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Authors: Glenn Shepard
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his head. “All I make of this is some poppycock story to conceal your theft of money that belongs to Haiti. Your claim of imprisonment? False! Your stories about Jakjak, Roche, Baccus, and the man with the whip, Lugar? Fabrication! And where are Mr. Cheval and Mr. Gabriel? Their bodies are nowhere in the government office or in the jail you talk about. Lies! All lies! You tell me lies to cover up your theft of government money.”
Julien Duran pulled up his pants legs to show the cuts from Lugar’s whip, but no one even lowered their eyes to see.
Tomas stood and ran to Longpre’s side. “I saw Cheval’s dead body. Shot in the eye. He was wearing my father’s white suit. The message with him said they’d kill my dad if I called the police or moved Cheval’s body.”
“You and your son will be imprisoned until your trials,” Longpre said. He nodded to Conrad, who approached Julien Duran with handcuffs.
As Conrad was putting on the cuffs, he noticed the bulge in Duran’s coat pocket. He reached in and pulled out a stack of un-circulated currency. He placed it on the table. “There must be $10,000 here. Where did you get all this? From the National Treasury?”
“I found that in my pocket after I escaped. The money’s not mine.”
“Bullshit!” Conrad said as he snapped the cuffs in place.
“But I’ve done nothing wrong. This is a set-up,” Duran objected. “And of what do you accuse Tomas?”
“Of transferring $150,000 of relief aid funds to his personal account,” President Longpre said as he threw another document on the table. “Like father, like son. You’re both dirty thieves!”
Penthouse Apartment
Movenpick Hotel
Aden, Yemen
2:00 p.m.
Omar Farok paced the floor, wringing his hands as he waited for the signal to come. His position as the leader of ISIS was on the line. So was his life. Aslanov and Muhammad Junco had pledged to kill him if he didn’t hand over the money for the merchandise as he’d promised. ISIS’ private bank in Turkey, the Habib Bankasi Internacionalé, was alerted to Farok’s needs, and a vice president had remained there after hours to handle the critical transactions for Farok.
Finally, a message appeared on the computer screen. The sweat from Farok’s brow dripped as he leaned over to read it. First to appear was the SWIFT code identifying his bank in Ankara: ATKFTUA. Then, the figure: $3 billion. Finally, the recipient: Aslanov.
A second message quickly followed. The same bank code: ATKFTUA. The same amount: $3 billion. This time, a depositor: the Defense Ministry of Iran.
The third and final message came next. Same bank code: ATKFTUA. Same amount: $3 billion. Recipient: the Haiti Relief Aid Fund.
The three transactions were made only minutes apart. Farok breathed a sigh of relief. His shell game had worked!
He sat down at his desk and quickly sent a secured text to his inside contacts at the office of the Defense Minister of Iran:
First payment received and dispersed. Send final payment for material ordered.
Farok wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was off the hook for the Kazakh’s money, and with Iran’s next installment, he could finance ISIS. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. My financial genius will ensure my place in history alongside the world’s greatest figures.
Outside the Ministry of Finance
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
2:15 p.m.
Jakjak stood in the shadows, watching the front door of the Finance Ministry offices.
Thirty minutes earlier, as he walked toward the building, tired and winded from his long trek back from the beach, he’d stopped for a moment to rest. That is when he’d seen Police Chief Conrad, four officers, and President Longpre enter the building. Sensing trouble, he’d ducked into the doorway of an abandoned store across the street to watch and wait.
Now, fear gripped his throat as he saw Julien and Tomas Duran being led away in handcuffs.
Jakjak looked up to the heavens and folded his
Julien Duran pulled up his pants legs to show the cuts from Lugar’s whip, but no one even lowered their eyes to see.
Tomas stood and ran to Longpre’s side. “I saw Cheval’s dead body. Shot in the eye. He was wearing my father’s white suit. The message with him said they’d kill my dad if I called the police or moved Cheval’s body.”
“You and your son will be imprisoned until your trials,” Longpre said. He nodded to Conrad, who approached Julien Duran with handcuffs.
As Conrad was putting on the cuffs, he noticed the bulge in Duran’s coat pocket. He reached in and pulled out a stack of un-circulated currency. He placed it on the table. “There must be $10,000 here. Where did you get all this? From the National Treasury?”
“I found that in my pocket after I escaped. The money’s not mine.”
“Bullshit!” Conrad said as he snapped the cuffs in place.
“But I’ve done nothing wrong. This is a set-up,” Duran objected. “And of what do you accuse Tomas?”
“Of transferring $150,000 of relief aid funds to his personal account,” President Longpre said as he threw another document on the table. “Like father, like son. You’re both dirty thieves!”
Penthouse Apartment
Movenpick Hotel
Aden, Yemen
2:00 p.m.
Omar Farok paced the floor, wringing his hands as he waited for the signal to come. His position as the leader of ISIS was on the line. So was his life. Aslanov and Muhammad Junco had pledged to kill him if he didn’t hand over the money for the merchandise as he’d promised. ISIS’ private bank in Turkey, the Habib Bankasi Internacionalé, was alerted to Farok’s needs, and a vice president had remained there after hours to handle the critical transactions for Farok.
Finally, a message appeared on the computer screen. The sweat from Farok’s brow dripped as he leaned over to read it. First to appear was the SWIFT code identifying his bank in Ankara: ATKFTUA. Then, the figure: $3 billion. Finally, the recipient: Aslanov.
A second message quickly followed. The same bank code: ATKFTUA. The same amount: $3 billion. This time, a depositor: the Defense Ministry of Iran.
The third and final message came next. Same bank code: ATKFTUA. Same amount: $3 billion. Recipient: the Haiti Relief Aid Fund.
The three transactions were made only minutes apart. Farok breathed a sigh of relief. His shell game had worked!
He sat down at his desk and quickly sent a secured text to his inside contacts at the office of the Defense Minister of Iran:
First payment received and dispersed. Send final payment for material ordered.
Farok wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was off the hook for the Kazakh’s money, and with Iran’s next installment, he could finance ISIS. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. My financial genius will ensure my place in history alongside the world’s greatest figures.
Outside the Ministry of Finance
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
2:15 p.m.
Jakjak stood in the shadows, watching the front door of the Finance Ministry offices.
Thirty minutes earlier, as he walked toward the building, tired and winded from his long trek back from the beach, he’d stopped for a moment to rest. That is when he’d seen Police Chief Conrad, four officers, and President Longpre enter the building. Sensing trouble, he’d ducked into the doorway of an abandoned store across the street to watch and wait.
Now, fear gripped his throat as he saw Julien and Tomas Duran being led away in handcuffs.
Jakjak looked up to the heavens and folded his
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