Breaking the Banker

"I am more or less, as we say in the States, on the lam," he said.

"What have you done?"

"Nothing, of course. But there seem to be some Treasury Department funds missing."

"How much?"

"Not much. About $120,000. A computer system upgrade was contracted and delivered, but somehow the payment is missing."

"And you want me to help you?" I knew the answer to that question, so I just continued on. "How?"

"Can you launder the money for me?"

I had done many things that were not completely on the up and up in my career—especially in the similar favors I did for Arab groups—and I was in love. So, my answer was not that much of a decision for me.

Our trysts in the Kipling Hotel room continued until I informed Salim that his money was clean. The cocking that afternoon after I told him his money was clear seemed a little desultory, but I reasoned that even young men would have their off days now and again.

When I came out of the shower, Salim was gone, and an expensively suited middle-aged man of military bearing was sitting in the club chair.

"Hello, Herr Bragger," he said. "I am Sam Winterberry of the American embassy, and I believe that you are the principal attendant of several secret Mideast terrorist bank accounts at the Banca Privata Reichstein."

* * * *

All through my "chat" with Mr. Winterberry, I kept waiting for the accusation that I knowingly was working with the Mideast terrorist groups—that they had had me under their thumbs for years—but that wasn't even hinted at. I was treated like I was a completely honest banker who just happened to control the traffic in Arab banking transactions for BPR and could be approached just because I was so smitten with a homosexual lover that I would do illegal things for him.

And thus my quandary. What they were asking me seemed low risk to them—but to me it was a death sentence—and quite possibly for my wife and children too.

"We want all the information you can give us on any Mideast organization with a secret account at the bank that we ask you about, and promptly when we ask, Herr Bragger."

"Is that all?" I asked. I was jumping at shadows; I knew that this was too elaborate of a scheme for that to be all.

"When we are closing down the groups, we want you to transfer their funds into a U.S. government account," Winterberry said. And he had the audacity to smile as he said it.

"The risk," I said.

"Is minimal," Winterberry said.

"Is phenomenal," I countered. And Winterberry didn't know how phenomenal it was. All it would take was a hint of what I'd done on one account to reach the still-viable holders of other accounts, and I and my family would be dead. And after just a few such groups being hunted down, the rest would be able to figure where the information that brought them down would come from.

"My family," I said.

"Will be protected," Winterberry answered.

There was no arguing. Winterberry just didn't know it all, and I couldn't tell him all. And it was dangerous enough even with what Winterberry did know. Already my brain was spinning. I would have to transfer assets—there was a slight chance I could disappear on both of my oppressors. And I would have to force something that would cause Karyn to divorce me quickly and my children to part with me so publicly and irrevocably that the terrorists thought there was no bond at all between us. I was a dead man, but I would do what I could do for my family. Maybe a real mistress to anger my wife. Not reveal my homosexuality, of course. I could not humiliate my family that way—and my first wife had been good enough to keep the secret all these years—but another woman, that might work. At that contemplation, of course, my thoughts went to Salim.

"And Salim?" I asked Winterberry.

"He will be there for you as long as we are pleased with your efforts," Winterberry said, with a smile.

At least I'll die happy, I thought.

Later, after Winterberry had gone, my Arab lover did return. I refrained from recriminations—it was far too late for those to matter anyway—and when he had proved, because of my response, to have regained all of his vigor and virility, he fucked me silly, first missionary style on the bed and then, when I was washing the sex of him off me in the shower, he took me there too, my belly against the wall and his cock lifting my feet off the soapy tiled floor with the force of its thrusts.

"I'm so happy you'll be helping us out and that you and I can be together," he murmured.

I would indeed die happy.

One thing I needed to know, regardless, which I asked him when he had agreed to let me spend the night in his bed and we were in the dark in an embrace.

"Tell me one thing, please—and it doesn't matter either way—but I would like to know. You are not Sa'eed Maalouf's son, are you?"

"No," he answered with an edge of slight regret in his voice, which I noted with appreciation. "My name is Jamil Jallud. I'm third generation American. You can call me Jaime. And, as you may also have guessed already, I don't work for the U.S. Treasury Department."