The Lion said, “Yes, you can see them. But that’s all you can do. Without the new key, you cannot get to them.”
“So we get the key from the kids. It has to be one of them, it has to be,” Javier said.
“Yes, I agree. It has to be one of them.”
The main culprit, a boy who went by the handle of Dark Matter, had managed to fake the balance in Javier’s digital wallet, making it appear that he had the bitcoins in his account when, in fact, they’d actually been transferred out. It took him weeks to even notice the theft.
“What can I do?” Javier asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve done all I can,” The Lion said. “I’ll expect payment immediately.” The line went dead.
By now, Soto knew the money was missing, and the deadline for the bitcoins’ return had passed. Javier hid his face in his hands. He contemplated suicide. He had brought this nightmare on himself. At no point in time had Javier planned to lose more than half of his clients’ assets, but that was what had happened, and the ultimate reason for this catastrophe.
Fifteen years earlier, Javier had launched his boutique financial management firm, Asset Capital, with a small initial investment from a wealthy banking client who believed that the ambitious child of Mexican immigrants could generate big profits. He was right. Working with an independent broker-dealer, word spread of Javier’s financial gifts; and until a few years ago, Asset Capital had been managing about $105 million.
Business, as his father often said, was like a relationship. If not properly cared for, it would sour.
After some bad picks put him in a hole, and some aggressive maneuvers only dug that hole deeper, Javier was in serious trouble. He spoke about his financial troubles to a cousin in Boston, and the next day got a phone call from a stranger inviting him to a meeting. What the meeting was about, the other party wouldn’t say, but implied that he (whoever he was) could solve all of Javier’s money problems.
The meeting took place in Javier’s office in Newton. The man who showed up refused to give his name, but he was obviously Mexican and spoke Spanish with the same regional accent as his cousin. Javier suspected that the solution to his problem would somehow involve drug money. He should have told the man he wasn’t interested, but desperation eclipsed his better judgment. He had so much at stake: a wife and son to support, a mortgage, bills, tuition, and car payments—not to mention the prison time he would face when his clients discovered the fraud.
“The Man with No Name” dangled the right carrot in front of Javier’s face. According to him, if Javier made it into the organization, all his money problems would be gone. He wouldn’t say more. At the end of the meeting, the man left with Javier’s Social Security number and a promise to be in touch.
What followed was a series of phone calls, more meetings, and several business trips, all done under the radar by using burner phones, forged documents, encrypted messaging services, and even a couple dead drops. It was all very covert, but Javier went along blindly. He told the same story to each person with whom he met or spoke, and there were plenty.
They wanted to know about him as a person, what made him tick, the reason he got out of bed every morning. He had to be someone levelheaded and trustworthy, and they seemed willing to overlook his current business troubles. People can learn from their mistakes, he was told.
They asked about his wife. Her name was Stacey. They seemed to like that he’d been married for seventeen years. It showed he was grounded. Javier had met Stacey at his thirtieth birthday party. She was the caterer, and although not Mexican, she made mouth-watering churros, delectable taquitos, and these amazing margarita cupcakes, which got most of the seventy guests completely wasted. Javier flirted with Stacey throughout the evening and scored her number as she was putting the last of the dishes inside her catering van.
They asked about his hometown of Winston and his son, Guzman Antonio Martinez—or “Gus,” as his friends at The Pep called him. They liked that he was active in his community, his church. They smiled with him when he talked about coaching his son’s Little League team, back when Gus was passionate about the sport.
“We all love baseball,” one of the Mexicans had said.
They wanted to know everything they could learn about Javier’s parents, specifically their life in Tepito, friends his mother still kept in touch with, enemies the family might have. He told them about growing up in New Bedford, Massachusetts, and detailed his résumé, including his work for Wells Fargo before going out on his own.
It was the most thorough interview Javier had in his life and he still didn’t know what the job entailed.
Finally a man named Carlos, who spoke with him in a hotel room in Ciudad Juárez, told him what he had long suspected.
“We need a new money manager to help us expand our influence in America,” Carlos had said. “There’s a lot of money to be made, Javier . . . if you have a level head and a smart sense for business.”
That was when the first girls showed up, long-legged and draped in silky negligees. It was a night Javier would never forget. What Javier later read about Sangre Tierra made his boyhood nightmares seem like fairy tales. But the allure of easy money, beautiful women, and the drugs—yes, he had sampled and enjoyed—proved too powerful to resist. The cash Javier made from laundering Sangre Tierra’s drug money paid back the debt he had kept secret from his clients, and made him a millionaire many times over.
The money meant nothing to him now.
Javier’s joints cracked as he got up from his desk. He used to be in better shape, but the women and drugs had turned him soft. They’d turned his mind soft, too. How had he not used better security to safeguard the bitcoins?
With his feet in slippers, Javier padded along the hallway of his spacious home; his robe flapped open. Beneath his robe, he wore boxer shorts over which his ample belly protruded. He had been to the office only a few times since the theft; in those days, his beard had grown thick.
At the entrance to his kitchen, Javier paused. Something wasn’t right. He just had a feeling. He took a single step into the room and saw him.
A steely bolt of fear raced up Javier’s spine. He thought of running, but his legs wouldn’t move. He wanted to scream, but he had no voice.
Standing in front of the coffeemaker was a man Javier knew well. He had long, dark hair tied in a tight ponytail and wore a silken shirt decorated with a floral design, suitable for any of the nightclubs Javier frequented.
The man smiled, his grin twisted and wicked. Javier gazed in horror at the gold teeth, each ornately designed. He knew who this man was and, more frighteningly, what this man did. Fausto Garza whistled, summoning seven men into the kitchen. The men all had brown complexions, and they came in a variety of heights and sizes. One even had a shock of dyed bright red hair. Some were dressed casually, while others wore tactical clothing, but all of them carried rifles.
“Hello, Javier,” Fausto Garza said to him in Spanish. “Tenemos que hablar de negocios.” (“We’ve got business to discuss.”)
CHAPTER 8
The soft, middle-aged flab of Javier’s half-naked body sickened Fausto, who insisted his hostage get dressed. Minutes later, Javier stood inside his sizable bedroom closet, with Fausto and three of his sullen and silent minions keeping careful watch. Javier trembled putting on a dress shirt, and his hands shook too violently to do up the buttons, so he exchanged that outfit for an easy-to-slip-on black T-shirt and baggy gray sweatpants.
Fausto bristled at the final clothing choice. He preferred finer-looking fashions, but this was an American look through and through. Almost everything about the country displeased him—the women being the notable exceptions.
“¿Dices que eres mexicanoamericano?” Fausto said to Javier as he watched him fumble with his clothes. (“You call yourself Mexican American.”) “Pero, ¿qué es mexicano de ti? Nada. Eso.” (“But what is Mexican about you? Nothing. That’s what.”)
“I love Mexico, Fausto, and, belie
ve me, I am committed to the cartel’s mission. Please, you must know this.”
Javier knew to speak only in Spanish.
“You are committed to nothing but your disgusting self,” said Fausto. “If you loved Mexico so much, why not visit there? Why not live there? Oh, are you worried about the murders? The crime? Please, Javier, you of all people should know it is mostly just drug dealer against drug dealer. The finance types like you, they live a life of luxury. You listen too much to the media, my friend.”
Once Javier was dressed, Fausto escorted him from the bedroom to the dining room, with the other men in tow. The dining-room chairs were heavy black lacquer over oak, and suitable for Fausto’s purposes.
“Did you know,” said Fausto, running a hand along the smooth finished surface of one of the chairs, “Cancun and Cabo San Lucas have murder rates lower than Arizona? Lower!” Javier did not seem impressed, and this made Fausto angry. “Washington, D.C.—four times the number of murders in Mexico City. Four times, Javier. But you, you’re an American. You’ve lost touch with your people, your heritage.” Fausto crowded Javier and gave his cheek several patronizing pats with his hand. “But your heritage is about to reach out and touch you real hard. Pick up that chair. Carry it downstairs for me. You can call it exercise.”
Fausto would have two more chairs brought down in addition to the one Javier had carried. He would have three hostages here soon enough.
The unfinished side of the basement was nothing special, just a concrete room with a water tank, furnace, and a lot of ductwork. Javier kept his tools down here, however, and it was among them that Fausto had found the drill.
In a matter of minutes, two of Fausto’s men had lashed both of Javier’s ankles to the legs of the chair. Right away, the ankles began to swell. Javier’s arms were wrenched behind his back and secured with rope.
Slapping the tip of a twelve-volt Black & Decker power drill against his meaty palm, Fausto hovered in front of Javier’s chair and appraised his hostage thoughtfully. The drill had an orange plastic casing and a dull silver bit, which Fausto enjoyed spinning. The whir put a smile on his face and gave Javier a flash of the assassin’s gold metal mouth.
Four armed men from Sangre Tierra accompanied Fausto in the basement. They had all crossed the border on false passports, along with Fausto, and had spent days together in a van. The van was the best way to transport the assault rifles the men had picked up in San Diego, along with other weapons concealed in various pockets and belts of their tactical clothing.
Upstairs, three other members of the cartel waited. They had come by plane, and they would greet Stacey when she arrived home from work and Gus when he returned from school.
Fausto had Javier’s phone. He looked up Stacey’s number in his contacts. “I’d have you send the message, but maybe you have a code word or something established for a situation just like this,” Fausto said. “Who knows? You could be very well prepared. What do you call your wife, other than her name? Is it sweetie? Darling? Honey? Don’t lie to me. Bad things happen to people who don’t tell the truth.”
“Honey,” Javier said. “I’d say, ‘honey.’”
“Oh, how sweet,” said Fausto, sounding sincere.
To Stacey, Fausto typed in English: Come home honey! I’ve got a big surprise for you. We’re taking a vacation. Bags are packed. We’re leaving soon so hurry home!
Thirty seconds later, Stacey typed back: OMG!!! Are u serious?
There was some back and forth texting, half of it written by Fausto, but guided by Javier. Stacey needed a little cajoling to become convinced she could act so spontaneously. Eventually, she decided that she could.
Stacey’s last message read: I’m so excited. Leaving work now. Love U!!!
Fausto sent a similar text message to his son and told him to take a cab home. Gus’s reply came back quick: No WAAAAAAAYY so pumped!! Love you Pop!
Fausto showed the replies to Javier. Everything needed to hurt.
“Soto doesn’t explain stuff to me,” Fausto said. “He tells me to go get his money, but he doesn’t tell me how. So you’ll tell me everything I need to know, deal?”
Javier’s chin was touching his chest in defeat.
Fausto lifted his head, using the tip of the drill. He wanted the eye contact. “Educate me.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Javier.
“Everything,” Fausto said.
Javier tried to speak, but an unexpected sob choked his voice. Fausto looked annoyed. To quiet the man down, Fausto slipped the drill bit into Javier’s ear. Out of instinct, Javier pulled his head to one side to dislodge it, but Fausto grabbed hold of his chin and held him in place.
“Ssh, ssh, ssh, my friend,” Fausto said. “Calm down or something messy could happen here. My finger could slip.”
Javier stopped thrashing. The tears dried up enough for him to find his voice. Many years of experience had taught Fausto that terror was a special kind of motivator.
Javier explained everything. When he finished speaking, Fausto extracted the drill from Javier’s ear canal. “These bitcoins,” Fausto said. “They don’t exist? They’re not real?” His curiosity was earnest.
“No,” Javier gasped, and spat. “They’re . . . real.”
“So I can buy things with them? Clothes? A car? That Dunkin’ Donuts coffee you all drink?”
Javier tried to answer, but again the words got stuck in his throat. He shut his eyes tight. Then, like a free diver before making a descent, he took in several readying breaths.
“Just relax,” Fausto said. “I won’t hurt you if you help me.”
Javier nodded several times. He’d be compliant. “You can buy things, yes,” Javier said. “Or exchange them for other types of currency.”
“And this kid you mention, he exchanged the bitcoins for real cash?”
“Not all,” Javier said, his voice still shaky. “It was only a couple thousand dollars’ worth, but it was a dumb thing to do.”
“Why ‘dumb’?”
“Because we could trace the coins to the new owner,” Javier said. He stopped speaking to look once more at the empty chairs next to his. “The seller used this thing called a proxy server to mask his IP address, but my computer consultant said it was an ‘unsophisticated means of tunneling.’ Those were his exact words.”
“Who is this consultant?”
“He calls himself The Lion. I can get you in touch with him.”
“You will.”
“Please, Fausto,” Javier said. “Keep my family out of this. I’ll help you. I promise. I’ll do anything. Just leave them alone.”
Instead of the ear, Fausto set the tip of the drill against Javier’s leg, directly at midthigh. The leg began to buckle and shake in a grand mal seizure way, but Fausto kept the contact point.
“They are a part.” Fausto indicated to the empty chairs. “You are a part.” He motioned to Javier. “And we are a part.” Fausto gestured to himself and his henchmen. “We’re all in this mess together,” he said, making a big circle with his hands, a big mess encompassing everyone.
“Okay. Okay. I got it. I got it,” Javier said. He was close to hyperventilating. “What do you know about the bitcoin business?”
“I know nothing, except that I’m here to get the money back,” Fausto said.
“It started when Soto had a lot of cash he wanted cleaned,” Javier said. “More than I’d seen before. Instead of cleaning it through bank accounts like I’d been doing, I suggested we could use that money to make more money. I’d been reading about this currency, and I told him he could buy computers so we could mine for bitcoins.”
Fausto looked puzzled. “Mine for them? Like dig-in-the-ground mine?”
“Not the ground,” Javier said. “Computational mining. Very powerful computers solving complex problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Computations that help to guarantee the integrity of bitcoins’ general ledger.”
“Wh
at does that mean?”
“Every bitcoin transaction has to be validated,” Javier said.
“You’re clear as fog,” Fausto said.
“How do you prove somebody bought and sold something that you can’t hold?” Javier said. “You can count dollars, weigh gold and silver, but how do I prove that I have as many bitcoins as I say I do? I could be faking it. Without proof, nobody would trust the system, and the currency would be worthless. The bitcoin ledger, that’s the official accounting of all the bitcoins bought and sold. The computational mining we do validates that every transaction on the ledger is real. It’s complex computing work, but anytime a bitcoin miner can confirm a block of transactions is real, they get bitcoins rewarded to them for the effort. Mining it is hard computing work. It’s how they limit the number of bitcoins in circulation, which helps sustain value.
“So Soto bought a bunch of expensive computers with his money, and he’s using those computers to mine for these bitcoins.” A strange, almost excited look had replaced Javier’s more terrified one. It was, after all, his idea; and with lots of highly educated but underpaid computer experts in Mexico, Soto had little trouble getting the operation off the ground.
“And that’s how you collected two hundred million dollars’ worth of these bitcoins? By mining them?”
“Not all,” Javier said. “I also bought bitcoins on the exchange, but those transactions were anonymous. Nobody knows I bought them, unless I try to off-ramp the bitcoins.”
“‘Off-ramp’?”
“That’s where you sell the bitcoins. Owners of the coins are anonymous until they sell their coins. When somebody sells, the transaction gets broadcast for the whole bitcoin community to see.”
“So that’s how you know this kid from the school took the money?” Fausto asked.
Javier nodded. “Yes, yes. The Lion traced the seller’s IP address. I was shocked to see that the coins were sold from Pepperell Academy.”
Fausto was beginning to understand, and it pleased him. “How do you know who at the school took the coins?” Fausto asked.
Constant Fear Page 5
