Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  “This is Sarah Guzman, an associate,” Stenman said.

  Peter stepped forward and took her hand. “It is . . .” her delicate fingers felt almost hot enough to burn . . . “it is nice to meet you,” Peter said, unable to manufacture anything other than a pat greeting. With his face stained red, he felt foolish as he tried to guess her age: anywhere from thirty to forty. He wished she had returned his light smile with one of her own.

  “I am one of Morgan’s partners and an associate of hers for many years. She thinks one day you might be one of the great ones, if you are willing to make the necessary sacrifices. Are you willing, Mr. Neil?”

  “Yes,” he said, wondering why she was attending this meeting. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Stenman filled a chair, leaning her cane against the outside of the armrest. She nodded to Sarah. “We asked our PC analyst to review your findings,” Sarah said. “He did some checking and now agrees with your conclusions. I reprimanded him for his lazy habits.”

  Peter sighed. He had to prove nothing now. So why did Muller have to be such an ass?

  “I’m grateful you listened to me,” Peter said, his comments directed to Stenman.

  Sarah Guzman glided to the wet bar and began mixing drinks. A glass of Chardonnay for herself. A Perrier for Stenman. “Peter,” she said. “Double Jack, a splash, two ice-cubes?”

  “Yes. Jack. Just that way,” he replied, wondering how she knew. He accepted the drink, sipped, and watched Sarah deliver Stenman’s water. He sipped again.

  “As I said,” he began, “I’m pleased you listened to my analysis. Better lucky than smart, I guess.”

  “You are too modest, Peter, and it is we who are grateful,” Sarah said. “Never before has someone so new to our organization contributed so much.”

  Morgan Stenman only nodded. In all the time Peter had known her, Stenman never said much. He marveled at how she seemed a master at having others speak on her behalf, as if telepathically directing the show. When Stenman blinked twice in rapid succession, Sarah continued: “This will be a multiple hundred million-dollar swing to the partnership. Tomorrow, Howard Muller will commence covering his short position. Once he has done so, you are free to initiate a long position. Morgan has authorized two hundred million additional to your trading book.”

  Peter gulped more bourbon. “But I’ve never taken a position over thirty million,” he said.

  Stenman spoke: “Do you know what the average bonus will be this year, for those in your trading room?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “It will average over a million.” With that statement, Stenman went back to sipping water.

  “I had no . . .” Peter’s head shook, and his Adam’s apple danced in his throat.

  “Bonuses always have a component of seniority,” Sarah said, picking up where Stenman left off. “Loyalty pays dividends. But with this PC transaction of yours, and a few other projects Morgan intends to put you on, you will be up there.”

  While Peter stood in stunned silence, Sarah Guzman reached for an envelope lying on the dining table. She opened it. “Having said that,” she began as if given a self-delivered cue, “this is a convenient time to discuss another matter.”

  Peter tried to force a pleasant face. Looking at her made his pulse race so fast he felt winded.

  “You are loyal, correct?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Peter said without hesitation.

  Sarah’s short brown skirt hiked as she moved towards him with slow, fine steps. She had white legs. Light glanced off one knee and highlighted a dark freckle that caught Peter’s attention for a split second. When she stood beside him, she seemed a foot taller than her four-foot-eleven inch-es—she had a way of cocking and swaying her head so that she drew a man’s attention down. In her hand she held an enlarged photo, but the image was turned away from Peter. Drops of sweat confirmed to him that something about this situation had activated his autonomous nervous system.

  Stenman made her way to the dining table. She picked up a miniature toasted cracker—Beluga caviar was painted across its face in a heavy mound. Sarah waited for her to turn around before continuing. “We have had so much unwarranted attention over the years. The President of the United States calls Morgan Stenman the ‘epitome of the American Dream.’ He phones to ask for advice on economic and foreign affairs, even while the SEC harasses her.”

  “I understand,” Peter lied.

  “Then please, explain this to me . . . to us.” Sarah waved the flopping photograph like a fan.

  As Peter looked down at the outstretched hand—the faces on the photo damnably visible—his heart froze.

  “This man spends his life attempting to ruin us. He works without agency sanction. Perhaps,” Sarah said, “you could help us understand what he thinks he is after.”

  Peter attempted to respond, but first needed another sip of whiskey. While his brain unscrambled the implications, he stared at the man in the photo, standing over his table.

  You filthy SOB, he silently swore.

  Carlos Nuñoz, in room 203, watched Peter’s expressions on the closed circuit television and listened, not so much to his words, as to the way he said them. When Peter left, a half-hour’s explanation later, Carlos entered the room where the two women waited.

  “Nada. He knows nothing,” Carlos said. “At least not yet. Dawson’s visit was a fishing expedition—no contact between the two since.”

  Stenman nodded.

  “I also agree,” Sarah said. “But if he ever learns anything, this could become a serious matter. Two of your operatives had to be dealt with because of what Hannah Neil provided the SEC.”

  “Fortunately not a material loss,” Stenman said.

  Carlos traced the scar lining his face, fingering the thickened skin as if it were a prize instead of a hideous wound. He remained silent, not yet contributing additional analysis.

  “But Dawson,” Sarah Guzman said, simultaneously looking at both Stenman and Carlos, “is kicking around because he believes more information exists and that Peter Neil might be a source.”

  Stenman exhaled a stream of smoke.

  Sarah took a seat and crossed her legs. “It is possible Hannah Neil had more documents to implicate a wider network of your contacts. That would translate into serious disruptions. She might even have had documents implicating us directly. It is the unknowns I find troubling.”

  “What have you discovered about Agent Dawson’s visit?” Stenman asked.

  “He acted on his own,” Sarah said. “Took time off, paid his own way. But it is clear he has identified Hannah Neil as the one who sent him those papers. Once we realized Dawson had requested and received his copies from the lab, we anticipated this development.”

  “Have you given any thought to taking care of this agent?” asked Stenman. It was clearly Carlos’ question to answer.

  Carlos glanced at Sarah without moving his head or blinking his eyes. She nodded, and Carlos redirected his attention to Stenman.

  “Sí, señora,” Carlos said, measuring his words, “but it would be a mistake. We cannot simply eliminate a man in his position, for the same reasons we did not make an example of Señora Neil. Atención. We do not crave unwarranted atención.”

  “Atención?” Stenman asked.

  Carlos looked to Sarah. “Carlos is saying that people like Dawson cannot be dealt with in the same manner as others because of his visibility. He is now contained, and we do not wish to put a spotlight on him by eliminating him. It is best to give him a little more rope and let him hang himself.”

  “Continue,” Stenman instructed.

  “The Director of Enforcement will be made aware of the man’s numerous departmental violations,” Carlos said. “That should put him in a most uncomfortable position. It is Señor Neil we need to concentrate on now. If they prove necessary, we have backup plans. I give the credit to my uncle’s wife.” Carlos bowed to Sarah.

  “Let’s just say that if need be, we will tu
rn sympathy away from Peter Neil,” Sarah said.

  “The details are not my concern,” Stenman said, sipping her beverage. “Let’s see how Peter reacts over the coming days. He will be made to decide if he is in, or if he is out.”

  “And don’t forget Freeman Ranson,” Sarah added. “He swears Dawson is at a dead end. When the director learns of his renegade activities, according to Ranson, he will be suspended or dismissed.”

  “Maybe,” Carlos said.

  “You are skeptical,” Stenman said.

  “It is my nature,” Carlos replied. “I do believe Señor Neil has nothing now, but that may change one day.”

  “Let’s see what happens,” Stenman again suggested. “In the meantime, he seems close to Jason Ayers. I will encourage Jason to monitor the boy.”

  Carlos rose, went to stand behind Sarah, and put a hand on the back of her chair. “Now,” he said, “I wish to discuss another important matter: Señor Muller. I believe your CIO is a risk.”

  Sarah nodded in Stenman’s direction, an indication that she agreed with Carlos. She then stood, withdrew to the bar, poured a second glass of wine, sipped, and watched.

  “You have a concern?” Stenman asked, showing no hint of surprise.

  “Sí, señora. He is unstable. Did you know he has a wife? A Japanese woman. He keeps her a prisoner in his house. She is esclava.”

  Stenman looked to Sarah.

  “Esclava: slave. His wife is a slave—he treats her savagely. I have no sympathy for abuse of physically weaker beings.”

  “I understand.” A slight frown worked its way onto Stenman’s face. Sarah’s father, Stenman recalled, had been an original investor, and Stenman had known Sarah since she was a young girl. How her father could have done those things to Sarah was beyond comprehension, and for his despicable acts, Stenman hated the very memory of David Brigston. That Sarah had usually directed her brutality towards powerful men, including her eradicated father, and her vanquished husband, came as no surprise, Stenman thought.

  As Stenman’s attention refocused on their conversation, Carlos continued, “Not only that, but Muller gives too many interviews. He is drawing attention to himself. I understand he has reached a deal to have a ghost-writer author his autobiography.”

  “He has crossed that fine line,” Sarah agreed with Carlos, “between positive publicity—humanitarian aid, testimony to Congress on matters of national significance, even the occasional interview—and dangerous self-promotion. He touts his investment performance, never suggesting that he may have taken a significant loss on a position.”

  At the head of the long dining room table, Stenman faced the other two and nodded. “We must not appear omniscient. But, Carlos, I know your personal animosity towards Howard. This remains strictly business, I trust.”

  “What we do—in our business—must have a rationale that puts our business first. His actions do not. That is why he is a risk.”

  “I agree we need to maintain discipline,” Morgan said.

  “And to directly answer your question, Señora Stenman, business is always business. I hold that first and foremost. If he becomes a larger liability, I may come to you one day and . . .” Carlos shrugged, his arms and hands bent out and up.

  “That is our relationship,” Stenman said. “We discuss problems and solutions. Hopefully, all these matters will get resolved in an unspectacular manner. If not, then not. Now, are we settled on this?”

  “Yes.” Sarah spoke for both herself and Carlos.

  “We have another matter to take up this evening. After we have had our dinner, Mr. Ayers will join us to explain more fully. I have initiated a new system of fund transfer that will require us to open new banking accounts.”

  “New accounts?” Sarah asked, taking her seat. “Our system—your system—has proven effective. When regulators have sought to understand our activities, they have become lost. Why the change?”

  “This process will allow us to move money instantly, by phone.”

  Sarah shook her head. “With maximum security?”

  Stenman nodded.

  A knock on the door interrupted them. Stenman looked at the screen to her right. A waiter stood with a room service tray stacked with aluminum domes, waiting to begin serving dinner. She activated the door. After setting out smoked salmon and fresh sliced vegetables, the waiter disappeared.

  Once the door clicked and locked shut, Sarah picked up where they left off. “How is this transfer possible?”

  “Mr. Ayers will explain in detail, but it involves biometrics—speech recognition.”

  “This is reliable?” Carlos asked, holding a fork with a slice of pink fish.

  “Yes,” Stenman said. “I am satisfied. We provide specific voice instructions to our banks. They include a statement of transfer, and the account numbers. When we phone in, and after we key in account information, we provide precise verbal instructions. An unauthorized voice will freeze the account. The machinery recognizes our voice patterns, intonations . . . it is as good as fingerprinting.”

  “If what you say is correct,” Sarah continued, “this means that in the event of an investigation, you could empty all accounts in minutes. Move every penny to other locations.”

  Stenman again nodded. “If you agree, we will set up these accounts over the next days and weeks.”

  “I like the concept,” Sarah said. “Let’s eat. After, I look forward to learning more.”

  “On another matter,” Stenman began, her tone light, her accent nonexistent. “I believe Mr. Neil was captivated by you.” Her mouth widened. “But then, what man isn’t?”

  “Only my nephew—” Sarah winked at Carlos and couldn’t resist a rare smile “—and, of course, my husband’s brother, Fernando. He does not much care for me, does he, Carlos?”

  Stenman didn’t understand why, but Carlos began an unholy laugh. She had never seen the ugly boy express even a molecule of happiness before this. The cackle was joy, laced with evil. For several seconds, Carlos remained lost in whatever hilarity possessed him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JASON AYERS STUFFED HIS BRIEFCASE WITH MATERIALS EXPLAINING HOW speech recognition worked. This was to be a $20 million investment in equipment so expensive and state-of-the-art as to be out of the reach of practically anyone in the world—Stenman excepted. With billions passing through the hedge fund’s doors, and a ten- to twenty-percent performance fee regularly siphoned off, an investment that hurtled funds to the correct offshore accounts at electronic speed was worth ten times the price. Not to mention the additional attractiveness to those wishing to export assets. Ayers finished his scotch and poured himself another. He looked out the library window at the half-moon and stars.

  “So many mistakes,” he said to himself. “Too late.”

  How had he arrived at this sorry state? Thirty years with Morgan Stenman, that’s how. In the beginning, he set up tax havens for her. In the mid-eighties, things changed. The markets came alive and everybody seemed anxious to sell information, to get their piece of the pie. With Stenman’s international connections, the world was hers for the plucking, and she plucked away with unbridled enthusiasm and success. It proved so damn easy. She started in a big way with her Eastern European connections, many of whom had relocated to Australia, where they owned and ran companies—and seemed eager to share their insights with her.

  Then came the development of unregulated third-world markets— Latin America, Russia, the other countries of the former Soviet Union, and Asia. Stenman’s hundred million dollars in humanitarian contributions made for good public relations, but were much more valuable as down-payments on political influence and information. She owned a piece of important people in every corner of the world.

  The seduction of Jason Ayers had been both methodical and incremental. First, he defended Stenman and her funds from prosecution—that was his job. Next, he helped shelter certain activities by setting up offshore havens, thus avoiding future prosecution. Done with civility
, these activities amounted to rule-bending rather than law-breaking—at least until the Russian Syndicate—the Mafiya—and the South American cartel monies came in and raised the stakes. With this current crop of client, things had grown beyond dangerous. Amoral operatives dealt in drugs, carbines, submachine guns, missiles, uranium, biological weaponry, and everything else deadly and illegal that brought in big money. With their billion-dollar-a-week cash flows, these criminal financiers needed to launder funds, and thought nothing of eliminating life to protect their interests: Hannah Neil, Erik Cannodine, Stanley Drucker, and hundreds of others. Each elimination sent a message to others: Don’t fuck with us. Ayers knew they owned him, now and forever. They held his family as leverage. Everybody’s family was leverage. Even if he wanted to, he would never find a way out.

  He clamped shut his briefcase, stood, put his eyeglasses on, buttoned his coat, smoothed his hair. A legal robot, programmed to do whatever the hell they told him to do. He and his partners were automatons, at the beck and call of Morgan Stenman and, more recently, Sarah Guzman. Soulless machines, they all pretended to be above the fray, but actually operated in a world of legal nihilism.

  The phone rang, stabbing his eardrums. Ayers hated evening calls. He had phoned Hannah repeatedly the night she’d died, never reaching her. Since then, death and murder hung in the air each and every night, permeating his brain with the stench of ether.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. He picked up but gave no greeting.

  “Father?”

  Thank God. It was Kate.

  “Daddy? Are you there?”

  His heart melted. She hadn’t called him “Daddy” since childhood.

  “Hello, Sweetheart,” he said. “I was just on my way out. A meeting. Is everything okay?”

  “I passed the Bar. I’m a lawyer.”

  Ayers collapsed into a leather-bound chair. “That is wonderful news. I am . . . what am I? More than happy. I am speechless. What are your plans?”