Nudelli said, 'I guess that's right. Looks like a schooner in amongst those other boats. Main mast should be around sixty feet high.' He leaned back on the chesterfield, the leather creaking underneath him like he was already on board a ship at sea. 'I gotta admit, it looks impressive. But this company, Stranahan Yacht Transport. They have anything to do with the Russkies?' He returned the facial flex to his mouth and began to stretch his face again.
'Nope. It's a legit company. Russkies book a passage like any other citizen. Being alongside the boats of law-abiding citizens they figure on having a certain safety in numbers. And of course the Coast Guard is looking for dope, not cash. When the cattug gets to Palma, Mallorca, they float out and sail on to their final destination under their own steam. It's a place on the Black Sea, where the money's finally taken out and then transported by road. Another quick refit and the yacht's ready to come home again.'
'That's a lot of trust in a bunch of Russkies,' observed Nudelli. 'You say you want to rip one of these transports off. What's to stop them ripping off their clients?'
Dave said, 'Because the first time would also be the last time. And because some of these clients don't have much choice in the matter. These days there are only a few ways to launder drug money, which is what this mostly is. Being caught with dollars is almost worse than being pinched with cocaine. Some of the South American cartels are making so much money they've got nowhere to put it. Sometimes they end up just burying it in the ground and letting it rot. Guy in Homestead? He lost two million that way. Used to be that you could buy yourself a nice bank in Panama or Venezuela. But then the authorities wised up. The Group of Seven Industrial Countries set up the Financial Action Task Force back in 1989. And that's when the bad guy money started going to the former Soviet Union.
'From what I've heard, Moscow's just like Chicago was back in the twenties. If you've got the money you can buy just about anything you want. Bombs, missiles, armies, whole fuckin' towns. Country's one gigantic garage sale. All it takes is dollars. You can't buy shit with their own currency. Beats me how Uncle Sam manages to get a handle on the US economy with so much American money around. I mean what's a government for, if not to control the supply of money? It's no surprise to me our economy's a piece of shit. The dollar's carrying half the world on its green back. Anyway, coming back to your original question, Tony. These guys want to do business with Americans. With South Americans. People with dollars. Help set them up with a bank so that they can start to do business together. Contra deals, that kind of thing. Co-operation is at the heart of good business.'
Nudelli nodded and said, 'So what's your play?'
'I need a yacht to book onto the transatlantic tug. I need another crewman to help me pull the job. Halfway across the Atlantic -- that's as far away from European and American navies as you can get -- we overpower the crews of the tug and the other yachts. At night, so they're not expecting trouble. We take the money from the Russian yachts and transfer it to the boat nearest the stern. Then we float out and cruise towards a prearranged rendezvous with a tanker we'll have sailing in the opposite direction, on a legitimate voyage. Something that's coming back here maybe. We put the money on the tanker and then scuttle the motor yacht, just to throw people off the scent.'
Al said, 'What's the haul?'
'The Russians have started making as many as two or three bookings per transport. Three yachts, six or seven staterooms per yacht, at two mill each.'
'Jesus,' said Al. 'That's over forty million.'
'Could be,' agreed Dave. 'But I figure a minimum twenty-five.'
'There's gonna be a lot of firepower on board to protect a piece of change like that,' said Al.
Once again, Dave shook his head, his eyes narrowing as they caught the sun. Nudelli turned around, then waved at the large expanse of window that framed their view of Biscayne Bay. South Miami and Coconut Grove lay hidden on the other side of the horizon some five miles away to the west. It was the best view Dave had ever seen of his hometown.
'Fix the blind, will ya, Al? The sun's in Dave's eyes.'
'It's OK, I like the sun.'
But Al was already unfolding louvred shutters across the window.
'Tony hates the fuckin' sun,' he explained. 'Only guy in Key Biscayne with an indoor swimming pool.'
'After five years in Homestead I could use some vitamin D.'
Nudelli tongued the flex from his mouth and grimaced. He said, 'After five years, you wanna be careful of that skin of yours. Sun ain't like it used to be. Niggers, even the fuckin' oranges go careful these days, 'cos of this hole those idiots made in the ozone layer. Even the goddamn fish are getting skin cancer. I read that somewhere. Didn't I? Al?'
