The Scottish Banker of Surabaya - By Ian Hamilton Page 0,86
sanctuary for the Lady. They described what they wanted me to do and offered me the job as president, at four times the money I was making in Rome, plus bonuses that could double that again.”
“Just what were you supposed to do to make that kind of money?”
“Run the bank.”
“I thought you said they called the shots.”
“I meant that I was to pretend I was running the bank.”
“I don’t understand. Why would Italian gangsters want to buy a bank in Indonesia, in Surabaya?”
“To launder money.”
“But how? How could that work? What did you have to do to make it happen?”
Perkasa moved closer. Ava had been so intent on listening to Cameron that she had forgotten he was there. He seemed as drawn into the story as she was.
Cameron said, “Can I have some more water?”
Perkasa still had half a glassful in his hand. He held it to Cameron’s mouth.
“They had everything figured out by the time they hired me,” Cameron said. “They had established contacts with senior Indonesian customs officials and had worked out a system for moving cash into the country. They had bought off senior banking regulators and inspectors so they wouldn’t ask too many questions about the bank’s growth. They had figured out how they could move money out of the country and put it to work safely and for the long term, but what they still needed was bank systems, the nuts and bolts of the loan process. That’s what they wanted me to do — provide the paper trail, make everything look above board and legitimate.”
“Fuck,” Perkasa said.
Ava shot him a glance that said, Be quiet. “How do they move the cash in?”
“By the planeload.”
“You’re joking, right?”
He shook his head. “They pack the bills in bales, like hay. The charters arrived about once a month at first, but during this past year we’ve been up to a plane a week. They aren’t huge cargo jobbies, mind you, just mid-sized private jets that are stripped to the walls, but you can get a lot of money in them. Most of the planes came from Italy at the start, and then Venezuela came online. It’s one or the other since then.”
“Do these charter planes have a company name?”
“Brava Italia. I think one of them owns it.”
“And now one comes every week?”
“Aye, usually Tuesday nights. That’s usually when I can count on seeing the Italians. They’re always there to meet the plane. They park it in a hangar and then unload the money into a panel van. We take it to the bank, count it, and record it.”
“What are their names?”
“Foti and Chorico.”
“They go alone?”
“Them and me.”
“Who’s on the plane?”
“The pilot and co-pilot, no one else.”
“And Customs turns a blind eye?”
“The planes land and are taxied directly to a hangar at the far end of the airport that we rent as we need it, and unloaded without a single question in all the years up to now.”
“Then what?”
“We drive the money to the bank, count it, register it as a foreign investment, and then convert it all to rupiahs.”
“Again no questions?”
“The provincial bank officials in East Java and the national ones in Jakarta have been happy to play along.”
“Then you move it out?”
“Aye. Initially we put a ton of money into the Bali region — you know, to establish a local base. Then gradually we expanded outwards. They choose the markets and the investments. Italy, of course, but never Calabria; Rome mainly, but we financed a lot of construction in Milan as well. Then New York. Caracas and Porlamar, on Margarita Island, in Venezuela. A lot of them retire there. And Toronto, of course.”
“What kinds of investments?”
“Real estate. Office buildings, apartment buildings, shopping centres, subdivisions — you name it, we finance it. About the only thing they won’t go near is casinos and casino-hotel complexes. They don’t like the attention they attract. They don’t like the idea of having to get licensed, of questions being asked, of all those regulators.”
“Who owns the real estate?”
“Them.”
“The Italians?”
“Yeah. They set up a web of companies as fronts everywhere, but at the end of the day they own or control them all and they’re funnelling money to themselves.”
“Those companies have names, yes? And officers? And shareholders?”
“I have no idea who the people are who are listed as officers and shareholders. I assume the Italian powers keep themselves hidden and use friends, lawyers, accountants as the official faces. But I’m not sure. I never asked. I was never even curious. I knew what