Mind + Body, Aaron Dunlap [smart books to read TXT] 📗
- Author: Aaron Dunlap
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Book online «Mind + Body, Aaron Dunlap [smart books to read TXT] 📗». Author Aaron Dunlap
“You still have the Sparbuch accounts, though?”
“Yes,” he said, hesitant, “we offer anonymous and named Sparbuch-type accounts, but they must be opened like any other account, with a name and proof of identity and such. If one chooses to make the account anonymous, the name is held securely in our records and statements and transactions will just refer to the account number and not the name. And, as before, one must be 18 years old for this.”
It sounded like Rubino was right, modern anti-laundering laws made fully anonymous banking a thing of the past.
“You said you can’t open any new totally anonymous Sparbuch accounts, but there are still existing ones?” I said.
“Yes, we honor all accounts and could never close such an account because there’s no way to contact the account holder.”
“And you said those accounts are highly transferable?”
“Well, yes. Whoever has the ‘passbook,’ which is now a secure bank card, and knows the account’s security code is considered the account holder.”
“So…” I started, “would there perhaps be any of those cards lying around that someone might know the code for?”
The manager looked nervous and rapped his fingers against the desk for a second, then said, “I know what you mean, but this is not something we or any bank can do. There are services that broker in pre-existing Sparbuch accounts, or some people will just sell them outright through advertisements and such, but this can be dangerous as some are scams.”
“Do you know of any services that definitely aren’t scams?”
The manager darted his eyes back and forth once, then looked around the room as if making sure that nobody had snuck in, then he opened a lower desk drawer and pulled out a folded newspaper that looked a few weeks old judging by the coloring. He drew a circle around a block of text with a pen then slid the paper across the desk, saying, “I’m sure I have no idea.”
Circled was a classified ad that first said, “E.B. Sparbuch Accounts. Guaranteed balances,” and had a phone number listed. Below that was seemingly the same text only in German. The bank manager probably had a relationship of some sort with whoever sold these, probably supplying the accounts or getting a cut of each referral, or both. I took the paper and set it on my lap.
“One more thing,” I said. “If I had such an account, could I wire money to it from a US bank? And how do withdrawals and deposits work?”
“The account would come with a routing number and account number that could be used like any checking account for electronic transfers in either direction. Deposits and withdrawals can be made in person at any branch, or from any of our 24 hour ATM kiosks throughout the country.”
I thanked the man and left the bank. As I waited for a cab, I slipped the newspaper page into my inner jacket pocket and as I looked around I saw a man across the street leaning against a car and looking at me. The man was early-thirties, had long black hair and a brown leather coat. At first he just glanced at me once, then again, then he squinted at me as if trying to recognize my face, then he turned to look in all directions, and then looked back at me as I tried to dodge his gaze by pretending to read a road sign. Across the street, the man got in the driver seat of his car and pulled a cell phone to his face, glancing at me one more time.
I reflected upon the last time somebody sat in a car and spoke on a cell phone while looking at me, and started walking. I thought I could feel my eyes start to burn.
Nobody chased me. Nobody tailed me. Nobody gave me a second glance.
I’m going to drive myself nuts, I told myself. It was rather confusing though; the whole time I thought people were after me, I was just being paranoid. But people were after me, just different people. Is it still paranoia if there really are people out to get you?
I shrugged it off again. I had to stop thinking about it. I kept walking down the narrow Vienna streets, my hands tucked in my jacket pockets to keep warm. An hour later I was back in my hotel room, constantly checking my email and reading the news headlines at Digg.com. All the things I should have been thinking about kept banging on the walls of my mind, but I kept pushing it back. This made it hard to relax but kept me from thinking myself into a fit. Being cooped up in the hotel room started to make me feel a bit bonkers, and time just dragged on. I had to keep myself busy, I decided, so I picked up the phone and dialed the number on the newspaper ad offering Austrian sparbuch accounts.
After two rings, someone answered speaking in German. I asked if the man spoke English, he said yes.
“I’m interested in a sparbuch account,” I said.
“Yes,” he said in the thickest accent I’d heard since I got here, “we have available.”
“And they’re with Erste Bank?”
“Yes, we have them from many banks but Erste is the best common.”
“They come with balances already?”
“Ehh… balance, yes. They have 100 euro balance in account.”
“How much for the account?”
“They are 400 euro, but have the 100 in bank already so 300 actually price.”
“And the accounts, they’re completely anonymous?”
“Yes. Private account, no name or addresses. Best kinds. You want through mail or pick up?”
“Are you downtown? I could meet you somewhere.”
“I have someone downtown, where are you now?”
I gave him the crossroads nearest the hotel, and he told me of a café a few blocks away and said someone would meet me in two hours. I didn’t have anything to do besides sitting and stewing over the complicated nature of my life, so I grabbed the novel I hadn’t finished and walked to the café.
Starbucks it wasn’t. Most people were drinking espresso from tiny cups, something so pretentious that even Americans couldn’t stand. The café itself was small, very old looking but decorated nicely with a long singular wooden bench wrapping around the right wall to the back, stuffed with pillows and cushions and tables tucked up against them every few feet. At the counter I tried to cut through the language barrier and get myself a café latte (realizing that simply ordering a “latte” would get me a cup of milk), I ended up with something that seemed like the lattes I was used to but was more bitter than I expected. I settled in at a table in the back and started to read my book.
About an hour later a man came in that looked like what the man on the phone had described, young, dark hair, dark coat. On the phone he’d warned me that the guy meeting me didn’t speak English. I waved at the man and he walked over. He had a manila envelope in his hand, which he held up and said, “Euros?”
I pulled the money from my pocket and set it on the table. He sat down and started counting after handing me the envelope. In it was a small folding booklet that reminded me of a passport, but it had the same dimensions as a credit card and a muted yellow color. The back cover of the booklet had a magnetic strip across the edge, which meant that you probably stuck the whole thing into an ATM just like a debit card; which meant that it was probably the sparbuch itself. Inside the booklet were a few pages that looked like rules or laws, written in German, and the account number was printed at the bottom. After that were a few blank pages that looked to be meant to use as a ledger. Also in the envelope was a small piece of paper that said “SECURE CODE” and a six-digit number. Finally there was a full-page document, an official-looking account summary printed and sealed by the Erste Bank. It listed the account number — the same number printed inside the Sparbuch — and showed a few random transactions dated over ten years prior, then finally a recent deposit that brought the balance to 100 exactly. I looked the page over; it was printed by a laser printer on heavy stock paper with a watermark of the bank’s logo. If it was a fake, it was worth the price just for the authenticity.
He said something that might pass as “All good?” I nodded; he smiled politely and left with the money.
I put the sparbuch and the sheet with the code number in my jacket pocket, folded the rest and sat it on the bench next to me, then got back to my book. I finally finished it, and had gone through three coffees and was now on to juice as I sat in silent contemplation as the sun went down.
I noticed someone standing outside the café door, and it took a moment for me to recognize his face. It was the guy from outside the bank earlier in the day. He was standing there watching the door, not looking at me. It was illegal to carry a knife over three inches in Europe so I didn’t have mine on me, though I didn’t why know my mind went right to that. A few minutes later he was joined by another man similarly dressed. He looked through the window around the café until his eyes landed on me. He appeared to take in a long breath, and then turned back around. I kept telling myself not to be nervous, that I was probably overreacting again, but I had done all kinds of unlawful things today, crimes both white-collar and otherwise.
I downed the last of my bottle of orange juice and watched the both of them as they stood outside, watching cars pass on the street.
Eventually they both sauntered inside the café, the first guy hanging around the door and the second walking straight toward me. My legs uncrossed and I pressed both feet against the floor, and the back of my mind focused on the fact that I didn’t have a weapon on me. No silverware within reach, and the ceramic coffee cups I’d had were gone. The table wasn’t bolted down; I bet I could throw it.
As the man walked closer, I could see that he was a bit older than the first guy. He was in his forties but still fit, and wearing a short leather jacket. The panic poking at my chest eased a small amount, but the man was indeed coming for me. He had a kind of coy smile on his face, like a man playing hide-and-seek with a child and obviously knowing where the kid was hiding. He sat down across from me at my table, turned the chair at an angle and leaned back in sloppy posture. I didn’t say anything.
“You speak English, don’t you?” he said with the same grin. His accent was very light, and definitely not German. French, maybe?
I nodded. He seemed pleased.
“I thought so,” he said, “My name is Thomas Pratt.” He pronounced it “Toe-mahs”.
I swallowed, and thought for a second about what to say. “Chris,” I decided on.
His grin pulled taught for a moment, and then he continued, “I’m a lead investigator with Interpol. I’ve been waiting to meet you for a long time, Mr. Baker.”
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