Nicola Griffith - The Blue Place

“It would depend on the size of the bank. If he’s a VP of a large national organization, then it’s probable he would have considerable personal authority. The fact that he travels frequently to the Bahamas and Bermuda is interesting.” He paused. “That he travels to the Seychelles even more so.”

“How so?”

“The Bahamas and Bermuda are tax havens, as you probably know.”

“Aren’t the Seychelles?”

“Oh, yes. But they’re also eight thousand miles away. He wasn’t just taking a vacation?”

“Not three times in one year.”

Again, he paused, and I knew that he wanted something from me, a sign, an indication that if he offered me something he wouldn’t be rebuffed for stepping beyond the bounds of manager and client.

“It might help if I told you something of the context for all this. You know I am no longer with the Atlanta Police Department, of course, but I have just undertaken to investigate a murder on a private basis for a third party because the police think it’s a drug case, and the third party and I don’t. It…I saw the victim’s house burn, Laurence, I felt the heat on my face, and whoever did it is going to get away with it unless I can find him. I don’t even know if this banker has anything to do with it, but he might, and I have to run every possibility, no matter how wild, to ground. So if you have any ideas, please help me.”

“What’s the bank we’re talking about?”

“Massut Vere.”

He took his glasses off, leaned back in his chair, polished them awhile. There was the faint shininess of burn scar tissue at his right temple that I’d never noticed before. He stared into the middle distance. “Apart from the fact that the Seychelles are eight thousand miles away, they aren’t generally used as a haven by what I’d call respectable banks.”… what I’d call respectable banks …

“Why’s that?” I asked obligingly.

He put his glasses back on and this time when he looked at me I think he really saw me. “What do you know about international banking?”

“Probably about as much as you do about tactical hostage rescue.”

“It’s amazing what you can learn from watching TV.” A joke. Well, well. “It used to be that the Swiss were the people who took money, no questions asked, and held it against all comers. Then they changed their laws so that the money of any depositor who was proved to have earned it illegally was liable to be returned. A lot of unsavoury characters switched to money laundering and the tax havens off the East Coast. Then three years ago the Seychelles declared that anyone who wanted to deposit ten million dollars or more with them would be entitled to protection from extradition and from seizure of assets, as well as…Hold on.” He jumped up, looking ten years younger than when he had ushered me into his office, and pulled open a file drawer. He rifled quickly through a buff folder. “Here we are. Apart from the extradition and seizure protections, big depositors would also be entitled to ‘concessions and incentives commensurate with the investment.’” He shut the folder, put it away, slammed the drawer shut and dropped back into his chair. There was something familiar about the way he moved. “In other words, they held up a great big sign saying, ‘Welcome All Criminals.’”

The implications were staggering, especially the extraordinary entitlements. The Seychelles government had written a law that made it possible to issue diplomatic passports to terrorists, the mob, drug traffickers….

“You’ve just made my life a lot more complicated,” I said.

“You’re welcome.” And he smiled. The scar tissue by his eye crinkled.

“Laurence…” When an imago first pushes free of the binding chrysalis and unfolds its still-damp wings, anything, even something as ephemeral as breath, can deform the final, glorious insect. A crass question now could crush this fragile new understanding. I asked anyway. “Where did you serve?”

He touched his face and sighed. “Two tours in Vietnam. The Rangers.”

We sat silently, contemplating the ghosts we had created between us, and the difference between our world and that of most people.

Beatriz del Gato arrived on the four forty-five flight from Madrid. I met her in the international arrivals terminal at Hartsfield Airport. Either the photograph in her dossier was a very expensive special effects shot or it had been a truly terrible flight. Beatriz del Gato was a small, ferociously plain woman. Her features were symmetrical enough, in proportion and in roughly the right places, but she seemed weighed down, pulled out of shape by a relentless dullness. Brown hair was tugged back gracelessly from a face that looked white and puffy next to the glowing tans of other passengers. Her hands hung at her sides as though she did not know where they came from or what to do with them now they were here. Her brown eyes looked very small behind thick glasses.

“Ms. del Gato?”

“Yes?” The way she lifted her head and looked at me sideways reminded me of an adolescent, not a woman of twenty-three.

“Philippe Cordova asked me to drive you to your hotel this evening and get you settled in. My name is Aud Torvingen and I’ll be escorting you during your stay in Atlanta.”

“Thank you.” So low I could hardly hear.

I got her and her luggage—surprisingly little—to the Saab, held open the rear door for her, then got behind the wheel. As she was finding the seat belt I slid the Walther PPK from the underarm spider harness to a lap holster that I clipped to my belt, handy in case I should need it while driving. When we were both strapped in I pulled out smoothly into the streaming traffic.

I glanced in the mirror. She had slumped like a bundle of abandoned knitting. “How was your flight?”

“Quite pleasant, thank you.” Four whole words. Perhaps a tightly modulated contralto, it was hard to tell. Soft, gliding Castillian accent.

“Traffic will be bad at this time of day but I hope to have you at the Hotel Nikko in forty or fifty minutes.” She nodded without looking at me. “Philippe gave me your itinerary, of course, but I’d like to go over it with you to make sure there are no errors or misunderstandings.”

“Certainly.”

“And I would like to know how inconspicuous you want to be.”

A pause. “Perhaps you could explain.”

“Philippe tells me you are interviewing at the ad agencies we’ll be visiting tomorrow. If I am obvious as a bodyguard, it might be a little off-putting for your potential employers.”

“Yes. I see.” The knitting was straightening, just a little. “What would you suggest?”

“That you call me Aud and I call you Beatriz, and we take the parts of strangers put in touch by a mutual acquaintance while you are visiting a foreign city.”

“Very well. Aud.” Her trace of accent made my name longer and softer.

“It would mean I don’t hold doors open for you or carry your things.”

“By all means.” She seemed to be sagging and fading again. Probably exhaustion. I concentrated on driving.

The first thing I did when I got home was take off the gun and stretch. The next four days were going to be very, very long.

There were two messages on the machine. The first was Charlie Sweeting sounding conspiratorial.

“Miss Torvingen? Aud. I haven’t forgotten your request. I think I might have something for you in a day or two.”

Beep.

“Hey, Aud, it’s Mick. Are you there? Oh. Well, listen, we got a call an hour ago from Helen’s father. Her mother’s in the hospital. I don’t know if it’s serious or not. Well, it’s got to be fairly serious or she wouldn’t be in the hospital so suddenly.” Get to the point, Mick. “Anyway, we’ll be flying to St. Louis first thing tomorrow, so we won’t make the performance tonight. Sorry about that. I think it’ll be wild. Tell you what, let’s go out for a beer when we get back and you can tell us all about it. We’ll call you. Bye. Oh, forgot. The thing tonight? It’s been moved from King Plow to the Masquerade. Same time. Bye.”