The Firm Page 0,56

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"Rather than the rule, yes. And I don't apologize for it."

"I didn't ask you for an apology. Just a clarification."

"Clear enough?"

"Yes. I've always admired your bluntness."

"And I admire your discipline. It's a strong man who can remain faithful to his wife with the temptations you had last night. I'm not that strong. Don't want to be."

Temptations. He had thought of inspecting the downtown jewelry shops during lunch.

"Look, Avery, I'm not a Holy Roller, and I'm not shocked. I'm not one to judge - I've been judged all my life. I was just confused about the rules, that's all."

"The rules never change. They're cast in concrete. Carved in granite. Etched in stone. Violate too many and you're out. Or violate as many as you want, but just don't get caught."

"Fair enough."

Osgood and a group of clerks entered the room with computer printouts and stacks of documents. They made neat piles on the table and alphabetized it all.

"This should keep you busy for a day or so," Osgood said with a forced smile. He snapped his fingers and the clerks disappeared. "I'll be in my office if you need something."

"Yes, thanks," Avery said as he hovered over the first set of documents. Mitch removed his coat and loosened his tie.

"Exactly what are we doing here?" he asked.

"Two things. First, we'll review the entries into all of these accounts. We're looking primarily for interest earned, what rate, how much, etc. We'll do a rough audit of each account to make sure the interest is going where it is supposed to go. For example, Dolph Hemmba sends his interest to nine different banks in the Bahamas. It's stupid, but it makes him happy. It's also impossible for anyone to follow, except me. He has about twelve million in this bank, so it's worth keeping up with. He could do this himself, but he feels better if I do it. At two-fifty an hour, I don't mind. We'll check the interest this bank is paying on each account. The rate varies depending on a number of factors. It's discretionary with the bank, and this is a good way to keep them honest."

"I thought they were honest."

"They are, but they're bankers, remember."

"You're looking at close to thirty accounts here, and when we leave we'll know the exact balance, the interest earned and where the interest is going. Second, we have to incorporate three companies under Caymanian jurisdiction. It's fairly easy legal work and could be done in Memphis. But the clients think we must come here to do it. Remember, we're dealing with people who invest millions. A few thousand in legal fees doesn't bother them."

Mitch flipped through a printout in the Hemmba stack. "Who's this guy Hemmba? I haven't heard of him."

"I've got a lot of clients you haven't heard of. Hemmba is a big farmer in Arkansas, one of the state's largest landowners."

"Twelve million dollars?"

"That's just in this bank!"

"That's a lot of cotton and soybeans."

"Let's just say he has other ventures."

"Such as?"

"I really can't say."

"Legal or illegal?"

"Let's just say he's hiding twenty million plus interest in various Caribbean banks from the IRS."

"Are we helping him?"

Avery spread the documents on one end of the table and began checking entries. Mitch watched and waited for an answer. The silence grew heavier and it was obvious there would not be one. He could press, but he had asked enough questions for one day. He rolled up his sleeves and went to work.

At noon he learned about Avery's prior commitment. His woman was waiting at the condo for a little rendezvous. He suggested they break for a couple of hours and mentioned a cafe downtown Mitch could try.

Instead of a cafe, Mitch found the Georgetown Library four blocks from the bank. On the second floor he was directed to the periodicals, where he found a shelf full of old editions of The Daily Caymanian. He dug back six months and pulled the one dated June 27. He laid it on a small table by a window overlooking the street. He glanced out the window, then looked closer. There was a man he had seen only moments earlier on the street by the bank. He was behind the wheel of a battered yellow Chevette parked in a narrow drive across from the library. He was a stocky, darkhaired, foreign-looking type with a gaudy green-and-orange shirt and cheap touristy sunglasses.

The same Chevette with the same driver had been parked in front of the gift shop next to the bank,