Looking over his itinerary she saw that Chapman had instructed only two of his Secret Service bodyguards accompany him. Normally there would be at least one more, especially with his heading to an unsettled place like rural Mexico, but his orders would be followed. After all, it was a one-day trip and the way it was being handled less than twenty people would ever know he had been away from the office. Even though they always existed, the chances for problems on this brief excursion were pretty remote.
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At four a.m. on Thursday, the day he would disappear, John Chapman heard a light knock on his bedroom door. The President acknowledged he was awake, turned on the light and headed to the bathroom. There was no need to worry about waking Marianne. They hadn’t slept in the same bed for over five years, ever since another of John Chapman’s dalliances with a young staffer had made the news. This one had been the latest in a string of girls, promises never to do it again, half-hearted pleas for forgiveness.
But this one had been different. This was John Chapman’s first affair while President, and this time he didn’t plead or promise. He had looked at his wife coldly and said, “If you don’t like it, get out. File for divorce. Leave me and this life you have. You’re nobody, Marianne. You’re a little girl from Omaha and you’re nothing without me. You know it and I know it. And we both know you aren’t going anywhere. So get over it.” He had walked out of the room and slammed the door.
She had drowned her sorrow in several Bourbon and waters that evening after moving her things to a bedroom next door to his. Marianne Chapman hated herself because her husband was right. She stayed for exactly the reasons he had said she’d stay. She craved the attention that came with being First Lady and she didn’t want to go back to her old life. But from that day on there was no love, no passion, no hand-holding – except in public, of course. Their marriage of convenience was a well-kept secret. Only the staff of the personal residence within the White House knew they slept in separate rooms, and most of them thought it was because of Chapman’s propensity to read books until the wee hours. The First Couple weren’t particularly lovey to each other in front of the staff, but they never fought either. They just seemed like an old married couple that had slipped into a bit of complacency.
President Chapman left the White House at 5:15 a.m. He read the morning paper in the rear seat of a black sedan, one bodyguard in the front seat and the other riding in an identical sedan in front of Chapman’s car. SUVs flanked the front and rear of the motorcade. The President was dressed in jeans and a golf shirt and wore a light jacket and a Panama hat. His driver had never seen Chapman dress so casually before. With light early morning traffic the sedan pulled up at Andrews Air Force Base just before six o’clock.
“Good morning, sir,” a businesslike flight attendant said as Chapman and his two Secret Service agents boarded the Gulfstream G650, newest in the Government’s fleet of planes used to shuttle the President around. Considered the world’s fastest private aircraft, the plane could fly over six hundred miles per hour and go nonstop from New York to mainland China. Although the standard G650 could seat up to eighteen people, this one had been dramatically modified to carry a maximum of eight passengers while ensuring the comfort and safety of just one – the President of the United States. The aircraft was equipped with a full kitchen and bar and included a stateroom and private bath at the rear of the plane. A flat screen TV mounted on the wall at the front of the cabin was tuned to CNN. The morning news quietly droned in the background. There were no breaking stories of interest to Chapman. That was a good thing since he was heading to the boondocks for the day.
Ordinarily whatever aircraft carried the President automatically used the call sign “Air Force One.” Due to the secrecy of this trip Chapman had requested the Gulfstream use its normal tail number instead. Otherwise anyone with the interest and technological savvy could have immediately determined that President Chapman was flying to Palenque.
There were two pilots – the one flying left seat came out of the cockpit and gave John Chapman a briefing. The flight would take a little less than four hours and the trip was scheduled to be smooth and easy. With the time change they should arrive by 9:30 a.m. local time. As the plane taxied to the runway and streaked into the morning sky Chapman settled into his plush seat and opened a black briefcase that had been set at his feet by one of the bodyguards. He retrieved a series of folders and began to peruse their contents one by one. Making notes here and there he found it difficult to concentrate on the work of the nation he governed. His mind continually wandered to the mystery and adventure awaiting him in Palenque, Mexico.
For President John Chapman the real mystery would begin in just a matter of hours.
Chapter Three
Thursday
The day of the disappearance
As the Gulfstream landed a small band of dirty, barefoot children ran across a dusty road to the airstrip to look at the gleaming white airplane. When it came to a stop in front of a shack that was the operations center for the tiny Palenque airport, the kids crowded around the door. Steps were lowered and the two Secret Service agents disembarked. John Chapman stayed inside until a black Lincoln Navigator drew close to the plane. The SUV looked new and had diplomatic license plates, two giveaways that this vehicle wasn’t the usual mode of transportation in the sleepy Mexican town.
One of the security people stuck his head back into the cabin and said, “We can go now, sir.” Chapman came down the stairs as the bodyguards pushed the children back. No one noticed a raggedy boy reach into his pocket and pull out a cellphone. He pressed a single number, hit “send” and turned the phone off. His job was done and he had earned twenty pesos, about a dollar and fifty cents.
Ignoring the waving children, Chapman strode to the SUV as the front passenger door opened and the U.S. Ambassador to Mexico stepped out. “Good morning, sir!” he said jubilantly to the President. “Are you ready for some adventure?”
“I’ve thought of virtually nothing else since I spoke with you. Have you heard anything more about the discovery?”
“Nobody’s saying anything at this point, which means they’re following my request. I’m really happy to report I’ve heard nothing. Of course there have been guards posted at the site since the discovery was made and the Temple of the Inscriptions has been closed to the public for the last couple of days.”
One of Chapman’s bodyguards climbed into the front seat of the Navigator while Chapman and the Ambassador sat in the middle row. The other Secret Service agent was in the rear third row. The driver was a young Army captain who turned and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. President, and pleased to be assisting you today.” He pulled away, left the airport and traveled down a two-lane asphalt road.
Chapman ignored the driver, turned to the Ambassador and said, “What are the archaeologists telling the public is the reason the temple’s closed?”
“They put out a story that there’s a flaw in the structural integrity of the passageway leading to King Pakal’s tomb. They promised it’d be reopened once repairs are made. Everything’s on hold until your visit is over and a decision is made on how to announce the discovery. Sussex University and the patron who funded the exploration of the tomb are involved in all the decisions in tandem with the Mexican archaeological authorities. Even if they reopen the temple, I’m sure they’ll continue to keep the descending stairway and Pakal’s tomb closed for the time being, given the highly unusual nature of what’s been found.
Chapter Four
As the President landed in Palenque Thomas Newton Torrance enjoyed the view from his desk. Through floor to ceiling panels of glass TNT, as the press had scathingly dubbed him, surveyed the skyscrapers of Manhattan while speaking on the phone, a noontime glass of wine close at hand. Torrance’s New York apartment served as his headquarters while he was in the States. The rent on the two thousand square foot flat on East 61st Street was more than at his London home, but neither cost mattered to TNT
. One or more of the various companies he controlled paid the rents. Sometimes when things got a little dicey TNT had to move for a time but at the moment things were going fine.
The forty-year-old Torrance had been born in east London. Growing up was tough. The death of his father when the boy was four caused his mother to have to work two jobs and there was never enough of anything. It turned out he had an entrepreneurial flair – at age twelve he organized a few friends and started an exterior housecleaning service that happened to be the right thing at the right time. Within a couple of years it attracted the attention of the local media. Thomas Torrance’s business skyrocketed because of the publicity about this teenager’s flair for entrepreneurship.
He sold that company for nearly a million dollars when he was only sixteen. He caught the attention of a wealthy businessman who offered him a job scouting venture capital deals in London. The man wanted to locate small companies to buy on the cheap, build up and sell. But Thomas Newton Torrance had a better idea. Why not buy small companies that are publicly traded, he thought. In the days before computer programs would have saved untold time, he spent day after day poring through public documents filed by small companies, looking not for good earnings or good prospects, but for cash reserves.
The first company he found was a business that sold wholesale pool chemicals in Leeds. Its customers were the stores that homeowners visited to buy chlorine and supplies. The firm was a fifty-year-old business and the chairman was nearly seventy. Most important to Torrance was nearly £10 million in cash that the company had accumulated over the years.
Torrance took the deal to his mentor who recognized the boy’s talent for deals and was willing to help him become a success. Thomas Torrance had calculated that anyone owning 45% of the company would have effective control – no other single shareholder owned more than 9% and there were so many that it was almost incomprehensible that 51% of them would ever vote together as a block. Thomas’ mentor used £2 million of his money to purchase the 45% stake, then gave a half interest in it to Thomas in exchange for a promissory note to repay it in twelve months. Thomas asked his mentor what would happen if he couldn’t repay the money that quickly. The man smiled and assured Thomas there would be no problems. They both knew exactly what the game plan was going to be and where the money was coming from to repay his loan and no one need have worried a bit. Except the company’s existing shareholders, of course.
Within a month the block of stock had been purchased, the old board of directors removed and five men very close to – and financially rewarded by – the mentor were the new policymakers at the company. Torrance himself couldn’t be an officer or director – he wasn’t yet eighteen years old – but he guided the movement of the company’s cash from its bank account to those of Torrance and his mentor. Through management fees, expensive equipment leases from the mentor’s company and other shenanigans, virtually all the cash was gone within a year.
The Financial Services Authority – the British equivalent to the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission – took notice of the transactions only after small shareholders began to complain that the company was now worth far less than it had been before Torrance and his mentor took over. And they were right, but despite being unfortunate for them, it was perfectly legal. Thomas Newton Torrance and his mentor sold their stake at a small loss eighteen months after they had purchased it. Obviously the shares weren’t worth as much as when Torrance had bought them – the company itself was worth less since it had been efficiently and effectively drained of about $16 million in cash. So the small loss in the share price didn’t matter to Torrance and his boss – they had taken out a lot of money and were ready to move on.
Thomas Torrance repaid the £1 million loan his mentor had extended, leaving him with well over $6 million – not bad for an eighteen-year-old’s first big deal. Over a celebratory dinner at Wilton’s in London, Torrance announced his intention to try another acquisition, this time in the United States. He had been looking at public document filings and had come across another company that was remarkably similar to the one they’d just raided.
“What business is it in?” his mentor asked.
“They manufacture oil field equipment.”
“No disrespect, Thomas, but what do you know about the oil field equipment business?”
That got a chuckle from Torrance. “Nothing, of course. But what does it matter? They have $8 million in cash. I know plenty about that!”
And he did. He formed a corporation and put the millions of pounds sterling from his last deal into it. Through that company he leased an apartment in New York – he was too young to sign legal documents on his own – then used more of his cash to purchase controlling interest in the oil field supply firm. Within twelve months Torrance had moved all the cash from this once-healthy company to his own coffers, leaving it with enough money to pay its bills but unable to grow its business in the future because of lack of capital.
The other shareholders ranted and screamed. The Wall Street Journal ran a story about Thomas Newton Torrance, applying the abbreviation “TNT” for the first time. “He’s like dynamite to the companies he buys – the cash just implodes. Watch out for Thomas Newton Torrance – the TNT of the stock market!”
The article was less than flattering but with over $14 million in the bank, TNT was a success regardless. Although his activities raised regulatory eyebrows on both sides of the pond, everything he did was legal, even if it was unfair to the small shareholders and ethically reprehensible.
Three years passed and TNT was twenty-two. He had made six deals, successfully fended off four civil lawsuits by shareholders and two regulatory investigations (one each in London and New York) and he had accumulated a net worth of nearly $30 million.
Torrance discovered an interesting phenomenon that accompanied his success. Though he was certainly not handsome by any standard, he suddenly found it amazingly easy to attract beautiful women. They simply loved being with him. But then who wouldn’t? TNT was in the society section of newspapers regularly – his corporation donated generously to political candidates, the arts and a dozen humanitarian causes. His motives were less than noble; the more he hobnobbed with the rich and famous, the easier it was to garner favors when the securities regulators came calling with a list of violations. The added bonus was the invitations that poured in almost weekly – a gallery opening here, a party at the Mayor’s house there – and it wouldn’t do to show up without a beautiful girl on your arm.
The society editors hadn’t known exactly what to make of him. Everyone knew of his occasional run-ins with the regulators but he was likeable, outgoing and generous with the money he’d taken from the labors of others. TNT was like a firecracker to the society crowd in New York and London – shiny and sparkly but with a little touch of the dangerous thrown in.
There was one thing that was unusual about Thomas Newton Torrance. In every way that could be seen, he was a very religious man. He was an ordained minister in fact, thanks to a donation to an obscure school of religion in Mississippi. And TNT made sure his religious ways could be seen. As a successful entrepreneur Torrance counted as friends some of the highest leaders of the Protestant faith both in America and the United Kingdom. Once he became seriously wealthy he generously donated to causes connected with a variety of denominations. The common thread in his work for the Lord was that Thomas Newton Torrance cultivated friends in very high places, just as he did in his secular activities. When he attended a church service it wasn’t a small congregation around the corner. It always was the most prominent church in New York or London or Los Angeles. He called ahead to make sure the senior pastor was aware he was coming and typically ended up with him at lunch or dinner after the service.
TNT carefully cultivated these connections. He inserted himself and his religiosity into the churches, lavishly spent money on projects suggested by the most influential people in the church and he curried favor from all. Sometimes when his bus
iness dealings were questioned he threw around names that helped legitimize him. If you can toss out the name of the nation’s best-known television evangelist, or casually mention that the Archbishop of Canterbury was your guest for lunch last week, it sometimes made people question their own concerns. Maybe Thomas Newton Torrance wasn’t an evil pillager of corporations after all. Maybe he was a real businessman – his connections with the church seemed to support that idea.
Now age forty, Thomas Newton Torrance was having a ball. Forbes Magazine ranked his worth near a billion dollars. His acquisitions grew larger and larger, his raids of corporate bank accounts more subtle and sophisticated but the results were always the same – TNT ended up with a lot of cash and the companies he briefly owned and controlled were the contributors of that bounty. With larger deals came more intense scrutiny and louder screams from his fellow shareholders who felt raped and pillaged after Torrance breezed through the bank accounts. Although he was forced to answer inquiries and subpoenas now and then, he continued to stay ahead of the game and had never been charged with a crime. The frequent publicity was negative but somehow never damaging enough to cause Torrance a major problem.
Brian Sadler Archaeology 03 - The Strangest Thing Page 2
