Читать книгу The Cayman Conspiracy - David Ph.D. Shibli - Страница 10

A Cayman Airways Boeing 727 lifted off routinely on flight KX247 from the blistering heat of Miami International Airport. It banked to face due south and commenced its ascent to 32,000 feet. The five hundred miles to Grand Cayman would take about an hour depending on the prevailing winds.

At the first opportune moment, the captain turned off the no- smoking sign and, like sprinters hearing the gun, those with cigarettes at the ready lit up in unison, relaxing as the nicotine flowed to their brains. The first class compartment was no exception and three of the four representatives of the Eastern Promise Inc. gaming party followed suit, Luca Telesino being the only exception, but like the dutiful employee, he felt honored to be breathing the same air as his superiors and now he had the added advantage of being able to see it.

Next to him sat Kate Clementier, and a fiery bitch she was too, thought Telesino; he knew that idle talk was out of the question. This woman only opened her lips for business. He quickly turned his head to look out of the window to hide the lecherous smirk that had just crossed his face. A barrage from this super-confident woman was more than he felt able to cope with, so he turned his thoughts to the wife he had left back home. As his devious mind played out scenarios of how she could be cheating on him, it turned him on to think of the brutal beating that she would be letting herself in for if he was to find out. He resisted the temptation to pry as he heard Kate click open the burgundy briefcase she had chosen to match her Chanel outfit. Her profound, expressionless eyes focused through their hazel surround onto a mass of figures that comprised the cash flow projections for the proposed Eastern Promise Casino, Grand Cayman.

She felt at ease with these situations that were purely opportunities to manifest her relentless ambition. She was confident of a successful outcome in any venture that she was involved in. Where there was money, there were always men, and where there were men there were greed and weakness. She despised their simple needs. There was no man that she would ever respect. Her incestuous father had seen to that.

She was now in her early thirties and the success of this business deal would give her total freedom from the men that employed her and whom she secretly hated.

She tossed back her mane of auburn hair. It was a confident gesture and she knew it, as she pretended not to notice the desirous looks that she had just attracted. Contemptuous scum, she thought, reassured by the reaction that would have inspired the Pied Piper of Hamlyn.

Behind these two junior members sat the powerful founders of their profitable and diverse company, Alex Durant and Giovanni Medini. They had met ten years ago at a sales conference for self-help books and cassettes in Las Vegas. Sharing cocktails over a game of roulette, Durant had come up with the devious idea to modify the subliminal self-help messages to encourage gambling. Medini suggested that they find some financing for this idea and with the help of an eager Colombian investment cartel, they acquired the struggling Eastern Promise Hotel and Casino from the receivers for twenty five cents on the dollar.

As well as the pioneers of their subliminal casino, they were part-time money launderers hoping to hit the big-time. This trip would be the final step in their most ambitious plan to set themselves up as money launderers for the cash-heavy drug cartels, most of whom had expressed a desire to back their proposals. They dared not admit it, but this plan to set up in the Cayman Islands would enable them to make the transition from the relative underworld to the pinnacle of respectability and into the corridors of legitimate power, perhaps even controlling the destiny of nations.

Although these two men were both in their fifties, Medini was jealous of the more favorable treatment that Durant had received from the passage of his similar number of years. The only role that Medini felt entirely comfortable with these days was ‘grandfather’. He refused to look in a mirror unless he had time to choose his most flattering angle, a task that was becoming ever harder. Even though his paunch could no longer be disguised by his expensive clothes, and his balding head could not be covered by the ridiculously long strands that grew out from above his right ear, he was still vain, and try as hard as he could, Father Time could not beat this stubbornness out of him.

On the other hand, Durant had developed an air of elegant maturity with his years. His thin face was creased with fine lines that enhanced a rigid bone-structure. His once jet-black shock of hair had now turned almost all silver and this emphasized the devilish glint in his shifty, blue eyes. He was a charming man to meet for the first time. Armed with his designer knowledge of classical music, fine wines and Renaissance art, he would operate as smoothly as oiled butter and consequently a trail of gullible women wallowed in his wide wake.

It was a wonderfully clear day. Even at this altitude, it was possible to make out the Cuban geography which they were now cruising over. Durant and Telesino guarded their views jealously as if they were original masterpieces recently purchased in a charged auction. They were especially surprised at the vast expanses of sand along which their straining eyes could make out none of the tell-tale signs of ‘civilization’, such as sprawling hotels and straight roads leading to them. Perhaps the Cubans were too busy with useful pursuits to be involved in non-productive, western decadence? Or perhaps they were just plain poor?

As the aircraft continued on its course, the light-blue, shallow water around the Cuban coastline deepened into a darker, colder blue that signified a final stretch of open water before they would reach their destination.

As the three men indulged themselves in their favorite drinks, Kate left her seat for the privacy of the bathroom. Safely locked inside, she took out her compact and pried the mirror out. In the little compartment that was revealed, a small plastic bag of white powder rested snugly. She put the mirror down at the side of the sink and gently emptied the contents of the bag onto the smooth, silvered surface, hoping that no unexpected air turbulence would disrupt the enjoyment of this small pleasure.

Seeing the powder before her lit up her eyes and hastened her preparations, as she removed a razor blade from her sunglasses case and slid it out from its cover. Then she expertly teased the mound of white dust into a straight line along the mirror, being careful to clean the blade before she replaced it. Then she lifted the make-up applicator from the compact and twisted off the head which exposed a hollow path through the stem. She referred to this toy as the ‘successful woman’s fun-kit’, and smiled as she envisaged her patent application being turned down.

She put the tube into her nose and bent down over the drug. She was careful not to look in the bathroom mirror on the way down, sparing herself any self-pity that would have been inspired by her reflection. Quickly, she did her line, the initial dirtiness washed away by waves of euphoria. As she straightened up, she could now face her reflection, if only to remove any evidence that may have become visible.

She flushed her kit with water before packing it away. She was feeling pretty good as she pressed her face up to the glass to look for unlikely imperfections in her make-up. For good measure, she applied some blood-red lipstick to take the play away from her eyes.

Soon they would be landing, so she went back to her seat to enjoy the rest of her high. The guilty look on her face would have given her away to anyone knowing what to look for, but it was a chance she was prepared to take. She took up her seat and, with a scathing look of sexual superiority, averted Telesino’s attention.

The plane started its descent and two illuminated cabin signs caused the fastening of seatbelts and the rapid puffing of burning cigarettes. The amnesty period was judged to be over with the patrolling of two watchful stewardesses.

The jet maneuvered into the headwind that would assist landing and a whirring noise indicated that the undercarriage had been lowered. The silver bird seemed to hang in the air like a seagull on thermals. Some of the first-time visitors to Grand Cayman suppressed rising landing fears by comparing the map of the island in the in-flight magazine to the view from their windows. From a distance, the island looked like a brown footprint in blue paint.

A pinpoint touchdown was followed by the roaring retro-action of the twin tail-turbines. The fuselage screamed bloody torture as the beast began to slow down. Passengers released their pent-up tensions with grins of victory. They had cheated death again. The craft taxied to the front of the new Owen Roberts International Airport. The structure looked clean and efficient, and the immigrants were soon standing in their respective lines. Due to the fact that knowledge of their plans was not yet public, the arriving American committee went through all the normal channels for visitors, keeping a low-key approach.

As soon as they cleared customs, they would be met by a certain Arthur Downing who held office over the tourism industry of the islands.

During the time that elapsed in which Kate had assembled her matching luggage, her associates had already regrouped on the other side of the Customs area. Her coolness had returned and she gave no hints to the officials that would warrant a detailed search of her belongings. Her air of aloofness implying true inconvenience helped her swiftly over this hurdle of bureaucracy. She was good and she knew it.

The foursome huddled for last words of encouragement from the two leaders with Medini’s threatening in contrast to the suave eloquence of Durant. They all pledged resolve to the cause with false smiles through which they breathed the warm, Caymanian air.

“Mr. Medini?” inquired a soft voice.

“Yes, that’s right,” answered Medini spinning into the direction of the voice, “Are you Mr. Downing?”

An affirmative to that resulted in a rash of introductions followed by a hospitable hug from Kate, leaving Durant cringing behind his smile. Arthur arranged for their baggage to be sent on to their hotel and he offered to take them in his BMW.

Kate sat in the front, where she purred at anything that was remotely interesting, especially the alien sensation of driving on the left. Medini interrupted when he judged her to be adequately accepted. She got the message and fell silent.

Arthur drove through the outskirts of Georgetown and showed them some of the new office buildings that would probably cater to the ever-increasing hordes of bankers, insurers and their busy lawyers. The car turned right onto the famous Seven Mile Beach road. With hotels on the seaside and shops and restaurants on the other, they soon realized why this section of the island was referred to as The Gold Coast.

“Can you give me a ball-park figure on the price of this land, Mr. Downing?” asked Durant.

“Call me Arthur, please,” insisted Arthur as he chanced a smile at Kate. She returned it.

“The beach is priced according to water frontage and the quality of the beach. Fine, sandy beach will go for about twelve thousand dollars a foot. All the lots are hotel sized. We re-zoned it about fifteen years ago,” explained Arthur.

“That’s not too bad,” observed Medini. “But why are the hotels so small?”

“Safety. Geologists warned us that the underlying structure of the island would not be able to support skyscrapers so we decided to limit the number of storeys to five,” Arthur stated, relishing his role as tour guide with such attractive company in the adjoining seat.

“Looking at it that way, it is fairly pricey,” said Durant, “Because the higher you build, the more dynamic the return.”

“Providing you can fill the place,” added Arthur, “this is a small country.”

As they passed a vacant ten-acre plot nestled between two hotels, Durant nudged Medini’s attention toward the For Sale sign. They smiled.

The potential status of these guests meant that they were to be accommodated in the diplomatic suite of the Grand Pavilion Hotel, whose regal suite had been graced by Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II during her official state visit of 1983.

Their baggage had already arrived and been distributed accurately throughout their four rooms. Arthur saw them to their suites and arranged to meet them for dinner that night at the hotel’s Le Diplomat Restaurant whose glowing international reputation was second to none.

Although tired from the seven hour journey from Las Vegas, three of the visitors were excited. This mild-mannered politician, Arthur Downing, may just prove to be their ticket to the top. Durant was the only skeptical one for he realized that Downing had not yet given any firm opinion on a single topic one way or the other. It was far too soon to make predictions and until they could sense his leaning, they could not judge which way he would fall.

Medini admonished Kate about trying to get too familiar too soon. He told her to rely more on her femininity and watch for any possible feedback. She was forced to agree and raged inside for having to take criticism. They separated to freshen up and settle into their rooms which would be their homes over the next few days.

Arthur paused at the front desk to make a couple of phone calls. The first was to his wife to inform her that he would be making his way home soon to change for dinner. The second was to Ackroyd to tell him that the guests had arrived at the hotel.

“What are they like?” asked Ackroyd.

“They seem very business-oriented, highly professional. The woman, Miss Clementier is very attractive...”

“You devil, Arthur,” interrupted Ackroyd.

“Hold on, Mike. I’ve been happily married for thirty one years. Besides, I’m far too old for that kind of thing.”

They both laughed and confirmed their plans for dinner with the visitors. Arthur was secretly relieved that his own wife and Ackroyd would be present. Although he had never met people from the gaming business before, these people were not the rough-around-the-edges people that he had expected. They did appear friendly enough albeit serious, so he decided to tread with caution.

That evening, dinner was apparently enjoyed by all. As the meal ran its course, the wine fueled the banter and the atmosphere gently transitioned from stiff small talk to informal relaxation. Arthur, his wife and Ackroyd had been treated to enthusiastic conversation on a variety of interesting topics. Durant particularly was on his best form as he charmed the others with his colorful, ironic stories of famous artists who were poor until they died.

Kate caught Arthur’s eye a couple of times and she reacted with disarming smiles and fake coyness. The more-travelled Ackroyd was somewhat easier with the visitors and he acquitted himself honorably when the conversation turned to American professional sports, having once been a UCLA Bruin himself.

The following morning, Arthur was to attend his first meeting with them at ten o’clock. If all went well, there would be a fishing trip to Cayman Brac with the possibility of some snorkeling off the Cousteau-acclaimed, Bloody Bay ocean-wall.