The Wolf Of Wall Street Part 9

I nodded in understanding. I found it interesting that Saurel didn't speak in wishes. He had a complete command of the English language, idioms and all.

Saurel plowed on: "But to answer your question, the only way the Swiss government would cooperate with the U.S. government would be if the alleged crime was also a crime in Switzerland. For example, in Switzerland, there is no law regarding tax evasion. So if we were to receive a request from the United States government regarding such a matter, we would not cooperate with them."

"Mr. Saurel is entirely correct," said the bank's vice president, a thin little Frog with spectacles, who went by the name of Pierre something or other. "We have no great affection for your government. You would please not take offense at this. But the fact remains that we would cooperate only if the alleged crime is a penal offense, or, as you would say it, a felony."

Then a second Pierre chimed in, although this one was younger and was bald as a cue ball. He said, "You would find that the Swiss penal code is far more liberal than that of your own country. Many of your felonies are not considered felonies in Switzerland."

Christ almighty! The word felony felony was enough to send a s.h.i.+ver down my spine. In fact, it was already obvious that there were huge problems with my preconceived notion of using Switzerland as a rathole...unless, of course...well...could ratholes be legal in Switzerland? I ran the possibility through my mind. No, I strongly doubted it, but I would have to inquire about it when I met with Saurel in private. I smiled and said, "Well, I'm really not concerned about that sort of thing, because I have absolutely no intention of breaking any U.S. laws." That was a bold-faced lie. But I loved the way it sounded. Who cared that it was a boatload of c.r.a.p? For some inexplicable reason it still made me feel more at ease about being in Switzerland. I soldiered on: "And when I say that, I speak for Danny as well. You see, our sole reason for wanting to have money in Switzerland is for a.s.set protection. My primary concern is that in my line of work there exists a great likelihood of getting sued-wrongfully, I might add. But either way what I'd like to know-or, to put it more bluntly, what's most important to me-is that under no circ.u.mstances will you turn any of my money over to a U.S. citizen or, for that matter, any person on the planet who happens to get a civil judgment against me." was enough to send a s.h.i.+ver down my spine. In fact, it was already obvious that there were huge problems with my preconceived notion of using Switzerland as a rathole...unless, of course...well...could ratholes be legal in Switzerland? I ran the possibility through my mind. No, I strongly doubted it, but I would have to inquire about it when I met with Saurel in private. I smiled and said, "Well, I'm really not concerned about that sort of thing, because I have absolutely no intention of breaking any U.S. laws." That was a bold-faced lie. But I loved the way it sounded. Who cared that it was a boatload of c.r.a.p? For some inexplicable reason it still made me feel more at ease about being in Switzerland. I soldiered on: "And when I say that, I speak for Danny as well. You see, our sole reason for wanting to have money in Switzerland is for a.s.set protection. My primary concern is that in my line of work there exists a great likelihood of getting sued-wrongfully, I might add. But either way what I'd like to know-or, to put it more bluntly, what's most important to me-is that under no circ.u.mstances will you turn any of my money over to a U.S. citizen or, for that matter, any person on the planet who happens to get a civil judgment against me."

Saurel smiled. "Not only would we never do that," he mused, "but we don't even recognize anything that is-as you say-civil. Even if we were to get a subpoena from your Securities and Exchange Commission-which is a civil regulatory body-we would not cooperate with them under any circ.u.mstances." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "And that would be even if the alleged offense is a felony under Swiss law." He nodded to drive his point home. "Even then we would still not cooperate!" He smiled a conspirator's smile.

I nodded approvingly and then looked around the room. Everyone seemed to be pleased with the way things were going, everyone except me. I couldn't have been more turned off. Saurel's last comment had struck a nerve with me, sending my brain into overdrive. The simple fact was that if the Swiss government refused to cooperate with an SEC investigation, then the SEC would have no choice but to refer their request over to the U.S. Attorney's office for a criminal investigation. Talk about being the agent of your own demise!

I began playing out possible scenarios in my mind. Ninety percent of all SEC cases were settled at the civil level. It was only when the SEC felt something overly egregious was going on that they referred the case to the FBI for criminal investigation. But if the SEC couldn't run their investigation-if they were stonewalled by the Swiss-how could they decide what was egregious and what was not? In truth, much of what I was doing wasn't all that terrible, was it?

I took a deep breath and said, "Well, it all sounds reasonable to me, but I wonder how the U.S. government would even know where to look-meaning how would they know which Swiss bank to send a subpoena to? None of the accounts have names; they're just numbered. So unless someone tipped them off"-I resisted the urge to look at Kaminsky-"as to where you were keeping your money, or unless you were careless enough to leave a paper trail of some sort, then how would they even know where to start? Do they have to guess your account number? There must be a thousand banks in Switzerland, and each one of them probably has a hundred thousand accounts. That's millions of accounts, all with different account numbers. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. It would be impossible." I looked directly into Saurel's dark eyes.

After a few moments of silence, Saurel replied, "That is another excellent question. But to answer, I would ask you to oblige me the opportunity to give you a small lesson in Swiss banking history."

This was getting good. The importance of understanding the implications of the past was exactly what Al Abrams had drilled into my head during all those early-morning breakfast meetings. I nodded and said, "Please do. I'm actually fascinated with history, especially when it pertains to a situation like this, where I'm contemplating doing business in unfamiliar territory."

Saurel smiled and said, "The whole notion of numbered accounts is somewhat misleading. While it's true that all Swiss banks offer our clients this option-as a means of maintaining their privacy-each account is tied to a name, which is kept on record at the bank."

With that statement my heart sank. Saurel continued, "Many years ago, before World War Two, that was not the case. You see, back then it was standard practice among Swiss bankers to open an account without a name being attached to it. Everything was based on personal relations.h.i.+ps and a handshake. Many of these accounts were held in the names of corporations. But unlike corporations in the United States, these were bearer corporations, which, again, had no name attached to them. In other words, whoever was the actual bearer of the corporation's physical stock certificates would be deemed the rightful owner.

"But then came Adolf Hitler and the despicable n.a.z.is. This is a very sad chapter in our history and one that we are not particularly proud of. We did our best to help as many of our Jewish clients as we possibly could, but in the end I would say that we did not help enough. As you know, Mr. Belfort, I am French, but I think I speak for every man in this room when I say that we wish we had done more." With that, he paused and nodded his head solemnly.

Every man in the room, including the court jester himself, Kaminsky, a Jew in his own right, nodded in sympathy. I a.s.sumed that everyone knew that Danny and I were both Jewish, and I couldn't help but wonder if Saurel had said these things for our benefit. Or had he really meant what he'd said? Either way, before he began speaking I had already gone ten steps ahead and knew exactly where he was going next. The simple fact was that before Hitler was able to sweep through Europe and round up six million Jews and exterminate them in the gas chambers, many were able to move their money into Switzerland. They had seen the handwriting on the wall back in the early thirties, when the n.a.z.is were first coming to power. But smuggling out their money had proved to be much easier than smuggling out themselves. Virtually every country in Europe, with the exception of Denmark, denied millions of desperate Jews safe haven within their borders. Most of these countries had cut secret deals with Hitler, agreeing to turn over their Jewish populations if Hitler agreed not to attack. These were agreements that Hitler quickly reneged on, once he had all the Jews safely tucked away in concentration camps. And as country after country fell to the n.a.z.is, the Jews ran out of places to hide. How very ironic it was that Switzerland had been so quick to accept Jewish money yet so reluctant to accept Jewish souls.

After the n.a.z.is were finally defeated, many of the surviving children had come to Switzerland in search of their family's secret bank accounts. But they had no way to prove that they had any rights to them. After all, there were no names tied to the accounts, only numbers. Unless the surviving children knew exactly in which bank their parents had kept their money and precisely which banker they had been doing business with, there was no possible way for them to lay claim to the money. To this very day, billions upon billions of dollars were still unaccounted for.

And then my mind wandered to a darker side. How many of these Swiss b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had known exactly who the surviving children were but chose not to seek them out? Even worse-how many Jewish children whose entire families had been wiped out had shown up at the correct Swiss bank, and had spoken to the correct Swiss banker, only to be lied to? G.o.d! G.o.d! What a f.u.c.king tragedy! Only the most n.o.ble of the Swiss bankers would have had the integrity to make sure that the rightful heirs received what had been left for them. And in Zurich-which was full of f.u.c.king Krauts-you would be hard-pressed to find many Jew-lovers. Perhaps in French Geneva things had been a bit better, but only a bit. Human nature was human nature. And all that Jewish money had been lost forever, absorbed into the very Swiss banking system itself, enriching this tiny country beyond imagination, which probably accounted for the lack of beggars on the streets. What a f.u.c.king tragedy! Only the most n.o.ble of the Swiss bankers would have had the integrity to make sure that the rightful heirs received what had been left for them. And in Zurich-which was full of f.u.c.king Krauts-you would be hard-pressed to find many Jew-lovers. Perhaps in French Geneva things had been a bit better, but only a bit. Human nature was human nature. And all that Jewish money had been lost forever, absorbed into the very Swiss banking system itself, enriching this tiny country beyond imagination, which probably accounted for the lack of beggars on the streets.

"...and so you see why," said Saurel, "it is now required that every account opened in Switzerland has a beneficial owner attached to it. There is no exception."

I looked over at Danny. He nodded imperceptibly. But the unspoken message was: "This is a f.u.c.king nightmare."

On the ride back to the hotel, Danny and I hardly exchanged a word. I stared out the window and saw nothing but the ghosts of a few million dead Jews, still searching for their money. By now the back of my leg was literally on fire. Christ! If only I wasn't in such terrible chronic pain I could probably beat my drug habit. I was feeling sharp as a tack. It had been more than twenty-four hours since I'd taken any pill, and my mind was so acute I felt like I could work through any problem, no matter how insurmountable it might seem. But how could I work around Swiss banking laws? The law was the law, and having watched Al Abrams go down had only served to reinforce that age-old cliche of how ignorance of the law is no excuse for breaking it. The simple fact was that if I were to open an account with Union Bancaire, I would have to give them a copy of my pa.s.sport, which would then be kept on file at the bank. And if the U.S. Department of Justice issued a criminal subpoena related to stock fraud-which, of course, was also a crime in Switzerland-then my goose would be cooked. Even if the feds didn't know which account was mine or, for that matter, which bank I was doing business with, it still wouldn't slow them down. Their subpoena would go directly to the Swiss Department of Justice, which would then send out a blanket request to every Swiss bank in the country, demanding that they turn over all records for any accounts belonging to the individual referenced in the subpoena.

And that would be that.

Christ-I would be better off sticking with my own ratholes in the United States. At least if they were ever subpoenaed they could simply lie under oath! It wasn't a pleasant thought, but at least there was no paper trail.

Wait a second! Who said that I had to give the bank my my pa.s.sport? What was to stop me from having one of my ratholes come to Switzerland and open an account with their pa.s.sport? What were the chances that the FBI would hit upon the name of my U.S. rathole within my Swiss rathole? It was a rathole within a rathole! A double layer of protection! If the United States issued a subpoena for records relating to Jordan Belfort, the Swiss Department of Justice would send out their request and come up with nothing! pa.s.sport? What was to stop me from having one of my ratholes come to Switzerland and open an account with their pa.s.sport? What were the chances that the FBI would hit upon the name of my U.S. rathole within my Swiss rathole? It was a rathole within a rathole! A double layer of protection! If the United States issued a subpoena for records relating to Jordan Belfort, the Swiss Department of Justice would send out their request and come up with nothing!

And now that I thought about it, why would I even want to use one of my current ratholes? In the past I had chosen my ratholes based not only on their trustworthiness but also on their ability to generate large amounts of cash in ways that wouldn't alert the IRS. That was a difficult combination to find. My primary rathole was Elliot Lavigne-who was rapidly turning into a nightmare on Elm Street. Not only was he my primary rathole but he was also the man responsible for introducing me to Quaaludes. He was the President of Perry Ellis, one of America's largest clothing manufacturers. But this exalted position of his was slightly misleading. In point of fact, he was ten times crazier than Danny. Yes, as impossible as it might seem, next to him, Danny was a choirboy.

Besides being a compulsive gambler and a drug addict of the highest order, Elliot was also a s.e.x fiend and a compulsive marital cheat. He was stealing millions of dollars a year from Perry Ellis-having secret deals with his overseas factories, which were overcharging Perry Ellis an extra dollar or two per garment and then kicking back that cash to Elliot. The numbers were in the millions. When I made Elliot money in new issues, he would then settle up with me using the very cash he had received from his overseas factories. It was a perfect exchange; no paper trail to be found anywhere. But Elliot was starting to go bad on me. His gambling and drug habits were getting the best of him. He was falling behind on his payments to me. As of now he owed me almost $2 million in back profits from having ratholed new issues for me. But if I were to cut him off completely, I would lose that money for sure. So I was in the process of slowly phasing him out, continuing to make him money in new issues while he paid down his debt.

In spite of that, Elliot had served his purpose well. He had kicked me back more than $5 million in cash, which was now safely tucked away in safe-deposit boxes in the United States. Just how I was going to get all that money over to Switzerland, I still wasn't so sure-although I had some ideas. I would discuss that matter with Saurel when we met in a few hours. Anyway, I had always a.s.sumed that replacing Elliot with another rathole who could generate that much cash without leaving a paper trail was going to be a problem. But now, having Switzerland as my primary rathole layer, the issue of generating "clean" cash would no longer be a concern. I would simply keep the money in my Swiss account and let it collect interest. The only issue I hadn't been able to address at today's meeting was how I was supposed to go about using all the money I would be keeping in my Swiss account. How was I supposed to spend any of it? How would I be able to funnel the post-laundered money back into the United States to make investments? There were still many questions to be answered.

But the most important thing was that by using Switzerland, I could now choose my ratholes based solely on trustworthiness. This opened up a much larger universe of prospective ratholes, and my mind quickly turned to my wife's family. None of them were U.S. citizens; they all lived in Great Britain-outside the prying eyes of the FBI. In fact, there was a little-known exemption in the federal securities laws that allowed non-U.S. citizens to invest in public companies under much more favorable terms than U.S. citizens. It was called Regulation S, and it allowed foreigners to buy private stock in public companies, while avoiding the two-year holding period required under Rule 144. Instead, under Regulation S, a foreigner had to hold their stock for only forty days. It was a ridiculous law, giving foreigners an incredible advantage over U.S. investors. In consequence-like most regulatory brain farts-it had resulted in a ma.s.sive wave of abuse, as savvy U.S. investors struck up under-the-table deals with foreigners and illegally used Regulation S to make private investments in public companies, without having to wait two full years to sell their stock (under Rule 144). I had been approached numerous times by foreigners who, for a modest fee, had offered to act as my nominee-allowing me to use their non-U.S. citizens.h.i.+p to do Regulation S business. But I had always declined. Al Abrams's warning was in the back of my mind, always. And, besides, how on earth was I supposed to trust some foreigner with something so inherently illegal? After all, using a foreign nominee to do a Regulation S stock purchase was a serious criminal offense, one that was sure to tweak the interest of the FBI. So I had always s.h.i.+ed away from it.

But now, with a double-layered rathole...with my wife's relatives as the secondary layer of protection...well, all of a sudden it didn't seem all that risky!

And then my mind zeroed in on my wife's aunt Patricia-no, my my aunt Patricia. Yes, she had become my aunt too! The first time Aunt Patricia and I met, we both knew we were kindred spirits. How ironic that was-considering what she had seen the first time she laid eyes on me. It was two years ago, in the Dorchester Hotel in London, and she had walked in on me right in the middle of a Quaalude overdose. In fact, I was in the middle of drowning in a toilet bowl when she entered the hotel room. But rather than judging me, she talked me through it and stayed up with me all night, holding my head over that very toilet as my body spewed out the poison I'd put into it. Then she ran her fingers through my hair, like my mother did when I was a child, as wave after wave of anxiety hit me from all the c.o.ke I had snorted. I had been unable to keep down any Xanax to offset the anxiety from the c.o.ke. In consequence, I was crawling out of my own skin. The next day we had lunch together, and, without making me feel the least bit guilty over what she had seen, she somehow convinced me to stop using drugs. I had actually stayed sober for two straight weeks. I was vacationing in England with Nadine, and the two of us had never gotten along better. I was so happy that I had even thought of moving to England, to make Aunt Patricia a part of my life. But deep down I knew it was just a fantasy. My life was in the United States; Stratton was in the United States; my power was in the United States; which meant I had to be in the Unites States. And when I finally arrived back in the United States, under the kind influence of Danny Porush and Elliot Lavigne and the rest of my merry band of brokers, my drug habit came roaring back. And with my back pain fueling the fire, it roared back stronger than ever. aunt Patricia. Yes, she had become my aunt too! The first time Aunt Patricia and I met, we both knew we were kindred spirits. How ironic that was-considering what she had seen the first time she laid eyes on me. It was two years ago, in the Dorchester Hotel in London, and she had walked in on me right in the middle of a Quaalude overdose. In fact, I was in the middle of drowning in a toilet bowl when she entered the hotel room. But rather than judging me, she talked me through it and stayed up with me all night, holding my head over that very toilet as my body spewed out the poison I'd put into it. Then she ran her fingers through my hair, like my mother did when I was a child, as wave after wave of anxiety hit me from all the c.o.ke I had snorted. I had been unable to keep down any Xanax to offset the anxiety from the c.o.ke. In consequence, I was crawling out of my own skin. The next day we had lunch together, and, without making me feel the least bit guilty over what she had seen, she somehow convinced me to stop using drugs. I had actually stayed sober for two straight weeks. I was vacationing in England with Nadine, and the two of us had never gotten along better. I was so happy that I had even thought of moving to England, to make Aunt Patricia a part of my life. But deep down I knew it was just a fantasy. My life was in the United States; Stratton was in the United States; my power was in the United States; which meant I had to be in the Unites States. And when I finally arrived back in the United States, under the kind influence of Danny Porush and Elliot Lavigne and the rest of my merry band of brokers, my drug habit came roaring back. And with my back pain fueling the fire, it roared back stronger than ever.

Aunt Patricia was sixty-five, divorced, a retired schoolteacher, and a closet anarchist. She would be perfect. She had contempt for all things governmental and could be trusted without question. If I asked her to do this for me, she would smile her warmest smile and be on a plane the next day. Besides, Aunt Patricia had no money. Each time I saw her I would offer her more than she could possibly spend in a year. And each time she refused. She was too proud. But now I could explain to her that since she was doing a service for me, she had more than earned her keep. I would let her spend whatever she wanted. In point of fact, I would transform her life from rags to riches. What a wonderful thought that was! And, besides, she would hardly spend anything! She was a woman who had grown up amid the rubble of World War II and was currently living on a tiny pension from her schoolteaching days. She wouldn't know how how to burn through any serious cash-even if she wanted to! Most of what she would spend would be used to spoil her two grandchildren. And that was just fine! In fact, the mere thought of it warmed my heart. to burn through any serious cash-even if she wanted to! Most of what she would spend would be used to spoil her two grandchildren. And that was just fine! In fact, the mere thought of it warmed my heart.

If the U.S. government ever came knocking on Patricia's door, she would tell them to stick it up their Yankee a.s.ses! With that thought I started laughing out loud.

"What are you so happy about?" muttered Danny. "That whole meeting was a waste of time! And I don't even have any Quaaludes to drown my sorrow in. So, tell me, what's on that twisted mind of yours?"

I smiled. "I'm meeting with Saurel in a few hours. I have a few more questions for him, but I'm pretty sure I already know the answers. Anyway, what I want you to do is call Janet as soon as we get back to the hotel and tell her to have a Learjet waiting for us at the airport first thing in the morning. And tell her to book the Presidential Suite at the Dorchester. We're going to London, buddy. We're going to London."

CHAPTER 14

INTERNATIONAL OBSESSIONS

Three hours later I was sitting across from Jean Jacques Saurel in Le Jardin restaurant, in the lobby of Hotel Le Richemond. The table had some of the finest place settings I'd ever seen. A wonderful array of hand-polished sterling silver and an immaculate collection of bone-white china rested upon a heavily starched snow-white tablecloth. Really fancy stuff it was; must've cost a fortune! I thought. But, like the rest of this antique hotel, the restaurant's decor was not to my taste. It was decidedly art deco, circa 1930, which was the last time, I a.s.sumed, the restaurant had been renovated.

Still, in spite of the less-than-stellar decor-and the fact that I was jet-lagged to the point of near exhaustion-the company happened to be excellent. Saurel had turned out to be quite a wh.o.r.emaster himself, and at this particular moment he was in the middle of explaining to me the fine art of bedding Swiss Frog women, who he said were hornier than jackrabbits. In fact, they were so easy to coax into bed, he claimed, that each day he would stare out his office window and watch them walk along rue du Rhone-with their short skirts and tiny dogs-while he painted imaginary bull's-eyes on their backs.

I found that to be a clever observation and was saddened by the fact that Danny hadn't been present to hear it. But the topics Saurel and I were planning to discuss this evening were so horrendously illegal that you simply couldn't have this sort of conversation in the presence of a third party-even if the third party happened to be involved in the crime. It was a patent impossibility. It was one more lesson taught to me by Al Abrams, who'd said, "Two people make a crime; three make a conspiracy."

So here I was, alone with Saurel, but my mind was drifting back to Danny and more specifically what on earth he was doing right now. He wasn't the sort of guy you just let out of your sight in a foreign country. Left to his own devices, it was almost certain that something bad bad would happen. The only saving grace was that in this particular country, there wasn't much Danny could do, short of rape or murder, that the man seated across from me couldn't fix with one phone call to the proper authority. would happen. The only saving grace was that in this particular country, there wasn't much Danny could do, short of rape or murder, that the man seated across from me couldn't fix with one phone call to the proper authority.

"...so most of the time," proclaimed Saurel, "I take them to the Metropole Hotel, just across from the bank, and I f.u.c.k them there. By the way, Jordan, I must say that I find this English word of yours, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, to be quite satisfying. There is really no French word that gets the point across quite as well. But not to digress-the point I was trying to make is that I have made it my second profession, behind banking, of course, to bed as many Swiss women as possible." He shrugged a gigolo's shrug and smiled a warm Eurotrash smile. Then he took another deep pull from his cigarette. to be quite satisfying. There is really no French word that gets the point across quite as well. But not to digress-the point I was trying to make is that I have made it my second profession, behind banking, of course, to bed as many Swiss women as possible." He shrugged a gigolo's shrug and smiled a warm Eurotrash smile. Then he took another deep pull from his cigarette.

"According to Kaminsky," he said through exhaled smoke, "you share my love of beautiful women, yes?"

I smiled and nodded.

"Ahhh...that is very fine," continued the Wh.o.r.emaster, "very fine! But I was also told that your wife is very beautiful. How odd that is, wouldn't you say? To have such a beautiful wife yet to still have a wandering eye? But I can relate to that, my friend. You see, my wife is also quite beautiful, yet I feel compelled to pleasure myself with any young woman who might care to have me, as long as she is up to my standards of excellence. And in this country there is no shortage of these sorts of women." He shrugged. "But I guess this is the way of the world, the way things are supposed to be for men like us, wouldn't you say?"

Jesus! That sounded horrific! Yet I had said those same words to myself many times-trying to rationalize my own behavior. But to be on the receiving end of it made me realize how truly ridiculous it was. "Well, Jean, there comes a time when a man has to say to himself that he's proved his point. And that's the point I'm at now. I love my wife and I'm done s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around."

Saurel narrowed his eyes sagely and nodded. "I have been to that point many times myself. And it is a fine feeling when you arrive there, is it not? It serves to remind us of what is truly important in life. After all, without a family to come home to, it would be an empty life, indeed. That is why I relish the time I spend with my family oh so much. And then, after a few days of it, I realize that I might very well slit my wrists if I were to stay around any longer.

"Don't misunderstand me, Jordan. It is not that I don't love my wife and child. Indeed I do. It is simply that I am French, and as a French man there is only so much of this wife-and-child business that I can reasonably be expected to swallow before I begin to resent them greatly. The point I make is that my time away from home makes me a much better husband to my wife and a much better father to my child." Saurel picked up his cigarette from the gla.s.s ashtray and took a tremendous pull.

And I waited...and waited...but he never exhaled. Wow, that was interesting! I had never seen my father do that one either! Saurel seemed to internalize the smoke-absorbing it into his very core. All at once it occurred to me that Swiss men seemed to smoke for different reasons than American men did. It was as if in Switzerland it was all about being ent.i.tled to partake in a simple manly pleasure, while in the United States it had more to do with having the right to kill yourself with a terrible vice, in spite of all the warnings.

It was time to get down to business. "Jean," I said warmly, "to answer your first question-on how much money I'm interested in moving to Switzerland. I think it would make sense if I started small, perhaps with five million dollars or so. Then, if things work out, I would consider bringing over a significantly larger amount-perhaps another twenty million over the next twelve months. As far as using the bank's couriers, I appreciate the gesture, but I would just as soon use my own. I have a few friends in the United States who owe me some favors, and I'm sure that they would agree to do this for me.

"But I still have many concerns, the first of which is Kaminsky. It's impossible for me to go forward if he has any knowledge of my relations.h.i.+p with your bank. In fact, if he even suspected I had one penny at your bank, it would be a complete deal breaker. I would close all my accounts and move my money elsewhere."

Saurel seemed entirely unfazed. "You need never raise this issue again," he said icily. "Not only will Kaminsky never know of this, but if he chooses to make any inquiries in this matter, his pa.s.sport will be put on a watch list and he will be arrested by Interpol at their earliest convenience. We Swiss take our secrecy laws more seriously than you can possibly imagine. You see, Kaminsky was once an employee of our bank, so he is held to a much higher standard. I do not kid you when I say that he will wind up in jail if he discloses matters such as these-or, for that matter, sticks his nose in areas that he would be better off steering clear of. He will be locked up in a room and we will throw away the room. So let us put Kaminsky aside, once and for all. If you choose to keep him in your employ, that is your own decision. But be wary of him, because he is a babbling buffoon."

I nodded and smiled. "I have my reasons for keeping Kaminsky where he is right now. Dollar Time is losing serious amounts of money, and if I hire a new CFO he might start to dig. So, for now, it's better to let sleeping dogs lie. Anyway, we have more important issues to discuss than Dollar Time. If you give me your word that Kaminsky will never know about my account, then I will take you at it. I'll never bring it up again."

Saurel nodded. "I like the way you conduct business, Jordan. Perhaps you were European in a former life, eh?" He gave me his broadest smile yet.

"Thanks," I said with a touch of irony. "I take that as a great compliment, Jean. But I still have some important questions to ask you, mainly in reference to that c.r.a.p you guys handed me this morning about giving you my pa.s.sport to open up an account. I mean-come on, Jean-that's a bit much, don't you think?"

Saurel lit up another cigarette and took a deep drag. Through exhaled smoke, he flashed me his conspirator's smile, and said, "Well, my friend, knowing you now for who you are, I a.s.sume you have already figured out a way around this impediment, yes?"

I nodded but said nothing.

After a few seconds of silence, Saurel realized that I was expecting him to come clean with me. "Very well, then," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Most of what was said in the bank was complete horses.h.i.+t, as you Americans say. It was said for the benefit of Kaminsky and, of course, for the benefit of one another. After all, we must appear to abide by the law. The simple fact is that it would be suicide for you to have your name behind a numbered Swiss account. I would never advise you to do such a thing. However, I think it would would be prudent for you to open an account with our bank-one that proudly bears your name for one and all to see. This way, if the U.S. government ever subpoenaed your phone records, you would have a plausible explanation for calling our bank. As you know, there is no law against having a Swiss account. All you would have to do is send us a small sum of money, perhaps two hundred fifty thousand dollars, which we would then invest for you in various European stocks-only the best companies, of course-and that would give you reason enough to have contact with our bank on a continuous basis." be prudent for you to open an account with our bank-one that proudly bears your name for one and all to see. This way, if the U.S. government ever subpoenaed your phone records, you would have a plausible explanation for calling our bank. As you know, there is no law against having a Swiss account. All you would have to do is send us a small sum of money, perhaps two hundred fifty thousand dollars, which we would then invest for you in various European stocks-only the best companies, of course-and that would give you reason enough to have contact with our bank on a continuous basis."

Not bad! I thought. Plausible deniability was obviously an international obsession among white-collar criminals. I s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to take the pressure off my left leg, which was slowly catching fire, and I casually said, "I see your point, and I might very well do that. But just so you know what kind of man you're dealing with, the chances of me calling your bank from my own home are less less than zero. I would sooner drive myself down to a pay phone in Brazil-with a couple of thousand cruzeiros in my pocket-before I allowed your number to appear on my phone bill. than zero. I would sooner drive myself down to a pay phone in Brazil-with a couple of thousand cruzeiros in my pocket-before I allowed your number to appear on my phone bill.

"But to answer your question, I'm planning to use a family member with a different last name than mine. She's from my wife's side, and she's not even a U.S. citizen; she's British. I'm flying to London tomorrow morning, and I can have her back here the day after tomorrow-pa.s.sport in hand-ready to open an account at your bank."

Saurel nodded once and said, "I a.s.sume you trust this woman implicitly, because if you don't, we can provide you with people who will use their own pa.s.sports. These people are entirely unsophisticated-mostly farmers and shepherds from the Isle of Mann or other tax-free havens such as that-and they are one hundred percent trustworthy. Furthermore, they will not be allowed access to your account. But I'm sure that you have already taken this woman's trustworthiness into consideration. However, I would still suggest that you meet with a man named Roland Franks.

*3 He is a professional with matters such as these, especially in the creation of doc.u.ments. He can create bills of sale, financial letters, purchase orders, brokerage confirmations, and almost anything else within reason. He is what we call a trustee. He will help you form bearer corporations, which will further insulate you from the prying eyes of your government and allow you to break up your owners.h.i.+p of public companies into smaller increments, to avoid filing any of the requisite forms for over five percent stock owners.h.i.+p. He would be invaluable to a man like you-in all aspects of your business-both foreign and domestic." He is a professional with matters such as these, especially in the creation of doc.u.ments. He can create bills of sale, financial letters, purchase orders, brokerage confirmations, and almost anything else within reason. He is what we call a trustee. He will help you form bearer corporations, which will further insulate you from the prying eyes of your government and allow you to break up your owners.h.i.+p of public companies into smaller increments, to avoid filing any of the requisite forms for over five percent stock owners.h.i.+p. He would be invaluable to a man like you-in all aspects of your business-both foreign and domestic."

Interesting. They had their own vertically integrated rathole service. You had to love the Swiss. Roland Franks would act as a forger-generating doc.u.ments that would support a notion of plausible deniability. "I would very much like to meet this man," I replied. "Perhaps you can arrange something for the day after tomorrow."

Saurel nodded and said, "I will see to it. Mr. Franks will also be helpful in developing strategies, which will pave the way for you to reinvest or, for that matter, to spend as much of your overseas money as you so desire, in ways that will not be, as you say, red-flagged by your regulatory agencies."

"For instance?" I asked open-endedly.

"Well, there are many ways-the most common of which is to issue you a Visa card or an American Express card, which will be tied directly to one of your accounts at the bank. When you make a purchase, the money will be automatically deducted from your account." Then he smiled and said, "And from what Kaminsky tells me, you spend quite a bit of money on your credit cards. So this will be a valuable tool for you."

"Will the card be in my name or in the name of the woman I plan on bringing to the bank?"

"It will be in your name. But I would recommend that you allow us to issue one to her as well. It would be wise to let her spend a token sum each month, if you follow my line of thinking."

I nodded in understanding. It was plainly obvious that having Patricia spend money each month would further support the notion that the account was actually hers. But I saw a different problem-namely, that if the card was in my name, all the FBI would have to do was follow me around while I went shopping and then walk into a store after I'd made a purchase and demand to see the credit-card imprint. Then my goose would be cooked. I found it odd that Saurel would recommend a strategy that I'd shot a broad hole through so quickly. But I chose to keep that thought to myself. Instead, I said, "In spite of my lavish spending habits, I still see that as a way to spend only a modest sum. After all, Jean, the transactions we're contemplating are in the millions. I don't think a debit card-as we call it in the U.S.-will make much of a dent in that. Are there other ways where larger amounts can be repatriated?"

"Yes, of course. Another common strategy is to put a mortgage on your home-using your own money. In other words, you would have Mr. Franks form a bearer corporation and then move money from one of your Swiss accounts into the corporate account. Then Mr. Franks would draw up official mortgage doc.u.ments, which you would sign as the mortgagee and receive the money like that. This strategy has two benefits. First, you will be charging yourself interest, which will be earned in whatever country you choose to form your overseas corporation. Nowadays, Mr. Franks prefers to use the British Virgin Islands, which tend to be very lax with their paperwork requirements. And, of course, they have no income taxes. The second benefit is in the form of a domestic tax deduction in the United States. After all, in your country, mortgage interest is tax deductible."

I ran that one through my mind and had to admit it was clever. But this strategy seemed even riskier than the debit card. If I were to put a mortgage on my home, it would be recorded by the Town of Old Brookville, which meant all the FBI would have to do is go down to the town and request a copy of my deed-at which point they would see that an overseas company had funded the mortgage. Talk about your red flags! Apparently, this was the more difficult part of the game. Getting money into a Swiss bank account was easy, and s.h.i.+elding yourself from an investigation was easy too. But repatriating the money without leaving a paper trail would prove to be difficult.

"By the way," Jean asked, "what is the name of the woman you will be bringing to the bank?"

"Her name is Patricia; Patricia Mellor."

Saurel smiled his conspirator's smile once more, and he said, "That is a fine name, my friend. How could a woman with such a name ever break the law, eh?"

An hour later, Saurel and I had stepped out of the hotel elevator and were walking down the fourth-floor hallway on our way to Danny's room. Like the lobby, the hallway's carpet had the look of the r.e.t.a.r.ded monkey, and the color scheme was the same sad mixture of dog-p.i.s.s yellow and regurgitation pink. But the doors were brand-spanking new. They were dark-brown walnut, and they gleamed brilliantly. An interesting dichotomy, I thought. Maybe that was what they meant by Old World charm.

When we reached Danny's gleaming door, I said, "Listen, Jean-Danny is quite the party animal, so don't be surprised if he's slurring a bit. He was drinking scotch when I left him, and I think he's still got some sleeping pills in his system from the flight over. But, whatever he sounds like, I want you to know that when he's sober he's sharp as a tack. In fact, he lives by the motto 'If you go out with the boys you gotta wake up with the men.' You understand, Jean?"

Saurel smiled broadly and replied, "Ah, but of course I do. I could not help but respect a man who lives by such a philosophy. This is the way of things in much of Europe. I would be the last man to judge another based on his desire for the carnal pleasures."

I turned the key and opened the door, and there was Danny, lying on the hotel-room floor, flat on his back, wearing nothing at all-unless, of course, you consider naked Swiss hookers clothing. After all, he was wearing four of those. There was one sitting on his face, backward, with her tight little b.u.t.t smothering his nose; there was a second mounted upon his loins, thrusting up and down. She was engaged in a ferocious kiss with the girl sitting on Danny's face. There was a third hooker holding his ankles down in a spread-eagle position, and the fourth hooker was holding his arms down, also spread eagle. The obvious fact that two new people had entered the room hadn't slowed them down a bit. They were still going strong-business as usual.

I turned to Jean and took a moment to regard him. His head was c.o.c.ked to one side and his right hand was rubbing his chin thoughtfully, as if he were trying to make heads or tails of what each girl's role was in this sordid scene. Then, all at once, he narrowed his eyes and began nodding his head slowly.

"Danny!" I sputtered loudly. "What the f.u.c.k are you doing, you deviant?"

Danny wriggled his right arm free and pushed the young hooker off his face. He lifted his head and tried his best to smile, but his face was nearly frozen. Apparently he had gotten his hands on some cocaine too. "Ize zgezzing zcrummed!" he muttered through clenched teeth.

"You're getting what? I can't understand a word you're f.u.c.king saying."

Danny took a deep breath, as if he were trying to muster up every last ounce of manly strength, and he snapped in a staccato beat: "I...get...ting...scru...ummed!"

"What the f.u.c.k are you talking about?" I muttered.

Saurel said, "Ah, I do believe the man has said that he is getting scrummed, as if he were a rugby player of some sort." With that, Jean Jacques nodded sagely and said, "Rugby is a very popular sport in France. It appears that your friend is, indeed, being scrummed, but in a most unusual fas.h.i.+on, although one I entirely agree with. Go upstairs and call your wife, Jordan. I will take care of your friend. Let's see if he is a true gentleman and will be kind enough to share the wealth."

I nodded and then went about searching Danny's room-finding and flus.h.i.+ng twenty Quaaludes and three grams of c.o.ke down the toilet. Then I left him and Saurel to their own devices.

A few minutes later I found myself lying in bed, contemplating the insanity of my life, when all at once I got a desperate urge to call the d.u.c.h.ess. I looked at my watch: It was 9:30 p.m. I did the calculation-4:30 a.m., New York time. Could I call her that late? The d.u.c.h.ess loved her sleep. Before my brain could answer the question, I was already dialing the phone.

After a few rings came the voice of my wife: "h.e.l.lo?"

Gingerly, apologetically: "Hi, honey, it's me. I'm sorry I called so late, but I'm really missing you bad, and I just wanted to tell you how much I love you."

Sweet as sugar: "Oh, I love you too, baby, but it's not late. It's the middle of the afternoon! You got the time change backward."

"Really?" I said. "Hmmm...well, anyway, I'm missing you really bad. You have no idea."

"Aw, that's so sweet," said the luscious d.u.c.h.ess. "Channy and I both wish you were home with us. When are you coming back, my love?"

"As soon as I can. I'm flying to London tomorrow, to see Aunt Patricia."

"Really?" she said, slightly surprised. "Why are you going to see Aunt Patricia?"

All at once it occurred to me that I shouldn't be talking about this on the phone-and then all at once it occurred to me that I was getting my wife's favorite aunt involved in a money-laundering caper. So I pushed those troubling thoughts aside and said, "No, no, that's not what I meant. I have other business in London, so I'm going to stop in on Aunt Patricia and take her out for dinner."

"Ohhh," answered a happy d.u.c.h.ess. "Well, send Aunt Patricia my regards, okay, sweetie?"