Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  Griffen frowned. “I can hardly allow my network to be exposed or the organization of my funds broken down and analyzed – much less speculations as to the size and purpose of the offshore entity. That creates problems for all of us.” Griffen wanted to make sure Sergei understood there was risk in this for everyone.

  A critical mistake on his part.

  Sergei reclined a little, and sighed. “Let me explain something to you, my friend. I hire people to perform tasks for me. For example, my driver is in charge of driving my car. If he loses control of the car while driving, it is he who has the problem, not I. And if I am harmed because of his error, he is likely to lose his position of trust and responsibility and face harsh consequences.”

  He gazed, unblinking his steel-grey eyes as he spelled out his subtle parable: “Now, I love my driver like a son, and would do anything to help him with difficulties that are within my ability to impact. If he has a financial problem I can help. If someone would do him harm, I can help. But if he has a gambling problem and bets his house and his other property, and then steals something and has legal problems, my ability to intervene is hampered. I cannot help then.”

  They sipped their drinks while nibbling at the expansive plateful of expensive appetizers spread out before them.

  “Sergei, I didn’t mean to imply–”

  “It is not a matter of implication. I want to help you with your situation, and will do everything I can. But...just to be clear...it is I who helps you with your problem, not with our problem, nyet?”

  Sergei was radiating his it’s all just good, clean fun smile. It was what lay behind the smile that made Griffen shudder at his faux pas.

  “Of course, Sergei. I completely understand. And I do appreciate everything you’ve done.” Griffen was backpedaling hard.

  “I have been looking at the website,” Sergei said, “and the speculations about the level of your commitment in Allied are disturbing.” Sergei paused. “Do I have anything to be disturbed about?”

  “No. It’s not an issue. Your investment is mostly in the offshore fund, which I assure you is in good shape.” Griffen failed to mention that he’d shifted much of his position over to the foreign fund at the end of June, making his domestic fund look much stronger for the half-year report to the investors.

  As of today, with some of his other bad bets, the domestic fund was only down 15 percent, but the offshore fund was theoretically bankrupt if they had to sell the Allied stock in a freefall – Griffen used a lot of leverage offshore, which could exponentially increase profit, but could also wipe him out if there was a substantial unexpected move. Which would never happen. He just needed that fucking site to be eliminated, and then it would be back to business as usual.

  Griffen continued to assure him: “It’s never been better. Just look at the new report on the domestic fund – only down fifteen percent in a year where my peers are down thirty. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Sergei smiled again, a happy man by nature. “I never doubted it for a minute, my friend. We will continue trying to help with your little bump on the road, yes?” He tossed back the last of his vodka. “Za vashe zdorovye!”

  Griffen left the restaurant, feeling sick. He’d seen the report on the sailboat explosion and was satisfied the original troublemaker was dead. It was his bad luck somebody else had decided to run the website – perhaps even one of his competitors. But he was going to make his luck change soon.

  He just needed the stock to increase in price by another forty or so percent, and speculation to increase so he could get out of his long position and build a healthy short position – then the site would almost be helping him. Knock the stock down eighty to ninety percent once he was a few hundred million bucks short, especially with put options that skyrocketed in value even with only minor price moves downward, and he’d make up all his losses and come out smelling like roses.

  That would bring the funds back up to the billion dollar mark and erase what had up until now been a disastrous year, making it just a bad memory...

  The website complicated the plan because he couldn’t control the timing of the damaging revelations – nor the content – and this was foremost a timing game. He remained hopeful, though; it was just a matter of days until Sergei or Glen would locate the new server location, and then they could have it taken out, perhaps hacked irreparably or infected with some sort of lethal virus.

  As always, he’d think of something.

  Focal Point: Chapter 10

  By Wednesday, Steven had settled into a morning rhythm that involved running and breakfast, and then time at his favorite coffee-franchise-cum-office.

  He had everything in place now for his departure, which was only 48 hours away, tops, then Steven would be safely over the border and on to a new life. He’d toyed with the idea of going back to his house to retrieve his important papers and put them into a safe deposit box, but dismissed it as foolish under the circumstances.

  It was another morning at the coffee shop to communicate with the world, and then hopefully Thursday he’d get his passport and be able to vanish. He checked all his usual sites, noticing he had a response from the Canadian agent working the brokerage scandal. He read the e-mail.

  [Hello Steven. I’m sorry to hear Peter was killed. It’s a tragedy. He explained your issue to me in our last conversation, and I think I may be able to help. Feel free to call me. Best, Cliff.]

  Followed by a phone number. Steven saved the e-mail and dialed the number.

  “Cliff Tomlin.”

  “Hello, Cliff. This is Steven, Peter Valentine’s friend. I just got your e-mail.”

  “Yes, hello, Steven. I’m sorry to hear about the accident.”

  Steven figured he might as well tell him up front what was going on. “Well, Cliff, thanks for that, but I don’t think it was an accident. We’ve had a number of alarming things happen since we started our investigation into Griffen, and Peter was meeting a source who was going to provide some incriminating information when he was killed. It doesn’t look good.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. How can I assist you?” Cliff asked.

  “If you see anything in Griffen’s account that looks suspicious, like high volume of buys or sells of Allied stock, please notify me. Allied is the company we’re investigating his role in.”

  “That’s a considerable breach of confidentiality laws, and could cause serious problems for me if it ever leaked I’d shared any info with you. But I owed Peter huge, so I’ll trust you to be discreet. I guess what I’m saying is, I shouldn’t tell you anything, but given the circumstances, fair enough. I’ll pass your area of interest on to our mole. Expect an e-mail if there’s anything unusual. Sorry again about Peter. He helped me out of a nasty jam years ago – basically saved my life...and my career. Make no mistake, you’re asking for a lot, so hopefully this will settle the debt.” Cliff seemed like a decent enough sort, and he sounded genuinely saddened by Peter’s death.

  “Thank you, Cliff. Anything we discuss will remain absolutely confidential, you have my word. It’s for my eyes only.”

  Focal Point: Chapter 11

  Thursday, he received a message from Spyder:

  [Cut the tags out of your clothes if you’re going to be traveling under a non-USA passport (a guess) and discard your shaving materials and hygiene products. Buy more in Mexico. The devil’s in the details. Don’t assume no one’s paying attention – assume everyone has you under a microscope and you’ll do OK. Good luck. – Spyder]

  He’d never really considered those kinds of things, but realized Spyder was right. He needed to eliminate as much as he could that identified him in any way – and he also had to work up a plausible cover story.

  Okay...he was Steven Cross, on a Romanian passport. How did that come about? Born in Bucharest, parents moved to Canada when he was young; very young, hence the inability to speak a word of Romanian. They insisted he learn English so he would assimilate, and never spoke Romanian at ho
me.

  Sounded good so far.

  What was his story though? Independently wealthy, he’d inherited his money after working in the family import business. Okay. Why was he abroad? Had a wild hair up his ass to travel for a year or two. Got his brand new passport and hit the road. Was thinking about writing a book and wanted to look at locales. He didn’t think he needed much more than that.

  He called Stan, who confirmed the passport had arrived in Los Angeles and should be there no later than 4:00. One hour away. That gave him just enough time to visit the cleaners to pick up his order and stop by at the drugstore to get scissors. He filled the hour by completing these tasks and sitting in his truck, patiently removing all the clothes tags; a job longer and harder than he would have thought possible.

  At 4:01 he called Stan again. They agreed to meet at a Mexican restaurant by the beach at 5:30, so back to the motel he went, clothes in tow. At 5:30 he rolled into the restaurant parking area. It was early, but on a Thursday night the margarita party crowd was already getting started with happy hour. A throng of red-faced fat guys woo-hooed enthusiastically on the bar area patio, radiating the tiresome drunken belligerence of the privileged and habitually ill-behaved.

  Stan wheeled into the parking area immediately after Steven, so he waited as Stan got out of the car, envelope in his hand. They went inside together, choosing to sit at the back, away from the frat party atmosphere. They declined margaritas but acquiesced to a couple of Pacificos. Stan handed Steven the envelope.

  The waitress deposited their beers and threw a basket of chips in front of them with studied indifference. Two beers. She knew the type. Big spenders.

  “So planning on making your way out into the world soon?” Stan asked.

  “I’m going to do everything I can to bring Griffen down, Stan. He’s hurt me, killed my friends and destroyed my life. And he’s getting away with it, so far. Nobody else seems like they’re going to stop him, so that’s my new project.” Steven took a sip of his beer. Icy cold.

  “I’m not going to try to tell you what to do,” Stan said. “But you have enough money to live pretty much wherever you want in comfort for the rest of your life.”

  “I’d never be able to live with myself if I didn’t do this, Stan. I had money before he decided to take me out. I could have chosen to live elsewhere if I’d wanted. I didn’t. I wanted to live here, right where I was, just as I was. He’s made that impossible. I want him to pay for that, as well as for Peter and Todd.” Steven took another pull on the beer.

  “I’m not saying don’t do it. I guess I’m just trying to say you may be walking into machine-gun fire, and you don’t have to. That’s all. There are other ways to live a good life.”

  “Peter doesn’t have that option any more, does he?” Steven asked.

  They both fell silent for a few minutes. There wasn’t a lot left to say, and neither was in the mood for idle banter. When they were through with the beers Steven opened the envelope and looked at the passport. Steven Cross at your service. He pulled out a pen and did his best squashed bug where Stan had affixed a little sticky arrow saying, ‘Sign here.’

  Stan peered over his spectacles – Steven was going to miss that... “It’s the genuine article, so don’t lose it. Stay in touch via telephone, Steven – landlines if possible. I don’t trust e-mail at all, and I don’t trust cell phones much more.”

  He stood up, reached out and shook Steven’s hand. “I don’t want to know where you’re going or where you are at any given time. Having said that, if you’re in trouble, call.”

  “I appreciate all the help, Stan. You’re a good friend.” He smiled. “We aren’t going to a funeral, why so glum eh? I’ll stay in touch.” Steven hoped he was right about the funeral part.

  Stan departed to the restroom and Steven exited to the car park to wait for him in his truck. When Stan walked out to the parking area, Steven handed him the Jim Cavierti file through the window.

  “Put this someplace very safe. See you around, Stan.”

  He put the Mazda in gear and pulled away, the image of Stan standing with the envelope in hand in the parking lot a stark reminder of how much his life had changed in just a few short days.

  The next morning Steven carefully packed his new duffel and laptop, ensuring no American disposable products contaminated his toiletry kit. The money belt he’d bought cinched his midsection, but it wasn’t too bad. You couldn’t see it with his baggy button-up shirt on. He made a mental note to stop at a mall in San Diego and buy four or five more loose button-up shirts for comfortable concealment of the belt while traveling.

  He went into in the motel restaurant for the last time and got his usual. He ate slowly, enjoying the chatter on the boards while he surfed on his Blackberry. When he was done with breakfast, he left the waitress a twenty dollar tip. For old times’ sake.

  He didn’t need to check out since Stan had paid for everything in advance, so he stowed his gear in the little Mazda and pointed it south. Once in San Diego, he stopped at a mall near the Gaslamp quarter, bought shirts, cutting the tags out at the store, explaining how sensitive his skin was to the chafing nature of the labels.

  The cashier couldn’t have been more vacant if she’d tried. Nobody cared. Good.

  His flight didn’t leave Tijuana until 7:50 p.m. but anticipation had set him itching to get out of the country. Steven wove through the trundling freeway traffic and took the last exit before the border, and after circling the decrepit area pulled onto a street about two blocks from the crossing, in one of the seediest neighborhoods he’d ever been in. He stopped the truck, placed his temporary cell phone under the rear tire, and drove over it a couple of times. Smashed flat. He parked the car fifty yards closer to the border and left it, open, with the keys in the ignition. Things would take care of themselves for the trusty Mazda, he was sure.

  After satisfying himself that he hadn’t forgotten anything, he wheeled his duffel and laptop bag toward the crossing point without looking back.

  Focal Point: Chapter 12

  Getting into Mexico couldn’t have been easier. After crossing through some turnstiles, Steven walked past several bored customs agents and a handful of teenage soldiers, and presto, he was in the land of mariachis.

  He navigated through the congested and filthy area near the crossing, avoiding the beggars and hundreds of vendors with their ceramic Tweety birds and praying Jesuses and similar treasures. Steven followed the foot traffic, and made his way towards the central metropolitan area and spotted a large Super Farmacia, where he bought shampoo, soap, deodorant, disposable razors, toothpaste. All hecho en Mexico, with the directions and labels in Spanish. He stuffed the plastic bag into the duffel as the pharmacy security guard watched him with measured disinterest.

  Back on the street, he’d had about enough of downtown Tijuana within two minutes. Rounding a corner, he spotted a row of cabs sitting at the curb in front of a bar; he got into the one at the head of the line and said, “El Aeoropuerto, por favor.” Apparently the driver understood, because soon they were speeding down narrow, dirty streets at triple the speed limit, the driver cheerfully ignoring the stop signs as they flew by.

  Steven noted the engine and brake warning lights were both illuminated, and that passengers were untroubled by old-fashioned concerns like seat belts; there were none. The small statue of Jesus on the dashboard did little to comfort him as they narrowly escaped T-boning a delivery van amidst much honking and fist shaking.

  He hoped the Mexican blanket, in service as his ad hoc seat cover, only smelled like it had recently been on a sick burro, and wondered how easily lice could attach themselves to him.

  The roads were teeming with filth and the odor of raw sewage wafted into the cab window. The hills housed poverty on an epic scale and the area near the border fence was crawling with inhabitants in lean-tos awaiting nightfall for their shot at breaching the fence. He supposed Calcutta made this look like Club Med, but it was still a shocker to see it up clo
se and personal only a couple of miles from a country where you could buy food twenty-four hours a day and where sixty-one percent of the population was fat or obese.

  The cab rattled on until they eventually got to the airport, which was surprisingly well-policed and spotlessly clean. He paid the driver in dollars, found the airline counter and purchased a ticket for La Havana, also paying in dollars. Si Senor, con mucho gusto. The attendant told him in passable English that he could get his visa for Cuba at the airport in DF – Distrito Federal, as Mexico City was referred to by the locals.

  He exhausted the departure area’s shops for stimulating pastimes, ate a questionable burrito at one of the little restaurants in the departure area, and finally boarded the flight to Mexico City with relief. Takeoff was punctual and uneventful. Steven watched through the airplane window as the lights of San Diego receded beneath the tail of the plane, Point Loma still faintly visible even as the sunset’s glow dimmed into the encroaching nightfall.

  Mexico City Airport at 1:30 in the morning was quiet. He had earplugs, and managed to doze intermittently until things picked up at around 7 a.m.. Fully awake, Steven wandered the huge terminal and people-watched, grabbing breakfast at one of the numerous restaurants populating the departure area. He was somewhat surprised at how clean the entire airport was – he'd been given to viewing Mexico as a filthy, dangerous place where you took your life into your hands when you crossed the border. Instead, he found a first world quality airport with every possible amenity and comfort; there were even numerous American brands at the turn of every corner – Krispy Kreme, 7/11, and American restaurant franchises of every imaginable variety. Again, his flight was on schedule, and he ascended out of the blanket of smog that surrounded Mexico City with little regret at having missed taking in the town itself. This was the most populated city in the world, and easily one of the most dangerous, as well as one of the most polluted. Pass on anything outside of the airport, thank you.