THE TAINTED TRUST (Volume 2 of The King Trilogy)

CHAPTER 4

          

Caracas. Friday, April 25, 1980.

A brilliant financier, Alfred Schnieder fled war torn Germany in early 1945, leaving behind all of his wealth, almost all of his teeth, and a dubious past. Arriving in Caracas, Venezuela without a cent to his name, he committed his remaining years to the banking business. He was acutely aware that by keeping his mouth shut and remaining religiously discrete with clients' money, he could live like a king in South America. And he did.

A gentle knock on his office door caused him to turn his bald head and raise his graying eyebrows. "Hold for a minute. Someone's at my door," he said into his gold plated telephone receiver, then placed it on his desk and hurried to the door. He opened it to see a very excited Manuel Blanco, his diminutive administrative assistant, about to knock again.

"Mr. Schnieder, two people from the United States Internal Revenue Service are in my office," Blanco announced. "They have been very rude and have demanded to see you immediately. They have refused to tell me why they are here."

"Stall them for a minute, then show them in," Schnieder ordered, then returned to his desk to pick up the receiver. "Forgive the delay. I have visitors. I'll call you later."

Thirty seconds later, Blanco appeared at his door with the two I.R.S. agents. He politely ushered them in. "Mr. Schnieder, these are the people from the Internal Revenue Service who want to see you."

Schnieder stood and nodded to Blanco. "Thank you, Manuel. You may leave now," he said, then turned to face his visitors with a confident smile displaying a glittering array of gold capped teeth.

One of the two I.R.S. agents, a short fat man with a white brush cut, removed his standard issue sunglasses, took several steps toward Schnieder's desk and removed a badge from his sweat-stained beige summer suit. He held it out for Schnieder to see while he introduced himself. "It was kind of you to see us, Mr. Schnieder. My name is Charles Anderson." With a pompous sweep of his right arm, Anderson introduced his partner, a very attractive Mexican in her thirties, wearing dark sunglasses, a white blouse, beige cotton skirt and navy blue jacket. "This is Mary Sanchez. We're with the Criminal Investigations Division of the I.R.S., in Washington, D.C. We have a few questions."

In no way intimidated by his visitors, Schnieder had been subjected to similar interrogations numerous times in his long career. "I'm at your service...I must remind you however, if your questions relate to the activities of any of our clients, I am by no means obliged to answer." He winked at Anderson. "Besides, it would appear that you are considerably beyond the limits of your jurisdiction."

Shaken by Schnieder's response, Anderson took a deep breath. "We're very much aware of your banking laws, sir. And you're quite correct about our jurisdictional limits. It would be appreciated however, if you would try to cooperate with us. The government of the United States is attempting to recover a very large amount of money and Miss Sanchez and I have been directed to find it."

"What money?" Schnieder asked, aware his bank was home to the fruits of crime and flight capital of many clients. "Perhaps you could be more specific."

"Hundreds of millions of stolen gasoline tax dollars. We have reason to believe they've found their way into your bank...Several years ago, it came to our attention that a Canadian citizen by the name of James Servito might be involved in gasoline tax evasion. In addition to other things we did, we followed him all the way to your branch in Grand Cayman." Anderson riveted his green eyes on Schnieder's. "We did that too many times not to conclude that he was making very large deposits in your bank. Would you care to comment on that?"

"You know I can't do that," Schnieder replied.

"Let's cut to the chase, Mr. Schnieder." Anderson said. "Our people have photographed Servito's wife and Mike King enter this building on several occasions. Did they visit you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"That's privileged information."

"Have they ever deposited any money in your bank?"

"None," Schnieder replied, aware that he had provided a truthful answer, in spite of the fact that he was not obliged to do so.

"Then if they didn't put money in your bank, what the hell were they doing here?"

Even though Schnieder knew he was not required to answer Anderson's question, he decided to deflect suspicion. "You appear to be an intelligent man, Mr. Anderson. Did it ever occur to you that they too might be looking for Jim Servito's money?"

"Are you saying they are?"

"I'm not saying that. I merely asked you a question."

"Do you know where they are now?"

"No, but I will tell you that Mike King and the former Karen Servito are now husband and wife, and I believe they've gone somewhere to enjoy a honeymoon."

Obviously frustrated, Anderson pursed his lips, turned to Sanchez and shook his head. "Let's go. We're wasting our time," he hissed.

Schnieder stood and followed them to the door. "I'm very sorry I could not be of more help. If you care to leave a card, I'll call you if I learn anything which might help."

Anderson gave his card to Schnieder, then left with his partner.

Mary Sanchez stopped several feet outside the bank's front doors. "Hey Charlie," she said, then lit a cigarette. "Stay in the shade. Let's talk."

Anderson leaned against the building beside Sanchez.

"What did you think of our friendly banker?" Sanchez asked.

Anderson turned and spit on the pavement. "Fucking ice man. We could put that son of a bitch on a rack and still get nothing out of him."

"I think he knows a hell of a lot more than he's telling us, don't you?"

         "No question. I bet my pension he knows exactly where Servito's money is, and he's giving it his personal attention."