by David Lender
At one point he told himself to keep her from getting too enthusiastic in case the deal with Holden to get them back to the States broke down. But it was too much fun watching and listening to her to be a killjoy.
The screen clicked on and Rudiger reached out to start adjusting the keypad to switch Internet locations. From out of range of the camera he could see Holden’s face, beaming.
“We’re ready to go,” Holden said, smiling and all buddy-buddy. “The AG of Geneva has the Geneva head of police fully briefed. The Geneva police will have plainclothes cops crawling all over Ducasse’s street for whenever you set up the meeting at his office. Our techs have Ducasse’s and his father’s phones infiltrated so we can use them as listening devices to record all conversations.” He paused, gave her another big smile. “That’s it. So what’s your game plan?”
Katie said, “Where’s our immunity letter?”
“Done, signed by AG Martin and ready to send along with the final complaint, signed by me as soon as we’re on board together.”
Katie said, “We’re ready to go at our end.”
“That’s great, but I don’t see any ‘we.’ ”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been talking to and seeing only you, Katie. Let me see Conklin, just to confirm this whole thing is real.”
Rudiger felt an ominous tremor. If he stepped in front of the camera and this didn’t work out, Holden would have much more than the old grainy photographs of him that Katie said his office had. Katie hesitated. Rudiger decided it was all or nothing; he switched to a different Internet address, then slid over next to her on the sofa.
“Hello there, old friend,” Rudiger said into the camera on the laptop.
Holden said, “Long time never see,” still doing his Mr. Friendly Old Pal routine.
Rudiger said, “Satisfied?”
“Yeah.” They talked for another minute or two, Rudiger switching Internet addresses every so often. Katie and Rudiger walked Holden through their short game plan for the call to Ducasse and their rough script for the meeting with him in his office.
Holden said, “Okay. I’m sending out the immunity letter and the final complaint right now.” A moment later Rudiger heard the ping of an email arriving in Katie’s inbox. Holden said, “Good luck. Let us know when you schedule the meeting.” He signed off and the screen went blank.
Rudiger stood up. He watched with anticipation as Katie pulled up Holden’s email and read through the immunity letter. She started smiling near the end of it.
Rudiger said, “Everything okay?”
Katie leaned back in the sofa. “I asked for the moon, and I got it. Full immunity for you regarding anything related to your old hedge fund, a blanket immunity for anything related to any securities violations, flight from prosecution, passport fraud, a full IRS immunity for any funds you decide to bring back to the U.S. with you, the works. The same for me.”
Rudiger got an uncomfortable sensation. “Anything suspicious about it?”
Katie laughed. “No. Like I said, I got everything I asked for, maybe even a little more.”
If it seems too good to be true . . . Rudiger decided he wasn’t going to say anything to Katie, didn’t want to give her any nagging doubts because she’d need to be on her game over the next day or two. That was when he decided he needed to get more serious about a backup plan.
Katie said, “Do you want to call Ducasse or should I?”
Rudiger smiled. “I’d love to do it. You want to flip a coin?”
Katie walked to him and kissed him. “No, you go ahead. A little gift to you.”
Rudiger sat on the sofa and picked up one of the prepaid cell phones. Since Holden’s techs had already infiltrated Ducasse’s cell phone, he dialed Ducasse’s office number. He didn’t want Holden hearing the conversation.
Rudiger identified himself as Walter Conklin and asked to speak to Ducasse. He picked right up.
“Philippe, this is Walter Conklin, the man you were introduced to as John Rudiger.”
Ducasse paused, said, “Angela’s ex-husband. So the two of you are back together?” He sounded more confused than hostile.
“No. In fact the woman you know as Angela Conklin, my ex-wife, is really Katie Dolan, a lawyer with the U.S. Attorney’s Office based in New York. I’m working with her in helping to arrest securities frauds in exchange for a light sentence for the securities law violations regarding my old hedge fund. I’m sure you’re aware of them. Katie and I are both undercover in a U.S. government sting operation. The $30 million Katie invested in your Fund V was the property of the U.S. government, bait you took. In a few moments I’m gonna be emailing you a complaint that Charles Holden, U.S. Attorney in New York, is ready to file against your firm, you and your father, for violation of U.S. securities laws. In short, it says that you’re running a Ponzi scheme in your private equity funds.” Rudiger paused, waiting for a reaction from Ducasse. He heard him clear his throat.
“What do you want?” Ducasse said, his voice now icy.
“After you’ve digested the complaint and reviewed it with your lawyer, Katie and I will come over and meet with you as soon as possible to discuss how we might make this go easy on you in exchange for your cooperation. You’ll see the charges are pretty comprehensive and the evidence against you very damning.”
Ducasse said, “I see,” sounding wary.
“We can meet either with or without your lawyer. We don’t care. But the discussion may go in a direction you may not want your lawyer to hear.”
“What?” Ducasse said, now sounding surprised.
“Like I said, we’ll leave it up to you, but things may take a surprising direction toward a creative solution to your situation that might make your lawyer squeamish.” He paused. “And you and I both know you’re not a squeamish guy when it comes to stepping over the line of legality, especially when it comes to making money.”
Rudiger heard Ducasse’s nervous chuckle and knew he’d raised his curiosity.
Rudiger said, “I suggest you arrange to have $35 million in liquid funds available for immediate wire transfer. How does a meeting tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. at your office sound?”
“I’ll see you then.”
After Rudiger hung up, Katie said, “What was all that about, the stuff about making his lawyer squeamish and the $35 million?”
“You always need a backup plan.”
“What’s going on?”
“I want him to think he can buy his way out of it.”
“Get him on tape offering to bribe us?”
“Something like that.”
Ducasse hung up from the call with Rudiger, sitting for at least a minute at his desk before his breathing returned to normal. At the beginning of the call he’d felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of him, scrambled his mind into a jumble. As the call progressed, he was able to take in air, start putting his thoughts together again.
At the moment he didn’t know whether to accept what Rudiger had said at face value. Maybe the whole thing about the U.S. Attorney’s Office wasn’t true, and he and Angela had concocted some new scam. After all, Rudiger had been explicit about him having $35 million ready for wire transfer.
His internal radar had gone to full alert when Melinda Chase, resting with her head on her elbow in her bed after they had sex, had told him that Angela Conklin had called her for a meeting about a week earlier. They were to have met in the lobby of the Hotel d’Angleterre, and then Angela mysteriously canceled at the last minute.
Whatever Rudiger and Angela—Katie or whatever her real name was—were up to, he knew of one sure way to put a stop to it.
He took an envelope from his desk drawer, stood up and walked to the full-length mirror in his office, then buttoned his double-breasted jacket and smoothed the wrinkles out of it. He raised his chin, straightened his
tie, adjusted his pocket square and the rose in his lapel, and then walked out of the office.
He walked to Place du Bourg-de-Four to a pay phone. He dialed.
“Yeah,” Strasser said after the second ring.
“It’s Ducasse. I need to see you. Are you available now?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet me at our café.”
When Strasser sat down at Ducasse’s table, Ducasse said, “I’ve another job for you.”
“Excellent,” Strasser said, sounding enthusiastic.
“It’s a man and a woman, the man of paramount importance. Photos and cash are in this envelope.” He handed it to Strasser. “The photos aren’t perfect. They’re from our security cameras at our office, but I believe they’ll suffice.”
“How do I find them?”
“They’re staying at the Hotel d’Angleterre, I’m not sure under what names.”
“I’ll get started right away.”
“Yes, do. Getting the job done by early tomorrow afternoon is essential.”
Strasser paused before saying, “That’ll cost you a 50% premium.”
“Very well,” Ducasse said. “I’ll have the additional funds at your hotel in an hour.” He stood up, wishing he could be there to watch.
It was 8:00 p.m. that night when Rudiger said to Katie, “We’re out of gin.”
“Nothing in the minibar?” Katie said from the bedroom.
“No. I’m going out for some. There’s a liquor store two blocks down.”
“You sure you want to? We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you in 15 minutes,” Rudiger said and left the suite. He walked out of the Hotel d’Angleterre lobby and turned up Quai du Mont-Blanc. As he did so he detected a man following him out of the corner of his eye. It must’ve been one of Krause’s PIs keeping tabs on him.
Good.
He walked two blocks and didn’t find the liquor store, now wondering if he had passed it without noticing. He stopped in the middle of the block, thinking. Maybe it was on the next avenue, Rue Philippe-Plantamour, that ran parallel to Quai du Mont-Blanc. He saw an alley across the street that connected with Rue Philippe-Plantamour. He crossed the street toward it.
As he entered the alley he glanced back to see the man was still following him, now stepping off the curb to cross Quai du Mont-Blanc in his direction. He kept walking but got a twist of unease. He pulled out his iPhone and called Krause.
Two rings, then a third.
“Krause here.”
“It’s Rudiger. I’m out on the street. You got a man on me?”
“Where are you?”
“In an alley across Quai du Mont-Blanc, heading toward Rue Philippe-Plantamour.”
“Run.”
Rudiger started sprinting. About halfway down the alley he saw the opening to a side alley that ran 90 degrees to the right. In the instant he reached the side alley, he heard the sound of a bullet ricochet and saw a chunk of the brick wall disintegrate above his head.
He got a blast of adrenaline and ran down the side alley, glancing over his shoulder and seeing the man crouched in firing position, a gun in his hand.
He sprinted down the alley, seeing near the end that it intersected with another alley that ran perpendicular to it. He got to the intersection and turned right, heading back toward Quai du Mont-Blanc. He felt a flash of panic after the turn and pulled up to a stop.
A dead end.
He turned around and looked behind him. Another dead end in the opposite direction. It was either take the alley back toward the shooter or stay here and make a stand.
Decide.
Even in this light, the shooter must’ve seen which way he’d turned. Whatever happened, at least Rudiger had the element of surprise. He trotted back to the intersection of the alleys, hearing the footsteps of the man approaching at a full run. Rudiger planted his feet, got into a half crouch, balled his hands into fists and raised both forearms.
He waited, channeling his former self as a 270-pound defensive end, poised for mayhem. The hole in the line open, the halfback running for it, Rudiger stepping in front of him, crouched and ready to flatten him.
Rudiger’s pulse pounded in his temples.
The shooter’s footsteps were only a few yards away.
Rudiger tensed, still waiting.
The shooter hurtled around the corner and Rudiger burst out of his crouch, threw his left arm out to block the shooter’s gun hand and slammed his right forearm upward, clotheslining the man in the neck.
He heard the crack of cartilage as his forearm slammed into the man’s windpipe. The shooter went over backward with the force of Rudiger’s blow, Rudiger on top of him, both hands around the wrist of the shooter’s gun hand.
He heard the man coughing and gagging as Rudiger got to his feet and dragged the man by his gun hand to the wall, braced the man’s arm against it and then stomped on his wrist. He heard the snap of the man’s arm breaking, the gun clanking to the concrete below and the man’s scream of pain.
Rudiger let go of the man’s arm and fished for the gun. In the moments it took to do that, the man was out from underneath him and dancing on the balls of his feet in a karate stance, his right arm dangling at his side helplessly.
Rudiger sprang for him, but the man danced aside, spun and threw a leg kick to Rudiger’s ribs that had him seeing stars and sent him to the ground. He rolled to the side as the man threw another kick.
Rudiger stuck his left arm up to block the blow. He took it on the forearm, grunted in pain but didn’t think he’d broken the bone. He glanced again on the ground to his left, couldn’t see the gun, so he stood in a crouch and moved toward the man, both arms out, ready to grab him or ward off another blow.
The man’s next kick went wide, and Rudiger did his lineman’s spin move, then lunged forward to slam his shoulder into the man’s hip, grabbing the hand of the man’s broken arm at the same time. He yanked on it.
The man let out a howl of pain, then an animal roar as he threw a karate punch at Rudiger with his good hand. Rudiger took the blow off his shoulder, then turned and kicked the man’s legs out from beneath him, putting him on his back in the alley.
At that moment Rudiger saw a gleam of light off the metal of the gun. He dove for it, picking it up as the man righted himself and came toward him. Rudiger turned and fired a round into his chest. The man fell backward into a sitting position, his mouth hanging open. Then he let out another roar and came straight at Rudiger again.
Rudiger put another round in his chest that sent him over backward onto the ground.
Rudiger stood up and walked over to look down at him.
The man’s eyes were glazed but open, staring up at nothing. Then they focused on Rudiger and his mouth went into a sneer.
Rudiger raised the gun and put another round in the man’s forehead.
Then he pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his prints off the gun, dropped it and ran out of the alley.
The next morning Ducasse was seated at the far end of the conference table on the first floor of his offices, his lawyer, Rupert Stillman, to his right. He didn’t want to wait at the head of the table with his back to the door. He wanted to see these men, Shepherds and Johnston, minions of the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Charles Holden, as they entered the room. It was out of the question to violate the sanctity of his office by inviting them there.
The past 24 hours had been astonishing. The call he’d received from Conklin, or Rudiger, the previous day had been disconcerting. Then, after he’d set Strasser on Rudiger, the voicemail he’d played back this morning from Rudiger was stunning. He had said, “Your boy failed. The cops will find him in an alley with a headache. See you at 3:00 tomorrow.”
Then Holden’s call on his cell phone this morning at 6:00 a.m. to set up this m
eeting.
And the complaint from the U.S. Attorney’s Office that Rudiger had sent over immediately after his call the day before was downright petrifying. Stillman had assured him the appropriate course of action was to meet with Holden’s men this morning, hear what message of Holden’s they had to deliver, and then decide if it was worth getting concerned.
Concerned.
The complaint summarized his operation down to the detailed profile of his investors, including Bemelman’s testimony on how Bemelman screened and channeled most of them to him. It contained a complete list of the transactions he’d fabricated over the years that had produced their extraordinary, and fictitious, investment returns.
Concerned, indeed. That complaint chilled him to the center of his bones. He was ready to grab his passport and run to his villa in Italy, stay buried there under an alias for the rest of his life.
The two men arrived, clothed in wrinkled suits, one drab gray, the other a mundane navy blue. White shirts with button cuffs, one in a rep tie, the other in a muted foulard. The one who introduced himself as Johnston had a puckered collar, probably a poly-cotton blend. Pedestrian toadies. Yet despite their unremarkable appearance, both carried themselves with an air of self-importance.
They seated themselves to Ducasse’s left, across from Stillman, the one called Shepherds closest to Ducasse. He was glad that neither of them smiled, because he wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to do so in response.
His agreement with Stillman was that Stillman would do most of the talking.
Shepherds said, “I presume you’ve read the complaint?”
Stillman said, “Yes.”
Shepherds said, “In summary, it details 11 felony counts, violations of the U.S. securities laws. We have nexus due to the fact that 35 of your investors in Funds I through IV are U.S. citizens. The complaint hasn’t been sent to a grand jury yet, so technically it’s an ‘information.’ Sometimes we forego the process of going to the grand jury if we reach a plea bargain before the formal complaint is filed and charges are pressed.”
