The Great Game

by D. R. Bell

  “I want to see if there are any archives of Schulmann’s work left.”

  “OK, that makes sense. Let me see if I can reach Fred. Why don’t you and James come over here, and we’ll have a little working session?”

  David and James agreed it was a good idea. They had to keep trying. They drove to Frank’s place that was located at the end of a small street in a canyon dividing Santa Monica from Pacific Palisades. With PCH closed, traffic was a mess and the drive took them almost an hour. The house was perched on a cliff with a panoramic view of the Pacific. Frank greeted them, saying, “We’re in luck, Fred still works there and will call me soon.”

  David thought that “luck” was not the word he would use today.

  When the phone rang, Frank went through usual “it’s been a long time” pleasantries and then asked Fred if he would mind being on a speakerphone. Frank introduced James and David and gave Fred a brief synopsis of the situation.

  Fred listened silently. Then he asked, “So what it boils down to is that you have to find some of the information that Schulmann uncovered in order to save that young woman’s life?”

  Frank said, “Yes, basically that’s what it is.”

  “Do you think this information had also cost Schulmann his life?”

  “It’s possible, although Schulmann might have been a collateral damage in the Williams assassination. At least that’s what the investigation concluded. What we know with high certainty is that many people have been killed in LA and Seattle over the last few days, and it’s likely that the killers are looking for Schulmann’s information. Fred, I just want you to know what you might be getting into.”

  “What about you?”

  “I knew Jonathan for many years, and I want to get the people that killed him.”

  Fred was silent for a minute. “OK. The way it works here is that people are supposed to back up their computers at least weekly. The backups are redundantly propagated to four servers in two physical locations where the data stays for three years, and every six months we sweep their backups onto tape-based offline storage. Since Schulmann was killed about two years ago, his data should still be on servers, but also on tape. Hold on, it will take me a minute to check the servers.”

  They heard a keyboard clicking then “Damn!” More clicking. “Damn!!!”

  Fred came back on the phone. “There is nothing on the servers. All directories under Schulmann have been erased. I went into e-mail archives and there are no e-mails originated by Schulmann or e-mails where he was the one of the recipients, going almost three years back.”

  Frank asked, “What does it mean?”

  “It means that someone broke into highly secure SEC computer systems and erased Jonathan Schulmann from existence. And somehow nobody noticed!”

  “But didn’t someone investigate Schulmann’s death and wouldn’t they have made a separate copy?”

  “Of course there was an investigation. We had FBI coming and asking questions, but everybody thought he was just a victim of the attack on Williams, and I don’t think anybody was looking too closely. Perhaps there was nothing that appeared suspicious, perhaps investigators did not bother checking since SEC’s is ostensibly one of the most secure systems in the world.” Fred’s voice was filled with angry irony.

  “So is everything gone?” David asked. They didn’t have the time to investigate the investigators. He just needed the files.

  “Not necessarily. There is still the offline storage. Let me call there and have them mount the appropriate tapes, and I’ll call you back.”

  Frank turned on the TV. The local news was still all about the tragedy in Malibu. “Three police officers are dead,” a newscaster said, as the faces of Megrano and Chander flashed on the screen. Frank, James, and David watched in silence.

  Fred called back. “The October 2020 backup tape is missing.” He was clearly upset. “His department’s servers were swept into offline backup at midnight on October 1, 2020. They are telling me they have tapes from April 1, 2020 and from April 1, 2021 – but not from October. So whoever erased Schulmann from the cloud servers has also taken the backup tape covering his last few months.”

  David said, “That probably explains why the e-mails erasure was not noticed. Whoever did it waited a few weeks. People would notice if recent e-mails disappeared, but not when e-mails are old. What about the April 1 tape?”

  Fred said, “They have it. I’ll tell them to go ahead and mount it and call you back.”

  David turned to James, thinking out loud. “So whoever deleted Schulmann’s data must have it. Do you think it was it Thomas Mann aka Julius?”

  Before James could respond, Fred called again. “OK, the tape is mounted, I am looking at it and it seems that some of Schulmann’s information is there.”

  Frank asked, “Can you send it to us?”

  Fred hesitated. “Well, it won’t do you any good. It’s encrypted.”

  Frank gently prodded him. “Fred, you know I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it was not literally a matter of life and death …”

  Fred sighed. “OK, I’ll decrypt and send it to you. Give me an e-mail address. It’s about twenty gigabytes worth of data.”

  David gave him his e-mail. “Fred, one more question. Has anyone at the SEC worked with Schulmann on his investigation of the 2019 crisis?”

  “The FBI was asking about this, too. Normally, yes, it would have been an internal team. And that’s how it started, but by summer of 2020 Schulmann had everyone reassigned to other projects.”

  “So Schulmann was working on it by himself?”

  “Not necessarily. He had his investigative budget that he could spend on external consultants.”

  “Is that what he did?”

  “I don’t know. That’s not the kind of information that goes through me. Well, the files are on their way to you. I am afraid I must get going, I have a meeting at four.”

  After hanging up with Fred, David logged into his e-mail using Maggie’s computer that he brought with him. As promised, there were close to twenty gigabytes of files and e-mails from Fred. There were two other computers in the house, an older iMac with an old-fashioned keyboard and a fairly new 3D Mac Book. They divided the work: Frank going through e-mails that Jonathan either sent or was one of the recipients on, David trying to correlate the data with the names that came up in Mark Androssian’s research, James looking through the documents trying to find anything that would catch his eye.

  It appeared that most of the files were downloads of trading records in various formats. David ran queries on the most commonly occurring strings of alpha characters from Androssian’s research. The first mention of Changzoo Tongren in Schulmann’s files was in January of 2020. The Novaya Energya did not appear until March. Names of the executing brokers correlated with other clients: Xiang Auto Yan, Zhouhan Electronics, Russia Oil & Gas, Al Falhayat Group, Taracruz Companhia. There were also intelligence files on the companies, with documented ties to high-level government officials. Most of the data was toward the end of the archive. David thought that perhaps that was the time when Jonathan started asking questions that got him killed. But David could not easily analyze much of the information that Fred sent. The data had to be studied, understood, and evaluated by computer algorithms. That would take expertise and time. He had neither.

  James and Frank walked in, excited, pointing to documents on the Mac Book. “Schulmann traced a ‘loan’ transfer of 750,000 ounces of gold through multiple intermediaries to the People’s Bank of China!”

  David shrugged. “And?”

  “Look, there were two, four, six— no, seven. Seven intermediaries! This was intended to be a secret transaction, but Schulmann traced it!”

  “This is somewhat circumstantial.”

  “More than that … the timing, the amounts. Remember that China’s gold reserves suddenly went from an official 2,000 tons to almost 10,000 tons.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t know how it helps us right now.
”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Not really. We’ll need a lot more time to analyze this. There is no smoking gun that we can use today.”

  James sat down, crestfallen. “What are we going to do?”

  David said ”I think we should choose some of the more promising data and e-mail it to Maggie’s kidnappers to maintain the pretense that we have more. I’ll request that they release her if they want to get more information.”

  Frank shook his head. “Don’t. You should ask for money first and foremost. That’s what they expect you to do. In their view you are selling the information. Asking for Maggie’s release should be secondary.”

  They selected a few transaction chains for Changzoo Tongren, Zhouhan Electronics, and Russia Oil & Gas, a tracing of a gold transaction to the China reserve bank, and selections from companies’ intelligence files. David crafted a response offering a sample of the available information and demanding $1MM down payment and return of their associate Margarita Sappin unharmed, in exchange for more data.

  Tuesday, 4/26/2022, 5:28 p.m. PDT

  Fai Hsu finished reading Ferguson’s reply. It concerned him. The first set of data that Ferguson provided seemed circumstantial. This one had some, but not many, specifics, and it had names of not only companies, but also individuals. Hsu was not sure he wanted to know the names. Such information was dangerous. Both Changzoo Tongren and Zhouhan Electronics were known to be associated with the army. Yes, the army was supposed to have divested all of its commercial holdings. “Supposed to” was the operative word. People on the inside knew that the divestiture was a sham, like changing a store’s shingle while keeping the same owners in the back.

  His mood changed from imagining promotion to wondering if he’d become one of those people who knew more than they should for their level. Usually such people died in the service of their country. It was important to know, but not to let people think that you know too much. He marked Ferguson’s message “urgent” and forwarded it to Beijing. The day was just starting there; it should give them enough time to respond.

  In the meantime, he had to prepare to meet Ferguson whether the order to meet would come or not. They had a few places scouted for such occasions. Hsu decided on Balboa Lake Park, which should be fairly secluded during a workday. He was going to go with a team of four. It was time to stop watching Ferguson’s house. After four days, the activity was still fruitless and he needed people here. Just in case, he prepared a briefcase with money, although he did not expect he’d have to bring it. Hsu called in his team for the first briefing. Then he replied to Ferguson, requesting a meeting at 10:00 a.m.

  Tuesday, 4/26/2022, 6:52 p.m. PDT

  David and James were still at Frank’s house. Frank ordered delivery from a local restaurant, and they were noodling their food, nobody seeming to have much of an appetite. David kept checking e-mail. Finally a response came, arranging a meeting at 10:00 a.m. at Balboa Lake Park.

  Both Frank and James tried to convince him to call the police, but David refused, his patience exhausted by stress. They’d gone to the police once already, with more people dead as the result. He thought it through: he was going to go with only a small flash drive and threaten them with releasing the information (which they did not know he did not have) if he and Maggie were not back by 11:00 a.m. The drive was filled with the data they got from Fred, including the bulky database files that David was not able to decode, in case his adversaries looked at the data right there and then. David figured he had just as good a chance of surviving the meeting with blackmail as he did in a shoot-out with a bunch of armed people.

  His disposable cell phone rang. It was Oleg. David shared the events of the day with him. Oleg also tried to convince David to not go to the meeting alone, but David was firm. He was getting worn out by the cat-and-mouse game where people’s lives were at stake and did not want any more deaths on his conscience. Besides, he didn’t think he had any good choices left. A fool or a coward? If he was going to be a fool, at least he’d be an honorable one. Not that anybody would care.

  When they got back to Bowen’s house, David said, “James, you go in. I’ll drive home.”

  “No, you can’t do that! They might be watching it.”

  “Why? I’m meeting ‘them’ tomorrow morning anyway.”

  “What about the police?”

  “I doubt it. And weren’t you trying to talk me into contacting police in any case? James, thank you so much for your hospitality. It truly is greatly appreciated. I don’t know what will happen, but I want to spend this night in my place, look at some things.”

  James stared ahead silently, then sighed in acceptance. “Would you give me your home number? And don’t forget your computer.”

  “Actually, it’s Maggie’s computer. I think I’ll leave it here. But I want to take her glasses. I think they will be my good luck charm.”

  James started opening the car’s door, hesitated. “David …”

  “Yes?”

  “They say that a man is never what he thinks he is. Some are more and some are less. Those that are less tell themselves ‘What can one person do?’ But you never know. Sometimes it takes one person to change everything. However things go tomorrow, it’s been an honor to have met you.”

  David did not quite know what to say. He mumbled, “The honor’s been mine.” Then watched the old man slowly go into the house.

  It was only a short drive to Culver City. Amazingly, he still had the house keys. He’d remembered to transfer them to each pair of new pants he wore over the past few days just in case. His small rented house, his home for almost two years, was not a “home” home but more like a refuge where he would escape the noise of co-workers, salespeople, cars … the racket of everyday life. He had no sentient memory of the previous place; it was hidden too far in the recesses of his consciousness. He lived here, in this place, and before that there was a big dark nothing.

  He passed by a lemon tree out front and stepped inside, greeted by stale air and a small pile of mail on the floor. Very few people used snail mail these days, but after a week, things accumulated. He followed the dark entrance hall into his living room with its large screen TV, audio system, and a low table where he often ate his dinners while watching a movie. Then he headed into the main bedroom and cast a grim smile at his unmade king-size bed—way too large for one person.

  His heart skipped. The book he’d been reading was on the nightstand to the right of the bed. He always slept on the left side and he would always leave the book there. David turned on the overhead light and backed out of the room. The front door had been locked. He went into the kitchen. There were no signs of a break-in, but the backyard door had been left unlocked. Somebody’s been here. David thought of getting into the Accord and leaving, then stopped. Why? They came and left. Did they take anything? Does it matter? He looked around. Wish they’d washed the dishes. He locked the door and cleaned up.

  Back in the bedroom, David laid out his clothes for tomorrow, set the alarm clock, and changed into his own PJ’s.

  He went to the living room, turned on the audio system, set it to shuffle. After pouring himself a drink, he pulled out an old-fashioned photo album from his bookcase. Nobody used such albums anymore, and he had not touched his in years. Almost since his parents had brought it over as a gift for the wedding.

  He opened to his family’s picture: David, his brother Robert, Mom, and Dad. In that order. Robert had always been their favorite. He was eight years older, and by the time David had started crawling, Robert was already a straight-A student. David was different from his high-achieving brother. He’d developed late and had struggled to start talking. There’d been a diagnosis of a mild Asperger’s that David had learned about later. His parents were conscientious, but it seemed they didn’t quite know what to do about him. Which was somewhat ironic, with them both being physicians. Perhaps David was too close for comfort, and they needed some dispassionate separation from their clients.
But deep inside he thought they had probably been embarrassed by him.

  David couldn’t really complain about anything in his upbringing. He’d had his own room and lots of toys. A punishing hand was never laid on him. It might have been better if they’d punished him once in a while because it would have at least shown him some emotion. Instead, everything had been nice and proper, but cold. Even though David had never quite outgrown his social awkwardness, he did OK in school, had some friends, showed an aptitude for math. But by then his brother was already in Harvard, so David once again lived in Robert’s shadow.

  When David was a junior in high school, he told his parents he wasn’t interested in medicine and planned to pursue engineering instead. And then on top of it, he did not get into MIT and went west to Purdue. Robert was in medical school then, and the gulf between David and his parents opened deeper and wider.

  He flipped through the pages of the album and found it. The picture of himself as a twelve-year-old—with Oscar. Being unsure how to relate to their younger son, his parents had energetically engaged in various interventions. “Asperger” was a popular label among child psychologists of the early 1990s, and there was a small cottage industry in progressive Massachusetts specializing in diagnosis and treatment. Five days a week David would spend an hour or more in one of the offices, where yet another kind doctor would try to help him develop social skills and compassion.

  Treatments came to an abrupt end in 1996, when David’s parents took him to yet another rising star of child psychology. The star said that the Asperger label applied to David was “hogwash,” that David was shy but that was just how some kids were wired, and that his parents should save their money and get David a dog instead. So in one fell swoop he was freed from the psychology routine and acquired a dog, a friendly mutt by the name of Oscar.

  They got Oscar from the pound, and the dog came with his own set of neuroses. During Oscar’s first week in Ferguson’s household, he tore a prized Persian carpet, stole and ate two T-bone steaks from the kitchen, and iced it by jumping on the dining room table and breaking a crystal vase. David’s mother had enough and got the leash ready to take Oscar back.