Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  Steven called it a day on the touristy meandering by four in the afternoon, and after stopping at a dilapidated drugstore to buy some more bandages and a bottle of aspirin, he returned to the hotel and took a siesta. When he awoke, he changed his dressing again, which now had very little blood on it at all. Progress of a sort was being made. He ate dinner at a private home he was directed to by the hotel; the home doubled as a restaurant in what was the embassy area of Havana. The food tasted surprisingly good, and once back at the hotel, Steven risked one more Mojito for strictly medicinal purposes. His flight the next day departed in the morning on Aireo Caribbeano, and he wanted to be clear-headed for the trip.

  He emptied his glass, went into the lobby and had the receptionist put through a call to Alfred Reese’s number. Steven got an answering machine, so he left a message that he would arrive sometime tomorrow afternoon and would call from St. Martin.

  The receptionist had his bill ready for him. He took it upstairs and looked it over – nothing unexpected. A quick call to the desk ensured he’d get a wake-up call at 6:15 in the morning. That done, he fell back on the bed, exhausted, and listened to the hum of the air conditioner as it struggled to keep the summer swelter at bay.

  Focal Point: Chapter 15

  Kevin Pasteur was an admitted geek. He looked and acted the part; negligible attention to grooming, pigmentation that proclaimed a life spent indoors, military-issue-looking glasses, an unusual depth of knowledge about the latest video games, atrocious fashion sensibility; he even owned a plastic pocket protector for special occasions.

  He reveled in the stereotype, and did his best to fulfill everyone’s expectations of what a true geek should look like, act like, and be interested in. That he’d made a fortune in software design made it all the more fun for him; afforded him the luxury of being unapologetic about his odd appearance and quirky manners. He was that most reviled of all nerds, the ultra-successful high priest of technology, master of arcane knowledge everyone used, but few understood.

  He’d sold his last two companies to larger entities that had needed the expertise of the teams he’d assembled, and he was currently between projects. He didn’t need to work anymore but he bored easily, and when he saw a deficiency in a product or a technology he couldn’t help himself. He needed to fix it, or improve it. That’s just what he did. It had paid well.

  He was also a member of the Group.

  Kevin – or ‘Pogo’, as the Group knew him – was a busy boy today.

  He was busy making life truly miserable for anyone attempting to track the webmaster of the Allied site, using a variety of techniques that to him were childishly simple. The opposition was probably tearing their hair out trying to figure out what he was doing and how, which amused him immensely. Good help was so hard to find. He’d watched the sorry flailing of his adversaries, and in his opinion, whoever was on the other end of the pixel stream must be a dolt. He almost felt sorry for them.

  Almost.

  Once he’d written the program to bounce the IPs all over the planet, on a random basis, every 15 minutes, the ultra-busy work was done. He’d set traps along the way so anyone trying to ID him would have to signal their presence. One of his favorite pastimes was to create messages on the boards that contained a link to something that seemed likely to be a giveaway to the webmaster’s identity or location, and then record and analyze the IP addresses of the computers that hit the link. He did it in such a way as to time it for when the stock detractors were especially active, thus ensuring whoever clicked in the first 5 minutes of posting the link was a likely bad guy.

  So far he’d compiled a nice library of IDs, some of which terminated in surprising places: three were the addresses of prime brokers on Wall Street, a few were random locations in New Jersey, and a handful were from Brooklyn; what looked to be a boiler room. He’d been able to triangulate the identities by comparing the IPs to those hitting the website at key times, such as immediately after he posted news at an odd hour – when only negative posters were clogging the boards.

  Pogo was fleshing out his theory that this was a large-scale operation, being managed by one central group but also using a second and third tier of smaller players to support and add momentum. The data supported his hypothesis, and he felt really pleased he’d nailed it.

  He’d also committed to becoming an expert within a week or two on how the brokerage system actually worked. That was far harder than writing a simple script to bounce IDs, as there wasn’t any central source that described the minutiae of how the machine that dealt with stock payment and delivery actually functioned.

  Fortunately, his friend, Andy, worked on Wall Street with one of the smaller broker/dealers and knew a young lady who worked at Griffen’s prime broker – the firm that handled most of his domestic trading. She’d been on the job for six years and loathed most of her duties – and her co-workers even more so. She’d met Andy in a bar in the Village a few months ago and they’d hit it off, had been seeing each other on a regular basis ever since to exchange some casual friskiness. Both were highly intelligent and somewhat ill-suited to their vocations, which served as the basis for their relationship. That, and they both drank a lot of vodka and shared an affinity for sushi.

  It wasn’t a perfect match, but it was close by NY standards.

  Andy insisted on going out with Pogo whenever he hit town, and Pogo made sure he did so within a week of hearing about his buddy’s new sort-of soul mate. Pogo insisted Andy bring her along on their nights out, and the resulting discussions were illuminating. Pogo had told Andy he was researching a non-fiction book about the stock market, as the writing bug had bitten him, and there wasn’t really any top-to-bottom layman’s description of how the markets worked from a behind-the-scenes perspective. That didn’t surprise Andy – he knew Pogo as a keen intellect capable of anything; he’d witnessed the two companies Pogo had created, with their string of innovative designs. A book about the market? Why not?

  Andy had been more than willing to tell a slew of sordid stories (off the record, of course) and the now-and-then girlfriend had poured forth a font of information. Her knowledge base waxed clinical and dry, but comprehensive. That she hated her gig only made her more willing to tell a sympathetic Pogo all the dirty secrets she knew of. By the time the fourth or fifth Cosmo had gone down the hatch she would launch into ten-minute diatribes about how crooked Wall Street was, or how her colleagues were a bunch of scumbag misogynists, or how the machine chewed up its employees and burned them out.

  It was pure gold, and now the challenge shifted to steering the discussions into areas where he needed more visibility, while avoiding drinking so much he couldn’t remember the details.

  He looked at his watch. Dinner time, and then another booze-fest with Andy and Ms. Angry Drinky-Drink. He was glad he didn’t live in New York. What a pressure cooker.

  In keeping with his character, he donned his best plaid short-sleeved shirt and oversized jeans, and considered his reflection in the full-length mirror. Thirty-something programmer with too much time spent watching hip-hop videos. A non-threatening pencil-neck you could tell your troubles to. Perfect.

  A few more nights of this and he’d know everything he needed. He just hoped his liver could take it.

  Focal Point: Chapter 16

  The trip from Havana to St. Martin was bumpy – a noisy half-full turboprop flight. Nobody seemed interested in making small talk above the drone and vibration of the engines. That suited Steven fine.

  When he touched down, his passport was waved through with barely a glance. At least now he had two stamps on it, making it appear increasingly plausible he was a globetrotter out to scout backgrounds for his magnum travel opus. When he cleared customs he called Alfred.

  “Good afternoon, Larkin and Reese.” Same lilting voice.

  “Good afternoon. Is Alfred in? This is Steven.”

  “Just a moment please, I know he’s expecting your call.” He could hear her speaking to someone in
the background.

  Alfred’s distinctive voice came on the line.

  “Hello, Steven. How are you today?”

  “Excellent, Alfred. I’m at the St. Martin airport – I expect to be there within an hour or so. Would it be possible to have someone meet me?” Steven asked.

  “Of course. I’ll meet you myself. How are you arriving, and where?”

  “I’m working on the arrival part,” Steven said. “Kind of thinking about taking a boat over. I’ll call you once I get there.”

  “You may want to consider the charter fleet down at the waterfront in Marigot if you don’t want to deal with customs. I’m sure there are plenty of fast boats only too happy to make a drop-off, even though it’s technically a no-no. I’d suggest the beach over by the Cap Juluca hotel, because that’s where I’ve arranged your billet. I know the management well – ‘three wise monkeys’, so to speak...” Alfred was a wealth of information.

  “Are there patrol boats from customs?”

  “Ha! No,” Alfred said. “I imagine you’ll find the security quite underwhelming around here. I think it’s safe to presume we aren’t on alert for an imminent invasion or such; just the odd police boat puttering around Sandy Ground and Island Harbour, nothing on the St. Martin side. I’ll look forward to your arrival.”

  Steven stopped at the gift shop and bought a hat, then took a taxi over to Marigot. Sure enough, there were dozens of boats vying for customers. He surveyed the craft bobbing on the waterfront with their dull and gaudy colors, and liked what he saw in a thirty-two foot power catamaran named Hey Mon II. He approached the swarthy-skinned captain, who looked stoned-out on weed – or something, and asked if it would be possible to buzz over to Anguilla.

  “Anything is possible if you have the desire and the means,” the islander replied, in a French-flavored accent.

  “I have both.”

  “There is a ferry. She departs from just over there. Ten dollars,” said the captain, pointing over at the larger dock.

  “I was thinking about something more private, maybe just drop me off on a beach.”

  “Ah…but of course…I can pull this boat onto any beach. Would you like for me to await your return?”

  “I think I’d like to just wander around there, so one way would be fine.”

  “For that, I think maybe a hundred dollars is fair?” The captain was already taking his duffel. “Cash, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “C’est bon, then we go now, non?” He was down the dock and climbing aboard, extending a hand to Steven.

  The engines roared to life, and in moments they were making their way out of the harbor to sea. There were six-to-eight-foot rolling swells, so they kept their speed to around eighteen knots as they bumped and buffeted over each advancing wave.

  “She reaches thirty knots…eeeasily…on a tranquille day. A good boat. Formidable. I been out in 16-foot seas and never worried. Catamaran – very stable, of course. You have the hundred? Please.” Business was, after all, business.

  Steven handed him a C-note. “Do you know the beach by the Cap Juluca hotel? I’d like to get dropped off on the next beach over. I have friends who have a place around there and I want to surprise them.”

  “I know the area. We will arrive in fifteen minutes more.”

  True to his word, they approached the pink coral strip in about twenty minutes, and the Gallic captain expertly beached the bow onto the light golden sand.

  He handed Steven a card with his phone numbers on it. “My name is Jean-Claude. You need a trip back, day or night, call me and I can be here in half an hour. I live just along from my boat. Bon fortune with your surprise.”

  Steven took the card and pocketed it. They shook hands warmly, and Steven thanked him for his help. He hopped off the bow onto the wave moistened sand.

  Jean-Claude handed him the duffel and laptop. “Au revoir,” he said, an easy smile on his sun-weathered face. Reversing the engines, he skillfully pulled off, executing a tight turn as he roared back to St. Martin.

  Steven looked around in awe. The sheer beauty all but took his breath away. It felt far cooler and less humid than in Havana. He sauntered up a gentle sandbank to where he presumed a road would be; to be rewarded with a hard-packed dirt path leading down the beach to the hotel. The wheels on his duffel became a lifesaver; he extended the collapsible handle, placed his laptop case on top of it and set off on the half-mile hike to the sun-bleached buildings in the distance.

  He noted the island was smallish, with not a lot of structures visible. Why indeed had Griffen chosen Anguilla for his fund’s home, Steven wondered. St. Martin had far more infrastructure and was much more convenient, with a relatively large international airport (he’d spotted several Air France 747s) and surely a larger banking system. Well, that’s exactly what he was here to find out.

  He reached the hotel and was relieved to discover it was as pleasant as any he’d stayed at. Modest in size. Not one of the mega-resort complexes. That was good. He approached the front desk.

  The female receptionist looked up at him. “Will you be checking in, sir?”

  “Yes, in a few minutes, but I need to use a phone first. Is there somewhere I can make a local call?” Steven asked.

  “Of course, sir, right over there on that table. Dial nine.”

  Steven walked over and called Alfred.

  “Good afternoon, Larkin and Reese.”

  “Alfred, please.”

  Pause. Muffled noises.

  “This is Alfred.”

  “I’m at the hotel.”

  “That was fast. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. How will I know you?” Alfred asked.

  “I’ll be in the lobby wearing a red St. Martin baseball cap,” Steven said.

  “Perfect.”

  Steven’s eyes wandered around the reception area. Really extraordinary. White marble, with an expansive view of the ocean and St. Martin.

  A staff member approached him with a tray and offered him a rum punch and a hot towel. Ah...it was infused with anise. Very civilized. If being an international fugitive panned-out like this all the time, count me in, he decided.

  He absently considered the Moorish architecture and the whitewashed exterior. A few minutes later, a tall, thin man in his sixties approached him.

  “Steven, I presume?” he asked in his resonant British accent.

  “Alfred. Nice to meet you.” Steven stood up and shook Alfred’s hand, which was the color of coal. Alfred was one of the blackest men he’d ever seen. His immaculate white linen shirt and trousers served to accentuate the depth of his ebony skin. Tints of grey fringed the short, tight curls on his head, with teeth that sparkled white enough to glow in the dark. He carried an equally slim briefcase.

  “I like the place. Seems very quiet. Perfect for my purposes,” Steven said.

  “Shall we check you in now, or would you rather we sit down and discuss said purposes a little before we settle you in?”

  “Let’s talk.” Steven sat down in an oversized, overstuffed leather armchair, while Alfred took a seat facing him. Alfred produced a small notebook and a gold pen from his valise.

  Steven leaned forward. “I’m interested in any information I can get on Nicholas Griffen, Griffen Ventures or Heliotrope Holdings. The latter is an investment fund registered in the British Virgin Islands, but chartered in Anguilla, and presumably banking here as well. If I can, I’d like to get information on the names of the investors, as well as the total dollar value of the fund, and its holdings of stock, or options, or short positions. Also, anything you can dig up on its banking relationships.” Steven sat back while Alfred rapidly scribbled down the information.

  “That’s quite a tall order, Steven…a tall order indeed. Every single piece of data you’re describing is wholly confidential, and protected by privacy laws and iron-clad bank secrecy statutes.”

  “So you can’t do it?” Steven asked him, leaning back into the ample chair.

  �
�Ha! Only a fool would proclaim the impossible,” Alfred said, a smile in his eyes. “Consider my observations as mere thinking aloud. Anything can be executed, achieved or acquired – if a price can be agreed. One of the more lamentable elements of the human condition. It will turn out horribly expensive by the time it’s all over, I shouldn’t wonder, and will require a little finesse and a generous helping of time. But you’ve found the right person for the task, if I may be so bold. Let me mull over the best way to proceed and get back to you with an estimate.” Alfred looked at Steven, head slightly tilted. “Is there anything else?”

  “Actually, there is. I also need any information you can get on a man named Jim Cavierti who died here several years ago,” Steven said. More scribbling.

  “Spell the last name, please.”

  He did.

  “Is that it?” asked Alfred.

  “That’s everything I can think of,” Steven said, “except for the cell phone.”