Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  Kate nodded. “She’s gruff, but she’s been like a kind aunt to me.”

  “Can you tell me anything about her partnership? I know nothing, yet I’m about to dive in and swim amongst the sharks, so to speak.”

  “Some, though I’m far from an expert on stocks and bonds.”

  Stenman Partners managed, she said, a hedge fund that made leveraged bets on everything: stocks, bonds, currencies, and commodities. They went long all of these instruments—which meant they owned the asset. They also could short each asset category—which she explained was a transaction that allowed the fund to make money when the asset value went down, rather than up. “Shorting has something to do with borrowing stock, selling it, then buying it back later at a lower price. Don’t ask me how it all fits together, because I still don’t get it.”

  “That makes two of us,” Peter said.

  Kate next detailed some of Stenman’s overseas interests. “They’re aggressive, moving quickly as they acquire information from their global network. And the partnership is phenomenally successful. They have money flowing into and out of developed countries in addition to Eastern Europe and dozens of underdeveloped markets. Morgan is considered one of the most astute traders in the world.”

  “I noticed she speaks with a slight accent—maybe Slavic.”

  “You have a good ear. In the early nineteen-forties, according to my father—and I guess he ought to know—she escaped Poland. Her family was Jewish and she was rescued, but not her parents. The Nazis captured them and they disappeared.”

  Peter became enthralled by Morgan’s tale. She had no money when she arrived in the U.S. With a few poor relatives working in the navy yards in San Diego, she eventually made her way through U. C. Berkeley, then nurtured family contacts from Eastern Europe who had prospered after the war.

  “She began investing money for some of them,” Kate said. “Over time, her track record attracted international attention. The rest is history. Morgan and her staff get paid one percent of assets under management, plus twenty percent of profits.”

  “How much money does she manage?” Peter asked.

  “I’m not sure. She has dozens of offshore accounts, and the money flows in and out so fast from overseas that the amounts fluctuate, but at any one time, I’d say several billion in client funds are under management.”

  Peter whistled. “Say it’s five billion. The one-percent fee totals fifty million. If Morgan’s making as much money for her investors as people say, twenty percent of that would be what? Another four hundred million dollars? Maybe more. Who makes hundreds of millions of dollars a year?”

  “It sounds ludicrous, doesn’t it?” Kate said. “And you may have understated the amounts. It’s possible Morgan controls ten to fifteen billion dollars. Only she and a few close associates are privy to that information. Not even Father knows for sure.”

  The numerical insanity clotted Peter’s sensibilities enough that he felt mounting intimidation. Deal with it, he counseled himself.

  When they later left the restaurant and arrived at Kate’s Jag, Peter offered his hand. She shook her head and said, “I’m no longer a little girl.” Her voice then became breathy. “When you say goodnight to me, buster, you better do it right.”

  She yanked him from behind his neck, pulled, and kissed. Hard. A moment later, a grinning Kate slid into her sleek auto and drove away.

  Peter ran his tongue over his lips. Outstanding, he thought.

  Peter drifted down one of many sleepy streets towards his own cheapo-car. He peered into a bookstore, then jaywalked to the far side of Del Mar’s main boulevard. He stumbled past a local library in an old church building, a couple of real estate offices, and multiple stop signs. Families of four slept in suburban homes half a block away. A train, flying over a trestle, blew its whistle from the bluffs just west. The sound mingled with an ocean breeze that licked his skin with a light dew. The full moon illuminated his path.

  The wine. The company. The prospect of tomorrow’s employment adventure, all spun like an out-of-control top through his mind. Before dawn, he’d confront things he’d barely heard of: longs and shorts, puts and calls, bids, offers, index options, straddles, strips, futures, IPO’s, share repurchases, fixed incomes, foreign currency trading.

  More compelling than any of this was the wealth. Nobody at Stenman Partners had discovered a cure for anything—not cancer, not the common cold, not even a hangnail. But they earned four hundred million in income a year, maybe more, for betting on winning investments.

  “Am I selling out?” he wondered out loud.

  “No,” he announced to the street lamp. “Dad was a financial failure. Mom lived in a sinkhole of debt. Life is what it is.”

  He drifted farther down Del Mar’s main street. Rich people lived in Del Mar. Maybe one day he’d live in Del Mar or Rancho Santa Fe or La Jolla. Maybe he’d have a view of the ocean instead of the freeway. A block from his car, a woman with a small dog on a tight leash passed in the opposite direction. The cocker spaniel defecated in a patch of ice plant. The woman placed her hand in a plastic bag and scooped up the steaming feces while Peter’s head filled itself with foolish gratitude for cat litter boxes. The wine’s affecting my brain, he thought. Or maybe it was the kiss.

  In bed, twenty minutes later, he rubbed his moonstone hard enough to raise a blister.

  Carlos Nuñoz arrived at the compound at five a.m. Although the guards recognized him, they nonetheless held rifles at the ready.

  “Hola, Señor Nuñoz. Como está usted?”

  Carlos depressed the button activating the driver side window and said, “Bien. Y tú, Manuel?”

  “Muy bien. Gracias.”

  Manuel, like the 20 other mercenaries patrolling the parameter of the Guzman estate, wore an olive-green uniform, topped off by dark glasses and a soldier’s cap with a black brim and thin rope adornment across the front. Alongside him, a German shepherd lightly tugged against a steel leash.

  Manuel yanked a lever that popped open the trunk while the dog sniffed for material that might make a bomb. The dog also had the ability to detect drugs, though that skill had limited relevance with the recent changes in their mix of business. Manuel, his rifle slung over his right shoulder, next raised the panel housing the spare tire. He allowed the dog to poke its head inside. Both satisfied, they worked their way to the engine. Manuel reached beneath the hood, unhooking then lifting it. He and his friend next inspected the interior of the car, focusing on the space under the front and rear seats.

  A moment later, the guard used a mirror, mounted on a curved pole, to examine the chassis beneath the hundred-fifty thousand-dollar, steel-reinforced Mercedes sedan. Every car and guest underwent a similar methodical search, with absolutely no exceptions. The word trust had no meaning in this part of the world.

  “Gracias, Señor Nuñoz,” Manuel said as the arm of the barricade swung open.

  Carlos coasted through the gate and down the hundred-plus yards of driveway towards the sprawling Mission-style home. He loved Sarah Guzman and did not mind that she was an Anglo. He loved her intelligence. He also admired her estate, where every one of the thirty rooms had a view of the Pacific Ocean and her mile of private beach.

  He was loyal because she was unwavering. After the death of her husband, Sarah Guzman had become the family’s madama—the head of their house. And he believed in her black magic, the spell she held over men and women. Carlos wished, above all else, he could have been of her blood so he might have inherited her intelligence, been born of her loins, not his own mother’s disgusting choca.

  As he pulled his car up to the front door, an armed valet bowed and took his keys while Carlos fantasized how he would handle Sarah’s brother-in-law, Fernando Guzman. One thing he knew with certainty: Sarah Guzman’s solution to this uprising would be genius.

  Carlos approached the outer gate with its stone pillars and wrought iron spikes. When he snatched the lion’s paw door-knock and prepared to announce himse
lf, drops formed on his upper lip. Every time he arrived at this place and took in its unimaginable wealth, he felt humbled.

  Knocking, Carlos pointed his face at the camera mounted just inside the courtyard. The guard, already alerted by those at the front entrance, verified Carlos’ identity and buzzed him into the patio. A noisy fountain, spewing water from the mouths of posed statuettes—naked cupid-like creatures with tiny penises—greeted him as he stepped toward her house.

  He continued along an open-air esplanade lined with red tile and adobe archways. Above him, additional soldiers with high-powered weapons nodded in deference to him—as an important man, they respected him.

  Carlos turned, went up a flight of stairs, and down a second open walkway. A sea breeze, swirling off complex architectural angles, flowed through his slicked-back hair, parted with a razor’s edge on his right side— an extension of the long mound of tissue distorting his face.

  He signed the Catholic cross against his chest, whispered the words of the Holy Trinity, and knocked.

  A half-second later, she said, “Enter.”

  Carlos stood just inside the office door and waited. “We have three hundred million set up with a two-trade,” Sarah Guzman said into the phone. “Second broker-bank is First Cayman. They have booked a gain of three ten, looking to clear ten net of the transaction. Understood and acceptable.”

  Sarah listened to the voice on the other end, then said, “Yes. I am aware the Thai Baht declined eight percent last night. I agree. That is a good spot to book gains and build up the account value. Howard, I leave those details to you.”

  Sarah glanced over the top of her reading glasses at Carlos. She liked the boy and admired his intensity. He was her husband’s twenty-eight year-old nephew, and one of several bright family members she retained after Enriqué Guzman had died three years ago. Short at under five-foot-seven, Carlos had pockmarked and oily skin but a lean, strong body. Because of his looks, he became her husband’s least favorite relative—another reason for her deep affection.

  Sarah sat behind a hand-carved mesquite desk. In a corner, an arched adobe fireplace showcased a bonfire that roasted every corner of her thousand square foot office. Fur area rugs—glass-eyed brown bear and mountain lion—warmed the Spanish tiles beneath an umbrella of oak beams crisscrossing a peeked ceiling. She noted the raised tissue zippering across Carlos’ right temple and down his cheek, chin, and neck—the result of a knife-fight at the age of twelve. The boy received a disfigurement, but his two attackers had landed in paupers’ graves. Since that day, Carlos had no annoying second thoughts when doing whatever she found necessary to maintain order.

  He removed his aviator sunglasses and slid them into a breast pocket.

  Once she hung up, Sarah said, “That was Howard Muller. We have moved another four hundred from our Tijuana friends to our investment partners.”

  Carlos only nodded. Sarah understood he disliked Muller. So did she, but, to her, likes and dislikes had nothing to do with business. She hoped the tension between these men never boiled over. It would be such an unfortunate mess.

  “I understand that the aftermath of the Cannodine and Drucker affair has been satisfactory,” she said.

  “Si, señora. We have laid those matters to rest.”

  “Good.” The only thing Sarah regretted about that unfortunate affair had been the necessity of sacrificing the man calling himself Zerets. On several occasions in the past, he had proven an asset. But, better than anyone, she understood unpleasant choices sometimes had to be made for the long-run good. Still, she grew angry when slip-ups demanded such sacrifice.

  “Now,” she continued, shaking free of these thoughts, “you indicated another matter required my attention.”

  “Regretfully, yes. Fernando Guzman.”

  “My husband’s brother? He is causing problems again?”

  “Si. He tells the family he is tired of your ascendancy. He calls you a gringa who married his brother and stole the family business. He says we should never have forsaken the old ways. That you need to be replaced.”

  “He wishes to go back to the dangers of brokering drugs when we can broker money, safely, more profitably? He is a dangerous fool.”

  “I agree. What would you have me do?”

  Against Sarah’s snowy skin and white hair, rage appeared like a red mask, flaming her cheeks. She considered the situation for a moment. “You will get a large, wooden box. It will have enough space to fit Fernando Guzman and three days’ water and food. You will put a hole in that box. You will attach an eight-foot pipe—a hollow pole—to that hole. Air will flow through, just enough to keep the traitor from suffocating. You will bury that box, with Fernando in it, six feet deep, in a cool, shaded spot that no person will pass by. Like our Lord Jesus, on the third day—that is, after three complete days and nights—you will take several of the family members on a picnic near that shady grave. You will comment on that pole, poking from the ground. You will organize the men and dig until you solve this mystery. When you uncover the box, with my dead husband’s stupid brother, you will open it. Before you raise Fernando from the dead, you will tell him: ‘It is a lucky thing Sarah Guzman suggested this picnic.’ He will understand.”

  “This is a good plan, Tía. I believe we cannot kill the fool, lest we create additional dissension. Some do not believe your husband, Enriqué, committed suicide—that such a devout Catholic would allow his soul to be damned.”

  “They believe a man, such as my husband, would buy and sell drugs, and have men murdered for stealing a gram of cocaina, but would not commit suicide?”

  “Indeed. It is loquera. Still, you make a wise and merciful solution to the problem of Fernando.”

  “You will have no trouble completing this task?”

  “None. I will use people unknown to the family.”

  The rumble of thunder gave a gentle shake to the house, while the scent of ozone filtered through the window.

  “That is good, Carlos,” Sarah said. “Since we have now completed our business, feel free to help yourself to food—the cook has put out fruit, breads, an ample bounty in the sitting room. If you wish to avoid the approaching storm, stay here today and tonight. My home is, as always, your home.”

  “Muchas gracias.” Carlos bowed and backed away.

  As did most of their conversations, this one ended with many unspoken understandings.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FROM THE AGE OF THIRTEEN, PETER HAD WORKED AT LEAST TEN FIRST-days on the job. His various occupations had included construction, gardening, motel clerk, camp counselor, and a host of other non-memorables whose only attraction was the paycheck that kept him marginally solvent. But this represented more than simply a new job. It was a high-paying job for which he had little grounding. It was also something he sorely needed.

  For six hours, Peter spun in his bed, filled with the anticipation of a runner, waiting endlessly for the starter’s pistol to fire. His mind, reviewing and re-reviewing future roads he might travel down, allowed little more than a snippet of sleep. He didn’t mind, though. He had almost enjoyed the agony of the long night, filled with the anticipation of the upcoming day. If this were any normal day, he would have been exhausted from a night of tossing and turning. Instead, he now felt like he could put his feet together and vibrate his way to Stenman’s offices. A gallon of adrenaline guaranteed that fatigue would not be part of today’s agenda.

  Instructed to arrive at half past five, Peter didn’t mind the predawn start. He knew the New York Stock Exchange closed at one in the afternoon on the West Coast, so that meant early in, early out. Maybe leave by three or at the latest four and still be able to put in ten or eleven hours’ work. After turning off North Torrey Pines Road onto a two-lane private road, he encountered an automatic gate-arm beside an enclosed guard post. Once he stopped, a floodlight beamed through his window. Cupping his hands over his brow, Peter rolled his window down. Appearing, rather than arriving, a lanky man—looking like a dril
l sergeant—asked, “You are . . . ?”

  “Peter Neil. A new employee.”

  The man produced a clipboard, ran an index finger down the page, then said, “I need to see a picture I. D.”

  Peter caught a glimpse of a holstered pistol, looking so natural on the man’s erect body that it might have been a piece of bone. Peter fumbled to find his driver’s license before handing it over.

  “Credit card, please.”

  “What’s this all—”

  “Credit card. Please.”

  “Sure, but why all the security?”

  The guard ignored the question.

  “You may retrieve these at the end of the day. We will run a check concurrent with your other tests.”

  The guard shoved a form and pen under Peter’s nose. Peter signed and continued on. He drove past pine trees towering over yucca and cactus, all groomed to look natural. Etched into an overhanging copper-coated roof, the letters S. P. were the only indication Stenman Partners owned the building. Having grown up a few miles east, Peter thought he knew this area. He was wrong. He never imagined such a fortress existing off the main road leading past Torrey Pines State Park and Golf Course. The building exterior—beautifully crafted in natural stone—looked sturdy enough to qualify as a bomb shelter, or, more accurately, a West Coast version of Fort Knox. The image of his pockets full of gold coins flashed through Peter’s hyper-kinetic brain. Despite arriving thirty minutes earlier than he’d been told to, the parking lot was already half-full. Peter’s VW looked ridiculous beside six-figure works of automotive art.

  Although sunrise was half an hour off, spotlights chased away all hint of shadow. As Peter approached on foot from where he parked, the nighttime dew traced his face like an icy sweat, the wind snapped his loose cotton slacks, and he angled a shoulder to ward off the draft. Still a hundred feet away, he spotted two armed guards, looking as hard as bronze. The sight made him wary. One man simply stared, his head immobile. The other glanced side to side as if he had a nervous tic or head palsy. Had he landed in Russia as a suspected spy? Was he marching into Sing Sing? The questions didn’t seem so outrageous as Peter kept a steady pace, feeling the closed circuit cameras observing him like a hundred eyes, peering at him from the carport, every third or fourth light post, and the building front.