Chapter 76. Venuatu
Island of Venuatu, near New Zealand.
Julio Cezanne walked into the ACL Bank. His partner in crime, Don Rogers, smiled from behind his desk when he saw Cezanne come into the bank. Today, the banker on the remote island was about to become very rich.
“Hello, Mr. Rogers. I would like to make a withdrawal. I called ahead. Is the package ready?”
“Yes, Mr., uh, Santiago. If you could just sign some paperwork, we will be ready for the transfer. Sign here, and here, initials here, and then twice here.”
Cezanne complied.
“Now, if you could just wait a moment, I need to get some approvals from my manager. This should just take a moment.” The banker left and went into a back office. Cezanne could see the banker through the glass window talking to another man. The supervisor looked over, nodded, and looked back to the banker. After what seemed like an interminable minute, the banker left the office with the paperwork. Everything is all in order, Mr. Santiago. Let me call to get the suitcase.” The banker made a call, and after several more minutes of waiting, two uniformed bank security guards walked from the back area over to the banker’s desk. One of the guards was carrying a large black carry-on suitcase.
“Would you like to count it?” The stash was in British pounds. Even after a lifetime of drug dealing, Cezanne had never seen so much money in his life.
Cezanne thought about that. In any deal, you had to count the money. Not counting the money was the easiest way in the world to get ripped off, but time here was more important. Counting the money would mean going into one of the safe deposit rooms and killing another ten minutes. He couldn’t risk it.
“No, that won’t be necessary.” He took out a small deposit slip and wrote an address on the back and handed it to the banker. Both men gave knowing smiles.
Cezanne took the suitcase and rolled it out of the bank, putting on his aviator sunglasses as he went through the door. He half-expected to be tackled by American agents the minute he walked out the door, but there was no disturbance. Pleased, he took a cab to a small motel about ten miles away. This was his prearranged meeting place for the banker to get his cut. Only one more loose end to tie up and he was home-free. The hard part was over. He called ahead to the pilot and told him to be gassed up and ready to go. The pilot of the small Raytheon Premier One jet agreed. He was getting paid a lot of money for this flight.
After a half hour, the banker showed up at the motel. He knocked on the door. Cezanne answered it and looked around suspiciously.
“Were you tailed?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Take off your jacket and your shirt and your pants.”
“What?”
“Just a precaution, relax. I have to make sure you are not wired. Take them off now.”
“This is most unusual,” said the banker, who began undressing. Cezanne went through his garments, searching for any listening or homing devices.
“Did you bring a phone with you?”
“Yes, it’s one of those new Smart phones, as you Yanks say.”
“Give it to me.”
Cezanne threw it on the ground and smashed it with the heel of his shoe.
“Hey! That cost a lot of money.”
“Mr. Rogers, you are not going to need to worry about money.” Cezanne looked through the electronic fragments of the phone, and convinced himself that there were no devices on the man’s phone.
“Did you tell anyone about our arrangement?” asked Cezanne.
“No, of course not.”
“Nobody down in your car below?”
“No, I came all by myself.”
“Good, all right. Your share is in the backpack. He pointed to a backpack sitting on the bed.”
“Can I get my clothes back on now?”
“Sure,” said Cezanne. Cezanne looked out the cheap window curtains to see if anyone had followed the man. The parking lot was empty. After putting his clothes back on, the banker went over to the backpack and began to open it. In a rapid movement, Cezanne snuck up behind him and pulled out a piece of wire. Before the banker could speak, Cezanne had the wire wrapped around his neck. The banker tried desperately to release Cezanne’s hold, but it was no use. Cezanne continued squeezing until the man was dead. A red cut line started bleeding across the man’s Adam’s apple. Cezanne dropped the banker on the floor. First, he removed the banker’s car keys. Then he took the forest green bedspread off one of the beds and laid it on the floor. He threw the body of the banker onto the bedspread with a thud, and then rolled up the body inside it. He made sure there was no one looking, and then he carried the bedspread with the body inside it over his shoulder behind the small hotel, and dumped the body inside the dumpster, closing the brown metal door. Then he returned to the motel, washed the blood off his hands, and took out his special makeup kit. With spirit gum, he applied a fake beard and moustache. He changed into a white jacket and dark slacks and put his sunglasses back on. Checking the window one final time, he rolled his suitcase out of the room. He hit the sensor on the banker’s keys, and the lights of a black Audi went off and on. Good, he would have a nice ride to the air strip. Cezanne peeled off in the Audi, intent on taking his new fortune to greener pastures.
Sydney, Australia.
General Marcy “Moe” Merck was the Commander of the Royal Australian Air Force, or RAAF. Every three years, his elite pilots performed joint training exercises with the American “top guns” in Melbourne, so he was very friendly with United States General Huey De Silva, Commander of the Pacific Air Forces, or COMPACAF, for the United States Air Force.
“General Merck, this is General De Silva. How have you been?”
“Good, Huey. Nice to hear from you. We’re going to kick your boys’ butts this year. We have some new maneuvers in the works.”
“That’ll be the day, Moe. Listen, Moe, I need a favor.”
“What favor?”
“I need you to terminate a terrorist for me, with extreme prejudice.”
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean
Cezanne had never been more pleased with himself. How could those Americans be so fuckin’ stupid? It was like takin’ candy from a baby. His cousin Davy Branco had been calling him all day, probably wanting to know when he was getting his cut of the money. Fortunately, now that the banker was dead, there would be some money for Davy. As long as that idiot keeps his fuckin’ mouth shut, he thought. Cezanne’s jet had Wi-Fi, so he decided to pull up the Internet dating site where he had contacted the President, and check in. The last entry was from the U.S. Government, and read, “What city?” Cezanne decided to have some fun.
He entered the site and typed in:
“The name of the City where the warehouse is located is Victoria. The combination to the building is 2668. And the address is 6250 YourefuckedandIhaveyourmoney Drive.”
He hit “Enter.” He laughed at his own joke. He never had so much fun.
He was about to log off and close the laptop when he was surprised to see a quick posting in response.
“You know who this is. Thank you for the location of the warehouse, but we already have our own cure. We found your cousin Davy. Unfortunately, his forehead ran into a bullet. What a shame. Your scientist friends are in Maximum Security Prison in New York and they say ‘hi.’ By the way, they were the ones who told us you would be in Venuatu. We left you a message in the suitcase. Enjoy.”
Cezanne began to panic and he unzipped his suitcase. At the bottom of the bills that he failed to count was a turkey sandwich and a pickle wrapped in wax paper. There was a typed message inside the wrapping which said, “Please enjoy this last sandwich and pickle, courtesy of the American taxpayers. You may want to wash it down with a Hellfire missile.”
“Mr. Santiago,” yelled the pilot. “We have company.”
Cezanne ran up to the cabin in time to see a RAAF fighter jet shoot a missile straight toward his plane.
“Shit,” was Cezanne’s last word on Earth before the jet exploded.