It was one of the primary rules of war for any aggressor: Control the press. Manage the flow of information to the people. Tell them what you want them to hear.
The Financial Chronicle had broken the story on the Lodestar raid because the Sevens controlled the paper. They were using the Chronicle not only to manipulate its readership of financial types, which as a percentage of the total population was small, but also to control every other newspaper in the country. Senior people at the other publications would see the Chronicle breaking story after story and scream for their people to dig deeper and faster. They would devote entire staffs to these stories and encourage their people to rely on fewer independent confirmations just so they could break a piece of this situation, which was becoming the story of the decade. It would be a feeding frenzy, and Buford Warren was the prey.
Falcon flipped on CNN. A reporter stood before the Washington office building that was home to Lodestar. CNN had confirmed the existence of the Lane Memo and that it indeed, according to an anonymous source, appeared to be very damaging to the President. Lane’s fingerprints were on the original found at Lodestar, and it was a file on the firm’s central computer. And then suddenly the network flashed back to New York, to a scene in front of the NASO headquarters on Park Avenue. Armed guards stood before the doorway to the lobby, allowing no one but badged officials to enter. A huge mob milled around the building. Suddenly, another squad of police officers, dressed in riot gear, began to pour out of a bus that had just pulled up before the building.
Falcon shook his head. President Buford Warren was in trouble. The banking system was crumbling, and he had an insider-trading sign the size of Texas hanging from his neck. Falcon glanced at the bag again. It was a bogus sign, but only he and a few other people knew that.
Falcon stared at the television. Unless something drastic happened, Buford Warren’s political career was over. As Falcon lay secluded on the hotel bed, hiding from the men who were perpetrating the heinous scheme, he sensed it slipping away from Warren. The press was going to have a field day with this one. Here was a President the people had finally come to trust, a man of the middle class, an outsider. And now it became suddenly obvious that he was no different from the rest of the politicians, worse in fact, because he had conned everyone into swallowing his down-home act. And now it turned out he was slicker than any of them—making huge profits on inside information with no regard for the fact that the national banking system was being destroyed in the process. The President was going to crash and burn in a huge ball of flames—unless Falcon did something about it. Falcon held the key in that gray bag sitting on the table.
Falcon checked his watch. Ten-fifteen. It was time. He leaned toward the night table, picked up the telephone, and dialed the number.
“Funds Transfer.”
“Eddie!”
“Mr. Falcon?” Martinez said the words in a low voice.
“Yes. Have you found anything yet?”
Martinez paused. Falcon could hear his heavy breathing despite the voices yelling in the background.
“Eddie!”
“Yeah, yeah. I…I found everything,” he whispered.
Falcon’s heart began to pump quickly. “What did you find?”
“I found the wires.”
Falcon could barely hear Martinez over the din in the background. “You’ve got to speak up. I can barely hear you. What the hell is going on there?”
“It’s crazy. The place is going nuts. Everybody and his mother is trying to get money outta here. I can’t stay on too long.”
“What did you find?” Falcon asked.
“A thousand wires.”
“A thousand?”
“Yeah, it’s unbelievable. They came in starting all the way back in January. The last one came in late June. A thousand of them. Can you believe that?”
“But how do you know what you found?”
“I found a billion dollars, just like you said I would. Exactly a billion. Every one of the wires is for some amount of dollars and seven cents. A thousand wires and they all add up to a billion bucks. Remember you said to look for Penn-Mar or sevens or something? That’s how I found them. They all ended in seven cents. All the transfers. I added them up, all the transfers that end in seven cents, and they came to a billion even. Remember how you told me?”
“I remember.” Falcon was shaking. It was more than he could have imagined Martinez would find. A woman shrieked in the background of the Funds Transfer Group. “Eddie!” Falcon spoke loudly to keep Martinez’s attention.
“What?” Martinez’s voice was cracking. He was nervous as hell, worried that he had somehow put his entire family in harm’s way. Falcon sensed it over the phone.
“It’s all right, Eddie, I swear to you it is.”
“I hope so, Mr. Falcon. I sure as hell hope so.”
“Eddie, did you track the wires?”
“Yeah. They came from lots of different places, but they all originated from one place. Some investment bank named Winthrop, Hawkins.”
Falcon almost dropped the phone. “You’ve done great, Eddie. I need you to print out all that information.”
“I already have. It’s locked in my drawer.”
“Beautiful. I’ll pick it up from you tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“You tell me.”
“Brooklyn Heights. On the Promenade at noon. You gonna have my money, Mr. Falcon?”
“Twenty-five hundred, Eddie. Twenty-five hundred. Go back to work, Eddie. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon—sharp.”
“Oh, Mr. Falcon.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s something else.”
“What’s that, Eddie?”
“I found another wire.” Martinez’s tone was strange.
“What?”
“Well, there’s a wire out of an account of yours. The wire was dated July ninth. It’s in the amount of thirty thousand dollars. It goes to some account of yours at Citibank. The notation on the advice says ‘for Penn-Mar shares.’ ”
Falcon caught his breath. July ninth was the day before Veens had announced the initial tender for Penn-Mar. So they were going to try to pin an insider-trading charge on him too. These bastards were unbelievable. They had even found the squirrel account at Citibank. He swore at himself for not closing it. “What’s the number of the NASO account?”
Martinez read it.
Falcon laughed to himself. It was not the account he had been given upon coming to work at NASO. It was another account. One he was obviously not supposed to know about, at least not until the trial. “Thanks for the information, Eddie.” Falcon hesitated. “It’s not what you think, Eddie.”
“I don’t think, Mr. Falcon. I don’t think at all. I just want my twenty-five hundred. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The phone clicked in his ear. Falcon hung up, then quickly picked up the phone again and dialed another number. It was time to start getting some answers.
“Hello.” The voice was soft.
“It’s Andrew.”
“My God, where are you?” The woman was suddenly excited.
“It’s better if I don’t tell you. You’ll be safer that way.”
“Safer? Tell me what’s going on. Please tell me. Tell me where you are. I want to help you. Please!”
“I can’t tell you. Meet me tomorrow morning.”
“Where?”
“On the New Jersey Transit train.”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t we just meet in New York someplace? Why the train?”
“Please, just do as I ask.” Falcon allowed irritation to creep into his voice.
“Fine. I’m sorry. I’m just worried about you. You know that. I just love you so much. I want to help. I want you to tell me what’s wrong. My God, the papers are all full of this Penn-Mar thing.
Is that what this is all about?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, God. Where will I meet you?”
“There will be a northbound train arriving at Linden from Trenton at 8:06 tomorrow morning. Get on that train at Linden. Get on the first car—the car closest to the locomotive. I’ll meet you there. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course. Linden. The northbound New Jersey Transit train. Eight minutes after six. The first car. I’ll be there.”
“Good, I’ll see you then.”
“I love you,” she said.
“Me too.” Falcon replaced the telephone and stared at the television. So Granville was going to take him down with an insider-trading charge. Then there would be a very public trial and then prison, and a little influence money to the judge just before sentencing to ensure a very long and brutal prison sentence. So Granville wanted to play rough. Well, he had no problem with that. Because Granville didn’t know what a real street fight was.
* * *
—
“PG, it’s Rutherford.”
“Yeah.” Phoenix Grey stared out the window of his Parker Meridien Hotel room. He needed to act tough. As though nothing was wrong. As though he had not missed Falcon yesterday evening. He had simply told Rutherford this morning that Falcon had not shown up at the boardinghouse last night.
“How did it go today?”
“Went off without a hitch. I stayed until the cops got there. Boreman will be reported dead tomorrow. The car was destroyed. But the cops found the license plate. I made certain of that.”
“And the body?”
“Burned well beyond recognition.”
“How can you be sure?”
Grey laughed. “I burned it before I even put it in the car.”
“Of course you did.” Rutherford paused. “We have new information.”
Grey peeled a banana. The strong odor reached his nostrils immediately. “What’s that?”
“Falcon is going to meet our contact on a New Jersey Transit train from Trenton tomorrow.”
“How do we know this?” Phoenix stuffed the banana in his mouth.
“She told me.”
“Of course, the woman.” He struggled with the words through the banana.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Phoenix swallowed the last of the fruit. “Her information wasn’t very accurate last night.”
“My friend says it was very accurate.”
Phoenix detected an iciness to Rutherford’s tone. “Your friend?”
“Yes. My friend says there was an ugly scene in the 135th Street subway station. Something about a young black man having his trachea removed.”
“Your friend said that, huh?” Phoenix Grey’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Yes. Don’t miss this time, Phoenix. Or it will be your last miss.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t ever lie to me again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Falcon will be on a train that originates in Trenton, New Jersey, and terminates in New York City, though I have no idea where he will actually board the train. He has asked our contact to meet him in Linden. She is to board the first car of the train that arrives in Linden at 8:06. You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir.” Phoenix Grey sniffed his fingers. They reeked of banana. “Why would he want to meet her? Shouldn’t he be a little suspicious of her?”
“He should. But maybe he thinks he can use her against us. Maybe he hasn’t had time to be suspicious. I don’t know. But we have nothing to lose by showing up tomorrow.”
“No, we don’t. Nothing at all to lose.”
“Phoenix, what did you end up doing with our friend, Mr. Prausch?”
Phoenix smiled as he sipped a Pepsi. “He changed his name to Boreman and drove a car off a cliff.”
* * *
—
The President moved quickly past his aides lining the short passageway into the White House press room. He stepped confidently up onto the platform and smiled an authoritative smile at the assembled press corps as he moved behind the podium bearing the Presidential seal. The spotlights were incredibly hot, but he did not show discomfort. That would have been suicide.
“Good evening. I’m sorry we’re running a little late, but things have been very hectic today, as you might imagine.” He spoke deliberately. “I will read a short statement and then take a few questions.” He paused to clear his throat. “Let me first say that the nation’s banking system is sound. Officials of the New York Federal Reserve have been meeting all day with senior management of the National Southern Bank. While that institution did experience some liquidity problems, we believe that depositors will be made whole.”
“When will it open again?” Someone screamed the question from the back.
The President shielded his eyes from the bright lights to determine who had been so brazen as to interrupt him in the middle of a prepared text. But he could not tell. He made a mental note to find out later from his aides so that he could have the reporter permanently barred from these briefings. It was probably the jerk from the Chronicle. “We believe it will reopen by the end of next week.”
A murmur raced through the room. Not until the end of next week—and from the sound of it the President wasn’t even certain on that point.
The President heard the murmur and the scribbling on notepads. “Look, NASO is a huge entity. Opening prematurely might be devastating….” Buford Warren tried to swallow the word. It was a stupid mistake.
“Devastating!” the same voice screamed from the back. “What does that mean? Devastating?” Other voices began to chime in, yelling questions at him in rapid fire.
“Hold it!” The President held up his arms and glanced into the television cameras nervously. How could he have been so stupid as to use the word devastating? “Just hold it! I will finish my prepared speech or I will take no questions.”
The press corps quieted slowly.
“The banking system is strong, and the Federal Reserve is in complete control of the situation. Enough said on that point. Second, I want to say that I am in no way connected to the events, to the raid on Lodestar Investment Management in the early hours of this morning. I have been acquainted with Victor Farinholt for many years, but I am not a close contact of his. My wife and I did invest money with his firm, in a blind trust, as have several Supreme Court justices as well as many Congresspeople, both Democrats and Republicans.” Warren smiled after finishing the last sentence, as if it automatically cleared him of any wrongdoing. “It is preposterous to think that I would try to influence anyone illegally or use any information to profit illegally.” Warren did not use the phrase “insider trading.” His aides had coached him well on this point. “That is all I have to say.”
The reporters began to scream, “Mr. President!” immediately.
Buford Warren glanced around the room through the wildly waving arms until he found Cynthia Drewes, White House correspondent for USA Today. Never had she written a harsh word in any of her columns about him or his politics. They had an understanding. She would set the tone. He smiled and pointed at her. The rest of the press corps quieted and sat as she rose.
Cynthia wasted no time. “Mr. President, please comment on the existence of the Lane Memo and the fact that it supposedly links you directly to insider trading.” Her voice was tough and determined.
The President stared at her and swallowed. The room was suddenly still—and frightening. It had always been a friendly place until today, a place where he could manipulate and charm. Not today. “I have no knowledge of this memo and really can’t comment.” He scanned the room and pointed immediately at Richard Ellet, columnist for the Washington Post and another heretofore friendly face.
Ellet rose slowly. “Mr. President, I’d like to follow up on Ms. Drewes’s ques
tion. Please tell us what you know about the Lane Memo, which supposedly discussed your call to Peter Lane requesting him to put you into Penn-Mar only days before the takeover.” Ellet’s voice was confrontational, as if he were irritated at the President for ducking Cynthia Drewes.
“It’s a matter under investigation. I can’t comment.” Buford Warren glanced helplessly at his aides, who were drawing their fingers across their necks and mouthing the words “cut it” over and over.
“Investigation?” Franklin Brenner, a senior staff reporter for the Wall Street Journal, exploded from his seat. “What investigation? Has a special prosecutor been named yet?”
“No, no, no!” The President waved his arms frantically across his face.
But it was too late. The room became chaotic as reporters, aides, camera crews, and the President began screaming hysterically. The words investigation and special prosecutor had cut the body wide open. The feeding frenzy had begun. And the Financial Chronicle reporter, sitting in the very back of the room—a position he had been relegated to since the early days of this administration—began to smile broadly. The President had always treated him like garbage because of his tough questions. Now the President was getting his.
* * *
—
Wendell Smith stared at the other members of the FOMC. It was almost midnight, and most of them had arrived in Washington less than an hour ago on hastily arranged charter flights. National Airport had remained open beyond its normal closing time to allow these flights to land. The faces were grim. Except for Harold Butler’s. He was smiling. Smith smiled back.
Butler leaned forward. He was going to knock that damn grin off of Smith’s face and have a wonderful time doing it. “Well, well. So, Wendell. Wallace Boreman is a prudent man.” His tone mocked Smith. “So prudent he drove himself off a cliff this afternoon rather than have to face the music about NASO. Or maybe you didn’t catch that on the late news.”
The Takeover Page 33
