The room is corpse silent.

“Well I think that went great,” Charlie announces, swinging his arm through the air aw-shucks style.

“We’ll be fine,” Shep interrupts.

I nod my head quickly. Then slower. “So you think it’ll work?” I ask anxiously.

“There we go – three full seconds,” Charlie says. “The old Oliver’s back.”

“As long as your buddy Arnie comes through…” Shep says.

“Trust me, Arnie’ll have it done in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most,” I add, watching Charlie’s reaction. He thinks I’m rationalizing. “Arnie’s this hippie leftover who lives in the Marshall Islands, makes pro-level margaritas, and sticks it to the government by plucking shelf corps off the wall all day long.”

“Shelf corps?” Charlie asks.

“Corps… corporations. Arnie registers them all across the world – gives them names, addresses, even boards of directors. You’ve seen the classified ads – they’re in every in-flight airline magazine in existence: Hate the IRS? Paying Too Much in Taxes? Private Offshore Companies! Guaranteed Privacy!”

“And you think he’s gonna be able to set up an entire company in the next half-hour?” Charlie asks.

“Trust me, he’s set these up months ago. ABC Corp. DEF Corp. GHI Corp. All the paperwork’s already done… each corporation is just a notebook on a shelf. When we call, he scribbles our fake name into the few blanks that are left and gives it a quick notary stamp. To be honest, I’m surprised it’s taking this l-”

The phone rings and Charlie leaps forward, answering it through the speakerphone. “H-Hello.”

“Congratulations,” Bendini says in full Jersey accent. “Ribbie Henson is now the proud owner and sole shareholder of Sunshine Distributors Partnership, Limited, in the Virgin Islands, which is owned by CEP Worldwide in Nauru, which is owned by Maritime Holding Services in Vanuatu, which is owned by Martin Duckworth in Antigua.”

Four layers – endzone in Antigua. When law enforcement digs, it’ll take ’em months to sort through all the paperwork.

“Sounds like you boys are in business. Just make sure you wire my cash.”

The moment the line goes dead, the fax machine hums to life. I swear, it almost gives me a heart attack.

Over the next five minutes, the fax machine vomits up the rest of the paperwork – from bylaws to articles of incorporation – everything we need to open up a brand-new corporate account. I check the clock on the wall: two hours to go. Mary asked for the paperwork by noon. Damn. All three of us know this can’t be like Tanner Drew. No stolen passwords. It’s gotta be done by the book.

“Can we make it?” Charlie asks.

“If you want, we can hand the original letter to Mary right now,” Shep offers. “My Duckworth accounts are already set up, since they belonged to the real Duckworth-”

“Not a chance,” I interrupt. “Like you said – we pick the places where the money goes.”

Shep’s tempted to argue, but quickly realizes he can’t win. If the first transfer goes to him, he’s got his duffel bag of cash, and we risk getting nothing. Even Charlie’s not willing to take that risk.

“Fine,” Shep says. “But if you’re not going to use the already existing Duckworth account, I’d go offshore as soon as possible. That’ll get it out of the United States and away from the reporting requirements. You know the law – anything that looks suspicious gets reported to the 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 read from the sheet.

Within five minutes, I’ve relayed the tax ID number and all the other vital stats for Sunshine Distributors’s first bank account. To really sell it, I throw in Duckworth’s birthday and a personally selected password. They never once give us a hard time. Thank you, Red Sheet.

As I shut off the speakerphone, Charlie points to his Wonder Woman watch with the magic lasso second-hand. Twenty minutes, start to finish. Forty minutes left and four more accounts to open. Not good enough.

“C’mon, coach, I got my skates on,” Charlie says. “Get me in the game.”

Without a word, I rip two pages from the Red Sheet and slide them across the table. One says France, the other Marshall Islands. Charlie darts to the phone on his far right; I race to the one on mine. Opposite corners. Our fingers flick across the keypads.