Andrew Gross - The Dark Tide

It was time to be leaving.

Charles waited for a brightly clad local woman to finish, then sat down at the manager’s desk. The manager was an amiable islander he had worked with before, who seemed pleased to see Charles again, as he did every few months.

And she was disappointed to see him closing out his accounts.

“Mr. Hanson,” the manager said, dutifully fulfilling his request, “so it seems we will not be seeing you here anymore?”

“Maybe not for a while,” Charles said, standing up. “Thanks.” The two shook hands.

As he left, his mind weighing Karen’s urgent message-resolving to tell her no, not to contact him anymore-Charles never noticed the manager reaching for a slip of paper he kept hidden in his desk. Or picking up the phone before Charles had even stepped out the door.

KAREN WAS STILL at the computer when Charles’s reply came in.

No, Karen. It’s way too dangerous. I can’t let that happen. The things I did that you may think you know about…you simply don’t. Just accept that. I know how you must feel, but please, I beg you, just go on with your life. Don’t tell anyone you found me. No one, Karen! I loved you. I never meant to hurt you. But now it’s too late. I accept that. But please, please, whatever you may feel, don’t write me anymore.

Anger bristled through Karen’s blood. She wrote back:

Yes, Charlie, I’m afraid you ARE going to let that happen! When I say I know about what you’ve done, I don’t just mean that you’re alive. I know… I know about Falcon and all the money you were managing offshore, Charlie. That you kept from me all those years. And Dolphin. Those empty tankers, Charlie. That person in Pensacola who uncovered your fraud. What the hell did you try to do to him, Charlie?

This time his reply came back in seconds-a tone of panic:

Just who have you been talking to, Karen?

What does it matter who I’ve been talking to, Charlie?

Now they were going back and forth, real time. Karen and the man she had thought was a ghost.

You’re not seeing it. All that matters is, I know. I know about that boy who was killed in Greenwich. The day you disappeared. The day we were up here bleeding for you, Charlie. And I know you were there. Is that enough yet? I know you came up here after the bombing. The bombing when you were supposed to have been killed, Charlie. I know you called him under an assumed name.

How, Karen, how?

And I know who he was, Charlie. I know he was that man from Pensacola ’s son. What your own trader, Jonathan Lauer, probably found out himself and was trying to tell me. Is that enough yet, Charlie? Fraud. Murder. Covering it all up.

Seconds later Charlie wrote back:

Karen, please…

She wiped her eyes.

I haven’t told any of this to the kids. If I did, it would surely kill them, Charlie. Like it’s been fucking killing me. They’re away now. On safari with my folks. Sam’s graduation present. But people have been threatening us, Charlie. Threatening THEM! Is that what you wanted, Charlie? Is that what you wanted to leave behind?

She drew in a breath and went on typing.

I know there are risks. But we’re going to take those risks. Otherwise, I’m going to pass all this on to the police. You’ll be charged, Charlie. We’re talking murder. They’ll find you. If I could, believe me, so can they. And that’s what your kids will think of you, Charlie. That you were a murderer. Not the person they admire now.

Karen was about to push send, but then she hesitated.

So that’s the price, Charles, for my silence. To keep all this quiet. You always loved a fair exchange. I don’t want you back. I don’t love you anymore. I don’t know if I have any feelings for you. But I am going to see you, Charlie. I am going to hear why you did this to us, from your lips, face-to-face. So you just tell me how it’s going to get done. Nothing else. No apologies. No sorrow. Then you can feel free to disappear for the rest of your miserable life.

She pressed send. And waited. For several minutes. There was no reply. Karen began to grow worried. What if she had divulged too much? What if she had scared him away? For good. Now that she’d finally found him.

She waited for what seemed forever. Staring at the blank screen. Don’t do this to me again, Charles. Not now. C’mon, Charlie, pretend that you once loved me. Don’t put me through this again.

She shut her eyes. Maybe she even dozed off for a while, totally enervated, spent.

She heard a sound. When Karen opened her eyes, she saw that an e-mail had come in. She clicked on it.

Alone. That’s the only way it happens.

Karen stared at it. A tiny smile of satisfaction inched onto her lips.

All right, Charles. Alone.

Another day passed while Karen waited for Charles’s instructions. This time she wasn’t nervous or afraid. Or surprised when she finally received them.

Just resolved.

Come down to the St. James’s Club on St. Hubert ’s in the BVIs.

Karen knew the place. They had sailed around there a couple of times. It was a beautiful spot on a horseshoe cove, a cluster of thatched bungalows nestled right on the beach. Completely remote.

Charles added:

Soon. Days, not weeks, Karen. I’ll contact you there.

There were many things Karen thought to say to him. But all she wrote back was:

I’ll be there.

RONALD TORBOR WRESTLED with what to do. That very morning he had looked up and seen Steven Hanson, the American, standing in front of his desk.

Come to close out his accounts.

The bank manager tried to camouflage his surprise. Since the two Americans had been to his house, he had prayed he would never see this man again. But here he was. All the while they talked and conducted business, Ronald’s heart was hammering out of his chest. As soon as the man left, Ronald rushed into the office bathroom. He splashed cold water all over his burning face.

What should he do?

He knew it was wrong-what those awful men had asked him to do. He knew it violated every fiduciary oath. That he would be fired if anyone found out. Lose everything he had worked for all these years.

And Ronald liked him. Mr. Steven Hanson. He was always cheerful and polite. He always had a good word to say about Ezra, whose picture was on Ronald’s desk and whom Hanson had seen once before when Ezra and Edith had been visiting in the bank.

But what choice did he have?

It was for his son that he was doing this.

The mustached man had promised-if he ever found out that Ronald had screwed him, they would be back. And if they had traced Hanson this far, they could trace him further. And if they found out his accounts had been transferred out, it would be worse for them. Edith and Ezra.

Far, far worse.

Ronald realized there was a lot more at stake than just his job. There was his family. They had threatened to kill him. Ezra. Ronald had vowed he could not see that look of fear in his wife’s eyes again.

Mr. Hanson, please understand. What choice do I have?

There was a pay telephone on the far end of the square outside the bank. Next to a bench, with an election poster on it, a picture of Nevis ’s corrupt incumbent minister over the slogan TIME COME FOR DEM TO GO.

He put a pay card in the slot and punched in the international number he’d been given. Make sure I hear from you, Ronald, the mustached man had said as he left, patting Ezra’s head. “Nice boy.” He winked. “I’m sure he’ll have quite a future in life.”

The call connected. Ronald swallowed back his fear.

“Hello,” a voice answered. Ronald recognized its tone. Just hearing it again sent a shiver of shame and revulsion down his spine.