The Tainted Trust

by Stephen Douglass

  Iraq said it would withdraw its troops, “As soon as things settle, and when Kuwait’s free provisional government asks us to do so. We hope this will be in a few days, or a week at the latest.”

  Miles Dennis frowned as he watched the latest bad news on the moving electronic tape. “U.S. intelligence have monitored a buildup of one hundred thousand Iraqi troops south of Kuwait City, near the Saudi border.”

  Fears of an invasion of Saudi Arabia drove the price of crude oil much higher.

  August 4, 1990.

  More bad news glided across Iacardi’s electronic tape. “Iraqi forces have entered the Neutral Zone on the Kuwaiti-Saudi border, a disputed territory from which both countries draw oil.”

  In spite of Baghdad’s denial of the report, fear and tension drove the price of oil still higher.

  August 6, 1990.

  Turkish president, Turgut Ozal said his country would obey United Nations sanctions and stop unloading Iraq’s oil at its pipeline terminus. Until then, Iraq had exported eighty to ninety percent of its oil through two long overland pipelines: one through Turkey to the Mediterranean port of Yamurtauk, the other across the Saudi Arabian desert to the Red Sea port of Yanbu.

  The removal of much of Iraqi oil from world markets put further upward pressure on oil prices.

  August 8, 1990.

  In a stunning announcement, Iraq declared that it had annexed Kuwait as its nineteenth province, calling it Kadhimat and making it clear to the world it had no intention of leaving. With the annexation Saddam declared, “Thank God we are all now one people, one state that will be the pride of all Arabs.”

  Saddam’s intention was to create a regional superpower with enormous economic strength. Together, Iraq and Kuwait had proven reserves of one hundred and ninety-five billion barrels of oil, twenty percent of the world’s reserves and second only to Saudi Arabia’s two hundred and fifty-five billion barrels.

  The spot price shot above twenty-eight dollars per barrel and financial markets were hurled into turmoil.

  Kerri watched nervously as the price of oil shot skyward. Her tolerance collapsed when she watched it knife through twenty-eight. Sickened by the sights provided by the moving electronic tape, she jumped to her feet and stormed into Dennis’s office. “It’s above twenty-eight!” she announced. “We’ve got to get Louis out!”

  “I’ve given up,” Dennis said with a cold stare and a shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve called every day this week and tried to convince him to get out. I can’t believe it. He’s absolutely obsessed with this thing.”

  “Then I’m going to talk to him,” Kerri declared. “Somebody’s got to stop him.”

  “That’s a noble gesture, but not a good idea.”

  “Why? I’m sure if I…”

  “Every business decision should be made objectively. If Louis’s decision is based on your advice, and it turns out to be improvident, he might never forgive you. In other words, the strength of your relationship could work against you. I think it’s more important than money, don’t you?”

  Kerri nodded, reluctantly accepting Dennis’s advice.

  “I’ll call him again,” Dennis said, then lifted his receiver and dialed Visconti’s number. He used his left hand to beckon Kerri to stay while he waited for his call to be transferred to Visconti.

  “I bet you’re calling to convince me to liquidate,” Visconti said.

  “You’re farting against a hurricane, Louis. I’m sure you know it’s above twenty-eight and climbing.”

  “Give it another day or two, Miles,” Visconti replied, so calmly that Dennis was unable to detect the churning in the pit of his stomach.

  Dennis slammed the receiver into its cradle, then lifted his hands above his shoulders and stared at the ceiling. “He’s insane, absolutely certifiable!”

  “Maybe, but I still love him,” Kerri said, then hurried from Dennis’s office.

  August 9, 1990.

  George Bush issued a statement confirming that the U.S. would draw against the six hundred million barrels of oil in its Strategic Petroleum Reserve as a means of easing upward pressure on oil prices. Simultaneously, the International Energy Agency, comprised of twenty-one industrialized nations, urged heightened preparations to meet the need for alternative oil supplies. The two moves, combined with reports that some O.P.E.C. nations planned to boost production, pushed the spot price down to slightly below twenty-six dollars.

  Late in the afternoon, Visconti called Dennis and ordered the liquidation of his August contracts. “I’m keeping the September contracts to the death, Miles!” he vowed, well aware that the loss sustained by the King’s trust was horrendous.

  CHAPTER 77

  The deepening crisis in Kuwait raised agonizing doubts in Visconti’s mind. The loss of almost eighty-four million from the King’s trust had dealt his pride the most severe blow it had received since the crash of 1987. His nightmare had barely begun.

  August 22, 1990.

  Iraq possessed the fourth largest army in the world. With one million men and fifty-five hundred tanks, the country represented a serious threat to world stability. The massive buildup of troops and armaments on the Saudi Arabian border suggested strongly that Iraq might continue its aggression. It could conceivably capture forty percent of the worlds oil production, or at least knock out a significant portion of Saudi production. The result in either event would force the price of oil much higher and plunge the world into a deep recession. The spot price of oil shot to a seven year high above thirty-one dollars. Gasoline prices headed for the stratosphere.

  Now on his own, Phillip was a man of the world. His lifestyle had changed. So had his expenses. Like Saddam Hussein, his need for money had grown to an acute stage. He was tired of waiting until his twenty-first birthday to claim what he considered his birthright.

  He marched into Mike’s office at eleven A.M. “Morning, chief,” he sang, flashing a diabolical smile. He slammed the door behind him, flopped his body onto the couch beside Mike’s desk, then placed his hands behind his head and rested his boots on the arm of the couch. “You and I need to talk,” he said.

  “So talk,” Mike said, straining to retain his composure.

  “I don’t think I should have to wait until my twenty-first birthday to get the money my father left me… I want it now.”

  “Why?” Mike asked, deeply disturbed.

  “Like I said, my father told me I could have it if anything ever happened to him. That means I should have had it ten years ago. I want my money now, and you have no right to play God with it.”

  Mike glared at Phillip and shook his head. He had to call the bluff. “That isn’t going to happen.”

  The corners of Phillip’s mouth turned upward, forming a cocky smirk. “If it doesn’t, I’m going straight to the Feds and tell them everything I know.”

  Mike’s stomach churned. “Tell me exactly what you’re going to tell them.”

  “That you kept my father’s money and that you know exactly where it is. You know they’ll be delighted to hear it.”

  “Suppose they ask you how much money there is. What will you tell them?”

  “Three hundred million,” Phillip replied without hesitation. “That’s how much my father said I was going to get. That’s how much I want, and I’m betting it’s worth something to you to keep me quiet.”

  “How much do you think it’s worth to me?”

  “About three hundred million,” Phillip replied, smirking, aware his answer would enrage Mike.

  Mike gripped the arms of his chair to restrain himself from lifting Phillip from the couch and throwing him out of his office. Again he called his bluff. “Obviously I don’t want you to go to the Feds, but regardless of what you decide to do, I’m still not going to give you one dime of that money.”

  Phillip’s facial expression transformed into one reminding Mike of Jim Servito. Both lips tightened, showing his teeth. “Fuck you!” he shouted, then jumped to his feet and stormed out of the offic
e.

  Mike quickly phoned Karen. “We’ve got big problems. Phillip just marched into my office and told me he wants the money now. He said he’s going to the Feds if he doesn’t get it… I called his bluff.”

  “I’m glad you did. I would have done the same thing myself.”

  Tears gratitude streamed from Mike’s eyes. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

  “Maybe you could show me when you get home tonight.”

  “That’s a promise.” Mike hung up, then called Dan Turner. “Maybe all you can do is give me a shoulder to cry on, Dan, but I needed to tell you that Phillip has become a major problem. He just threatened to tell the Feds everything if we don’t give him the money now.”

  “That’s kind of a nasty development. What did you say to him?”

  “I called his bluff.”

  “Is it a bluff?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a tough call.”

  “Then don’t make a move until you know. Leave the money where it is for now. If Phillip talks, it won’t take the Feds long to contact you. If they do, don’t tell them anything. Refer them to me.”

  “Okay. If it gets that far, what are you going to say to them?”

  “Nothing, until they tell me how much they know. When they do, maybe we can do a little horse trading… How much does Phillip know?”

  “Too much… What if the Feds are in no mood to trade? Do we run?”

  Turner chuckled. “That sounds familiar. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. I know it won’t be easy, but try not to think about that for now. Just do nothing and let me know the minute anything significant happens.”

  Mike hung up, feeling only slightly relieved. He lowered his face into his hands and began to think of the implications of running again. The decision was difficult a decade earlier. This time it would be excruciatingly painful.

  CHAPTER 78

  Toronto. Friday, August 24, 1990.

  Dressed in his bulky faded and torn jeans, wrinkled white sweatshirt and Blue Jays baseball hat, Phillip entered Revenue Canada’s regional office on Front Street in the heart of the business district of Toronto. He approached one of five receptionists seated behind the information counter.

  “May I help you sir?” she asked, frowning as she examined his sloppy appearance.

  “I want to speak to the manager,” he demanded.

  The receptionist glared at him, turned off by his slovenly appearance. “May I ask what it’s about? Is this a tax matter?”

  “Yup.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “Phillip Servito.”

  The receptionist pointed to the waiting area, crowded to the point of standing room only. “Wait over there, please? Someone will be with you as soon as possible.”

  A tall thin man in his early thirties entered the waiting area twenty minutes later. He had well greased blond hair and wore a dark blue suit, matching tie and glossy black loafers. “Phillip Servito,” he bellowed.

  Phillip raised his right hand and approached the man.

  “Come with me, please.” He led Phillip into a small austere conference room, not far from the waiting area. “Please have a seat,” he said, pointing to a small round table surrounded by eight wooden chairs.

  “Are you the manager?” Phillip asked as he lowered himself onto one of the chairs.

  “I’m her assistant. She’s in a meeting at this moment.” He extended his hand. “My name is David Savage. I understand you want to discuss a tax matter. Is that correct?”

  Phillip nodded.

  Savage took a seat on the opposite side of the table and dropped a note pad on the table. He glared at Phillip, his pen at the ready. “What specifically did you want to talk about?”

  “My father left me a lot of money when he died ten years ago. I never received it.”

  “And what was your father’s name?”

  “James Servito.”

  The name, capable of setting off alarm bells in higher Revenue Canada circles, meant nothing to Savage. “Can you tell me what this has to do with Revenue Canada?”

  “My father stole the money from Canada and the United States by evading gasoline taxes.”

  Savage stopped writing and stared at Phillip in amazement. “Can you tell me how much it was? I mean how much money did your father leave you?”

  “Three hundred million.”

  “How much?” Savage asked, astonished, his attention substantially more focused.

  “You heard me. Three hundred million dollars.”

  A grin broke the veneer of Savage’s austere professionalism. He had a very large fish on his line. “Do you know where this money is?”

  “I might. Is there a reward? If there is, how much is it?”

  Savage frowned. “There’s no reward. If you have knowledge of the location of that money, you’re legally obliged to disclose it. Furthermore, it’s a serious offense to withhold that kind of information from Revenue Canada.”

  Disappointed with Savage’s response and attitude, and confused about the legal implications of his knowledge, Phillip decided to back out. “Listen, I’m really not sure. Like I said, I might know where it is. If I find it, you’ll be the first to know. If I don’t, then it’s still lost.”

  “You said you might know where the money is. What, exactly did you mean by that?” Savage asked, focusing on Phillip’s eyes, certain he knew more.

  “That’s exactly what I said. I might know where it is. Now I gotta try to find it.”

  “Is anyone else aware of the existence or location of the money?”

  “Yah. My step father also might know.”

  “Please give me his name and address.”

  Phillip gave Savage Mike’s name, address and telephone number.

  “Do you have anything else to say at this time?”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t mind, I would like to have someone else talk to you about this. Could you wait here for a minute?”

  “No. I gotta get back to work.”

  “Then please give me your address and telephone number.”

  Phillip gave him the address and telephone number of Gary Matheson’s apartment, then left without uttering another word.

  New York.

  Visconti’s secretary entered his office at two P.M. “Louis, there’s a call for you on two,” she said, then placed a pile of freshly typed letters on his desk.

  “Who is it?”

  “Phillip Servito. Would you like me to take a message?”

  “No. I’ll take it,” Visconti said, then lifted the receiver and pressed two. “Visconti.”

  “Mr. Visconti, my name is Phillip Servito. I’m calling because I want to talk to you about my trust.”

  “Excuse me. I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, so please don’t lie to me. I called Alfred Schnieder at the Banco International Venezolano. They told me he wasn’t there any more, but a guy named Blanco gave me your number… Can I meet you somewhere? I don’t want to talk on the phone.”

  “First give me some idea what this is about.”

  “The money. What else?”

  “Does Mike know you’re talking to me?”

  “Nope, and that doesn’t matter any more.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the money’s mine, and I want it, now.”

  It was now painfully clear to Visconti that the equation had changed. He had to adjust. “That may be so, but there isn’t a thing I can do about it. The money’s in a trust, and I work for its trustees. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you talk to them.”

  “I already have. They told me they’re going to give the money to charity. So I told them if they do, I’m going to tell the Feds that they’ve been hiding it for years.”

  “I still don’t see what that has to do with me,” Visconti said, his heart now in his throat.

  “I was hoping you could change their m
inds. Can we talk somewhere?”

  Phillip was now a major player and in a position to destroy his plan to steal the money in the trust. Clearly, he was the reason Mike King had delayed the distribution of the trust’s funds. “Sure. Where and when?”

  “Your office. Friday night.”

  “Friday night’s good, but don’t come here. Come to my apartment.” Visconti gave Phillip the address and telephone number. “How soon can you get there?”

  “I’ll call you and let you know.”

  Phillip called Visconti thirty minutes later. “I have an Eastern Airlines flight from Toronto to Newark. It leaves Toronto at eight-thirty on Friday night. I should be at your apartment by ten-thirty or eleven.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  “Wait a minute. This trip’s going to cost me. Can you help me pay for it?”

  “Just give me your bills when you get here. We’ll take it out of the trust’s expenses.”

  Toronto.

  Mike received a call from William Dare, now deputy director of Canada’s Security Intelligence Service. He immediately remembered Dare, the man who led a team of S.I.S. agents on a search and seizure mission of his office over ten years earlier. “What do you want?” Mike asked, his tone making it clear to Dare that his call was unwelcome.

  “Your stepson visited the Toronto regional office of Revenue Canada yesterday. He indicated to one of our people that he might know the location of a lot of money his late father left to him… Would you care to comment on that?”

  “No,” Mike replied, his heart now racing, his brain processing the implications.

  “Does that mean you don’t know anything about it or that you don’t have anything to add?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Dare, but ten years ago my lawyer advised me to refer any and all inquiries connected with that matter to him. I continue to respect that advice. In case you’ve forgotten, his name is Dan Turner and his telephone number is the same as it was ten years ago. Do you still have that on file?”

  “Yes. Thank you for your time.”

  Mike hung up, then hurried to call Dan Turner using his car phone. “Dan, I just received a call from William Dare. Remember him?”