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“Okay.”
“But there are virtually no restrictions on the withdrawal of funds committed to their care. They will happily wire your money to anyplace you designate and there are no export restrictions on cash from a Cayman Islands bank being hauled away on an airplane.
“I would suspect that Lorimer had one or more accounts in the Cayman Islands—you understand, Karl, I’m just using the Caymans as an example; banks in twenty other places offer exactly the same services—into which money was deposited by wire from some reputable bank and from which he made withdrawals either by wire or in cash.
“A lot of the cash went to Iraq. In one of the palaces of one of Saddam’s sons, they found a billion—a billion—dollars in brand-new American one-hundred dollar bills, still in the plastic wrappers in which they had come from the U.S. Bureau of Engraving and Printing.
“I suspect most of the money—the cash—was carried into Iraq on one of Pevsner’s airplanes, although others were probably involved. But Pevsner has the reputation for being reliable in the quiet hauling of large amounts of cash.”
“Is there a Russian or a Cuban connection?” Castillo asked.
“Karlchen, I already told you Putin is involved in this up to his skinny little buttocks,” Kocian said. “I just don’t have enough proof to print it.”
“Which Putin is he talking about, Castillo?” Doherty asked. “Your mafiosipal or the president of the Russian Federation?”
Castillo hesitated just perceptibly before replying, “He’s not talking about Pevsner.”
“Jesus Christ!” Doherty said.
“They’re no longer useful,” Edgar Delchamps said, softly and thoughtfully. “But the hook’s been set so why not reel them in as necessary?”
“Excuse me?” Castillo said.
Delchamps raised his voice.
“Thank you, Úr Kocian,” he said, in Hungarian. “We’ll get back to you. I really want to hear more of this.”
“Who is that?” Kocian demanded.
“My name is Delchamps, Úr Kocian. I’m a friend of Karlchen’s.”
“Well, that makes two,” Kocian said. “May I presume I may now take my breakfast?”
“Bon appétit,” Delchamps said, then turned to Castillo and, switching to English, said, “I really want to talk to your friend, Karlchen.”
“Break it down, Neidermeyer,” Castillo ordered and then turned to Delchamps. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Edgar.”
Delchamps smiled. “I’ve been trying to make sense of Doherty’s mystic symbols for two days and getting nowhere, and then, the moment I hear about the generous small-time Texas oilman, eureka!”
Everybody waited for him to go on.
“Why the hell would a small-time Texas oilman—presumably, a patriotic Texas oilman—suddenly donate two million dollars to a bunch of lunatic wannabe Muslims in Philadelphia? Answer: He’s been converted. Unlikely. Answer: He did not do so willingly. So why would he? Because he’s been turned, the hook is already set in him.”
“What do you mean turned?” Miller asked.
Delchamps didn’t reply directly.
“I also asked myself, What’s with the suitcase nukes?” he went on. “Where did that come from?”
“I have no goddamned idea where you’re going with this, Edgar,” Doherty said.
Delchamps ignored him.
“According to Karlchen here…”
“Uncle Billy can call me that, Edgar, but you can’t,” Castillo said, evenly.
“My most profound apologies, Ace,” Delchamps said, insincerely, “according to Ace here, the Ninjas he took down at the Never-Never Land hacienda—”
