The Millionaires by Brad Meltzer Page A

IRS, which means they’ll track it anywhere.”
    Nodding, Charlie pulls a thin stack of red paper from my briefcase. The Red Sheet—the partners’ master list of favorite foreign
     banks, including the ones that’re open twenty-four hours. It’s on red paper so no one can photocopy it.
    “I vote for Switzerland,” Charlie adds. “One of those bad-ass numbered accounts with an unguessable password.”
    “I hate to break it to you, shortie, but Swiss bank accounts aren’t what they used to be,” Shep says. “Contrary to what Hollywood
     wants you to think, anonymous Swiss accounts have been abolished since 1977.”
    “What about the Cayman Islands?”
    “Too Grisham,” Shep shoots back. “Besides, even those are opening up. People got so many ideas after reading
The Firm,
the U.S. had to step in. Since then, they’ve been working with law enforcement for years.”
    “So what’s the best—”
    “Don’t focus so much on one place,” Shep says. “A quick transfer from New York to the Caymans is suspicious no matter who
     it’s from, and if the bank clerk raises an eyebrow—it’s hello IRS. It’s the first principle for laundering money: You want
     to send it to the foreign banks because they’re the ones who’re least likely to cooperate with law enforcement. But if you
     transfer it there too fast, the reputable banks over here will tag it as suspicious, and quickly put the IRS on your tail.
     So whattya do? Focus on short jumps—logical jumps—that way you won’t get a double take.” Pulling a bagel from the breakfast
     spread, Shep slaps it on the table. “Here we are in the U.S.—now what’s the number one location where we bank abroad?”
    “England,” I say.
    “England it is,” Shep replies, slapping another bagel down a few inches from the first. “The epicenter of international banking—Mary
     does almost thirty transfers there a day. She won’t think twice. Now once you’re in London, what’s close by?” He slaps another
     bagel down. “France is the easiest—nothing suspicious about that, right? And once your money’s there—their regulations are
     softer, which means the world opens up a little.” Another bagel hits. “Personally, I like Latvia—nearby… slightly smarmy…
     the government hasn’t decided if it likes us yet. And for international investigations, they only help us about half the time,
     which means it’s a perfect place to waste an investigator’s day.” Rapid-fire, two more bagels hit. “From there you slam the
     Marshall Islands, and from there, you bounce it close to home in Antigua. By the time it gets there, what started out as dirty
     cash is now so untraceable, it’s clean.”
    “And that’s it?” Charlie asks, looking from Shep to me.
    “Do you even realize how long it takes to investigate in a foreign territory?” Shep points to the first bagel, then the second,
     then the third. “Bing, bing, bing, bing, bing. That’s why they call it the Rule of Five. Five well-chosen countries and you’re
     gone. In the Service, it’d take us six months to a year to investigate with no guarantees.”
    “Ohhh, baby, pass me the cream cheese,” Charlie sings.
    Even I grin. I try to bury it down, but Charlie spots it in my eyes. That alone makes him happy.
    Leaning on the desk, I skim through the Red Sheet and pick out a bank for each territory. Five banks in an hour. It’s going
     to be close.
    “Listen, I should go check in with Lapidus,” Shep says, pulling his coat from the chair. “How ’bout we meet back in my office
     at eleven-thirty?”
    I nod, Charlie says
thanks,
and Shep hightails it out of the office.
    The moment the door shuts, I once again dive for the speakerphone, rehump the table, and punch in the phone number for the
     Antigua bank.
    “I have a calling card in case it doesn’t go through,” Charlie offers.
    I shake my head. There’s a reason I picked the law firm. “Hi, I’d like to speak to Rupa Missakian,” I