The Panama Deposit

A short story

The Cayman Islands bustled with tourists as island fever and the tropical sun blazed. The air was thick with the scent of sunscreen, salt water, and capitalism. The locals, seasoned in the art of trade, peddled their wares with an alluring island charm.

Among the locals, a pair of high-heels walked confidently, belonging to 28 year old Eloise Deen. Most people came here for leisure, but Eloise was on a business mission, as her briefcase revealed. She crossed the road, heading towards the imposing Banco Nacionale de Cayman, which stood taller than the surrounding buildings, exuding an austere yet tropical charm. A monolith of financial power wrapped in tropical aesthetics.

Only a few customers and tellers were inside the bank’s lobby. Eloise approached a Caymanian teller in his twenties

"Good morning, Miss. Can I help you?" the teller asked.

"Yes, I'd like to speak with the bank president," Eloise replied.

"What is this regarding?" the teller inquired.

"A private matter," Eloise said.

"Please have a seat, Miss...?" the teller gestured towards a waiting area.

"Deen. Eloise Deen," she replied.

Eloise sat and placed her briefcase by her feet, as the teller disappeared to find the President.

After a few moments, the teller returned, and asked Eloise to please follow him. He led her through the bank's labyrinthine hallways, past security doors and under the watchful eyes of security cameras. Eloise took note of the Bank's security features.

They arrived at the office of Mr. Pryor, the President of Banco Nacionale de Cayman. "Ms. Deen, this is Mr. Pryor, our bank president. Mr. Pryor, this is Ms. Deen from America," the teller said introducing them.

"Thank you, Thomas," Mr. Pryor said. The teller exited the room, leaving Eloise and Mr. Pryor alone.

He walked around the desk and shook Eloise's hand, gesturing for her to have a seat. Pryor was a slender, sophisticated man with a taste for understated elegance.

In the corner, Eloise noticed a store-bought Christmas tree.

"Shouldn't that be a palm tree?" Eloise asked gesturing at the fake Christmas tree in the corner as she took her seat on the other side of his desk.

"It isn't paradise without the Christmas spirit this time of year," Pryor replied.

"Even in the islands?" Eloise questioned.

"Especially in the islands," Mr. Pryor said with a smile.

"And what brings you to our island today, Ms. Deen?" Pryor checked his computer. "I don't believe you have an account with us. Are you interested in opening one?"

"How would that work?" Eloise inquired.

"Simple. You fill out the forms, arrange for your initial deposit, and we provide you with a bank book and ATM card. We act as your concierge bankers, handling all the details of your global business affairs," Pryor explained.

"Can you give me some examples?" Eloise asked.

"Nothing specific, but let's say a family wants to establish a foundation in another family member's name; we would assist with that. Or for clients seeking anonymity in real estate transactions, we may employ a straw man," Pryor answered.

"A straw man? What's that?" Eloise questioned.

"The bank sets up an offshore account and finds an individual from a tax-convenient jurisdiction to act as the official owner. It can be anything. I once had a client who used an offshore holding corporation for his yacht and private jet. We even hired a maintenance man to fix the tiles in his pool."

"You arrange all of that?" Eloise asked.

"That was another bank, but it's not uncommon," Pryor confirmed.

"And how do you ensure confidentiality?" Eloise probed.

"There are many methods, but most importantly, your account is numbered, known only to you, Ms. Deen."

"Yet you knew I didn't have an account here?" Eloise pointed out.

"I was speaking casually," Pryor replied.

"But as the bank president, you have access to that information?" Eloise pressed.

"Yes, as Bank President, I do have access, but rest assured, Ms. Deen, I am forbidden from disclosing it."

"Under what circumstances would you reveal that information?" Eloise asked.

"None," Pryor replied firmly.

"What if you were compelled, like by an FBI or Justice Department investigation?” Eloise questioned.

Pryor smiled politely, realizing the direction of the conversation. "The laws here in the Caymans protect against that. It is not our job, nor within our abilities, to determine the origin of deposits. However, if the US Justice Department, FBI, SEC, or IRS were to send a summons..." Pryor trailed off, reaching under his desk and holding up his trash can, implying its fate. "... I would give it proper consideration."

Eloise placed her briefcase on the desk, capturing Pryor's attention. "Have you heard of Lerner-Mullin-Fonseca?" she asked.

"Yes, the Panamanian law firm that was hacked," Pryor replied.

"That's right. Hackers exposed 11 million secret files, revealing how the firm facilitated global tax evasion using offshore havens," Eloise revealed.

"Rest assured, Ms. Deen, we are protected against such hacker attacks."

"That's what everyone thinks until they get hacked," she said with a wry smile. "That's what the men who worked at my company thought...until our money was stolen."

There was a moment of silence.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Ms. Deen," Pryor sympathized.

Eloise sighs. "Yes, me too, Mr. Pryor. Though not as sorry as the account holders, and definitely not as sorry as my company's Board."

Eloise watches Pryor for a reaction. He looks contrite but doesn't say anything else. She continues, "Money has gone missing from our corporate accounts for the past twenty-two months. At first, we thought it was a computer glitch, but when the law firm was hacked and its files made public, we started piecing things together," Eloise explained.

"I'm not sure I follow, Ms. Deen. What does this have to do with Banco Nacionale de Cayman?" Pryor asked, puzzled.

Eloise's briefcase locks snapped open. "Because the stolen money was deposited in a numbered account in this bank."

Pryor swallowed, his eyes narrowing as he considered what Eloise just told him. He finally spoke, breaking the silence that hung heavily in the room. "Ms. Deen, I am afraid you are mistaken."

Eloise responded with a deliberate gesture, flipping open the briefcase that sat before her. "I am not, Mr. Pryor. You asked why I was here..." She removed a mobile phone from it and placed it on the desk between them. "...The answer is because I need you to give me the names to these numbered accounts." She pressed a button on the phone and its screen glowed.

She picked up the phone and turned it around so Mr. Pryor could see what was displayed on the screen.

Pryor leaned in, scrutinizing the screen closely. On it were a list of numbered accounts. He stared at the numbers a moment and then reclined in his chair, his face a mask of indifference. "I cannot help you with that."

Eloise smiled, though it was not a polite smile. It was the smile of someone who knew more than she let on, someone who had anticipated his reaction. "I was afraid you might say that. It makes this conversation more difficult. See, there is another problem, Mr. Pryor, that further complicates things for me today, and thus I'm afraid it will complicate things for you as well."

Pryor doesn't appreciate her comment. He began to say something, but Eloise cut him off. "You see, I have only two days to recover these funds," she said.

"Why two days?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of curiosity.

"I've been tracking this money around the world for months. At each bank, the process is always the same. The money is deposited in an account where it sits for three days before it is transferred again. The transfer is designed to keep the money moving around the world until it is completely laundered and untraceable. Then the thief can withdraw the money and deposit it safely into an account of their own in any bank anywhere in the world. Our stolen money was deposited into these numbered accounts yesterday. That gives me two more days."

Pryor's face softened, a feigned look of sympathy washing over his features. He picked up her mobile phone, handling it like a delicate artifact. "I am sorry to hear all this, Ms. Deen. It is most unfortunate. However, I must decline your request. Respectfully." He slid the phone back to Eloise, his gaze unblinking.

Eloise continued, her voice steady and resolute. "We're talking about people's life savings. Careers destroyed. Lives ruined." She let that sink in. Then looking in the eyes, Eloise said, "I need you to give me the names to those numbered accounts."

Pryor stiffened, his brow furrowing in irritation. "Ms. Deen, you've asked the same thing of me twice and twice I have said no. I hope when I turn you down this time, there will be no need for a fourth refusal." He rose from his chair, the signal that the meeting was over. But Eloise remained rooted to her spot, her hand reaching again into the briefcase. This time, the object she produced was not a phone.

It was a gun.

A compact black Ruger Mark IV .22 caliber pistol.

Pryor recoiled instinctively, his eyes widening in surprise. "Put that away!" Pryor exclaimed, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to remain calm.

"Don't move, Mr. Pryor. Keep your hands on your desk where I can see them." Eloise's voice was cold, her eyes unflinching as she trained the gun on him.

Pryor complied, his movements slow and deliberate. "I hope this is some kind of ill-conceived joke--" Pryor began, but Eloise cut him off.

"This is no joke, Mr. Pryor."

"Then you are robbing this bank?" Pryor's voice was incredulous, his forehead creased with confusion.

She chuckled at the idea. "On the contrary, I am here to prevent a robbery. If you won't help me, you are an accomplice to the crime."

"Based on your own evidence... based on this?" Pryor pointed at the phone, his voice rising in indignation.

Eloise remained undeterred. "I have gone through the proper channels to retrieve what was stolen from us. No one will help. You can, Mr. Pryor."

"No. I cannot." Pryor's response was firm, his gaze never wavering from hers.

Eloise shifted tactics, her eyes flickering towards a family photo on the desk. "You have a beautiful family, Mr. Pryor. Don't let this morning when you kissed them goodbye be the last time you ever see them."

Pryor's expression hardened at the veiled threat. "So you are to be my judge, jury, and executioner, is that it?"

"If that's what it will take." She cocked back the hammer on the gun. "Give me the names." Eloise's voice was firm. She squeezed her grip on the gun.

"Ms. Deen, I believe what you say..."

"Then give me the names."

"...But I cannot do what you ask. I will not."

"What if it were your bank, or worse, your family who was being stolen from, Mr. Pryor?"

"I would do anything for my family."

"Then tell me what I need to know so your wife can see her husband again. So your sons can hug their father when he comes home tonight."

She locked eyes with him to let him know she meant it, that she is capable of it.

Beads of sweat formed on Mr. Pryor's brow. One running down his cheek. The man was afraid. Eloise could see it in his face.

She pressed the barrel of the gun against his head. "Give me the names."

Looking down the wrong end of a gun barrel, Pryor shifted his gaze so that he locked eyes with Eloise, the gun barrel aimed at his face, remained a terrifying promise of what was to come if she didn't like his answer. And yet, what he said was, "You will have to shoot me."

The gun pressed hard against Pryor's forehead, Eloise's finger slowly pulling back on the trigger. The hammer of the gun was nearly cocked, ready to fire.

Pryor, certain he was about to die, closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

He waited for the shot to come.

But it never did.

Pryor slowly opened his eyes to find Eloise stowing the gun away in the briefcase. He was still sweating and his hands were shaking.

She was smiling softly, looking pleased. Eloise said, "In that case, in answer to your earlier question, Mr. Pryor..." She spun the briefcase around so it faced him.

Mr. Pryor's eyes went wide at the sight of the contents of the briefcase: Bundles of cash. Millions in stolen money.

"...I would like to open an account."