by Steven Gore
“Then there really are assets of two trillion dollars held by Relative Growth?”
Harris ignored the questioner, but answered the question from his prepared remarks.
“We’ve spent over fifty million dollars to obtain four independent audits of the holdings of the funds.”
Kahn cut him off. “That just means you kept moving money around so it would be counted over and over.”
Harris now acknowledged him.
“What paper are you with?” Harris asked, his face flushing. “The Socialist Workers Gazette?” He paused, then jabbed a forefinger at Kahn. “I told you, the assets are there.”
“Then open your books.”
“So everyone in the world can imitate us? So every day trader in the world gets the results of hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of research for free? “ Harris raised his forefinger. “Our advantage over others-our only advantage-in the world of finance is our ability to identify opportunities and capitalize on them before anyone else even figures out they exist. Opening our books is the same thing as revealing our trade secrets.”
Harris glanced back at Lucille Nonini, head of AccountCorp Worldwide. “You want to take this? “
Nonini stepped up next to Harris.
“We’ve looked at the books,” Nonini said. “And we did a lot more than that, more than any accounting firm or group of accounting firms ever has. In a matter of a week, we fielded five thousand accountants throughout the world who took simultaneous snapshots of all of the funds’ holdings. There was no opportunity to move money around or transfer assets from one account to another.”
Harris leaned over the podium and pointed at Kahn.
“The kind of false accusations that you and others have made triggered redemption demands by our clients and the only way to dissuade them was to disclose more about our investment strategy than even our investors have the right to know.”
A couple of reporters laughed. Others shook their heads.
Harris’s face flushed and he pounded the top of the podium. “Investors have a right to a share of our profits, not to our methods.”
“What about off-balance-sheet liabilities like Citibank hid in structured investment vehicles?”
Harris shook his head and glared down as though he was about to throw aside the podium and jump Kahn.
“Read… my… lips. There’s nothing-nothing-that’s not included on our balance sheet.”
Harris thinks he’s telling the truth, Gage thought, but it couldn’t be true. There was no way they could’ve kept paying out dividends unless they were doing it with other investors’ money. Not throughout the massive economic upheavals of the last decade. And calling them chaos funds, as Harris and Minsky usually did, wasn’t an explanation, it was just a label, a marketing gimmick.
The camera operator seemed to anticipate that the next question would come from Kahn and framed his face.
Kahn glanced at the camera, the attention seeming to act as an invitation.
“What about liabilities? “ Kahn asked.
Harris rolled his eyes and said, “What do you think the bottom line of an audit is composed of? It’s assets minus liabilities.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m asking about liabilities arising out of complex derivatives. If no one has developed a method of pricing them, then how can anyone estimate the liabilities that arise out of holding them? “
Minsky walked forward. Harris stepped to the side.
“We’re a hedge fund,” Minsky said, “and hedging means, among other things-and without giving away our trade secrets and intellectual property-that we take countervailing positions. One part of the economy goes down, another goes up. One currency depreciates, another appreciates.”
Minsky smiled as though he was dismissing a waiter who’d splashed the water onto the tablecloth as he poured it from a pitcher.
“In any case,” Minsky said, “they’re not all that complex and therefore not that hard to value.”
A camera again focused on Kahn’s face, but he remained silent. Gage didn’t think he was alone in seeing in Kahn’s eyes not the aggression he’d displayed before, but a kind of dread. Minsky’s answer had been too simple, his manner had been too slick, and if he was lying, Relative Growth would someday collapse and take the world economy with it. The camera drew back, displaying Kahn standing alone, like a man at the seashore watching an approaching tsunami.
Gage looked from them to the drying notebook and the SIM and memory cards and suspected that the answers about Relative Growth that those at the press conference were searching for might lie concealed before him on the table. He looked at his watch. In another twelve hours he’d know what was in there, Faith would be out of China, and he’d be on his way back to New York and to the beginning of another trailhead.
CNN cut away to the floods in Paris.
Gage turned down the sound, but left the picture on in case coverage continued. He then went into the bathroom and retrieved an electric hair dryer and then returned and focused the streaming heat on the back of the notebook.
The television screen flashed red and white with breaking news: “Mine Collapse in China.”
Gage reached for the remote and increased the volume. An earthquake aftershock in Sichuan Province had triggered the cave-in. Three hundred miners were trapped and feared crushed or asphyxiated. The satellite image on the monitor behind the announcer disappeared, replaced by a grainy and jumpy cell phone video, wives and mothers screaming and weeping on either side of the mine entrance, PLA troops using plastic shields to create barriers to hold them back. The area was gray with mist and low clouds.
It cut to young men rocking a black Land Rover, the bodies of the suited men inside jerking around, shoulders and heads smashing into the windows and against one another. Soldiers stood at the perimeter, not intervening. The SUV went up on two wheels, then back down. Up on two wheels again, then back down, bouncing and rocking when it hit the ground. Then up again on two wheels, hesitating, balancing, then slamming onto its side and mud splattering and men climbing up and stomping on the glass The image was replaced with another. An old woman, tears flowing, staring at the camera as though she knew the world was watching. The voice-over translation failing to capture the fury in her words and tone.
“They all knew… everyone knew it would collapse.” She jabbed her hand at an unseen enemy. “They forced the men to work. Work or starve. Work or die.”
Gage knew from growing up in Southern Arizona that what she really meant was: work and die. The trapped and dead were no different than the Mexican zinc and copper miners in the 1950s, paid cheap wages to keep the white workers’ wages depressed, forced to work unprotected in the dust, their union leaders beaten and murdered, those who chronicled their struggle in print and film arrested Gage reached for his cell phone.
Faith answered his question before he had a chance to ask it. “The van is on its way now.”
“And you?”
“Yes. I’m going, too.”
Gage stifled a sigh. She didn’t need to carry the burden of his worry with her as she fled.
“We’ll be traveling out by way of-“
“Stop,” Gage said, “I think my calls are being intercepted.”
Faith didn’t respond right away. Gage grasped that she was trying to think of a way to communicate something indirectly.
Finally she said, “Maybe mine are, too, but that’s just an amateur’s opinion.”
That was the expression they would use when one of them came up with an idea that would help the other in his work.
“Gotcha,” Gage said. “E-mail me when you get to an area where there’s Internet access. Use the same encryption code that we use to send our financial information.”
After Faith disconnected, Gage noticed a slight corner separation midway through Hennessy’s notebook. He walked into the kitchen and retrieved a fillet knife, then laid the book on its spine. He eased the thin blade in the open
ing and rocked it back and forth, separating the pages, taking care not to slice into them as he slid along the top edge. As he made the turn, he noticed the sharp-edged corner of what seemed to be a thicker square of paper inside. But as he moved the knife farther, it hit a patch of paper that had disintegrated into pulp, a border at least a quarter of an inch deep. He resisted the urge to push on and force the blade edge through it. He couldn’t take a chance that it would rip away salvageable writing. And for all he knew, it was just a baggage claim check or a train ticket.
He withdrew the point and set the knife down on the table, then once again propped the notebook up, directing the heater toward the inside and hair dryer toward the outside.
Staring at it, he was certain there was something inside that would lead him to Hani Ibrahim and to whatever it was that Hennessy wanted to tell Milton Abrams, but it wasn’t yet ready to reveal itself.
He looked down at Hennessy’s SIM and memory cards. He had less hope for them, for the circuits of both might’ve blown when the rain that soaked through Hennessy’s trench coat had shorted out his phone. And that wasn’t all. Hennessy would’ve encrypted whatever he had stored on the memory card and it might take Alex Z days to break in.
Gage wedged the hair dryer between two serving bowls, then rose and walked to the window. The last of the fishing boats were powering into the harbor, invisible except for their running lights and the winking of glass and chrome against the shore lights and flashing buoys.
Encrypted. The word echoed in his mind. Encrypt. Decrypt. Crypt. Cryptic.
He turned back and stared at the table. If the files on the memory card were encrypted, the notes on those pages would be vague and veiled, their substance concealed in a form that Hennessy would think that only he could understand. And if he had been mentally unstable, or even distraught, they’d be incomprehensible, or worse, misleading and they’d send Gage searching down a trail with no end.
CHAPTER 52
Watching water evaporate,” Gage answered Milton Abrams. His call had come in as Gage was washing his dinner dishes.
“You’re being a little cryptic,” Abrams said.
Gage crooked the phone between his neck and shoulder and dried his hands.
“I have to be for a while,” Gage said. “Is Viz around?”
“He’s in the kitchen cooking chili for lunch. You want to talk to him?”
“Just tell him I’ll call him in half a minute.”
Gage disconnected, then retrieved his encrypted cell phone from his jacket pocket.
Viz answered the first ring.
“How’s Abrams behaving?” Gage asked.
“His sex life seems to be suffering, but otherwise he’s okay.”
“Anybody show up to take Anthony Gilbert’s place?”
“Seems so. One of his gofers has taken over. Davey Hicks. He has a New York PI license, but only subcontracts for others. I learned from a guy I worked with in the DEA who’s now gone private that Hicks is a nose-to-the-ground grunt. Cash up front. No questions asked. Fired from NYPD three years ago for shooting a suspect in the back.”
“How good is he at surveillance?”
“I don’t know yet. We’ve only been going to public places so I haven’t needed to try to evade him.”
“With Gilbert out of the way, this is probably his big break.” Gage thought for a moment. “But that may depend on who hired him. It’s likely that it was Gilbert, but we don’t know for certain. He could’ve been hired by Abrams’s wife, trying to find out who he was sleeping with. The fact that she’s not talking to him doesn’t mean that she’s not watching him.”
Gage heard Abrams’s voice in the background.
“Let me talk to him,” Gage said.
“Here,” Viz said to Abrams.
“Why the Dick Tracy phone? “ Abrams asked.
“My calls are being intercepted. It could be at this end or as they pass through switching stations in the States. And Faith’s are being intercepted at her end by the PLA. She’s been helping the leader of the Chengdu uprising expose corruption in the area.”
“The one the press is calling Old Cat? “
“The PLA is using him to let a hundred thorns bloom.”
“Now it makes sense,” Abrams said. “I get it.”
“Now what makes sense?”
“I got a call from CIA Director Casher yesterday. He’d also called the vice president and the secretary of state saying we may want to respond to the big Chinese media blitz at the Davos World Economic Forum this week, accusing the U.S. of trying to undermine their economy. He’s calling it their Whine, with a ‘wh,’ and Dine Strategy.”
Gage now wondered whether it was the CIA that was intercepting Faith’s calls and if they’d gotten on to her because they’d been listening in on him. He stared out of the kitchen window at telephone and power lines illuminated by a streetlight and swaying in the breeze, and imagined the air around him crisscrossed with signals, some intersecting, some dodging and bending and fighting off attacks.
“I don’t think it’s entirely whine,” Gage said. “We’ve gathered almost enough information to get the CEOs of RAID and Spectrum and a dozen others indicted for violations of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act and I suspect the CIA has filled in the empty boxes on our flowchart.”
“With the underlying threat that we better make some trade concessions or they’ll start painting bull’s-eyes on all of the corporate heads in the U.S.”
“And Europe.”
“If they start naming names and banks and accounts and amounts,” Abrams said, “the Hong Kong stock market will crash the next morning, followed by the rest of the exchanges one time zone at a time.”
“I take it that Casher didn’t mention that part.”
“No. He just said to stand by for an update.”
“Why was he talking to Wallace instead of the president?”
“I wondered the same thing, then I saw on the news that today is the president’s annual physical. After that he’ll be exercising with schoolkids and then giving a speech announcing a new commission on obesity.” Abrams snorted. “If I was him I’d worry more about our gorging on debt rather than our gorging on fried chicken.”
Gage didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the mood for either an economic tirade or sarcasm, not with Batkoun Benaroun lying in a Marseilles hospital with a bullet lodged next to his spine, the latest in a trail of casualties that might lead to Abrams’s doorstep.
Might lead.
Now Gage wasn’t so certain. He looked through the kitchen door at the dining room table. Only then did he hear the hum of the heater and the hair dryer.
“Let me call you back,” Gage said. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“Are you any closer to finding Ibrahim?” Abrams asked.
“That’s what I’m in the middle of.”
“You’re being cryptic again.”
“Let’s keep it that way, at least until I’ve found him.”
Gage disconnected and walked over and inspected Hennessy’s notebook. The narrow opening had widened as the surrounding sheets had dried. He retrieved tweezers from the bathroom and tilted the top edge of the notebook toward the lamp next to the table and reached into the space and tugged at the square of paper. He felt it pull free from the opposite side, then he worked it back and forth up the gap. First a white glossy border appeared, the gray of concrete, then the black of leather shoes and laces, then the brown of socks and cuffs, the slacks splotched with water or The photograph slipped free of its sheath. It was blood.
Gage stared at the mutilated body. Its arms bound with wire that cut into the skin. Its shirt torn exposing a chest pocked with burns. The slacks pulled down to its knees. But the face was untouched, eyes dulled with death, mouth open as if he’d died with a last gasp.
Gage opened the MIT brochure that he’d gotten from
Goldie Goldstein and matched the portrait of Ibrahim to the face in the photo.
It was
him. There could be no doubt.
A newspaper lay next to the body. The International Herald Tribune. The photo on the cover showed the French president greeting the world’s central bankers in Marseilles on the day before Abrams was to meet Hennessy.
The message was clear. Hennessy couldn’t have missed it. There was no need for words, for an explanation, or an accusation, or a threat.
In his pursuit of Ibrahim, Hennessy had forced someone’s hand, and they’d used it to torture Ibrahim to death and then aimed the photograph like a sickle to slash at the fragile membrane that had shielded Hennessy from the abyss.
CHAPTER 53
Tabari waited in the hallway of Hospital St. Joseph’s ICU with his uncle’s retired colleagues while Gage entered the room alone. Even in the semidarkness, the sterility shocked him, offended him. The unforgiving stainless steel. The disposable plastics. The starched sheets. The cool air. The caustic stink of disinfectant. The mechanical clicks and beeps-each of them-all of them-belied not only the broken body of a man who’d tried to do good in an evil world, but the tragedy of a wife’s grief and the distress of a rabbi sitting outside, head in hands, whose God had failed him.
Benaroun’s hands lay folded on his chest. His legs, unmoving. His head turned and his eyes blinked at the sound of Gage setting down a chair close to the bed. Benaroun glanced at the remote to raise the bed and Gage eased him up from a flat to an angled position. Benaroun then raised a forefinger and pointed it toward his feet. Gage leaned over and followed its trajectory.
Benaroun’s big toe moved.
Gage felt his chest fill and moisture come to his eyes. He grabbed Benaroun’s shoulder and squeezed.
“First a toe,” Benaroun whispered, “then someday a foot… and then someday a leg.”
Gage’s eyes closed and the tension of the last twenty-four hours seemed to sigh out of him.
A slight smile met his gaze when he opened them again.
“You shouldn’t worry so much,” Benaroun said, his voice now a little stronger. “Bad for the heart.”
“It was as much guilt as worry,” Gage said.
