The Scottish Banker of Surabaya - By Ian Hamilton Page 0,102

second beer. “Even assuming that we have something worth paying for, how do we keep the information secure?” she asked.

“Do you mean how do we keep the ’Ndrangheta from knowing who passed on the information about the bank and the cash, the real estate holdings, and — probably the most important thing of all — the people and companies whose names are attached to those holdings?”

“Exactly.”

“That is the problem,” said Uncle.

“And a big one,” said Ava. “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t feel safe with anyone in Indonesia, Italy, or Venezuela, and when I say anyone, I mean anyone. The U.S. makes me almost as uncomfortable, unless you know someone there you trust the way you trust your friends here.”

“I know a couple of people, but the problem in the U.S. is that you would have to involve so many police forces. With all that overlapping, it gets tough to get a decision made and it is even tougher to keep things quiet. I do not think they could be bought off as easily as, say, the Italian cops, but with all the competing jurisdictions, things could get very sloppy. And we do not need sloppy.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Canada.”

“Aside from the fact I live there, what else recommends Canada?”

“It was not my idea, actually. It came from my friend with the Security Bureau.”

“And does he know about me?”

“No, I never mentioned you. But I did explain a little bit about our clients and about the bank’s involvement in Toronto. That’s when he said the Mounties should be contacted. He spoke highly of them — one force, acting independently, less chance of breaches. And that is where our clients live, in Canada, so it would be logical to go to the Mounties. And also it would not be far-fetched to ask for the money our clients lost as compensation for providing them with the information.”

“So we’re simply seeking justice for our clients, not trying to extort money for information.”

“True enough, is it not?”

“In a rough way, yes, it is.”

Uncle drained his beer. “And in the process, my friends said, the Mounties would raise their profile in international law enforcement. If we can provide them with the means to bring down even part of the ’Ndrangheta in Canada, the U.S., Italy, Venezuela, and if we give them the levers they need to stop such massive money laundering, they can only gain in prestige. There is no way to judge how much that would mean to them. Maybe it is thirty million dollars’ worth.”

Ava nodded, more out of politeness than in agreement. Why, she wondered, does he want to do this? We’re out of Surabaya without the Italians on our tail. We don’t need the money. Could he really be that concerned about our clients in Toronto?

She looked across the table at him. He was signalling for a third beer, a slice of beef wrapped in noodles balanced on his chopsticks. There was a sheen on his face, and Ava thought she could detect a hint of yellow in his complexion. There was something else too. He seemed anxious — not in any fearful way, more like nervous — as if he had doubts about his ability to convince her of his position. And why should that matter? She nearly always did what he wanted. She didn’t need elaborate explanations, and he had never been a man to provide elaborate explanations. So why now? Did he suspect she wanted out of the business? Was he trying to hang on to it for some other reason? Ava remembered what Sonny had said to her when she’d first arrived in Hong Kong. Maybe that was it; maybe Uncle needed a reason to get out of bed every morning and didn’t want to let go of the one reason they had left.

“I know some Mounties,” Ava said, frowning at the owner as he brought another beer to the table. The man caught her look and signalled with a raised eyebrow that he understood.

“I know you do,” said Uncle.

“But that doesn’t mean I’d trust any one of them with what could be our lives.”

“How do you figure?”

“If we do this thing and the Italians find out, they’ll kill us.”

“No,” Uncle said, putting down his chopsticks, his bowl still half full, “what I mean is, how do you know those men are not trustworthy?”

Ava shrugged. “The Royal Canadian Mounted Police are as much a big government bureaucracy as they are a police force. It’s