Stone Barrington 06-11

o’clock, she checked the fax machine again. A number of other transfers had arrivied, but not the one from Manhattan Trust. She opened a fax form in her computer and typed a short message: “Subject: wire transfer, 750,000 euros, from Manhattan Trust not received. Please inform client.” She moved the cursor to the send button and clicked. This whole business would have been easier if her bosses had completed the computer setup that would handle everything automatically, but they were waiting for the end of the fiscal year to spend the money.
    Five minutes later, she received an e-mail from Switzerland. “Please confirm receipt or lack of receipt of Manhattan Trust transfer at your 2:00 p.m. cutoff time.”
    Hattie logged in wire transfers all morning, getting hungry as one o’clock passed. She could not have lunch until the two-o’clock cutoff time. At two, she checked the fax machine once more and found it empty. She grabbed her handbag and headed for the door. Then, as she was about to leave, she remembered.
    She returned to her desk, checked the transfers once more, then tapped in a message to Switzerland. “Manhattan Trust transfer of 750,000 euros not received this day. Please inform client.” Then she went to lunch.

    Marie-Thérèse was having breakfast in her suite at the Carlyle when her cell phone rang. “Yes?”
    “Good morning, it’s Dr. von Enzberg, in Zurich,” a deep male voice said.
    “Good morning, Dr. von Enzberg,” she replied. “I’m glad to hear from you.”
    “Saint George’s Bank has informed us that the transfer from Manhattan Trust has not been received,” he said. “However, it will almost certainly come later in the morning. I’ve asked them to contact me at their two-p.m. cutoff time, to let me know if it has arrived.”
    “Thank you, Dr. von Enzberg,” she said. “I’ll expect your call.” She closed the cell phone and went back to her breakfast. Then she stopped, nervous. She found the sheet of paper Sir Edward had given her and dialed the phone number at the top.
    “Wire transfer room,” Marjorie Harris said.
    “Yesterday I gave instructions for a transfer to Saint George’s Bank in the Caymans,” Marie-Thérèse said. She gave the woman the account number.
    “Oh, yes,” Marjorie replied, checking the number on her computer. “That went out first thing this morning. It should be in your account now.”
    “Thank you,” Marie-Thérèse said, then hung up, feeling better. She finished her breakfast, then drew a bath and got in. Where would she go? she asked herself. The world was her oyster now. Even the countries where she had been a fugitive were now open to her, as long as she had a good European Union passport, and she could manage that in a day. She thought about England: perhaps a nice, little Queen Anne house in the country, not too far from Heathrow. The Cotswold Hills were appealing, and she liked the irony of living in Sir Edward’s own country. The thought made her laugh. Some shopping before leaving New York would be in order.

    Marie-Thérèse was trying on a dress in the Armani shop a little after two, when her phone rang again. Finally. “Yes?”

    “It’s Dr. von Enzberg. I’ve had notification from Saint George’s Bank that no funds were received into your account from Manhattan Trust.”
    “They’re certain?”
    “I asked for confirmation and received it. What are your instructions?”
    “None,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I will handle this myself.” She closed the phone. “I’ll take this dress and the tweed jacket,” she said to the saleslady.
    “They’ll both be wonderful for traveling,” the woman said.
    “Oh, I’m not traveling just yet,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I have a few things to do in New York over the weekend, before I leave.” Clearly, the phone number for Manhattan Trust was manned by someone from British Intelligence. They would not fool her again.

    Just at closing time, a cleaning woman came into the wire transfer department of St. George’s Bank and made ready to mop the floor. “You going to be long?” she asked the young woman still seated at her desk.
    “I’ll be out of your way in a moment,” Hattie replied.
    The cleaning woman took hold of the cart that held the fax machine and rolled it away from the wall. A single sheet of paper lay on the floor where the cart had been. She picked it up and handed it to the woman at the desk. “This yours?”
    Hattie examined the document.