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“Let me see if I have this right,” McGrory said. “Somebody walked into the Riggs National Bank in Washington, handed over whatever these documents were, and they handed him sixteen million dollars?”
Ordóñez said, “What the Riggs Bank did was send—they have a satellite link—photocopies of the promissory notes to the banks here to verify Señor Bertrand’s signature. When the banks had done that, they notified the Riggs Bank that the signature was valid and the transaction had been processed.”
“So then they handed the man in Washington sixteen million dollars?”
“No. What the man in Washington wanted was for the money to be wired to his account in the Liechtensteinische Landesbank in the Cayman Islands. That was done. It takes just a minute or two.”
“And what was this fellow’s name?”
“We don’t know. For that matter it could just as easily have been a woman. The money went into a numbered account.”
“But it was Lorimer’s signature on the promissory notes? You’re sure of that?”
“There was no question at any of the banks—and, with that kind of money involved, you can imagine they were very careful—that Señor Bertrand had indeed signed the promissory notes.”
“I’m baffled,” McGrory said.
“So are we,” Alvarez said.
“Can we find out from the bank in the Cayman Islands…what did you say It was?”
“The Liechtensteinische Landesbank,” Ordóñez furnished.
“Can we find out from them who owns the numbered account?” McGrory pursued.
“I don’t think that will be easy,” Ordóñez said. “They have stricter banking secrecy laws in the Cayman Islands than in Switzerland.”
“Well, perhaps I can do something,” McGrory said, looking at Howell. “I’ll ask Washington.”
“We would of course appreciate anything you can do, Mr. Ambassador. Officially or otherwise,” Alvarez said.
“I suppose if you had any idea who murdered Mr. Lorimer, you would tell me?”
“Of course,” Alvarez said. “Who murdered Mr. Lorimer or who was responsible for the deaths of the other men we found at Estancia Shangri-La.”
“We’re working very hard on it,” Ordóñez said. “I think in time we’ll be able to put it all together. But it will take time and we would appreciate anything you could do to help us.”
“But so far, nothing, right?” McGrory asked.
“There are some things we’re looking into that will probably be valuable,” Ordóñez said. “For one thing, we are now pretty sure that a helicopter was involved.”
“A helicopter?” Howell asked.
“A helicopter,” Ordóñez said. “Not far from the farm, we found barrels of jet fuel. And, beside it, the marks of…what’s the term for those pipes a helicopter sits on?”
“I don’t know,” McGrory confessed after a moment.
“Skids,” Howell furnished, earning him a dirty look from McGrory.
“Right,” Ordóñez said. “There were marks in the mud which almost certainly came from a helicopter’s skids. Strongly suggesting that the helicopter came some distance to the estancia and that the fuel was placed there before the helicopter arrived.”
“Where would a helicopter come from?” Howell asked. “Brazil?”
“Brazil or Argentina,” Ordóñez said. “For that matter, from Montevideo. But I’m leaning toward Argentina.”
“Why?” McGrory asked.
“Because that’s where the fuel drums came from,” Ordóñez said. “Of course, that doesn’t mean the helicopter came from Argentina, just that the fuel did. The helicopter could just as easily have come from Brazil, as you suggest.”
