Stuart Woods: Iron Orchid

I’m very pleased to meet you,“ Holly replied.

“The money will be machine counted in there,” Dellinger said. “It will take a little while; why don’t we get the paperwork done?”

“All right.” She sat down at his desk.

He handed her a sheet of paper. “It’s a very simple form,” he said. “You may use any name you like, and you needn’t put down an address, since we will not be mailing you account statements.”

Holly put down “H. Barker” for a name. “I’d like two credit cards in the same name,” she said. “They may be used by two different people, and I brought a sample signature of the other person.” She gave him a photocopy of Ham’s signature. It was illegible to anyone but her. She signed “H. Barker” for her own card.

The guard came back and handed Dellinger a slip of paper.

“Five million, seven hundred and sixty thousand dollars,” Dellinger said. “Does that sound right?”

“It sounds exactly right.”

“Let me tell you a few things about our service,” Dellinger said, “and I hope you won’t take offense at what may seem to be our assumptions. We give all our clients this information without regard to the amount deposited or the source of the funds.”

“I won’t be offended,” Holly said.

“First of all, because of the way we disperse cash around the world, these funds will immediately become untraceable. In the unlikely event that the United States or any other country should invade our island and take over our bank, they will not find a name on your account, only a number, which will not be in any way traceable to you. The number will not be coded in any way that would reveal even the nationality of the customer.

“The only thing traceable to you would be the credit card charges. When you view your credit card statement, you’ll be given the option of erasing the names of the payees-hotels, restaurants or shops, for instance. Only the amounts and dates of the charges would then appear on your statement, which you may access by entering your account number and a password, which you will designate. You may use as many as three passwords, each from four to twelve letters or digits or a combination of both.“

“That sounds good.”

“It is very important that you never forget the passwords, because if you do, you will not be able to access your account statements. In order to change the passwords, you would have to come personally here, to the bank.”

Holly signed one card and put them both into her pocket.

“The paper I gave you also has instructions for going to your account online,” Dellinger said. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, I think that does it,” Holly said. She shook his hand and left the bank. Now the drug money she had stolen from the hundreds of millions confiscated in a huge raid was safe from anyone but her, and no one would ever be able to prove that she had it. At least, she hoped not.

She spent the night in Georgetown, then, the following morning, flew back to the Bahamas. She spent two days there, shopping, eating and walking on the beach with Daisy, and on Monday morning she flew home to Orchid Beach.

She, Ham and Ginny, Ham’s girlfriend, had dinner that night at the Ocean Grill in Vero Beach, then the following morning, she gave her house keys to the young policewoman who would be her caretaker, loaded her Jeep Grand Cherokee and drove with Daisy ninety miles to Palm Beach. There, at the Porsche dealer, she traded in the Jeep for a Porsche Cayenne Turbo, and paid for it, not with her new credit card, but with a check on her own bank account. Holly had been a woman of some substance since Jackson ’s will had made it so.

By noon, she was headed north to Virginia.

Two days later, at the appointed hour, she turned into an unmarked gate on a country road, went around a bend and saw a roadblock ahead. A man in civilian clothes, carrying an assault rifle, stopped her.

“You seem to have taken a wrong turn,” he said. “Please turn around and go back to the highway.”

Holly, as she had been instructed to do, handed him her U.S. passport. “My name is Barker,” she said. “I’m expected.”

The man consulted a clipboard, very thoroughly compared her passport photograph to her face, then returned it to her. “And who might that be?” he asked, pointing to Daisy, who sat in the front passenger seat.

“That is Daisy,” Holly replied. “She doesn’t have a passport.”

The man checked his clipboard. “Her name is on the list,” he said. “Go all the way to the end of the drive, park your car and go into the white house, which is the administration building. You’ll be met.” He walked to the side of the road, tapped a code into a keypad, and the concrete roadblock swung slowly out of the way.

Holly gave him a wave and drove past the barricade. After five minutes of winding through woods, she emerged at what appeared to be a large farmhouse.

She had arrived at Camp Peary, which members of the Central Intelligence Agency referred to as “the Farm.”

HOLLY ALLOWED DAISY a moment in the bushes, then entered the old farmhouse. Immediately, a trim, middle-aged woman emerged from a side room.

“Ms. Barker?”

“Yes.”

“I am Mrs. Colville, the chief administrative officer at this installation. If you’ll come with me, we’ll get you processed, and then you can have dinner. First, may I have your car keys? What a nice dog.” She gave Daisy a pat.

Holly handed the keys over, and Mrs. Colville walked outside for a moment, then returned. Holly followed the woman through a living room furnished with eighteenth-century American furniture, down a hallway and into an elevator, which took them down. They emerged into a perfectly ordinary open office floor divided into cubicles, with a row of private offices along one wall. Mrs. Colville showed her to a seat at a table, upon which rested a fairly thick file.

“The file contains the rather extensive application and personal history that you filled out many weeks ago. You may review it, if you wish, and make any changes you feel are necessary for accuracy. Once you sign the sworn statement, at the end, the Agency will accept what you have entered, and you will be henceforth held responsible for its accuracy, in every respect, on penalty of perjury. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Yes,” Holly replied. “I don’t feel the need to make any changes.” It was as accurate as she knew how to make it, except for the new bank account in Grand Cayman. She countersigned the document and handed it over.

“Very well.” Mrs. Colville put what appeared to be a large identification card in front of her. “Please sign this, and we’ll get you photographed.”

Holly signed it and was taken down a hallway to a bare-bones photo studio and photographed. Colville left the paperwork with the photographer and returned to her office with Holly, where she handed her a thick envelope. “This is a document explaining all of your obligations and rights as an employee, everything from the health plan to the pension plan to your legal rights. Please read the entire document carefully, then return it to this office, since you are not allowed to have in your possession, after leaving here, any document belonging to the Agency, except your identification card.”

The photographer came in and handed Colville a leather wallet. She inspected the contents and handed it to Holly. “This is your identification,” she said. “From this moment, you are a probationary employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. When you have completed your course of training here, you will surrender this card and, if you have been successful, given new identification.” Colville took a sheaf of typed papers from her desk drawer and handed it to Holly. “This is your schedule for tomorrow; you will be given a new schedule each morning, so that training may be adapted to whatever your special needs may be.”