This afternoon, I had a consultation scheduled with Dr. Jose Baboso Verga Pendejo y Grandmaricón PhD, Principal Economic Attaché for International Banking and Finance at the Embassy of Panama here in Washington DC. We were supposed to discuss the effects of depressed petroleum prices on the exchange rates of reserve currencies with particular emphasis on the Chinese Yuan in light of its recent designation as such by the IMF. But the long face he pulled when he plunked down wearily on the couch in my office told me otherwise. This gentleman had something else on his mind, and it wasn’t at all pleasant.
“Tom,” he wailed, staring up at the ceiling in despair, “thank your lucky stars you aren’t a Panamanian.”
“How come?” I wondered.
“The United States,” he answered, “does everything – you build jet airliners, you build space ships, you invent the light bulb, the movies, the atomic bomb, the Internet, the iPhone; you feed the world! What the hell does Panama do? We grow bananas, we refine other countries’ oil, we make blank audio media disks, we sell flags to rust-bucket shipping lines, we build rust-bucket ships for foreigners to put our flags on, and, of course, we charge tolls to use a canal that the United States built. And we furnish rich crooks with a place to hide their ill-gotten money. Now, I ask you, Tom Collins, what kind of pathetic excuse for a country is Panama supposed to be?”
“Look at it this way,” I proposed, “at least you’re not Colombia.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, “there is that. But now, some computer hacker has shown the entire world just how lame Panama is. By this time next year, we may end up wishing we were as respectable as Colombia.”
“You’re referring,” I presumed, “to the Panama Papers?”
“What else?” he grumbled with a shrug.
“Pretty sticky business,” I averred. “Eleven million documents, two point six terabytes of information – enough to fill twenty-six hundred pickup trucks; information on shady off-shore shell companies set up by your internationally notorious law firm of Mossak Fonseca, delivered to a South German newspaper by the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists. So far, the subsequent revelations of underhanded tax-dodging and illegal slush funds have resulted in the resignation of the Prime Minister of Iceland, not to mention seriously embarrassing the the President of Ukraine, the Prime Minister of England, the Duchess of York, the Prime Minister of Malta, the King of Saudi Arabia, the President of Argentina, the Prime Minister of Pakistan, the eight top members of the Chinese Politburo Standing Committee – including General Secretary Xi Jinping – and everybody’s favorite Russian gangster politician, Vladimir Putin.”
“He blames the leak on the United States,” Jose morosely chuckled.
“Putin blames all of his problems on the United States,” I smiled back. “At least he admits the information is accurate.”
“And this has only been the first twelve days,” Jose ruefully noted. “How long have the Wikileaks and Snowden break-ins persisted? It could be years before this [expletive]-storm blows over!”
“Well,” I observed, “it hasn’t just been politicians who have been caught using Panamanian shell companies to engage in secretive and possibly illegal shenanigans. There’s FIFA, for instance.”
“Right,” he suddenly fumed, as I recalled what a rabid soccer fan he is, “just what FIFA needs – another corruption scandal!”
“No shortage of sports figures involved,” I vouched. “There’s two big-time English soccer players,
Andy Cole and Willian Borges da Silva; a golfer – with a knighthood, no less – named Nick Faldo, Lionel Messi and Leonardo Ulloa the Argentine footballers, Diego Forlán, from Uruguay, Nico Rosberg, the Formula 1 race driver, and Tomáš Berdych the tennis player. And those are just the currently active athletes identified so far. The list of retired jocks is as long as your arm. Then there are the artists, entertainers and show business types – Pedro Almodóvar, the Spanish film director, David Geffen, Stanley Kubrick, Jackie Chan, Nicky Wu, Mario Vargas Llosa, a writer who won the Nobel Prize for Literature. I guess the Nobel Committee doesn’t do such hot background checks. And then there’s…
“All in the first twelve days!” Jose interrupted. “Eleven million documents! Two hundred thousand clients! This is never going to end! Why couldn’t those bastards have broken into a law firm in Switzerland? Why Panama? Why not the Isle of Man, the British Virgin Islands, the Caymans, the Bahamas, the Cook Islands? All those [expletive] islands to choose from, and they decide to pick on an isthmus! Jesus Christ, twelve [expletive] days, and Panama’s reputation as a haven for filthy stinking rich people’s money is totally [expletive] ruined! What will the world think of Panama after a year of this [expletive] bull [expletive]?”
“Fortunately,” I consoled, “the world never had that high an opinion of Panama to begin with. So you don’t have too far to fall.”
“Maybe,” he wailed. “I know what the other diplomats think of Panamanians. I’ve seen them, those snooty Europeans and Australians and New Zealanders and Canadians and Japanese, all snickering at me behind my back; even the Chileans and the Argentinians and the Brazilians at the OAS, yes, I know. But now, after this, it’s absurd, Tom – now, not even the other diplomats at the Panamanian Embassy will talk to me.”
“They won’t?” I echoed, taken aback by his statement. “How come?”
“Tom,” Jose inquired, “how big a home did you grow up in?”
“It was a penthouse in Little Italy,” I replied, “about seven thousand square feet.”
“No, no,” he shot back, “I mean, how many children in your family?”
“Me, my big sister Rose Lotus and my kid brother Rob Roy,” I told him.
“Those are odd names,” he remarked.
“Oh, yeah,” I explained. “They are. The family name is Martini. My father was a bartender, you see. I’m Tom Collins Martini, my sister is Rose Lotus Martini and my brother is Rob Roy Martini.”
“I see,” he murmured. “Three children. You know how many children in my family? Ten. I have nine sisters. I am the youngest. My parents refused to stop until they had a son.”
“They should be congratulated for their admirable sense of perseverance,” I said.
“You know what having nine sisters means, Tom?” he demanded rhetorically. “I’ll tell you what it means – it means that eventually, you end up with nine brothers-in-law!”
“That must be really good for your character,” I surmised.
“It’s really good for the liquor store, my psychiatrist and the pharmacy,” he muttered. “That’s what it’s good for. And all three of them are going to be doing even better business with me now.”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” I admitted. “What are you talking about?”
“The husband of Sister Number Eight is the head of cyber-security at Mossak Fonseca,” he sobbed. “How’s that for some rotten [expletive] luck, eh?”
“Pretty [expletive] rotten,” I agreed. “Mossak Fonseca’s computer security has become a viral subject on the Web, you know. People simply can’t believe that a law firm specializing in hiding trillions of dollars in questionable client assets could be so incredibly dumb. Experts all over the world have been examining the state of Mossak Fonseca IT security and it looks like they’re about to award it some kind of booby prize for cyber-idiocy. It seems that Mossak Fonseca was using a version of Drupal that hadn’t been updated since 2013 and had security with more holes than a lace Emmental. A fourteen year old kid could break in and execute commands on the servers. I’ve heard it was possible to hack the back-end system simply by guessing the right URL, which couldn’t have been all that difficult, what with all their public-facing systems displaying their naming scheme, right there in the browser. What’s more, the scuttlebutt is they were using a version of Microsoft Outlook that hadn’t been updated since 2009. And to push things from the absurd to the completely surreal, I have it on good authority that Mossak Fonseca never bothered to encrypt its emails.”
Jose leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “Oh, my God! I heard it was bad, Tom, but… Madre de Dios! Me… my family… Panama… all totally dishonored. Well, I guess I can stop wondering why nobody will speak to me anymore.”
“At least that mystery is solved,” I commented. “But another one is plaguing me now – where did your brother-in-law obtain his training and credentials in cyber-security?”
“Oh,” Jose growled, “that. Yes. Well, it seems he is also the brother-in-law of a partner at Mossak Fonseca.”
“So he doesn’t have any formal cyber-security training?” I sought to confirm.
“Not as such,” Jose confessed. “But he did read Computer System Security for Dummies from cover to cover. Twice. Or so he says.”
“Pretty bad news, that,” I opined.
“Oh no, that’s not even the worst part, Tom,” he complained, “not by a long shot! Mossak Fonseca didn’t just set up shell companies for politicians, sports stars, Hollywood directors, famous writers and rich industrialists, you know. They also set them up for cocaine barons and heroin kingpins!”
“And the Justice Department is clamoring for a look at the Panama Papers for just that reason,” I concurred.
“Right,” he shuddered, leading back, looking up at the ceiling and expelling a lung-full of air. “And the day before yesterday, the Panamanian police searched the Mossak Fonseca offices. They stripped my brother-in-law’s office bare, Tom – Sister Number Eight tells me there’s nothing in there now but a desk and two chairs. They even took the phone and the filing cabinet! Since then, Sister Number Eight has been on the phone from Panama pleading with me for help four or five times a day. How long, she says, how long will it be until the DEA starts arresting Mossak Fonseca’s drug lord clients? She and her husband are scared out of their wits, Tom. And that’s what I need to talk to you about – word around Washington is you’re the one to ask when it comes to that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” I queried in my most innocent tone.
“Oh, come on,” Jose barked, sitting upright and pointing his finger at me, “you know what I’m talking about! Sister Number Eight and her family all need new identities and a place to hide! And they need them before a bunch of goons show up at three in the morning with AK-47s and machetes, looking to turn my stupid, incompetent, half-wit brother-in-law and his completely innocent wife and eleven children into thirteen piles of carnitas!”
“Eleven children?” I gasped. “You mean, you need to manufacture thirteen fake identities, move all of them out of Panama to an unknown location, and set up thirteen people with new lives there?”
A long, pregnant pause ensued. At last, Jose spoke. “Um… yeah, I guess so.”
“To do that right,” I advised, “would cost between six and nine hundred thousand dollars, depending on what the situation in Panama is at the moment, and where they would all be relocated.”
“Holy [expletive]!” Jose exclaimed. “My brother-in-law could sell everything he has – his house, his car, his boat, his stocks, his bonds, all the family jewelry – including his Rolex – and he’d still be hundreds of thousands short! Sister Number Eight will be begging me to loan them the difference! And what can I do, Tom? How could I possibly say no? Their lives are on the line!”
“You think he will pay you back?” I probed.
“Him?” Jose grimaced. “No way. Never do business with, or loan money to your relatives, Tom. And this guy? Forget it. If he ever did manage to get that far ahead after establishing a fake identity, I’m positive he’d just spend it on himself, because underneath that new person on the surface, he’d still be the same selfish fool he’s always been.”
“I guess he must be very handsome,” I speculated, “for Sister Number Eight to put up with someone like that.”
“The truth is,” Jose morosely informed me, “he’s not particularly handsome. Sister Number Eight is… what’s the term you Americans use? Double-bag ugly?”
“That’s correct,” I confirmed. “A woman so ugly, you have to put a bag over your head before you can fornicate with her. And you have to put another one on her just in case yours falls off while you’re doing it.”
“Actually, is there such a thing as triple-bag ugly?” Jose pondered. “Because if there is, Sister Number Eight should probably get that.”
“Yes,” I affirmed, “There is, indeed. Triple-bag ugly is when you put a third bag over your dog’s head so he won’t puke on the rug from watching you.”
“The only thing uglier,” Jose assured me, “is going to be what it will look like when the drug cartels get through with the two of them.”
“Well,” I mused, “I don’t suppose we could have that.”
“But if what you say is true,” he lamented, “getting my brother-in-law and his family out of this will bankrupt him, and come pretty close to cleaning me out, too! And after he escapes Panama? It’s not like he actually knows how to do anything – Sister Number Eight will be begging me for money until the day I die!”
“Any chance your brother-in-law knows any… interesting facts about Mossak Fonseca’s… um… less reputable clients?” I asked.
“I… uh… yes,” he nodded, “at least he’s bragged about having a black leather notebook full of what he calls ’embarrassing facts.’ But I’m not sure it’s real – he told me about it when he was drunk.”
“And,” I observed, “even if it is real, let’s hope he didn’t keep it in his office.”
“No, no,” Jose shook his head emphatically. “Even he isn’t that stupid. If that notebook exists, he wasn’t hiding it at work.”
“Okay,” I advised, “in that case, go back to Panama, get it from him, and bring it here to Washington in a diplomatic pouch. Make a photocopy of it and bring that to me. I’ll see to it that the right people at DOJ have a look at it, and if they like what they see, the US government will foot the bill to put your brother-in-law and his family in the federal Witness Protection Program.”
“You’d do that for me?” Jose exulted, leaping to his feet in excitement.
“Sure,” I vouched. “I’d be glad to.”
“Oh, my God,” he exclaimed, “what a relief!”
“You don’t think your brother-in-law would have any problem pretending to be… oh, I don’t know… let’s say… pretending to be a Puerto Rican janitor in Omaha, Nebraska for the rest of his life, do you?”
“He better not!” Jose declared. “He spent over a decade pretending to be a computer security expert in Panama, didn’t he?”
“So he did,” I acknowledged. “So he did.”