Reckless

by Andrew Gross

“Another interested party, perhaps. Perhaps in London…”

  “London,” Hassani said sadly. That would be a shame. He loved that lad like a son.

  “See if they make contact,” the Bahraini said. “If they do, let me know.”

  Maybe the time had come to close up the loose ends.

  It was a complicated time. You had to see things many ways. It was written in the book: destruction first before renewal.

  His entertainment would have to wait.

  Hassani looked at his watch. A Breguet masterpiece. One of a kind. This little problem had to be shared. With the next level. There were others involved. It was six P.M.—morning in New York. He should just be catching him at his desk.

  He pressed the speed dial and waited.

  “Hanni,” his contact said when he picked up, six thousand miles across the globe.

  Peter Simons. The CEO of Reynolds Reid.

  PART IV

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  They arrived at Heathrow midday Saturday.

  This time Naomi had alerted a contact with Scotland Yard that she wanted to speak with a Saudi residing in London about his involvement in a case she was working on. The official asked if she needed any support while she was there and she said she would advise. She also registered her firearm with the authorities. The last people she wanted to piss off were the British government. They weren’t in Serbia anymore.

  She and Hauck booked rooms in a boutique hotel in Kensington called Number 29, a reconverted row of town houses that Naomi had stayed in before. On the way, they had their taxi pass by Marty al-Bashir’s home—a stately town house on Chesterfield Mews in Mayfair amid a quiet row of Georgian homes.

  “There’s number sixty there,” the driver said, pointing out a three-story white façade with a roof terrace and coffered red door.

  “Not exactly shabby,” Hauck remarked as they passed. It looked as impressive as any on the street.

  “Ought not to be,” Naomi said. “This guy runs the largest investment fund in the world.”

  Leaving, they had to wind through the maze of one-way streets of charming, tree-lined homes, embassies, and hotels to get back to Knightsbridge, the main thoroughfare back to the hotel. They checked in. Naomi went upstairs to shower and call her boss. Hauck turned on the news and unpacked his Dopp kit and went into the bathroom to shave. He thought about calling Annie. He’d left only a single message on her machine from Novi Pazar to tell her he was okay. He checked the time and thought maybe she’d still be sleeping. Friday nights were always late ones at the café. He knew he had withheld quite a bit from her. About April, and why he was even here. There were things he’d have to answer to when he got back. He knew he was avoiding it.

  The BBC news report talked about the fear of the world banking collapse. While they were in Serbia, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac had gone under. The Fed would have to step in to bail them out. The insurance giant AIG was also said to be reeling. Not to mention JP Morgan and Reynolds Reid. All were selling for a fraction of what they had two months before.

  The mood was darkening.

  Around two, he and Naomi met back in the lobby for a coffee. Naomi told him what she knew about al-Bashir. “He’s young. Smart. Western. Very media friendly. He’s got an MBA from the University of Chicago. Did stints at Reynolds and Blackstone. You may have seen him on CNBC.”

  “I don’t watch CNBC,” Hauck said.

  “Stick around. This afternoon may have a positive effect on you.”

  Hauck smiled, took a sip of his black coffee. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  Naomi nodded. “I talked to my boss. We’re prepared to offer him a deal. We’re going to take him in.”

  “You think he’s really going to bite? People who live in homes like that usually don’t cave in to the government without a fight.”

  “My guess is it’ll beat where his next home might end up being.” She put down her coffee and slung her case over her shoulder. “Ready?”

  They took another cab back to Mayfair. Chesterfield Mews was a couple of blocks from Hyde Park. They got out a block away and waited on the street, keeping an eye on the posh white Georgian. Hauck looked around. It didn’t appear anyone else was watching the house. They agreed that if they didn’t see any signs of activity they would knock on the door.

  It was important to catch al-Bashir off guard away from the office.

  A short time later the front door opened. Naomi nudged Hauck to look. Two young boys stepped out onto the limestone landing. They had dark, Middle Eastern features and were maybe around seven and five. The older one had on a striped Manchester United soccer jersey. The younger one was in a David Beckham T-shirt and sneakers. They could have been kids from anywhere. Following after them was an attractive thirtysomething woman in jeans, a baseball cap, and a hooded cashmere sweater. An expensive purse was slung over her shoulder.

  She waited at the red door, holding it open. Soon after, a man came out dressed in khakis, a red knit shirt, and leather driving moccasins. He had short, dark hair and wore wire-rim glasses. He held a soccer ball in one arm and the lead of a King Charles spaniel with the other.

  He looked like any dad taking his wife and kids out on a Saturday-afternoon stroll.

  Naomi nodded. “That’s him.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  The al-Bashirs walked a couple of blocks toward Park Lane. It looked like they were heading into the park. The dog pulled the dad along and the kids went ahead, the older one tossing the soccer ball.

  Hauck and Naomi fell in behind them.

  The mom taking her kids’ hands, they crossed Park Lane, which was bustling with traffic, and headed into Hyde Park, London’s largest. It was a beautiful weekend afternoon. The park was packed. Couples strolling or on blankets. Street musicians playing. Young couples with strollers. Kids kicking soccer balls around. Lots of dogs.

  Al-Bashir and his family walked along the path. The older boy started to play keep-away with the soccer ball; the younger one whined. Their mom kept after them, urging them not to bother the pedestrians and take their game onto a field. Marty al-Bashir let the dog wander onto the grass, sniffing some others.

  Hauck and Naomi followed about fifty yards behind.

  At some point al-Bashir’s cell phone rang, and he handed the spaniel off to his wife. The call took only a couple of minutes.

  When he hung up, Naomi said to Hauck, “Let’s go.”

  They went up to him just as he was about to rejoin his wife. “Marty al-Bashir?”

  Surprised, he looked at Naomi. “Yes.”

  She took out her ID. “My name is Naomi Blum. I’m a federal agent with the U.S. Department of the Treasury. Would you mind if we talked?”

  “Talked? Here?” He glanced at his wife, looking both confused and a little irritated. “It’s a Saturday, Ms. Blum. I’m with my family. Why don’t you call my office and—”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes,” Naomi said. “I’m sorry about the interruption. But I think it will be worth your while.”

  Hauck heard a bit of a tremor in her voice and knew Naomi had to be nervous. This was a big fish, and how she finessed the situation would mean everything.

  “It concerns a friend of yours,” she said. “Hassan ibn Hassani.”

  The annoyance in Marty al-Bashir’s expression suddenly shifted to concern.

  “I can come Monday with an agent from the Exchequer, if you like. But I don’t see how that’s preferable…”

  One of the kids called out, “Dad, c’mon, see if you can score…”

  “I’ll just be a minute.” He waved back. “Start without me.”

  His wife came over, a bit concerned. “Marty, is everything alright?”

  “Of course everything’s alright. These people just need to ask me a few questions. I’ll be right along.”

  They moved down the path to a small grove of cherry trees, the Wellington Arch behind them. “Alright.” He turned back, not hiding his annoyance
. “You’ve got five minutes, Ms. Blum. What is it that couldn’t wait until Monday?”

  “This is Ty Hauck,” she said. “He’s a partner in a security firm in Greenwich, Connecticut.”

  Al-Bashir nodded dismissively, not offering his hand. “Okay…”

  When it became clear that that was about as formal a greeting as they were going to get, Naomi said, “You know Mr. Hassani, do you not?”

  “I don’t know. I may. The name is familiar. What does it matter anyway?”

  “To refresh your memory, Mr. Hassani is a native Bahraini who is a principal in a number of businesses. Among them a United Arab Emirates firm named Ascot Capital Partners. I believe you have some experience with them at your firm.”

  “Yes, yes, I know the firm.” Al-Bashir rolled his hand impatiently, shifting his gaze back and forth from Hauck to Naomi, trying to read what was in their eyes. He glanced at his watch. “So what? Can’t this wait?”

  “You should be used to this kind of interruption to your weekends, Mr. al-Bashir.” Naomi met his eyes. “It was on a Sunday, the eighth of February; you took a call from Mr. Hassani. From Dubai. The subject matter was all very vague, of course. Investment strategies, the worrisome market…” She opened her satchel. “I happen to have a transcript of that conversation if it will help.”

  “I don’t need a transcript,” he snapped. “I still don’t see the point. Mr. Hassani and I shared a business conversation. A private conversation, to be exact. How in the world are you in possession of—”

  “Mr. Hassani is a person of interest for several matters related to U.S. national security,” Naomi said, cutting him off and squinting at him. “And as such, unfortunately, Mr. al-Bashir, so are you.”

  The Saudi’s eyes grew narrow. He took off his glasses. “I don’t understand…”

  She stared at him unflinchingly. Hauck was impressed. “Did you know Mr. Hassani was a figure who had attracted the attention of the United States government, Mr. al-Bashir?”

  “No.” The Saudi shifted on his feet. “I did not. He is also a person who has helped facilitate a six-billion mezzanine financing tier from the king of Bahrain for one of your largest banks.”

  “Mr. Hassani has also brokered sales of weapons from Chechnya that have found their way to the Taliban in Pakistan. He has siphoned money for the Islamic American Cultural Foundation, a sham organization that has set up madrassas that train terrorists all over the world, some right here in Britain, and is on the terrorist watch list.”

  “Terrorist!” The Saudi blinked nervously. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Al-Bashir’s wife moved closer. “Marty, is everything alright?”

  “Yes, everything’s alright, Sheera,” he snapped, his mood shifting. “Stay with the boys. I’ll be there soon.”

  Naomi said, “Getting back to that conversation, Mr. al-Bashir, directly after it, you altered the investment strategy of your firm, did you not?”

  “What do you mean I altered our investment strategy?”

  “The very next day, Monday, February ninth, your fund began liquidating most of your financial interests in the United States markets. In fact, across the globe. Just to be clear, you’d call those interests sizable, would you not, sir?”

  “Yes, of course, they’re sizable. We’re a significant fund. But whether or not you say it was a result of any conversation—”

  “In fact, you began shorting the stock of many of the largest financial entities in the market. Citicorp, Goldman, Bank of America, AIG…”

  “I’m not sure of the exact date.”

  “Lehman Brothers, Beeston…,” Naomi went on, her eyes locked on his shifting gaze. “Wertheimer Grant.”

  The Saudi’s complexion grew pale.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, was Mr. Hassani some kind of partner in your firm, Mr. al-Bashir? Or one of the lead investors?”

  “You seem to know very well who the partners are in my firm, Ms. Blum,” the Saudi reacted with irritation.

  “Just to be clear, sir, it’s Agent Blum.” She stared at him and continued. “But he was someone from whom you took investment advice?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. We were just two people discussing their views.”

  “Yet you immediately altered course after that conversation. Why?”

  “I think this has gone far enough, Agent Blum. I suggest this may be something you would want to take up with our attorneys, if you’re alleging there is something I’ve done wrong. Whatever it is you are trying to prove, it’s not for this location or this time. I think your five minutes are up.”

  “I’m pretty sure this is something you would definitely not want me to run by your attorneys, Mr. al-Bashir. Do the names Marc Glassman and James Donovan mean anything to you?”

  The Saudi blinked, now seeing where the conversation was leading. “I believe they were those two financial traders who died suddenly in the U.S. One was a home break-in. The other a suicide…”

  “That’s correct, Mr. al-Bashir,” Naomi said, “except for one thing. There was no suicide. Mr. Hauck here has proved that. Both were murdered.”

  “I didn’t know that,” the Saudi said. He glanced uneasily at Hauck, concerned about where this was going.

  Naomi pressed on. “That sudden shift in strategy certainly changed the price of a lot of stocks, didn’t it, Mr. al-Bashir?”

  He shrugged. “Anyone could see the financials were ready for a tumble. We were simply early on that one.”

  “Yes, they did tumble, didn’t they, sir? Royal Saudi is one of the largest players in the market. Its support or withdrawal can move an entire sector, can it not? As it did.”

  “I think the verdict is already in on that one, Agent Blum. But I still don’t know where you’re going—”

  “Where I’m going, Mr. al-Bashir”—Naomi’s gray eyes fastened on him—“where the U.S. government is going, is that shortly after that shift in strategy, after their firms’ stocks had already been cut by more than two-thirds in the past year, Mr. Glassman and Mr. Donovan were both murdered. After their deaths it was discovered each secretly had lost billions in trading and concealed those results from their firms, making their companies’ balance sheets all the more fragile. These were considered the last straws, so to speak, in driving these firms into insolvency, correct?”

  Al-Bashir nodded blankly.

  “Dragging down the rest of the market, wouldn’t you say? Like a chain of dominoes.”

  “Along with several other causes,” al-Bashir replied. “You have heard the words ‘subprime mortgage mess’ at Treasury, haven’t you? Or ‘credit-default swaps’? Or maybe, ‘reckless’?”

  “Yes, they’ve come up. What if I could make the case, Mr. al-Bashir, that both Mr. Glassman and Mr. Donovan had been receiving substantial outside payments to commit such actions? And that those payments could be tied directly to Mr. Hassani? And, through another of his associates, tied to their murders as well?”

  Al-Bashir’s face knotted tighter. He put his glasses back on, his face pale. “I’m going to walk away now, Agent Blum. I think I’ve had enough of this.”

  “Before you do,” Naomi said, “two more quick things. One, does the name Dani Thibault ring a bell with you?”

  The Saudi blinked. Hauck kept his gaze on him, measuring his reaction.

  Clearly, it did.

  “And the second…” Naomi squinted. “If you don’t mind answering, sir, just what did it mean, the parting phrase of your conversation with Mr. Hassani: ‘The planes are in the air’?”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  All at once, the defiance in Marty al-Bashir’s face seemed to drain. The Saudi blinked, removed his glasses again. Trying to gather his composure. “What?”

  Naomi had sucked him along like an expert prosecutor. Like a barracuda, Hauck thought with admiration, fixed on her prey. Hauck had seen this moment many times. The most hardened deniers begin to crack. Seemingly calm outside, but inside their brains revved frantic
ally, trying to decide what to do. He couldn’t have done it better himself.

  “I think you heard me, Mr. al-Bashir.” Naomi continued to gaze at him, knowing she had set him back. “What did it mean when Mr. Hassani said to you, ‘The planes are in the air’?”

  “It meant nothing.” The Saudi cleared his throat and glared at her. He was an investment manager, hardly used to having to defend himself this way. “It was simply a phrase. A business conversation between two professionals. Mr. Hassani is a well-known figure. He has facilitated a mezzanine financing tier for Reynolds Reid with the Bahraini royal family, for God’s sake.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be an issue to you if I share the transcript of that phone conversation with your employers, the Saudi royal family,” Naomi said, sensing the kill.

  “Look…” The young investment manager shook his head, seeing the arc of his life falling apart.

  “Your career is over, Mr. al-Bashir. You conspired with a person who has known terrorist ties to defraud the already shaky world financial markets. You’ve made billions of dollars illegally. Investment managers were lured to commit financial fraud against their banks and take those firms over the edge. At best, it’s a conspiracy to manipulate the markets. At worst, it’s an act of terrorism, adjudicable under Homeland Security laws. Regardless, Mr. al-Bashir, when do you think is the next time we can expect to see your face on CNBC?

  “Not to mention,” Naomi continued to look at him without letting him respond, “that as a result of this, four innocent people have been murdered.”

  Al-Bashir’s color drained. He glanced toward his wife, who now was looking at him with concern, then took a few steps farther along the path, away from his family. He spoke back in a hushed tone, almost a whisper, but with a measure of desperation in it. “What is it you want from me, Agent Blum?”

  “I want to know what was behind that phone call, Mr. al-Bashir, and how it ties into a plot to recruit Marc Glassman and James Donovan in an effort to destabilize the United States economy. The United States government wants to know.”