by Ed Baldwin
“It’s probably a smaller company, so some of the money might have been borrowed. Small companies have to sell their bankers on their projects in order to get the money to do them. That’s where the money is in banking. Making small companies grow is the business of banking. So, that banker knows who sent the money, and he probably knows why.”
“What if somebody just came in and wanted to wire the money?” Joe asked.
“The bank would require them to open an account, fill it with a cashier’s check from another bank, and that would be verified by at least a call to the customer’s other bank. It would take days, and they’d have to give positive ID. In a transaction of this size, the bank president would become involved, or at least know about it. It would be somewhat of a curiosity. By using Citicorp in New York, the senders were trying to achieve anonymity. It was a pretty safe assumption for someone with an already established relationship with a regional bank. Citicorp handles millions of dollars in wire transfers every day. This would have been small potatoes.”
“Except another banker’s squeeze was involved,” Boyd broke in, laughing.
“The smart monkey doesn’t monkey with another monkey’s monkey,” Donn said quickly.
Pamela looked confused.
“So, how do we find out who it is?” Ferguson asked, brow furrowed.
“We use the only bait that really gets a banker’s attention: money.”
“How much money?” Ferguson glared.
“Oh, a hundred million dollars should be enough.”
“My special account doesn’t hold quite that much,” Ferguson laughed.
Boyd was surprised Ferguson was taking this as well as he was. He was usually a humorless man. He’d been a lot more relaxed since he and Donn had chatted amicably for a few minutes while waiting for Joe Smith to drive in from Maryland. By the time Joe had arrived, Donn was showing the general a golf grip he’d learned from a pro at a pro-am golf tournament in Tulsa two years before.
“I need to make some calls, find out a few things about the area there in South Carolina,” Donn said. “I can have a detailed plan tomorrow. In the meantime, Pamela, I need to have you set up a call to the president of the Federal Reserve Bank in Kansas City, and, Gen. Ferguson, we need to install a new outside phone line into the office of the president of First Bank in Tulsa, and get some printing done. Also, Capt. Chailland, Agent Prescott and I are going to need new wardrobes and some jewelry. We can’t go down there looking like FBI agents.”
The man had style, Boyd thought. Ferguson was busy writing down the tasks he’d received from Wilde. He spent the next few minutes clarifying but not quibbling.
Donn waited less than 10 seconds after Ferguson left to pick up the telephone and dial their hotel from the DTRA Command Center.
“Concierge,” he paused, waiting. “Pammie, what kind of food do you like?”
Pam glared at him, mood clearly foul again.
“Yes, Macdonnald Wilde, here. We’re guests at your hotel. I’ll be entertaining some friends tonight. Aside from the fine restaurant you have there in the hotel, what is the happening place in D.C.? Ah, yes, I’ve heard of it. Also, is there a limousine service you rely on?”
“No! Donn, we’re not even started yet,” Pam exclaimed, rising but not moving for the telephone.
“Ask them to send by a limo at eight, and, could you call up … why yes, that would be delightful. Five. Thank you so much.”
Donn smiled benevolently at Pam, now seated again. “Training, Pam, training.” He began putting papers into his briefcase.
“I assume the good doctor has a wife?” Donn asked, looking at Joe, who smiled and nodded in the affirmative. “You would be doing your country a great service if you could bring her to this address around half past eight.”
Joe took the slip of paper, packed his briefcase and left.
“Now, before we have cocktails, Lesson One in the game of business. Sometimes it’s necessary to project, ah, a certain image. Maybe that image is a bit ambitious for you at just this moment, but is well within where you expect to be, soon.”
Donn began pacing again.
“Devise an identity that is so close to your own, you don’t have to lie very often. Pam, you’re going to be our corporate attorney and bean counter. Don’t smile. Ask technical questions. We don’t know these people yet. Show a little leg, but don’t be a bimbo.”
Pam glowered.
“Boyd, you’ll be an Air Force jock who got out and became a securities salesman. Laugh a lot. Tell war stories. If someone asks you a question you don’t know how to answer, tell them you’re new to the securities business.
“As for tonight, the Smiths will be our clients. Just follow my lead.”
**********
“Wait for the doorman, Boyd,” Donn said as he restrained Boyd from opening the door as their stretch limo pulled up in front of the Chateau Michael.
The doorman opened the door and stepped back. Boyd got out and offered to help Pamela. Loosened considerably by all four of the little Jack Daniel’s bottles in the courtesy bar in her room at the hotel, she smiled pleasantly as she took his arm.
“Thank you,” Donn said, addressing the doorman, pausing to look around the parking lot and at the few bystanders before striding purposefully into the restaurant. He approached the maître d'.
“I’m MacDonnald Wilde. The hotel called.”
“Ah, yes. I am Anthony. Your table is ready, sir.”
“Anthony, my driver will be outside. Could you send out a sandwich, some coffee? Whatever he wants.”
“Of course.”
“We’ll be meeting Dr. Smith, a larger man than I, about the size of my associate here, reddish hair, balding. He’ll have his wife. I haven’t met her.”
“She’s Chinese,” Boyd offered.
“Ah, perfect. We certainly want them to feel welcome.”
He smiled at Anthony.
Boyd watched Donn work the room. While he talked with the maître d', no one passed or saw anything but Donn. He was polite, forceful but not loud, upbeat, enjoying himself, bringing out the best in those there to help him. He walked slowly, confidently, to their table, looking around the room, attracting attention in his fine-looking suit, smiling. Boyd felt the eyes, too. It was an entrance.
When the Smiths arrived they were brought to the table by the maître d'. Donn met them halfway, shaking Joe’s hand and introducing himself to Joe’s petite wife. The waiter popped the champagne cork as they took their seats. Mrs. Smith looked bewildered. Pamela offered her glass first to the waiter, a gay smile on her flushed face.
They had a sumptuous meal with appetizers, soup, spectacular entrees and flaming deserts. Donn had an animated discussion with the wine steward, finally letting him choose a white and a red for the occasion. Throughout the evening, Donn kept up the pace with stories of oil deals in Oklahoma, outrageous golf outings, and down-home tales of hunting and fishing expeditions and colorful characters he’d met. Their table’s periodic explosions of laughter had the room politely craning their way to hear the stories.
Pam had rushed down to the Crystal City Mall to buy some high heels for the evening. At the end of dinner, as they were leaving, she tripped on a step and broke off one of the heels. With a broken heel she continued walking toward the door, too drunk to notice. Boyd rushed to her aid, stopped her, reached down to slip off both of her shoes and helped her quickly out to the car. Donn followed with the Smiths, thanking the staff, slipping bills into discretely offered hands, promising to be back soon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Doha, Qatar
Khalid was aware of the bulletproof doors and windows as his Pakistani driver eased the Mercedes slowly down Al Ashat Street in Doha, Qatar, stopping in front of the main entrance to the Gold Souk. Emerging onto the sidewalk, Khalid stood to his full 6 feet 2 inches and squared his shoulders, well aware all eyes were on him. He wore the traditional Qatari white robe, or thoub, with a carefully ironed, folded square
cloth covering his head, held in place with a black double coil. Looking to the uninitiated like any other of the thousands of men wearing traditional garb in Doha, he was, in his own estimation, unique. His ghutra, or headdress was folded just so – like no other. The street was filled with men rushing about in all manner of dress, but there were no traditional white robes in sight. That, and the smell of garbage from a dumpster in the alley across the street, reminded Khalid that he was in the rough part of town and surrounded by foreigners, servants and infidels.
“Wait here,” he said quietly to his driver, surveying the scene. He strode across the broken sidewalk and up the three steps to the main entrance. A man lounging there leaped to open the door for him. “Shokran,” he said to the man as he breezed by into the interior, his robes flaring as they trailed behind him.
The Gold Souk has been at this location for more than a century, since Doha was the center of the pearl trade. As oil replaced pearls as the economic engine of prosperity and gold became important in cementing familial relationships in the newly rich Bedouin nation, Pakistani and Persian traders moved in and dominated the marketplace. Qatari tribesmen concerned themselves with other matters. The pearls now come from Japan, and the gold and precious gems are from everywhere.
Gold bracelets and trinkets of all types twinkled from dozens of showcase windows as Khalid passed the larger, more ornate windows, turned quickly down a side hall and slipped into a small shop.
“Welcome, my friend!” A man in white robes with a small white skullcap rose from behind a jeweler’s workbench and rushed around the counter to greet Khalid.
“Salam, Hamid.” They exchanged the traditional kisses, which are really just a close juxtaposition of the face used in greeting. Trust is assessed and built with proximity.
A younger man came in from a small room in the back with a small pot of tea and two cups and put them on the gem counter in the center of the shop. He brought two seats, then pulled the blinds to the windows on the hallway in front, and left by the front entrance, locking the door behind him. Hamid brought a blue velvet drape and put it over the counter, then dropped some diamonds from an envelope he was holding onto the counter. He turned on the jeweler’s light, and the two men huddled over the diamonds.
“If it is God’s will, our shipment will be ready soon,” Hamid said.
“Allah be praised,” Khalid said.
“My friend in the diamond business is ready for his reward.”
“Insha’Allah. But what does he offer for proof of the special nature of this gem?”
“The Americans went to the island where our product was produced, and they are trying to follow him. He is being very careful. He was going to ship our product by air freight, but that is impossible now. It will come by sea.”
“Here?”
“No. He will keep it in the Atlantic Ocean for now. He suggests you test it.”
“Yes, we have a plan to do that.”
“First, he must have 5 million Euros.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHEROKEE TRUST FUND
“Mr. Cooper Jordan, please. This is Nadine Spears, special assistant to Mr. MacDonnald Wilde with First Bank, Tulsa, Oklahoma.” Pamela’s feminist ire was riled, but her voice was pure Oklahoma gentility.
“Is he on?” Donn asked, anxiously.
Pam shook her head, and then nodded, handing the phone to Donn.
“Mr. Jordan, Donn Wilde. How is the weather in sunny Charleston today?” Donn boomed out his greeting as if he were sitting at a big desk overlooking the skyline in Tulsa instead of a rented, windowless office in the DTRA Command Center in suburban Virginia.
“Why, it’s warm here, too. My reason for asking, Mr. Jordan, is that I’m going to be down your way tomorrow, and I need to impose on your hospitality, if I may.”
He paused, smiling, effervescent.
“How true that is, Mr. Jordan. Banking is not the gentleman’s business it once was, and it’s a damn shame.” He paused again, laughing. “The city of Charleston maintains an account at your bank, sir. Tomorrow we’re going to wire $400,000 into it for some bonds they’re offering. We need to complete the transaction tomorrow, as the subscription period ends on September first. We’ve arranged to have the city treasurer pose for some promotional pictures, you know, signing the bonds, shaking hands. We were wondering if you had a meeting room, something discrete, tasteful, that we could use for about half an hour.”
Donn leaned back, putting his feet on the table.
“Yes, sir, it’s trust money. We’ve started a fund to manage money for trusts for our bank and some smaller regional banks here in Oklahoma. Charleston’s 5 3/4, 30-year tax exempt is highly attractive this month. The pictures are to kick off a promo, to show how we cross the continent to find our customers the best deals.”
He paused, listening.
“I’m afraid we can’t get in until late in the day. Perhaps we could finish by 4. Why, yes, we’ll be there overnight, at the Omni. Certainly, let’s have a drink. Yes, sir, look forward to meeting you.”
Donn hung up, shot a fist into the air and hooted, “Hot damn!”
Boyd looked down at his shiny new business card, which read, Cherokee Trust Funds, Boyd Chailland, account executive. He chuckled. While they were driving to the printers, Donn had challenged him to come up with a name that might appeal to Oklahoma residents. He thought of his roommate at the Academy from Cherokee, Okla., and how proud he was of the Indian tradition. When he suggested it, Donn thought for a moment, opened the Wall Street Journal that seemed always by his side, checked the mutual fund section to see if there was already one by that name and then said it was perfect.
“It sounds familiar,” Donn said later, looking down at his own card, which identified him as fund manager. “People will think they’ve heard of it.”
“Is there really a First Bank?” Boyd asked, looking at their logo beneath Cherokee Funds.
“Yes.”
“Is it OK to just use their logo on a business card like this?”
“No. Illegal as hell,” Pam said. “Hope they don’t find out.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHARLESTON
Just wearing the Rolex gave Boyd a different feeling. Heavy on his wrist, it was a constant reminder of the $10,000 Pamela had said it had cost the drug dealer who had run afoul of the U.S. Department of Justice. He tipped up the green bottle of imported beer and looked out on Charleston Harbor. A large, rusty freighter moved slowly past, headed toward the Atlantic. Looking back up the river he could see others ships loading and unloading.
“I had no idea. Charleston seems to be quite the place, exportwise,” said Donn, standing with Cooper Jordan and looking out the full-length window on the fifth story of the Planters National Bank Building.
“We’re very proud of our community, Mr. Wilde. And its prospects,” Cooper Jordan said, sipping bourbon. His words drew slowly out, as if carefully considered and individually crafted. Their bond-buying completed, Boyd, Donn and Pamela had been invited into Jordan’s office for “a late afternoon libation.”
“Sir, the smell of profit is heavy in the air,” Donn announced, sipping his scotch, rattling the ice in a crystal glass.
“Well, indeed, there is opportunity here,” Jordan said pleasantly.
Pamela was occupied with two younger suits talking about interest-rate fluctuations. Two bourbons had her pretty much in stride, and she was animated and convincing as the lawyer and accountant she really was. The smart satin blouse she wore allowed an interested observer to realize how each of her breasts had a center of gravity some distance out from her chest wall, and how each tiny movement of her torso caused a reverberating counter-movement of the breast, leveraged by that distance. Both of these young bankers seemed to be interested observers.
Boyd moved to the corner, where the window allowed a view back toward the Battery, the original settlement where pre-Civil War homes still stood. The bright pastel homes, contrasting with the
dark green of the massive live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, made for an appealing view. He didn’t need to imagine the horse-drawn carriages of old, they were still there, bearing tourists and outnumbering cars on a sleepy Friday afternoon.
“The banker’s dilemma in Oklahoma, Cooper, is what to do with all that oil money,” Donn said. “The debacle of just a few years ago was our attempt to invest it all back in the state, but there’s just so much there that will return a profit. You can only build so many shopping malls and office buildings.”
Donn was pacing now, gearing up for the pitch.
Boyd moved from the window, wanting to see how Donn pulled this off. If something didn’t happen in the next 10 minutes, they’d wear out their welcome and have to either ask or subpoena to find out anything. Pam also sensed the moment had arrived. She handed her glass to one of the suits and smiled for a refill. When he turned, she stopped talking to the other and looked at Donn. The room was silent.
“First Bank was siphoning off the capital to New York, investing it from there, and collecting the fees from there. We were just a branch. We saw an opportunity. We formed the Cherokee Trust Funds to have something for our customers we could manage locally. It was an ‘in your face’ move to the big boys in New York that appealed to our customers. It’s been successful beyond our wildest expectations.”
Jordan nodded politely. There was no sign of interest beyond that.
“The bond fund is pretty easy to manage. We can buy bonds through a broker to place the $20 million we have there. The equity fund is more problematic. We’re under some pressure to put money into something we’ve researched. We need to show our customers, mostly smal-town banks and small pension plans, that we’re heavy hitters out there in the world of emerging business giants.”
Donn walked to the bar, splashed some Glenlivet into his glass and turned.
“We need to place $56 million into equities before the end of October. Half of that must be in small and emerging companies.”
Cooper Jordan’s eyebrows went up, just a couple millimeters. A slight man, he would have seemed frail had he not had a strong baritone voice. He nodded, and said in that voice, “Sounds like you’ve got some money burnin’ a hole in your jeans, Mr. Wilde.”
