Page 110 of Secrets Beneath the Waves
A black sedan waited for him outside the airport, the driver a faceless entity in a crisp white shirt holding a sign with his fake name on it. Paul slid into the backseat. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as much from anxiety as the weather. He gave the driver the name of the bank, and the car pulled away, merging seamlessly into the slow-moving island traffic.
Paul breathed a noticeable sigh of relief, but none of the tension left. He wouldn’t feel secure until he was on Russian soil.
He touched the inside pocket of his suit jacket for reassurance. He resisted the urge to pull out the papers and look at them again. Unnecessary. Everything was in order. He had his passport, driver’s license, and a copy of his last bank statement.
He’d been meticulous in setting up the account. A false name, forged documents—every step was a calculated move to ensure no one could trace the funds back to him. The money had satthere for years, untouched, waiting for the right moment. And now was time to collect.
The drive to the bank was brief, but the tension in Paul’s chest built with each passing second. As the car pulled up to the gleaming glass building, he thanked the driver and told him to wait at the curb. As soon as he was done, he’d have the man take him back to the airport. He’d be on the first flight out of Cayman to anywhere that would give him a connection to Russia.
When he stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, he didn’t bother glancing around. If Austen was onto him, he wouldn’t see the bullet coming. His head would explode before he knew what hit him. A preference compared to what she could do to him.
The twenty-foot walk between the car and the entrance to the bank was excruciating. His entire body was tense until he was no longer in the open. Inside, the air conditioning blasted away the island heat, sending a momentary exhilaration down his spine as he approached the reception desk.
This might work.He was minutes away from walking out of the bank with a check worth millions of dollars.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Daniels,” he said. The receptionist, a woman with meticulously pinned hair and a polite but distant demeanor, smiled then nodded. “Right this way, Mr. Smythe.”
Paul followed her through the sleek halls, the scent of polished wood and paper thick in the air. She led him to a private office, where a sharply dressed man in his fifties rose to greet him.
“Mr. Smythe,” the executive said, shaking Paul’s hand with an iron grip. “Please, have a seat.”
Paul sat, resting his hands on the top of the desk. “I’d like to close my account.” He took out the necessary documents and slid them in front of Mr. Daniels.
The bank executive smiled politely, although Paul saw a twinge of disappointment. “Of course. I understand that you’d like to withdraw your money and close your account.”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why? Are you displeased with our services?”
“Not at all. I’m leaving the country permanently.”
“We’ll be sorry to see you go.”
The banker studied the statement for several seconds. Satisfied, he looked up and said, “How would you like the money?”
“A cashier’s check would be fine.”
No way could he travel around the world carrying that much cash. He certainly wasn’t going to check it at the airport.
Paul glanced up at the security cameras. This interaction was being captured. Wouldn’t matter now. When Paul didn’t show up at work in two weeks, there’d be an investigation. More than likely, the CIA would piece everything together, but it’d take time.
They’d find his image in the Washington D.C. airport security cameras and eventually know he went to Cayman on a fake passport. They might even find his bank account. They’d no doubt see him get on a plane and track his movements to Russia.
The CIA was extremely resourceful in that way. He had done similar investigations over the years. They’d eventually figure out he had betrayed his country.
Nothing they could do at that point. The money would be gone and in a Russian account.
Surprisingly, he didn’t feel any guilt. Only a smug satisfaction that he had gotten away with it all these years. He had outsmarted the smartest minds in the world.
Mr. Daniels turned slightly in his chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard. A quick series of keystrokes. A pause. Hislips pressed together. He frowned, then typed again, slower this time.
Paul’s stomach tightened. “Is there a problem?”
“One moment,” the executive murmured. His eyes flicked toward the screen. He clicked to another window. Then another. His frown deepened.
Paul forced himself to stay still, but every muscle in his body screamed at him to say something.
The executive rubbed his chin, a gesture that did nothing to calm Paul’s nerves.
