“You are Don Kettering. I recognize the voice. How could we help you?” A soft laugh. “Unless you have a water leak over there.”
“Not that I know of, though if I hear about one I’ll remember you. Actually, it’s concerning a hundred-dollar bill which has your husband’s name written on it.”
“We’ve done nothing wrong, I hope.”
“Absolutely not, Mrs. Mortell. It simply looks as if the bill passed through your husband’s hands and I’m trying to discover where it went.”
The woman on the phone said thoughtfully, “Well, we have customers who pay cash, including hundred-dollar bills. But we never ask questions.”
“No reason why you should.”
“Later on at the bank, when we pay those big bills in, sometimes a teller will write our name on them. I think they’re not supposed to, but some do.” A pause, then, “I once asked why. The teller said there are so many counterfeit hundreds, it’s a precaution to protect themselves.”
“Aha! Precisely what I thought, and probably how the bill I’m looking at got marked.” While speaking, Kettering gave Mony a thumbs-up sign. “Do you have any objection, Mrs. Mortell, to telling me the name of your bank?”
“I don’t see why not. It’s Citibank.” She named an uptown branch.
“Thank you! That’s all the information I need.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Kettering. May I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Is something about this going to be on the news? And if so, how can I be sure not to miss it?”
“Easy! Mrs. Mortell, you’ve been so helpful that I promise, the day it goes on, I’ll call you personally and let you know.”
As Kettering hung up the phone, Jonathan Mony said, “I thought I might learn something. I just did.”
“What was that?”
“How to make a friend.”
Kettering smiled. He had already decided that the Mortell woman sounded so charming, and with a hint of invitation in her voice, that instead of phoning he would drop in to see her. He made a note of the address; it was uptown, not far away. He might be disappointed, of course. Voices were deceptive and she could be older than she sounded and look like the back of a bus, though instinct told him otherwise. Something else Jonathan would undoubtedly learn in time was that a fringe benefit of being on television was frequent romantic opportunities, leading—if one were so inclined—to pleasant sexual dalliance.
He selected another hundred-dollar bill. “Let’s try this one,” he told Mony and motioned to the phone book. “The name is Nicolini Brothers.”
It turned out to be a bakery and pastry store on Third. A man who answered was suspicious at first and after a question or two seemed inclined to hang up. But Kettering, politely persistent, persuaded him otherwise. Eventually the name of a bank was obtained where receipts from the store—including large bills—were regularly paid in. It was the American-Amazonas Bank at Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza.
The names on the next two bills which Kettering chose did not appear in the Manhattan phone book.
The bill after that produced results in the way of a cooperative manager of a men’s clothing store. The store, he disclosed, had an account at Bank Leumi, the branch at Third and Sixty-seventh.
Another name on a bill was untraceable. The next led to a distrustful and abusive woman with whom Kettering could make no headway and he gave up.
The fifth phone call resulted in communication with an eighty-six-year-old man living in an East End Avenue apartment. He was too weak to speak on the phone and a nursing attendant did it for him, though clearly there was nothing wrong with the old man’s mind. He could be heard whispering cheerfully that his son, who owned several night clubs, often dropped in and gave his father hundred-dollar bills, which were subsequently paid into a bank account that, the eighty-six-year-old declared with a faint chuckle, he was setting aside for his old age. And, oh yes, the account was at American-Amazonas Bank, Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza.
The next call, to a seafood restaurant near Grand Central, resulted in Kettering speaking at length with several people, none of whom would take the responsibility of telling him anything important. Eventually the restaurant owner was located and said impatiently, “What the hell! Sure you can know the name of our bank; in return, I hope you’ll give us a mention on the news. Anyway, the bank’s on that damn square I never can spell—Dag Hammarskjöld—and is American-Amazonas.”
When he hung up, Kettering scooped up the hundred-dollar bills and told Mony, “We hit the jackpot. No more calls needed. We have the answer.”
In response to a questioning glance he added, “Look at it this way: Three out of five people naming the same bank is too much to be coincidence. So those other names, on the bills which went through Citibank and Leumi, had to have been put on earlier and the bills recirculated, probably through American-Amazonas too.
“So that’s where the money came from which Novack-Rodríguez paid Godoy for the caskets.”
“Exactly!” Kettering’s voice hardened. “I’ll also wager that same bank is where those fucking kidnappers drew their cash and had—maybe still have—an account.”
Mony prompted, “So next step—Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza.”
Kettering pushed his chair back from the desk and rose. “Where the hell else? Let’s go.”
10
Don Kettering was recognized immediately on entering the American-Amazonas Bank and had an instinct early on that his presence was not a total surprise.
When he asked to see the manager, a matronly secretary informed him, “He has someone with him now, Mr. Kettering, but I’ll interrupt and tell him you’re here.” She glanced at Jonathan Mony. “I’m sure he won’t keep you gentlemen long.”
While waiting, Kettering surveyed the bank. It was located on the main floor of an elderly brick building near the Plaza’s north extremity and, viewed from outside, the bank’s slate gray entrance was unimposing. The interior, however, while small for a New York bank, was attractive and colorful. Instead of a conventional tiled floor, a patterned carpet in muted cherry, red and orange shades ran the entire length and width of the business area; a small, gold-lettered panel noted it was woven in Amazonas, Brazil.
While furnishings were conventional—a line of tellers’ counters on one side, three officers’ desks on the other—the woodwork everywhere was of highest quality. Occupying most of one wall, where customers would view it, was a striking mural—a revolutionary scene of panting horses with tousled manes carrying uniformed soldiers.
Kettering was studying the mural when the secretary advised, “Mr. Armando is free now. Will you come in, please.”
As they entered a partially glass-walled office which provided a view of the operations area outside, the manager came forward with his hand extended. A desk plaque identified him as Emiliano W. Armando, Jr.
“Mr. Kettering, a pleasure to meet you. I see you often and admire much of what you say. But I suppose you hear that all the time.”
“Even so, I still appreciate it.” The business correspondent introduced Mony. At a gesture from Armando, the three sat down, the visitors facing a hanging tapestry in bright blues and yellows which continued the bank’s thematic décor.
Kettering watched the manager, a small figure with a wrinkled face showing signs of tiredness, thinning white hair and bushy eyebrows. Armando moved with a nervous quickness, his expression worried, the general effect reminding Kettering of an aging terrier, uneasy with the changing world around him. Instinctively, though, he found himself liking the man—in contrast to his recent encounter with Alberto Godoy.
Leaning back in a swivel chair, the banker sighed. “I rather guessed that you or someone like you would be around soon. It’s been an unhappy, perplexing time for us here, as I’m sure you understand.”
Kettering leaned forward. The manager assumed he knew something that he didn’t. He acknowledged cautiously, “Yes, that’s all too often true.”
“As a matter of interest, how did you get to hear?”
The business correspondent resisted saying, “Hear what?” and smiled. “In TV news we have sources of information, even though at times we can’t reveal them.” He noticed Mony following the conversation with interest while keeping his face impassive. Well, that ambitious young man was getting a journalism lesson in spades today.
“I wondered if it was the Post report,” Armando said. “It left many unanswered questions.”
Kettering wrinkled his forehead. “I may have read that. Do you happen to have a copy?”
“Of course.” Armando opened a desk drawer and produced a news clipping encased in plastic. The heading read:
UN DIPLOMAT
SLAYS LOVER, SELF
IN JEALOUS RAGE
Kettering skimmed the report, noting it was from a ten-day-old paper, dated the Sunday before last. As he observed references to the two who had died—Helga Efferen of American-Amazonas Bank and José Antonio Salaverry, a member of the United Nations Peruvian delegation—the cause of the manager’s distress became clear. What was not clear was whether or not the incident had any connection to the matter that had brought CBA News here.
Kettering passed the report to Mony and returned his attention to Armando, prompting, “Unanswered questions, I believe you said.”
The manager nodded. “What the newspaper described is how the police say it happened. Personally, I don’t believe it.”
Still groping for a possible linkage, Kettering asked, “Would you mind telling me why?”
“The whole business is too complex for that simple explanation.”
“Obviously, you knew the woman who was employed here. Did you know the man, Salaverry?”
“Unfortunately—as it’s since turned out—yes.”
“Will you explain that?”
Armando hesitated before answering. “My inclination is to be frank with you, Mr. Kettering, mostly because I think that what we’ve learned at this bank during the past ten days will come out anyway, and I know you to be fair in your reporting. However, I have an obligation to the bank. We are a substantial and respected establishment in Latin America, as well as having this and other toeholds in the United States. Is it possible you could wait a day or two, giving me time to consult with senior management outside this country?”
There was a connection! Kettering’s instincts again, and he shook his head decisively. “It isn’t possible to wait. There’s a critical situation involving safety and lives.” It was time, he decided, to do some revealing of his own.
“Mr. Armando, at CBA we have reason to believe your bank was involved in some way with the kidnapping two weeks ago of Mrs. Crawford Sloane and two other members of the Sloane family. I’m certain you’ve heard about it. So the question arises: Is this other episode—the deaths of Efferen and Salaverry—related to the kidnap?”
If Armando had been troubled before, Kettering’s pronouncement had the effect of an incremental bolt of lightning. Apparently overwhelmed, he put his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. After several seconds he raised his eyes.
“Yes, it’s possible,” he said in a whisper. “Now I see it. It’s not only possible, it’s likely.” He went on wearily, “A selfish notion, I know, but I’m due to retire in just a few months and my thought right now is: Why couldn’t all this have waited until I had gone?”
“I understand your feelings.” Kettering tried to curb his impatience. “But the fact is, you and I are here and we are involved. Obviously we each have different information and, equally obviously, we’ll both be ahead if we exchange it.”
“I agree,” Armando conceded. “Where should we begin?”
“Let me. A large sum of money, at least ten thousand dollars in cash and probably a good deal more, is known to have passed through your bank and aided the kidnappers.”
The manager nodded gravely. “Putting together your knowledge and mine, it is definitely a great deal more money.” He stopped. “If I help fill in some details, is it essential that you quote me directly?”
Kettering considered. “Probably not. There’s an arrangement called ‘background, not for attribution.’ If you wish, we’ll talk on that basis.”
“I’d prefer it.” Armando paused, collecting his thoughts. “Within this bank we have a number of accounts for several delegations to the United Nations. I won’t go into those, except to say our bank has strong ties with certain countries; it’s why this office is conveniently close to the UN. Various people in UN delegations have authority over those accounts and one in particular was controlled by Mr. Salaverry.”
“An account belonging to the Peruvian delegation?”
“Connected with the Peruvian delegation—yes. Though I’m not sure how many people knew about that account, other than Salaverry who had authority to sign and use it. You should understand that any UN delegation may have a number of accounts, some for special purposes.”
“Okay, but let’s concentrate on the important one.”
“Well, for the past several months, substantial sums have been coming into that account and going out—all legitimately, with nothing irregular being done by the bank, except for one unusual thing.”
“Which was?”
“Miss Efferen, who had considerable responsibilities here as an assistant manager, went out of her way to handle the account herself, at the same time shielding me and others from direct knowledge of the account’s existence or what was going on.”
“In other words, the source of the money coming in and who it was paid out to was kept secret.”
Armando nodded. “That’s the way it was.”
“And to whom was it paid out?”
“In every instance to José Antonio Salaverry, on his signature. There are no other signatures in the account and every payment was in cash.”
“Let’s go back a bit,” Kettering said. “You’ve told us you reject the police conclusion about the way Efferin and Salaverry died. Why?”
“When I began to discover things last week and this, I thought that whoever was passing money through that account—assuming Salaverry to be an intermediary, which I think he was—probably did the killings, arranging them to look like murder-suicide. But now you tell me that the kidnappers of the Sloane family were involved, it seems likely they could have been the ones.”
Though the wizened little manager had been under strain and was near retirement, his reasoning powers were still good, Kettering thought. He observed that Mony was fidgeting and advised, “If you have questions, Jonathan, ask away.”
Mony put aside some notes he had been making and sat forward in his chair. “Mr. Armando, if what you say is true, can you make a guess why those two people were killed?”
The manager shrugged. “In my opinion they probably knew too much.”
“For instance—the names of the kidnappers?”
“Again, from what Mr. Kettering has told me, that would seem a probability.”
“And what about the source of the money that the man, Salaverry, controlled. Do you know where that money came from?”
For the first time the manager hesitated. “Since Monday, I’ve had discussions with members of the Peruvian delegation at the UN—they are conducting an investigation of their own. What they’ve discovered so far and we’ve conferred about has been confidential …”
Kettering cut in, “We’re not quoting you directly; we already agreed on that. So come on—let’s have it! Who did the money come from?”
Armando sighed. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Kettering. Have you ever heard of an organization called Sendero Luminoso or—”
Mony completed the sentence. “The Shining Path?”
Kettering’s face tightened as he answered grimly, “Yes, I have.”
“We’re not certain,” the manager said, “but they could be the ones who shoveled money into that account.”
After leaving Kettering and Mony on the Manhattan side of the Queensboro Bri
dge, Harry Partridge and Minh Van Canh took time out for an early lunch at Wolf’s Delicatessen at West Fifth-seventh and Sixth. Over their mutual choice of gigantic hot pastrami sandwiches, Partridge regarded Minh who had seemed thoughtful today, unusually preoccupied, though it had not affected his efficient work at Godoy’s Funeral Home. From across the restaurant table, Minh’s squarish pockmarked face above his stocky figure looked back impassively between mouthfuls of mustard-laden pastrami.
“Something on your mind, old friend?” Partridge asked.
“A few things.” The answer was typical Van Canh and Partridge knew better than to press his question. Minh would respond with more detail in his own way, in his own good time.
Meanwhile Partridge confided to Minh his intention to fly to Colombia, perhaps the following day. He added that he wasn’t sure whether anyone else should travel with him; he would talk with Rita about that. But when there was need for a camera crew, either tomorrow or later, he wanted Minh.
Van Canh considered, weighing a decision. Then he nodded. “Okay, I do it for you, Harry, and for Crawf. But it will be the last time, the last adventure.”
Partridge was startled. “You mean you’re quitting?”
“I promised my family; we talked last night. My wife wants me at home more. Our children need me, my business too. So after we come back, I go.”
“But this is so damn sudden!”
Van Canh gave one of his rare faint smiles. “Sudden like an order at three in the morning to go to Sri Lanka or Gdansk?”
“I know what you mean, though I’ll miss you like hell; things won’t be the same without you.” Partridge shook his head sadly, though the decision did not surprise him. As a Vietnamese working for CBA News, Minh had survived extraordinary perils in the Vietnam war, near the end managing to get his wife and two children airlifted from the country before the fall of Saigon and all the while taking superb pictures of history on the run.
In the years following, the Van Canh family adapted to their new American life—the children, like so many Vietnamese immigrants, studying hard and earning high grades at school and now college. Partridge knew them well and admired, sometimes envied, the family’s solidarity. As part of it, they lived frugally while Minh saved and invested most of his substantial CBA pay, his economies so obvious that among colleagues a rumor now existed that Minh was a millionaire.