Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 1: The Dark Tide, Don’t Look Twice, Relentless. Andrew Gross

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СКАЧАТЬ and you’ve given it, haven’t you?”

      “Pretty much.” Samantha shrugged. “I’ve held a few things back.”

      “Pretty much.” Karen smiled again, looking in her daughter’s eyes. “That’s about all I could ask for, isn’t it, honey?”

      Samantha smiled in return.

      “I know it’s my turn, Sam. But I just can’t tell you, honey. Not just yet. I’m sorry. There are some things—”

      “It’s about Dad, isn’t it? I’ve seen you looking through his old things.”

      “Sam, please, you have to trust me. I can’t—”

      “I know he loved you, Mom.” Samantha’s eyes shone brightly. “Loved all of us. I just hope that in my life I’m lucky enough to find someone who loved me the same way.”

      “Yes, baby.” Karen held her close. Tears wound their way down her cheeks as they clung to each other there. “I know, baby, I know—”

      Then in mid-sentence she stopped. Something unsettling crossed her mind.

      Lauer’s wife had said he was set to testify regarding Harbor the week he was killed. Saul Lennick would have known that. Let me handle it, Karen…. He had never told her anything.

      All of a sudden, Karen wondered, Did he know?

       Did he know Charlie was alive?

      “Yes, baby …” Karen kept brushing her daughter’s hair. “I hope to God one day you do.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

      Saul Lennick waited on the Charles Bridge in Prague overlooking the Vltava River.

      The bridge teemed with tourists and afternoon pedestrians. Artists sat at easels capturing the view. Violinists played Dvorák and Smetana. Spring had left a festive mood in the city. He looked up at the Gothic spires of St. Vitus and Prague Castle. This was one of his favorite views.

      Three men in business attire stepped onto the span from the Linhart Ulice entrance and paused underneath the east tower.

      The sandy-haired one, in a topcoat and brown felt hat, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, and with a ruddy, cheerful face, came forward holding a metal briefcase, while the others waited a few steps behind.

      Lennick knew him well.

      Johann-Pieter Fichte was German. He had worked in the private banking departments of Credit Suisse and the Bundesbank. Fichte possessed a doctorate in economics from the University of Basel. Now he was a private banker, catering to the highest financial circles.

      He was also known to represent some of the most unsavory people in the world.

      The banker was what was known in the trade as a “money trafficker.” His particular skill was to be able to shift sizable assets from any part of the world in no matter what form: cash, stones, arms—even drugs on occasion—until they emerged in a completely different currency as clean and perfectly investable funds. He did this through a network of currency traders and shell corporations, a labyrinthine web of relationships that stretched from the dark corners of the underworld to boardrooms across the globe. Among Fichte’s less visible clients were Iraqi clerics and Afghani warlords who had looted American reconstruction funds; a Kazakh oil minister, a cousin of the president, who had diverted a tenth of his country’s reserves; Russian oligarchs, who dealt primarily in drugs and prostitution; even the Colombian drug cartels.

      Fichte waved, angling through the crowd. His two associates—bodyguards, Lennick assumed—stayed a few paces behind.

      “Saul!” Fichte said, embracing Lennick with a broad smile, placing his case at Lennick’s feet. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, my friend. And for you to come all this way.”

      “The price of a service job.” Lennick grinned, grasping the banker’s hand.

      “Yes, we are only the high-priced errand boys and accountants of the rich”—the banker shrugged—“available at their beck and call. So how is your lovely wife? And your daughter? She’s still up in Boston, is she not? Lovely city.”

      “All fine, Johann. Thank you for asking. Shall we get on?”

      “Ah, business.” Fichte sighed, turning to face the river. “The American way … His Excellency Major General Mubuto sends you his highest regards.”

      “I’m honored,” Lennick said, lying. “And you will return them, of course.”

      “Of course.” The German banker amped up his smile. Then, in a soft voice, staring ahead, as if his gaze were tracking a far-off bird that had landed on the Vltava, he explained. “The funds we discussed will be in the form of four separate deliveries. The first is already on account at Zurich Bank, ready to be transferred upon your say-so to anywhere in the world. The second is currently held at the BalticBank in Estonia. It is in the form of a charitable trust designed to sponsor UN grain shipments to needy populations in East Africa.”

      Lennick smiled. Fichte always had a cultivated sense of irony.

      “I thought you’d appreciate that. The third delivery is presently in non-cash form. Military hardware. Some of it your own, I am told. It should be leaving the country within the week. The general is quite insistent on the timing.”

      “Why the rush?”

      “Pending the status of the Ethiopian military buildup on the Sudanese border, it’s conceivable His Excellency and his family may be forced to leave the country at fairly short notice.” He winked.

      “I’ll see to it the funds don’t sit unproductive for too long,” Lennick promised with a smile.

      “That would be greatly appreciated.” The German bowed. Then his tone turned businesslike again. “As discussed, each of the deliveries will be in the amount of two hundred and fifty million euros.”

      Well over a billion dollars. Even Lennick had to marvel. It crossed his mind just how many heads had had to roll and thousands of fortunes wiped out to assemble such a sum.

      The banker said, “I think we’ve already gone over the general agreement.”

      “The mix of products is quite diversified and fully transparent if need be,” Lennick replied. “A combination of U.S. and worldwide equities, real-estate trusts, hedge funds. Twenty percent will be retained in our private equity fund. As you know, we’ve been able to achieve a twenty-two and a half percent average portfolio return over the past seven years, net of any unforeseen fluctuations, of course.”

      “Fluctuations …” The German nodded, the warmth in his blue eyes suddenly dimmed. “I assume you’re speaking of that energy hedge fund that collapsed last year. I hope it won’t be necessary to revisit my clients’ unhappiness over that development, will it, Saul?”

      “As said”—Lennick swallowed a lump, trying to redirect the subject—“an unforeseen fluctuation, Johann. It won’t happen again.”

      The СКАЧАТЬ