Infernal

1

Tom glanced at his watch as he paced the marble floor of the Bermuda Bank and Trust Limited, waiting for Hugh Dawkes. Nine thirty. He wanted to get back to the Sahbon.

He wore a wrinkled shirt and slacks—the best clothes he'd brought along—and had his backpack slung over his shoulder. The backpack probably wasn't a good touch, but its contents were too precious to leave in the truck.

The BB&T occupied a pink stucco building on the uphill side of Reid Street in Hamilton. The idea of a pink bank had put Tom off at first, but then this was Bermuda where it was no strange thing to see businessmen—bankers included—dressed for work in a jacket, tie, short pants, and knee socks.

Dawkes appeared, a slim, silver-haired gent in dark blue jacket and matching Bermuda shorts and knee socks. Tom had made a point of dealing with the same man on every visit he'd made to BB&T. He'd also made a point of calling the Gosling Brothers' store on Front Street and having them send Dawkes a bottle of their 150-proof rum every Christmas. Never knew when you were going to need a favor.

As they shook hands and exchanged greetings, he sensed tension in Dawkes. Maybe he was having a bad day.

Tom didn't have much time so he got right to the point.

"I'll be relocating to the West Coast soon, so I'm afraid I'll have to close out my account."

Now Dawkes looked even more troubled. "I'm sorry to tell you this, sir, but at this time that will not be possible."

Tom's stomach did a flip. "Why not?"

"Your government has been in touch with the hank and… I…"

With his knees going soft under him, Tom reached for a chair.

"May I sit down?"

"Of course, sir."

"What do you mean 'my government'?"

"I'm not sure, sir. Some agency approached the bank. The president, Mr. Hickson, dealt with them. He has not seen fit to inform me of the details."

Dawkes pursed his lips and sniffed, obviously slighted.

Tom didn't give a shit about this twit's wounded feelings. The feds! The feds had been here!

"What's the bottom line here, Mr. Dawkes?"

Dawkes looked embarrassed. "Your account has been frozen, sir."

Tom leaned back and closed his eyes. This was scary. No, it was beyond scary—this was fucking terrifying. How did they find out about it? How had they connected him to BB&T?

Chiram… the Sahbons former owner, Chiram Abijah. Had to be him. Probably made a deal and gave up Tom.

But an even more terrifying question roiled his gut: What else did they know?

The savings account itself wasn't important. He'd deposited a thousand in it years ago simply to establish himself as a customer. He'd wanted to use a phony name, but the bank required a passport as ID for foreign depositors, and the only passport he'd had was the real thing.

Although he needed every penny he could get his hands on, he could let the thousand go. His real stash was in the back.

At least he hoped it was. Tom was almost afraid to ask. He put on a brave face, looked Dawkes in the eye, and…

"This is most puzzling and disconcerting, Mr. Dawkes. I'll straighten it out immediately when I get home. But at this time I'd like to visit my safety-deposit box."

Dawkes looked away and Tom's heart almost stopped.

Oh, no. Oh, shit, don't tell me—

"I'm afraid that's frozen too, sir."

Jesus God. Half a million bucks! His fuck-you money. He had to get to it.

He dug in his pants pocket and found the box key.

"Just a quick visit? For old time's sake?"

Dawkes gave a sad shake of his head. "I'm afraid I couldn't do that, sir."

He held up the key. "Not even as a personal favor?"

He glanced at Tom, then looked away again. "I'm sorry, sir."

Tom wanted to throttle him. You ungrateful shit. After all that rum I sent you…

"But there is something I can do for you, sir…"

What? What?

"… and that's to tell you to turn around and walk away from here and don't come back."

Dawkes's furtive look and lowered voice cut off the stream of choice epithets that leaped to Tom's lips.

"What are you telling me?"

"Simply that Mr. Hickson has instructed us to report your presence to him immediately should you show up. I am the only one here at BB and T who knows you by sight, and I will, shall we say, neglect to mention your visit. But I suggest we cut this meeting short before anyone becomes curious as to your identity."

Tom bolted from the chair and extended his hand. "Thank you, Dawkes. You're a prince."

A quick shake and he was on his way.

Shit, shit, SHIT! Now he was fucked—royally fucked. He saw no options. What could he do?

And then he thought of something. A long shot. A very long shot.

But he couldn't do it alone. He'd need Jack's help.