up and recombining it until its origins were lost somewhere in cyberspace. Once you had a dozen banks and twenty accounts involved, the money was virtually untraceable. At that point, it could safely find its way into the accounts of an international importer such as Paradise Coffee.

And from there it was an easy matter to move it out of the country in the form of inflated payments for purchased goods. You paid $10 for $1 worth of goods and sold the finished product for ten times what it was worth. You made out, the books balanced-and $9 had been laundered and was on its way back to Colombia. It was done in the gem trade, it was done in the metals trade…and, so it seemed, it was done in the coffee trade.

"Are you telling me,” Nelson asked slowly, “that in the past five years, we've been responsible for supplying thirty million dollars to…to drug lords in Colombia?"

"I'm ready to bet on it,” John said. “That Colombian coffee grower, Calvo Hermanos they wouldn't happen to be in Medellin, would they?"

Nelson's face was all the answer that was needed.

"And the other one, the one in Java, they're probably backed by some of the Colombian drug biggies. It's an old story, Nelson."

"It's horrible,” Nelson said. He looked grim, almost sick. "Why?"

John understood what he meant. “For money, probably. The dealers typically pay legit firms ten percent for this kind of service. So somebody here was collecting…oh, around…"

"Six hundred thousand dollars a year,” Nelson said.

"Right, but that's only part of it. Think it through; the inflated payments to the suppliers are made with drug money, not company funds, right? But-"

"But,” Nelson said, speaking slowly as he took it in, “the inflated returns from our sales should go right into our own coffers-only they don't, do they? They've never shown up in our financial records. That means…that means…"

"That we're talking about somebody raking off a lot more-a whole lot more than six hundred thou a year."

Nelson groaned and pressed his hand to his forehead. “I feel as if I'm in a nightmare. John, how could he? After all Nick's done for him. Oh, I've never thought he was quite as perfect as everyone else did, but never would I have expected this from him. Not in a million years."

It was time to let Nelson in on recent developments. “Nelson, Brian wasn't quite what we thought. There's a lot about him that you and I didn't know."

Nelson's mouth hung open for a minute. “Brian? What does Brian have to do with it?"

John was startled in his turn. “What?"

"I'm talking about Rudy. Rudy's the one who actually buys the coffee. You know that, John. Rudy's the one who signs the purchase orders in the first place, and then signs off on the invoices-not Brian. Rudy's our buyer."

"Rudy…" John sat back in his chair and digested this latest screwy twist, or maybe it wasn't so screwy. “What do you know?” he said half to himself. “Now that really throws a new light on things."

"What's this about Brian?” Nelson said. “What didn't we know about him?"

"A lot,” said John. “I'll tell you later. Right now I want to go over to the hospital and have a few words with Rudy."

"But he's not in the hospital, he's right here, down on the docks.” Nelson turned in his chair and pointed out the window. “See the gray-and-white ship, the one with the block and tackle?"

"The rusty one?"

"Yes, the rusty one."

The ship was the Beaune, Nelson said, an interisland schooner; that is, a small freighter with a regular local route. Every few months two or three thousand pounds of Paradise beans were put aboard to go to resorts and small roasteries on Bora Bora, Rarotonga, and Pago Pago. As it happened, the beans were being loaded this morning and Rudy was on board overseeing things.

"Well, then, that's where I'm going,” John said, standing up.

Nelson got up as well. “I believe I'll go with you."

"No, I think it'd be better if I talked to him by myself."

"Pah.” Nelson breezed imperiously by him and through the door. “Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course I'm going with you. You don't know how to handle Rudy. It takes a delicate touch."

Say hello to the old Nelson again. For a moment the hair on the back of John's neck automatically bristled, but only for a moment. Then he laughed and followed Nelson out.

"Okay, big brother, show me how to handle Rudy."

Papeete's commercial harbor was out of another time, a lively, old-fashioned South Seas port from the days before there were huge, anonymous container ships and robotlike, hundred-foot-high cranes. Here, most of the quays were lined with battered, midsized interisland schooners that were being chain-loaded by their Tahitian crews one dented drum or one case of milk or canned goods at a time, for shipment to the outer islands. Lots of bustle, noise, cursing, and laughter.

The Beaune was no exception. It was docked between two equally seaworn, equally work-scarred freighters, and you couldn't look at it without thinking of Joseph Conrad, and the old China Sea trade, and grizzled, bleary-eyed, seen-it-all sea captains in dingy whites. When John and Nelson got there, a line of four perspiring Tahitians was swinging the cargo onto the foredeck, where two more men used a block-and-tackle arrangement to get it down into the hold. There were cases of Hinano beer, of Twisties Cheese-Flavoured Snacks, of Biscuits Mckay ("C'est OK!"), of canned beef stew, of soap flakes, of frozen fish croquettes.