The Nameless Ones by John Connolly
Chapter XXIII
The next day, while Angel and Louis waited for Alex, their regular driver, to take them to JFK, a call came through from Louis’s money guy. His name, rather aptly, was Golden, and he was responsible for ensuring that Louis’s bank accounts, whether domestic or offshore, attracted as little federal attention as possible. Golden’s store of small talk didn’t require more than a single intake of breath to fuel it, but he was very good at his job.
‘Do you have a moment?’ Golden asked.
‘For you, always,’ said Louis. ‘And I was about to call you about moving some funds. I have travel plans.’
‘How lovely for you, but we’ve had a series of unanticipated deposits. Is there something you forgot to tell me?’
The best way to avoid alerting the authorities to the movement of money was not to move it at all, or certainly not electronically, but the requirements of modern finance made this difficult. The next best way was to move sums of less than $10,000, but not so often as to establish a pattern, while any international transfer over $100,000 was guaranteed to arouse curiosity. American banks in particular were supposed to file SAR – Suspicious Activity Reports – for any cash transfers over $10,000, although the sheer volume of transfers, combined with the natural greed and perfidy of the banking industry, mitigated against total compliance. Golden’s clients stayed under the radar by advising him of impending transactions and receiving in turn recommendations on how best to disperse them, expertise for which Golden received a not excessive, but still generous, commission.
‘How much?’ said Louis.
‘One million euros, transferred into seventeen different accounts in transactions of between five and nine thousand euros a time, but not from the same source – or seemingly not from the same source, but in reality, almost certainly so.’
‘Not possible.’
‘With money,’ said Golden, ‘anything is possible.’
‘And have you established the source?’
‘No, I haven’t begun running back the cat. I thought I’d contact you first, just in case a million euros had somehow slipped your mind. One of the deposits did come with a message, though. It reads: “From one Hunter to another, with thanks”, and a capital “H” for “Hunter”. Does that mean anything to you?’
Louis knew that De Jaager had been planning to dispose of most of his physical assets. The old man had spoken of his intention to keep only what he needed and distribute the rest of the proceeds. Louis could not have imagined that some of the money would find its way to him, yet now it seemed apt. It was almost as though De Jaager had somehow anticipated what was to come and prepared the ground for retaliation.
‘Yes, it does,’ said Louis.
‘Should I be worried about the source?’
‘The source is dead.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘No, he would have been careful. That money is clean.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Carelessness costs extra. Now, how much did you want to move, and where?’
From memory, Louis named figures and accounts, and requested the transfer of the euro equivalent of $500,000 to prepaid credit cards, the cards to be made available for collection from a courier in Amsterdam. Golden said that he’d take care of it and hung up.
‘A problem?’ said Angel.
‘De Jaager sent me a million euros before he died.’
‘I always liked him. What’s a million euros in real money?’
‘Maybe a million-ten, a million-fifteen.’
‘If I’d known how wealthy he was, I’d have been nicer to him.’
‘I don’t think he ever placed much value on money,’ said Louis. ‘But that’s a rich man’s luxury, I suppose.’
Alex’s limo pulled up outside. Angel touched Louis gently on the arm.
‘At least we’re putting it to good use,’ he said.
Louis thought about De Jaager. He thought about Paulus, and Anouk, and the girl named Liesl. He recalled the latter from the library at the Rijksmuseum, glancing up at Louis and De Jaager as she and another girl, Eva, trailed a book dealer named Cornelie Gruner from the library’s reading room. Dead now, every one. For just a moment, Louis looked back on the path of his life and saw it littered with bodies.
‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’