The Y2 Kaper

by Jim CaJacob

  He had gotten extra license plates from a junkyard. He kept the tags current. The car was chosen for its invisibility. His basic premise was that the law enforcement system around the capital was not set up to screen for middle-aged white people. It was possible to put people at a few obvious choke points like the airports. It was not possible to check the several hundred thousand cars that flowed out of the city every afternoon.

  He had called home from a pay phone near the parking structure. He had asked if his wife wanted him to pick up anything at the store. The name of the store he mentioned was a code word. He waited for his wife to ask him to pick up a brand of toilet cleanser that she never used. This meant that she understood that she had one hour to be prepared to leave her life forever.

  He was calm as he drove out of the city. He went over the plan. Training was essential. This was just like all of the rehearsals. Kind of like the SAC bomber crews who only learned after take-off whether the mission was a drill. Except, he thought, if you drill too much then you, in the bottom of your heart, know that it’s a drill every time. Even if it turned out that it wasn’t. Anyway, this was the real thing.

  They would drive to Pittsburgh, and check into an airport motel. They had reservations made in a different name to Atlanta. It had been simpler before the airports required photo ID, but he had meticulously made up fake driver’s licenses for himself and his wife.

  In Atlanta they would change planes and travel to Los Angeles on a different airline, again using different names. At LAX they would catch their last flight. He had researched their final destination for over two years. Latin America was attractive, mostly because of the amenability of the local police. But he decided in the end that bribing a cop, however generously, was probably the best single way to call attention to one’s self. He had decided on Vancouver. It was large enough that they could be invisible, altogether civilized, had an international airport, and his wife could watch American TV through the rest of her wealthy days.

  Malcolm had first realized the potential of his work during the OPEC oil crisis. In those days the CPI was front-page news. He soon realized that very few if any of his colleagues had any appetite for working with the statistical modules.

  He waited a full three years before concluding an arrangement with an investor. He had begun his screening during a vacation he and his wife took to the Cayman Islands. One day when his wife was on a glass-bottomed boat tour Malcolm had sat on a bench at the waterfront and chatted with a man. This man managed the investment portfolios of several people who, he said, were in the import/export business in Florida. Except all they ever exported was money, he said. Malcolm had gotten his name from a book about the drug trade. It had been surprisingly easy to arrange.

  This man represented people who took a long-term view. They were not interested in dramatic shifts. Instead, they wanted to know how things were likely to turn out in the long run. Malcolm was just their man.

  Once the arrangement was in place he spoke to the man twice a year, and never in person. This was often enough to react to the underlying economic trends that changed the index. Malcolm’s money came first to a bank in the Caymans. This bank was fully capable of moving portions of this to various investments in the states, and, as it turned out, in Canada.

  Malcolm wasn’t greedy. He didn’t pursue money for its own sake. On the other hand, on this rainy Thursday, he figured his investments were worth between eleven and twelve million dollars.

  He had no real reason to suspect that Val’s team knew anything about his prank, as he called it to himself. On the other hand, there was no real reason to wait. He had asked Simmons to take Friday off as a personal day. After listening to the obligatory five minutes of bitching and moaning, Simmons agreed. Malcolm wondered how long it would be before poor Albert got the idea.

  Before all this Y2K nonsense Malcolm had planned on taking early retirement. This was earlier than he planned, but better in any case. Life was to be enjoyed. Why not do it as a rich man sooner rather than later?

  Chapter 46

  Val had been on corporate jets a few times but it was still a thrill. When they got to the general aviation terminal the co-pilot had greeted them, taken their luggage, and showed them right on board. The plane, a Lear, was somewhat cramped in the totally cool way, Val imagined, that a Maserati four-door was somewhat cramped. Jenny and Wilton did their best to act blasé.

  The flight to Hilton Head was just over an hour. When they landed a limo pulled right under the wing. As they walked down the ladder Val asked Jenny to remind him to check how the poor people were doing. As usual she ignored him.

  Max had a place on an island about a half an hour from Hilton Head, in what he called the Low Country. You crossed a causeway with what was obviously a retired Marine lifer in a guard shack. On one side of Max’s place was a manicured fairway. On the other was a view of a tidal marsh leading to the ocean. A Boston Whaler and a J-boat were tied up to Max’s private dock. His house had a separate garage for his and her golf carts.

  Max’s wife was shopping. Not at the Beaufort Wal-Mart, to be sure, in San Francisco. Max had asked their housekeeper to make a dinner that they could serve themselves, then to leave them alone.

  Val appreciated that Max had invited Jenny and Wilton. Of course, Max hadn’t asked them down here just to tell them what a nice job they had done.

  “First, let me bring you up to speed on our friend Mr. Calder. He has been missing for almost two weeks. We suspect that he has left the country. He can expect a chilly reception when he resurfaces.”

  “We?”, Jenny said.

  “Yes. My firm, the Bureau, the FBI, the SEC and a very prominent Swiss bank. This case has required very delicate handling.” Max sipped his Barolo.

  “Your work was, to say the least, remarkable. Apparently Mr. Crane, the other bad actor, was flabbergasted that you discovered his dirty work. According to him, the fact that you were on to him did much more to convince him to cooperate than any threats. Wilton, he spoke very highly of your abilities.”

  “Thank you, sir. Val and Jenny did the real work. I just took their lead.”

  “Wilton appreciates your comments, sir”, Jenny said.

  The bank was conducting its own investigation into this matter. One of their people placed very substantial trades based on Calder’s information. The bank takes a dim view of, shall we say, unconventional practices such as this. The bank’s investigator was apparently closing in on Calder and Crane just as you flushed them. But enough said about them. Jenny, if you don’t take more shrimp I won’t be able to.”

  Jenny smiled and handed Max her plate. Val loved her smile.

  - - -

  If he had ever seen it Val would have thought Mr. Reuss’s office was a diorama. It was inconceivable that anyone could work in so neat an environment. Estelle, sitting in what she hoped was a demure fashion, had the same reaction. Mr. Reuss ignored her, alternatively scanning and initialing documents, which he took from one leather folder and placed in another. She noticed that he wasn’t using a Mont Blanc.

  Finally he closed both folders, put his pen back in its holder, and spoke to her.

  “Miss Burns why do you think you’re here?”

  She didn’t know what to say. “Mr. Schneider said it was important that we talk.”

  “And why, do you think, is it so important?”

  “So I – because I - I guess so I understand that what I did was a bad thing.”

  “Miss Burns, the morality of your behavior could not interest me less. Let me be blunt in the interest of time. My time. You have committed a felony, according to both Swiss and American law. This means you could, if I see fit, go to prison. You might think a Swiss prison wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe catch a glimpse of an Alp through the bars. Let me assure you, the opposite is true. Part of our Swiss nature is a strong Calvinist view toward right and wrong.”

 
Her mind, inappropriately, flashed on a black-and-white image of a Calvin Klein underwear commercial.

  “What is important is that you understand three things. First, I have the power to make the rest of your life very unpleasant. Believe me, the afternoon you spent with Mr. Schneider was, as you say, a tea party.

  Second, you will escape this unpleasant fate if, and only if, you obey my every instruction. To the letter. From now on.

  Third, my first instruction is that no word about this affair, no insinuation, no aside, will ever pass your lips. Do you understand that instruction?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I believe you. Now, just so we’re clear about point number two. When I said ‘every instruction’, I didn’t mean having to do with this sordid affair. I meant what I said literally. In three years, say, I might instruct you to open a locked drawer in your supervisor’s office and fax the documents you find to me.”

  Estelle felt sick to her stomach.

  “Or, I might ask you to entertain a certain business associate. Thoroughly entertain. Do you begin to understand what I mean by ‘every instruction’?”

  Her mouth was dry. For some reason she said “Ja”.

  “Good! Beginning to think Swiss. Believe me, Miss Burns, this will be what’s best for you in the long run. You could ask Mr. Renggli, except that my second instruction is that you will never speak, or write, or email, or wave, to him again. Clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You can go. I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter 47

  Albert Simmons was in a bad mood. “A”, it was Monday, and “B”, he had to pick up the pieces after the fucking Whiz-Kids had bailed. He wasn’t even sure what Calder and Crane had finished and what they hadn’t, the fucking wall-chart was no help of course.

  He’d get Malcolm on this first thing.

  Albert glanced at his watch. It was eleven past eight. He leaned over and looked out his door. Malcolm’s cube was empty. That’s funny, Albert thought, Malcolm’s never late.

  I was born in Toledo, Ohio and live in Bend, Oregon. I’m the father of three daughters. I’m an information technology professional and an avid amateur musician.

  Thank you for reading my first book.

  Facebook: jcajacob

  Blog: cajacob.pbwiki.com

  Email: jcajacob@gmail.com

  Emily Aslin (cover design): honeybonesdesign.com