Still, I felt compelled to lie. “I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response. But as long as you brought up the subject, I might as well put you to good use. It just so happens that there’s this really hot nightclub in London called Annabelle’s. It’s supposed to be impossible to get into. Get me the best table in the house for tomorrow night, and tell them I want three bottles of Cristal waiting for me on ice. If you have any problems—”
“Please don’t insult me,” interrupted Janet. “Your table will be waiting for you, Sir Belfort. Just don’t forget that I know where you come from, and Bayside isn’t exactly famous for its royalty. Do you need me to find you anything else or are you all set for tomorrow evening?”
“Ooooh, you’re such a little devil, Janet! You know, I was really trying to turn over a new leaf in the female department, but since you put the idea in my head—why don’t you order two Blue Chips, one for me and one for Danny. Or, now that I think about it, you better make that three—just in case one’s a bust! You never know what’s gonna walk through the door in these foreign countries.
“Anyway, I’m off! I’m going downstairs to catch a quick workout, and then I’m heading over to Bond Street to do some shopping. That should make my father happy when he gets the bill next month! Now, quick—before I hang up—remind me of what a great boss I am and tell me how much you love me and miss me!”
Tonelessly: “You’re the greatest boss in the whole wide world and I love you and miss you and can’t live without you.”
“Well, that’s what I thought,” I replied knowingly. Then I hung up the phone in her ear without saying good-bye.
CHAPTER 17
THE MASTER FORGER
Precisely thirty-six hours later, our chartered Learjet screamed and roared like a military fighter as it took off out of Heathrow and made its way into the Friday morning sky. Aunt Patricia was sitting to my left—a look of sheer terror frozen on her face. She was gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles had turned white. I looked at her for thirty seconds, and she blinked only once. I felt a twinge of guilt over her obvious discomfort, but what could I do? The simple fact was that climbing inside a fifteen-foot-long, hollowed-out bullet and being shot through the air at five hundred miles per hour wasn’t most people’s idea of fun.
Danny was facing me, with his back to the cockpit. He would be making the trip to Switzerland flying backward, which was something I’d always found disconcerting. But, like most things in life, it didn’t seem to bother Danny one iota. In fact, despite the noise and vibrations, he had already fallen asleep and was in his customary position, with his mouth wide open and his head tilted back and his enormous teeth blazing away.
I won’t deny that this incredible ability he had—to be able to fall asleep at the drop of a dime—drove me absolutely bonkers. How could you just stop your thoughts from roaring through your head? It seemed illogical! Well—whatever. It was his gift and my curse.
With frustration in my heart, I leaned my head toward the tiny oval window and banged my head against it with a gentle thud. Then I pressed my nose against the window and watched the city of London grow smaller and smaller beneath me. At this time of morning—seven a.m.—a dense layer of soupy fog still sat upon the city like a wet blanket, and all I could see was the shaft of Big Ben, rising up from the fog like an enormous erection in desperate need of a morning romp. After the last thirty-six hours, the mere thought of an erection and a romp was enough to send my frazzled nerves into a complete tailspin.
All at once I found myself missing my wife. Nadine! The lovely Duchess! Where was she right now, when I needed her most? How wonderful it would be to lay my head upon her warm, soft bosom and draw some power from it! But, no, I could not. At this particular moment she was an ocean away—probably having dark premonitions over my recent sins and plotting her revenge.
I kept staring out the window, trying to make heads or tails of the events of the last thirty-six hours. I genuinely loved my wife. So why on earth had I done all those terrible things? Was it the drugs that made me do them? Or was it the very acts themselves that made me do the drugs so I would feel less guilt about them? It was the eternal question, one of those chicken-and-the-egg things—enough to drive a man crazy.
Just then the pilot executed a sharp left turn and brilliant rays of morning sunlight came exploding off the right wingtip, streaming into the cabin, nearly knocking me out of my seat. I turned away from the blazing light and looked at Aunt Patricia. Ahhh, poor Patricia! She was still frozen like a statue, still gripping the armrests, and still in a state of Lear-induced catatonia. I felt I owed her a few words of comfort, so in a voice loud enough to cut through the screaming engines, I yelled, “What do you think, Aunt Patricia? It’s a little different than flying commercial. You can really feel the turns, right?”
I turned to Danny and took a moment to regard him—still sleeping, he was! Unbelievable! That rat bastard!
I considered today’s schedule and what goals I needed to accomplish. Insofar as Patricia was concerned, that would be easy. It was just a matter of getting her in and out of the bank as quickly as possible. She would smile at the closed-circuit cameras, sign a few papers, give them a copy of her passport, and that would be that. I would have her back in London by four o’clock this afternoon. In a week she would get her credit card and start reaping the benefits of being my nominee. Good for her!
Once Patricia was taken care of, I would have a quick meeting with Saurel, tie up a few loose ends, and work out a rough timetable for smuggling over the cash. I would start with five million, or maybe a million more, and then work my way up from there. I had a few people back in the States who’d do the actual smuggling, but I would focus on that when I got back home.
With a little bit of luck, I could get all my business done today and catch an early flight out of Switzerland first thing tomorrow morning. What a happy thought! I loved my wife! And then I would get to see Chandler and hold her in my arms. Well, what was there to say to that? Chandler was perfect! In spite of the fact that all she did was sleep and poop and drink lukewarm baby formula, I could tell that she was going to be a genius one day! And she was absolutely gorgeous! She was looking more and more like Nadine every day. That was perfect, just what I’d hoped for.
Still, I needed to keep my thoughts on today, especially my meeting with Roland Franks. I’d given a lot of thought to what Saurel had said, and I had no doubt that a man like Roland Franks could be a windfall. It was hard to imagine what I could accomplish if I had someone in my corner who was an expert at generating documents that supported a notion of plausible deniability. The most obvious benefit would be using my overseas accounts to do Regulation S business—allowing me to circumvent the two-year holding period of Rule 144. If Roland could create shell companies that gave off the sanctified odor of legitimate foreign entities, it would allow me to use Regulation S to fund some of my own companies, the most important of which was Dollar Time. It needed a cash infusion of $2 million, and if Roland had the ability to generate the necessary documents, then I could use my own smuggled money to fund Dollar Time. That would be one of the main topics of discussion.
How odd it was: As much as I despised Kaminsky, it was he who’d actually led me to Jean Jacques Saurel. It was a classic example of duds leading to studs.
With that thought, I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep. Soon enough, I’d be back in Switzerland.
The offices of Roland Franks occupied the first floor of a narrow red-brick building that rose up three stories above a quiet cobblestone street. On either side of the street an assortment of mom-and-pop shops were open for business, although despite it being mid-afternoon, they didn’t seem to be doing much of it.
I had decided to meet with Roland Franks alone, which seemed like the prudent thing to do—considering the topics to be discussed could land me in jail for a couple of thousand years.
But I refused to let such a morbid consideration cast a shadow over my get
-together with my prospective Master Forger. Yes—Master Forger. For some inexplicable reason I couldn’t seem to get those two words out my head. Master Forger! Master Forger! The possibilities were…endless! So many devilish strategies to employ! So many laws to be circumvented under the impenetrable veil of plausible deniability!
And things with Aunt Patricia had gone off without a hitch. That was a good omen. In fact, at this very moment she was on her way back to London, hopefully feeling more comfortable on the Learjet—after consuming five shots of Irish whiskey over lunch. And Danny…well, he was another story. The last I’d seen of him he was in Saurel’s office, listening to a discourse on the frisky nature of the female Swiss animal.
In any event, the hallway leading to my Master Forger’s office was dim and musty, and I couldn’t help but feel slightly saddened over the austere surroundings. Of course, Roland’s official title wasn’t Master Forger or anything like that. In fact, I would venture to guess that I was the first human being to ever put those two words together to characterize a Swiss trustee.
On its own, the title trustee was completely innocuous and had no negative connotations whatsoever. From a legal perspective, a trustee was nothing more than a fancy title for any individual who was legally obligated to look out for another person’s affairs—to be trusted, so to speak. In the United States, it was the stuff of wealthy WASPs, who used trustees to watch over the inheritances, or trust funds, that they had set up for their idiot sons and daughters. Most trustees operated under strict guidelines that had been set for them by the parent WASPs on how much money could be dispersed and when. If all went according to plan, the idiots wouldn’t get their hands on the bulk of their inheritances until they were old enough to accept the fact that they were truly idiots. Then they would still have enough money left over to live out the rest of their WASP lives in typical WASP fashion.
But Roland Franks was not that sort of trustee. His guidelines would be set by me, to benefit me. He would be responsible for handling all my paperwork and for filing any official forms that needed to be filed with various foreign governments. He would create official-looking documents that would justify the movement of money as well as equity investments in entities in which I maintained secret control. He would then disperse money, per my instructions, in any country I chose.
I opened the door to Roland’s office and there he was: my wonderful Master Forger. There was no reception area, just a large, well-appointed office with mahogany-covered walls and a lush maroon carpet. He was leaning against the edge of a large oak desk that was covered with countless papers…and he was a real Swiss tub o’ lard! He was about my height, but he had a tremendous gut and a mischievous smile on his face that so much as said, “I spend the greater part of my day figuring out ways to cheat various world governments.”
Just behind him, a large walnut bookcase rose up from the floor and touched the ceiling; it was a good twelve feet high. The bookcase was filled with hundreds of leather-bound books, all the same size, all the same thickness, and all the same dark-brown color. But each book had a different name on it, which was inscribed in gold-colored letters that ran down the side of the book, along its binding. I had seen books like this in the United States. They were official corporate books, the ones you received each time you formed a new corporation. Each one contained a corporate charter, blank stock certificates, a corporate seal, and so forth. Leaning against the bookcase was an old-fashioned library ladder with wheels at the bottom.
Roland Franks walked up to me and grabbed my hand before I even had a chance to lift it. He started shaking it vigorously. With a great smile he said, “Ahhh, Jordan, Jordan—you and I must become fast friends! I have heard so much about you from Jean Jacques. He tells me of your wonderful past adventures and of your future plans. There is so much to discuss and so little time, eh?”
I nodded eagerly, a bit overwhelmed by his warmth and girth, but I instantly liked him. There was something very honest about him, very forthright. He was a man who could be trusted.
Roland led me over to a black leather couch and gestured for me to take a seat, then he sat down on a matching black leather club chair. He removed an unfiltered cigarette from a sterling-silver case and tapped it on its end, to pack in the tobacco. From inside his pants pocket he pulled a matching sterling-silver lighter, ignited it, and tilted his head to the side to avoid being singed by the nine-inch butane flame. Then he took a deep pull from the cigarette.
I watched in silence. Finally, after a good ten seconds, he exhaled, but only a drop of smoke came out. Incredible! Where had it gone?
I was about to ask him when he said, “You must tell me about your flight over from the United States. It is the stuff of legend, as you would say.” He winked at me. Then he turned his palms up and shrugged, and said, “But me—ehhh—I am but a simple man, and there is only one woman in the world for me: my lovely wife!” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I have heard much about your brokerage firm and all the companies you own. So much for a man as young as you! I would say you are still very much a boy and yet…”
The Master Forger kept going on and on, talking about how young and wonderful I was, but I found it hard to follow him. I was too busy trying to follow his enormous jowls, which seemed to be swaying back and forth like a sailboat on a rough ocean. Roland had intelligent brown eyes, a low forehead, and a fat nose. His skin was very white, and his head seemed to sit directly upon his chest without the benefit of a neck. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and he wore it combed straight back over his round skull. And my first impression had been right: There was a certain inner warmth that this man exuded, a joie de vivre of someone completely comfortable in his own skin, despite the fact that there was enough of it to carpet Switzerland.
“…and so, my friend, that is the long and short of it. After all, appearances are what make the difference in things. Or as you would say, it is about the dotting of the i’s and the crossing of the t’s, no?” asked the Master Forger with a smile.
In spite of catching only the tail end of what he’d said, the gist of it was clear: The paper trail was everything. Speaking more woodenly than usual, I replied, “I couldn’t agree with you more, Roland. I have always prided myself on being a careful man, a man who is realistic about the world in which he operates. After all, men such as ourselves can’t afford to be careless. That is a luxury of women and children.” My tone dripped with sagacity, but deep down I was hoping he had never seen The Godfather. I felt a bit guilty over stealing some of Don Corleone’s thunder, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. The movie was packed with such terrific dialogue that plagiarizing it only seemed natural. In a way, I lived my life very much like Don Corleone—didn’t I? I never talked on the phone; I kept my circle of confidants to a handful of old and trusted friends; I paid off politicians and police officers; I had Biltmore and Monroe Parker paying me monthly tributes…and countless other things too. But, unlike me, Don Corleone didn’t have a rip-roaring drug habit, nor could he be so easily manipulated by a gorgeous blonde. Well, those were my Achilles’ heels, and no man could be perfect.
Apparently not picking up on my plagiarism, he replied, “That is a most wonderful insight for a man your age. And I couldn’t agree with you more. Carelessness is a luxury no serious man can afford. And today that shall be something we pay great attention to. As you will see, my friend, I can serve many functions for you and wear many hats. Of course, my more mundane functions—such as keeping track of paperwork and filling out corporate forms—I trust you are already familiar with. So we will move past those. The question is: Where shall we start? What is on your mind, my young friend? Please tell me, and I will help you.”
I smiled and said, “I was told by Jean Jacques that you are a man who can be trusted completely, that you are the best at what you do. So rather than beat around the bush, I will operate under the assumption that you and I will be doing business together for many years to come.”
I paused fo
r a brief moment, waiting for Roland’s obligatory nod and smile in response to my patronizing statement. And while I was never a great advocate of patronizing statements…since this was the first time I’d ever been face-to-face with a true Master Forger…well, it just seemed like the appropriate thing to do.
As expected, Roland turned up the corners of his mouth and nodded deferentially. Then he took another enormous pull from his cigarette and started blowing perfectly round smoke rings. How beautiful! I thought. They were flawless circles of light-gray smoke, about two inches in diameter, and they seemed to float effortlessly through the air.
I smiled and said, “Those are very fine smoke rings, Roland. Maybe you can shed some light on why Swiss people love smoking so much. I mean—don’t get me wrong—I’m all for smoking if that’s what turns you on. In fact, my father is one of the all-time great smokers, so I respect it. But the Swiss seem to take it to a different level. Why is that?”
Roland shrugged and said, “Thirty years ago it was the same in America. But your government feels compelled to stick its nose in places where it does not belong—even into the right of an individual to partake in a simple manly pleasure. They have instituted a propaganda war against smoking, which, thankfully, has not spread to this side of the Atlantic. How bizarre it is for a government to decide what and what not a man might put into his own body. What will be next, I wonder, food?” He smiled broadly and laughed, then patted his fat stomach with great relish. “If that day comes, my friend, I will surely put a pistol in my mouth and pull the trigger!”
I let out a gentle laugh and shook my head and waved my hand in the air, as if to say, “Oh, come on! You’re not really that fat!” Then I said, “Well, you’ve answered my question, and what you say makes a lot of sense. The United States government is overly intrusive in all aspects of life, which is the exact reason I’m sitting here today. But I still have many concerns about doing business in Switzerland, most of them stemming from my lack of knowledge about your world—meaning overseas banking—and that makes me extremely nervous. I’m a firm believer, Roland, that knowledge is power and that in a situation like this, where the stakes are so incredibly high, a lack of knowledge is a recipe for disaster.
The Wolf of Wall Street Page 21
