Offshore Islands by John Francis Kinsella
Tony, let me introduce you to my partner, Serge Amadis.”
Arrowsmith looked at a man whose age was difficult to determine at first glance, he was dressed young, a pastel Bordeaux coloured jacket, a silk shirt open at the collar displayed a thick gold chain, and pale blue slacks with white suede shoes, his hair was blond almost certainly out of a bottle, coifed in a bouffant style.
Amadis gave a Arrowsmith a sour, forced, smile.
“We’ve been partners since more than ten years now, Serge apart from all the other things looks after the finance, thank God, that means he holds the purse strings and controls budgets,” said Guy.
“Nice to meet you Serge.”
Amadis shook Arrowsmith’s hand indifferently. He reminded Arrowsmith of a Bond Street hairdresser, at ease with women but uncomfortable with men he was not familiar with.
Arrowsmith could not help recognising Amadis’ sexual preferences, and Amadis instantly recognised Arrowsmith as not being of his tendency, or to his taste. A polite indifference was immediately established between the two, an unspoken ‘leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone’.
“Serge is directly involved, like myself, in project development and financing, that’s our business,” he said, meaning their real estate development company, “and once things are up and running, Serge sees that everything goes according to schedule on the money side.”
Their business came to them aboard the Boeings and Airbuses that arrived every day from Paris, loaded with potential customers. Their role was to have the products ready and to pull in a sufficient volume of visitors to their show apartments so that the ratios worked out, based on their experience one in ten visitors could be transformed into a possible buyer.
Serge Amadis owned a magnificent white and blue villa, on a rise in Baie-Mahault, it had eight bedrooms and was situated on several hectares of carefully maintained tropical gardens, there was a huge swimming pool complete with visitors changing rooms and a splendid bar and barbecue lay to one side. The garages were hidden to the other side of the house in the shade of bougainvillaea and tall coconut palms.
That evening he had invited the international TV personality, Marc Gable, as the guest of honour, together with his close associates, to a poolside celebration, before the start of the Caribbean Film Festival that coincided with the arrival of transatlantic yacht race ‘La Route du Rhum’. There were one hundred and thirty guests, a very mixed crowd of Békés, Guadeloupeans and Metropolitans, both residents and visitors.
Arrowsmith walked around the terrace to the poolside and saw Courtauld engrossed in conversation with Gilles Michel and his wife, Tihui, a Laotian Mong, who was looking around bored.
“So where’s the famous Gable then!” he said interrupting them.
Michel shrugged and ignored him returning to his conversation with Courtauld.
“They’re too busy with business talk,” said Tihui sulkily pleased to find somebody that she could to talk to, “Gable’s in the house with Serge.”
“Oh....”
“Why is there something important?”
“Not really, I just hoped to catch him before the party really starts…before they’re all pissed,” he added with a laugh.
Courtauld turned to him, “Hey, Tony how are the arrangements for the interview tomorrow at the hotel?”
“No problem, it’s all set up, in the gardens with a super view of the hotel and the name in the background...just one small problem with Gable.”
“What’s that then?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he said glancing at Tihui.
“If I’m bothering you I’ll leave you alone,” she said angrily turning and walking off towards the bar where she had recognised a couple of new arrivals.
“What’s the problem then?”
“Gable wants me to lay on a few friends at the yacht later.”
“Friends!”
“Don’t be dumb, you know, a few whores and poofters, for one of his funny parties, as well as coke and the rest.”
“Oh!”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t he let us know earlier.”
“Search me, the important thing is we lay it all on.”
“OK leave it to me, let’s go inside and see Serge.”
The three of them entered the house through the French windows to the study, where Amadis was serving Gable a fresh drink from the bar. Gable turned towards them.
“Hello there, how’s it with our promoters!”
“Fine Marc and you?”
“Have you got some nice property lined up for me to see?”
“Everything is laid on, there’s a good choice, not only on the island but also on Marie Galante and Dominica.”
“Great!”
“We’ve set the boat up for a couple of days around the islands, so you can relax and enjoy the visit.”
Guy Courtauld spied out Arrowsmith who was alone admiring the pool. He took him by the shoulder, “Hey Tony, this is Xavier de Montfort.”
De Montfort was from the south-west of France, a tall well built blond haired man with a rich tanned complexion though a little wrinkled. He was a well-off fiscal consultant who business was tax avoidance by a number of legal incentives and loop holes, which helped his wealthy clients pay less tax.
“If you have a tax problem Xavier’s your man,” he added. “Tell Tony how it works, its interesting for his education.” He then disappeared, called by Amadis.
“It’s easy Tony,” he said with a friendly laugh fuelled by his punch, “you bring them out, all hotel and flight expenses paid, for four or five days. They come for the defiscalisation, like our friend Marc Gable,” he said nodding in the celebrity’s direction, “though he is not the typical buyer.
“How does it work then?”
“They have nothing to lose except their peace of mind, when the problems start piling up over the three or four years following their investment, after that they don’t care any more, because it’s written off.
“If they buy then their trip is gratis, if they don’t then they pay. What’ve they lost, nothing, they’ve had a few days holidays in the tropics, and there’s a good chance they’ll be back.
“Guy here sets up a day’s game fishing, with boat trip to Marie Galante and then a send off diner when they’ve signed the contract engagement. The year end is a good moment, when the cold and rain starts to set in France and when they have to start calculating their taxes.”
Xavier de Montfort’s business hinged essentially on the promotion of property investments for tax breaks in the French Antilles. He worked very closely with Caribbean Property Development and the BCN in Paris.
He also arranged for his wealthier clients’ bank transfers to tax havens in the Caribbean, disguised as payment for consultancy and marketing services, as well as the imports of goods into France at over-inflated prices, the difference being transferred to offshore accounts and shell companies.
Chapter 36
An Architect
Arrowsmith looked at a man whose age was difficult to determine at first glance, he was dressed young, a pastel Bordeaux coloured jacket, a silk shirt open at the collar displayed a thick gold chain, and pale blue slacks with white suede shoes, his hair was blond almost certainly out of a bottle, coifed in a bouffant style.
Amadis gave a Arrowsmith a sour, forced, smile.
“We’ve been partners since more than ten years now, Serge apart from all the other things looks after the finance, thank God, that means he holds the purse strings and controls budgets,” said Guy.
“Nice to meet you Serge.”
Amadis shook Arrowsmith’s hand indifferently. He reminded Arrowsmith of a Bond Street hairdresser, at ease with women but uncomfortable with men he was not familiar with.
Arrowsmith could not help recognising Amadis’ sexual preferences, and Amadis instantly recognised Arrowsmith as not being of his tendency, or to his taste. A polite indifference was immediately established between the two, an unspoken ‘leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone’.
“Serge is directly involved, like myself, in project development and financing, that’s our business,” he said, meaning their real estate development company, “and once things are up and running, Serge sees that everything goes according to schedule on the money side.”
Their business came to them aboard the Boeings and Airbuses that arrived every day from Paris, loaded with potential customers. Their role was to have the products ready and to pull in a sufficient volume of visitors to their show apartments so that the ratios worked out, based on their experience one in ten visitors could be transformed into a possible buyer.
Serge Amadis owned a magnificent white and blue villa, on a rise in Baie-Mahault, it had eight bedrooms and was situated on several hectares of carefully maintained tropical gardens, there was a huge swimming pool complete with visitors changing rooms and a splendid bar and barbecue lay to one side. The garages were hidden to the other side of the house in the shade of bougainvillaea and tall coconut palms.
That evening he had invited the international TV personality, Marc Gable, as the guest of honour, together with his close associates, to a poolside celebration, before the start of the Caribbean Film Festival that coincided with the arrival of transatlantic yacht race ‘La Route du Rhum’. There were one hundred and thirty guests, a very mixed crowd of Békés, Guadeloupeans and Metropolitans, both residents and visitors.
Arrowsmith walked around the terrace to the poolside and saw Courtauld engrossed in conversation with Gilles Michel and his wife, Tihui, a Laotian Mong, who was looking around bored.
“So where’s the famous Gable then!” he said interrupting them.
Michel shrugged and ignored him returning to his conversation with Courtauld.
“They’re too busy with business talk,” said Tihui sulkily pleased to find somebody that she could to talk to, “Gable’s in the house with Serge.”
“Oh....”
“Why is there something important?”
“Not really, I just hoped to catch him before the party really starts…before they’re all pissed,” he added with a laugh.
Courtauld turned to him, “Hey, Tony how are the arrangements for the interview tomorrow at the hotel?”
“No problem, it’s all set up, in the gardens with a super view of the hotel and the name in the background...just one small problem with Gable.”
“What’s that then?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he said glancing at Tihui.
“If I’m bothering you I’ll leave you alone,” she said angrily turning and walking off towards the bar where she had recognised a couple of new arrivals.
“What’s the problem then?”
“Gable wants me to lay on a few friends at the yacht later.”
“Friends!”
“Don’t be dumb, you know, a few whores and poofters, for one of his funny parties, as well as coke and the rest.”
“Oh!”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t he let us know earlier.”
“Search me, the important thing is we lay it all on.”
“OK leave it to me, let’s go inside and see Serge.”
The three of them entered the house through the French windows to the study, where Amadis was serving Gable a fresh drink from the bar. Gable turned towards them.
“Hello there, how’s it with our promoters!”
“Fine Marc and you?”
“Have you got some nice property lined up for me to see?”
“Everything is laid on, there’s a good choice, not only on the island but also on Marie Galante and Dominica.”
“Great!”
“We’ve set the boat up for a couple of days around the islands, so you can relax and enjoy the visit.”
Guy Courtauld spied out Arrowsmith who was alone admiring the pool. He took him by the shoulder, “Hey Tony, this is Xavier de Montfort.”
De Montfort was from the south-west of France, a tall well built blond haired man with a rich tanned complexion though a little wrinkled. He was a well-off fiscal consultant who business was tax avoidance by a number of legal incentives and loop holes, which helped his wealthy clients pay less tax.
“If you have a tax problem Xavier’s your man,” he added. “Tell Tony how it works, its interesting for his education.” He then disappeared, called by Amadis.
“It’s easy Tony,” he said with a friendly laugh fuelled by his punch, “you bring them out, all hotel and flight expenses paid, for four or five days. They come for the defiscalisation, like our friend Marc Gable,” he said nodding in the celebrity’s direction, “though he is not the typical buyer.
“How does it work then?”
“They have nothing to lose except their peace of mind, when the problems start piling up over the three or four years following their investment, after that they don’t care any more, because it’s written off.
“If they buy then their trip is gratis, if they don’t then they pay. What’ve they lost, nothing, they’ve had a few days holidays in the tropics, and there’s a good chance they’ll be back.
“Guy here sets up a day’s game fishing, with boat trip to Marie Galante and then a send off diner when they’ve signed the contract engagement. The year end is a good moment, when the cold and rain starts to set in France and when they have to start calculating their taxes.”
Xavier de Montfort’s business hinged essentially on the promotion of property investments for tax breaks in the French Antilles. He worked very closely with Caribbean Property Development and the BCN in Paris.
He also arranged for his wealthier clients’ bank transfers to tax havens in the Caribbean, disguised as payment for consultancy and marketing services, as well as the imports of goods into France at over-inflated prices, the difference being transferred to offshore accounts and shell companies.
Chapter 36
An Architect