by Steven Gore
“What about the one the chief judge read the riot act to?”
“That’s Number Thirteen. Zink found out that he’s showed up at the arraignments of everybody this grand jury indicted. He really enjoys seeing people humiliated in public. Killing them would take the fun out of it.”
“So we’re at a dead end?”
“That’s the way it looks.”
“Have you come up with any ideas that won’t force us to reindict two hundred defendants?”
Peterson came prepared to answer that question, but knew he had to give it in exactly the right manner. He propped his forearms on the armrests of his chair and steepled his hands.
“Let me put it this way. We have no proof there’s a leak from this grand jury. We have no proof there have been prior leaks from this grand jury. Everybody indicted by this grand jury deserved it. They’re all righteous cases. This grand jury worked long and hard. Very, very long and hard.”
Rose arched his eyebrows. “How long is very long?”
“Their term expires in ten days.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Rose smiled his understanding of what Peterson was trying to say, then pushed the unopened folder of Zink’s reports back across the desk. “What a shame to have labored so diligently on SatTek, then to run out of time.”
“That’s just what I thought.”
Rose leaned back in his chair, then gazed out toward the fog oozing into downtown San Francisco from the Pacific. There were other headlines he was worried about, ones generated by crime victims’ groups demanding to know when something would finally be done to punish the crooks behind SatTek.
He looked back at Peterson. “Suppose you got a new grand jury impaneled the moment the old one expires, then jammed them real hard, ten hours a day. How long would it take to get an indictment?”
Peterson was ready with that answer, too. “A week.”
CHAPTER 57
M atson arrived for his dinner meeting with Mr. Green and Mr. Black, driving a metallic blue Mercedes 600 Roadster and wearing a navy sports jacket and a yellow button-down shirt. After handing his keys to the valet, he waited by the entrance to Buccio’s Italian Cuisine for Gage and Blanchard, who were pulling into a parking space.
Gage had been amused by Matson’s choice. The chateau-style restaurant, standing at the far end of a commercial district that trailed off into a neighborhood of Tudors and California bungalows, had for two generations served as the meeting place and watering hole for the criminal and financial elite on the Peninsula.
Blanchard looked over at Gage and smiled. “Isn’t this the place where-”
Gage nodded. A year earlier, an FBI bug hidden in the men’s restroom as part of a racketeering investigation revealed that the mayor of San Jose not only was on the take from a local contractor, but had severe prostate problems.
“Matson’s an idiot,” Gage said, as he turned off the ignition. “This is out of a mafia movie. If he says bada-bing I’ll strangle him. It’s a damn good thing we’re not for real.” He glanced at Blanchard. “Turn on the transmitter. Do the date and time and put it in your coat pocket.”
“Is this the lab part of the course?”
“It counts for fifty percent of your grade.”
They crossed the parking lot, then nodded to Matson and followed him inside, where the maitre d’ greeted him by name.
Matson left for the restroom shortly after they were seated. Gage followed him. By the time he arrived, Matson was in a stall. He came out a minute later and stepped up to wash his hands. Gage dried his own, then reached over and grabbed Matson by his back collar, spun him around, and jammed him back inside.
Matson pawed the walls as Gage forced him to look down toward the clean, clear water in the bowl.
“You fucking amateur.”
Matson hadn’t used the toilet, so he hadn’t flushed.
Gage yanked Matson out of the stall, patted him down, then spun him back around. He reached into Matson’s right breast pocket, pulled out a small digital tape recorder. The screen showed that it had been running for only thirty seconds. Gage dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his heel.
“Are you some fucking snitch?” For a moment Gage really felt like Mr. Green, and showed it. “Are you setting me up, you fucking asshole?”
“No, no. I just…protection. I needed protection…in case you rip me off. That’s all. Really, that’s all.”
Sweat beaded on Matson’s face as he tried to lick his lips with a dry tongue. His eyes were wide, as if imagining himself strangled, propped up on the toilet until his body was discovered at closing time, or maybe not until the following day. Gage released his grip moments before Matson’s bladder would’ve given way.
“You try this shit again and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.” Gage stared down into Matson’s reddening eyes. “You got it?”
“Yes. I got it.”
“Let’s go back.”
Matson grimaced. “I need to pee.”
“I’ll wait.”
Gage walked behind Matson as they left the restroom. Matson snagged a napkin from a supply cart near the kitchen, wiped his face and then dropped it into a dirty dish tub. Gage gave Blanchard a thumbs-up as they approached the table.
A waitress distributed menus as soon as they were re-seated, and then laid the wine list in front of Mr. Matson, the regular.
Matson lowered his menu, mouth looking sour. “I’m not very hungry.”
“Come on, man,” Gage said. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Matson rubbed his forehead, still hot and moist, then let out a sigh while looking around the restaurant at the normalcy around him. The well-heeled diners sipping their wines and savoring their pastas. The waiters poised to serve.
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world,” Gage continued. “Anybody with a brain will grab a little money for themselves. It’s called business.”
“Yeah…I guess.”
“I’ve heard you’re a smart guy. A smooth operator. Somebody who knows how to seize an opportunity.”
Matson brightened. “Yeah, I’ve done that a few times.”
“Us, too. And this one will make us a lot of money.” Gage smiled. “Let’s celebrate. On me. You pick the wine.”
Matson reached under his menu and pulled out the wine list. He turned the pages back and forth, working his finger up and down the lists, until he finally settled on a Cavallotto Barolo Boschis ’98. Gage signaled the wine steward, who remained expressionless as Matson mispronounced his selection. He slipped away, returning a minute later, bottle in hand. He and Matson did the label-cork-taste dance, which ended with filled glasses.
Gage picked his up first. “To business.”
Then Blanchard, “To business.”
Finally and unenthusiastically, Matson said, “To business.”
It wasn’t until their salads arrived that Matson was ready to pop the money question.
“I think we can go as high as two-point-five,” Gage said. “Three is just way too much.”
“Does that include the ten percent?”
“No, that’ll drop it to two-point-two-five.”
“How about we split the difference?”
Gage shook his head. “No can do. I trust Mr. Black. He told me what we can sell it for and I believe him.”
“What if I didn’t take it in cash?”
“Then you keep the ten percent. But you’ll need to tell me how you want it.”
“I don’t know yet.” Matson glanced down at his glass and swirled the wine. “Well, I guess I really want it in cash. The FBI can trace wire transfers anywhere.”
“They sure can.”
“But I’ll need some help.”
Gage leaned forward, resting his forearms on the cloth-covered table. “What do you want to happen with it? You want to pay taxes on it and make it legit?”
Matson nodded.
“I’ll give you an example of something you could do yourself,” Gage said. “Thousand-dollar slots.”
Matson jerked back. “No way I’m doing that. I could lose everything.”
Gage shook his head. “Hear me out. You ever play slot machines in Las Vegas?”
“Sure. I put in a little money now and then, but I never really win anything.”
“But you’ve seen the billboards, right? They promise you’ll win ninety-four percent of the time. And they have to be telling the truth because they’ve got the Nevada Gaming Commission watching everything they do.”
Matson nodded. “I guess so.”
“That means that if you put in a million, you get back nine hundred and forty thousand dollars. You just got to have somebody set things up for you.”
“But that would take weeks.”
“Nope. You’d get it done in a day. A slot machine cycle is five seconds. Two thousand times. Ten thousand seconds. Two-point-eight hours, max. You feed in cash, they pay you in checks. Spread it out over a couple of days, even a couple of weeks. Give the IRS its cut and the money’s clean.”
“That’s fucking amazing.”
“Let me know if you want to do it. I’ve got a guy in Vegas who has a special machine in one of the small casinos. No big wins and no big losses. It just eats six percent of your money and gives you back the rest.”
“Man, I wish I’d met you last year.”
“Why’s that?”
“Nothing.” Matson’s voice fell. “Just another business thing. I’ve got money stashed somewhere.”
“If you’ve got to move it, let me know. I can take care of it. Move it anywhere.”
Matson’s eyes widened. “Where’s anywhere?”
“All the way around.”
“All the way around where?”
Gage leaned back in his chair. “The way I figure it, halfway around is about Abu Dhabi. So all the way around is right where we’re sitting.”
“What the devil happened in the bathroom?” Blanchard asked, after turning off the transmitter as they drove from the parking lot onto a long commercial boulevard toward the highway north.
Gage smiled. “It turns out that Mr. Green has a real mean streak.”
“What about Mr. Gage?”
“He’s a sweetheart who’s very convincing in the role of Mr. Green.”
“And Matson?”
“A lonely guy. A greedy, lonely guy.”
Gage looked into his mirror to check for surveillance and then reached for his cell phone. “Anybody follow us?” he asked Viz.
“You’re clean.” Viz laughed. “The guy I’ve got behind Matson says it looks like the idiot is driving side streets all the way from the restaurant to his house. It’ll take him two hours to get home.”
“Go ahead and break off from us, but stay on Matson, just in case.”
Gage disconnected and looked over at Blanchard. “You ever go to Cal basketball games?”
“Season tickets.”
“Ever see a kid play above his head?”
“Sure. The stars in the heavens are aligned and he scores a career-high twenty points, fifteen above his average. For the first time in his life he can keep up with the big boys.”
“What does he think right after the game is over?”
“That he can do it anytime. The coach just needs to give him enough minutes on the floor.”
“And what does he realize the next time he steps on the court?”
“That he was playing above his head.”
“Exactly. And that’s what Matson’s been doing. And now he’s all alone. Granger and Fitzhugh, the guys he relied on, are dead. Gravilov scares him. And the season’s not over.”
“I think you scared him.”
“Sure, I scared him. He’s the ideal hostage. He’s the kind of guy who’d volunteer to make tea for his kidnappers.”
“And he’s double-crossing the government.”
“Right. So who can he trust now? Nobody.”
“You said he had a girlfriend in London, Alla something.”
“That’s a rowboat he’s paddling through rough waters. He’s cheating on his wife, just like he’s cheating on the government. His relationship with Alla is filled with uncertainty. He’ll always be on the edge with her. Suppose she starts to see through him? What if his wife finds out? What if Alla bails on him? Even worse, blackmails him?”
“Maybe that’s why he’s worried about the money he’s got stashed.”
“I think it’s more than that. My guess is that he’s told the government where some of his overseas money is, but the rest is hidden. Stuck somewhere. Fitzhugh was Matson’s offshore link to banks and money managers. Now those folks are terrified. They don’t want anything to do with Fitzhugh’s old clients. Cutting a deal is a whole lot different than cutting up the dealmaker. They want to wash their hands of Matson and his money as soon as possible.”
Blanchard pointed at an HSBC branch as they passed by. “Then he should transfer the money to some other bank.”
“Without the insulation that Fitzhugh provided, he’d have to put his own name on the account opening form. The bank would perform its standard due diligence, the class action suit would pop up, and they’d show him the door. And he’s probably got a more pressing problem. He’s adjusted his lifestyle to his income and the inflow of money is drying up. Notice that matching Mercedes and sports jacket? All that takes cash.”
Gage pulled to a curb just before the on-ramp to the bridge heading to the East Bay so he could confirm that Viz was correct about the absence of surveillance.
“What’s next?” Blanchard asked.
“Now that I’ve scared him…” Gage watched cars pass them by, then smiled. “I need to make him love me.”
“How do you go about doing that?”
“Pretty soon he’ll start wondering if he’s being set up. After all, it was a whirlwind day. So he’ll call me, but I won’t pick up. Then he’ll try you on the cell I gave you. Wait a day, then call and tell him I’m in Switzerland and everything is on schedule.”
“But shouldn’t you stay around to close the deal?”
Gage flashed a grin at Blanchard. “I’m not going to Switzerland. Mr. Green is.”
“Oh, I see. Why is Mr. Green going?”
“Because for Matson, Switzerland means only one thing-and it ain’t clocks and chocolate. And equally important, distance makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Where should Mr. Black go?”
“To help Professor Blanchard fix the microwave.” Gage glanced over his shoulder, then accelerated toward the bridge. “I hear his wife is a little ticked off.”
CHAPTER 58
G age rolled out of bed at 6 A. M. and called Milsberg.
“I’m really sorry about not doing what you told me,” Milsberg said, right after he recognized Gage’s voice. “My curiosity got the better of me.”
“You only have one job, Robert, and that’s helping me keep you out of federal prison.” Gage wasn’t interested in hearing another apology, so he pushed on to the subject of his call. “Did you actually check to see whether all of the components you listed on the inventory were actually there?”
“They have to be,” Milsberg insisted. “It’s right out of our resource management computer system. It shows what we ordered, what we received, what we used, and what’s left.”
“That wasn’t my question-and don’t apologize. Just go look.”
Gage’s cell phone rang as he pulled into a parking place behind his building an hour later.
“I’m in the secure storage area,” Milsberg whispered. “Empty boxes. Lots of tiny empty boxes. We must be missing a thousand MMIC chips. A quarter-million dollars’ worth.”
“What’s MMIC stand for?”
“Monolithic microwave integrated circuits. Cutting edge. We keep them in secure storage because they’re dual use. On the military side, they amplify signals in radar systems. Any of our competitors would grab them up in a heartbeat.”
“Any left?”
“Six hundred. Grouped into batche
s, like someone is getting ready to ship them out.”
Gage thought for a moment, then said, “Remember Viz, the guy that appeared out of nowhere?”
“I’ll never forget.”
“He’ll call you on your cell in a few minutes. Do what he says.”
“Will it get me into trouble?”
“Robert, you already are.”
Viz materialized next to Gage’s desk twenty-four hours later.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Gage said.
“Do what?”
“You should knock or shuffle your feet or clear your throat next time. Faith will be really annoyed if you give me a heart attack.”
“I’m sure I’ll find it very upsetting, too,” Viz said, grinning. “You need an aspirin or something?”
“Not at the moment, but keep one handy.” Gage pointed at the DVD in Viz’s hand. “What have you got?”
Viz handed it to Gage, then dropped into a chair across from his desk. Gage slipped it into his computer and the viewing software activated, beginning with an image of the secure storage room at SatTek.
“Good color.”
“I got a couple of new microvideo cameras. Well, you did. I’m not sure I mentioned it before.”
“How much did I spend?”
“Less than you imagine.” Viz pointed at the monitor. “Guess who?”
Matson was loading the batches of plastic-encased MMIC chips into a file storage box.
“He came in around 2 A. M.,” Viz said. “It looks like he took about five hundred.”
After Matson disappeared from view, Gage reached to eject the DVD.
Viz held up his palm toward Gage. “Wait, boss.”
The video cut to an empty office with a large hardwood desk and matching credenza. There was a flat-screen monitor on the desk and a tiny basketball hoop above the corner wastebasket.
“Since I was there,” Viz said. “I thought I’d…”
“Good thinking.”
Matson came into view. He set down the storage box on the desk and left the office. He returned a minute later carrying three rectangular FedEx parcel boxes and air bills. He distributed the chips among the boxes, then filled out and attached the air bills.
