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The journey is the goal did not apply. Rather, at the goal there was the reward and the motto of every Lloyd’s broker who set out on a trip was marked by the expectation of a certain regularity: that at the appropriate hour he will find the right words and meet the right business partners who will open up to him the unique big business opportunity. We all travelled with that confidence, a confidence often confirmed by results.
After breakfast, we had flown over Ireland and quickly had left the green island behind, John, without hesitation ordered the first gin and tonics. They were refreshing, and after the second glass I looked down - lost in thought - onto the Atlantic, on which the shadows of the cumulus clouds were mirrored; I saw scarcely perceptible crowns of froth on the surface of the sea and a container ship like a nutshell in the play of the elements, probably battling its way through a storm. I thought of Fastnet, how much at that time I would have wished that I were sitting in an airplane, even if it had been a DC10. How much distance minimizes danger, was my thought.
A few hours later the plane was starting the descent to its destination, the JFK Airport in New York. Before the landing we filled out the immigration cards, left the machine, passed without much delay through Immigration and took a yellow cab to Park Lane Hotel near Central Park.
What John did not know was that I had sewn into the lining of my blazer US $ 20,000 in cash. This money was intended for a wealthy Polish immigrant friend I knew from my time in Hamburg, who now lived in Queens, New York. I had power of attorney over a Guernsey bank account, where he parked the black money that he had made in his shipping deals. So on this, as on many succeeding trips I would carry cash in blatant defiance of customs regulations, in a way as courageous as it was naïve. But it was the time when Europeans were considered as trustworthy in the United States of America, as they were considered their allies. So I brought the money to Queens, where Kasimir, that was the name of my friend from Hamburg, had a decent house and an attached garage, with a secret door behind which a well-stocked bar was hidden - a secret he kept from his wife, the daughter of a Peruvian general, because he had sworn to her that he did not touch any alcohol but was hooked on milk. I was sure he had kept the left hand with outstretched fingers on the back, when he swore that oath, as Kasimir was a devout Catholic.
It was bitterly cold in New York; even John had brought with him a dark blue, if short, winter overcoat in the style of a “pale tot”, quite in contrast to his habits. Moira had booked executive rooms on the 20th floor, which were big and roomy and had every possible comfort to offer.
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