Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  “Yes, and now we have very high definition camera phones it is easy to capture people unaware.”

  “I’d like to sign you up. The company is Terrasol Investments, and they’re here in Buenos Aires,” Steven told him.

  Domingo wrote down the name. “Good. We will begin immediately. I will require $500 as a retainer, and the balance before we turn over the dossier we assemble.”

  Domingo and Steven shook hands.

  “Should I give you the cash, or your receptionist?” he asked.

  Domingo chuckled. “Perhaps it would be better to give me the cash. She might get the wrong idea, and then you’d be in real trouble…”

  Steven counted out $500 and handed it to Domingo.

  “Do you have a number where I can reach you?” Domingo asked.

  “Not yet,” Steven said, “but I can call you tomorrow to find out what you’ve been able to unearth. I’m staying with friends, and plan to get a cell phone in the next day or two.”

  “Bueno, then we speak tomorrow. Gracias, John.”

  “De nada, Domingo.”

  Steven was online when Antonia came breezing back into the hotel room. She had several large bags of clothing; most for herself, but there were a few items he noted were masculine.

  “Caro, here are some socks and some underwear. You needed some more. And a pair of grey wool dress slacks, so we can go out someplace besides fast food. And a dress shirt, and, wow, look at this, a tie!” she enthused. It all looked very expensive.

  Steven smiled. “I don’t think I’ve worn a tie since my mom’s funeral, Antonia. But for you, I’ll make the ultimate sacrifice; just don’t ask for it every day.”

  She modeled her purchases for him. By the time she was done, she was standing in the middle of a pile of clothes, naked except for her thong underwear. She studied the clothes, and then Steven.

  “Put your tie on, caro, just your tie, and come here. I’m beginning to think you aren’t interested in me any more,” she complained.

  He complied as instructed. Naked guy with tie and dyed black hair.

  “You want the glasses too?” he asked.

  “Surprise me. But hurry up...”

  Come early evening, he checked back in to see what the stock had done. Closed above $31. It seemed to be fighting tooth and nail to stay above $30. He saw a marked increase in discussions about manipulation and questionable management integrity on the message boards – so obviously the website was still live and getting plenty of attention.

  Steven needed to break all of his findings on the site, at the very least, but it would be far better if he could get wider coverage.

  He navigated to the Group. Gordo and Spyder and Pogo had been researching companies that had been similarly manipulated by Griffen in the past, and they’d come up with four in the last several years. All had the same pattern associated with them according to Gordo:

  [Here’s what they typically do. Goes a little something like this:

  1 - Griffen works with one of his pet investment banks and takes a company public, or appears on their filings as a major investor

  2 - Company receives a year or two of insanely positive press and analyst coverage

  3 - Stock increases in price 500-1000%

  4 - After churning for a few months at its highs, stock plummets 95+% and press turns negative

  5 - Presumably, Griffen is short and makes fortune down, as he did as the stock rose

  6 - Stock languishes as near worthless from that point on.

  Seems like that’s the MO. I’d be on the lookout for items 4-6 next. Gordo]

  Pogo had chimed in on the thread as well:

  [I can document the occurrences for the other companies so it’s all verifiable. Do you want me to put it on the site when I’m done? Pogo]

  Steven thought about that.

  [No, let’s hold off. I have some pretty damaging documentation coming my way, and I think the way forward with this is to find a kindred spirit to break it all. If we do this right, it will bury his ass good and deep]

  Next, he checked in with Stan; sent him an encrypted e-mail:

  [Any further word on the bank accounts or from your attorney friend on the situation, now that I’m alive?]

  He decided to call it a day and logged off. Antonia was snoozing face down on top of the covers, naked as a lovebird. He meditated in the suite’s living room before gently waking her by tickling her ear with the tip of his new tie.

  They tried another one of the restaurants under the bridge for dinner, this time a big Italian place. It was empty, even at 10:00 at night. Apparently, in Argentina, as in Spain, it was not unusual to eat dinner at midnight or 1:00 a.m. before spending the hours until dawn at a nightclub. No wonder the productivity of these countries was low. The meal was amazing, though, with Antonia declaring it the best Italian food she’d had outside of Italy, and better than most she’d had there.

  They had an after-dinner Sambuca, and she was in a kind of heaven, speaking Italian to the staff, reminiscing about the old country, commiserating about the weather. It was a nice end to a long twenty-four hours.

  Checkmate: Chapter 9

  The next day he called Domingo for a progress report.

  “Domingo, it’s John. Did you find anything out yet?”

  Domingo sounded disturbed. “I don’t think you should do business with these men, John. I’m going to return your $500. I’m not interested in investigating.”

  “Wait a minute, Domingo. What happened?” Steven asked. “What did you find out and why are you so uninterested in pursuing this?”

  “Terrasol is a company that is owned by the Wolfsatz,” Domingo explained. “They are a German gang that has been here for fifty years. Ex-Nazis, I think, and they’re responsible for much of the drug trade and slavery in the country.”

  “What do you mean, slavery?”

  “They abduct very young girls from the provinces and from Brazil and sell them to brothels here and abroad; children, really, only eleven and twelve years old. And the drug business is in Buenos Aires – heroin and cocaine in the barrios. This is bad news, John. Walk away from this.”

  “Where is Terrasol headquartered? Would you be willing to take pictures of the people coming in and out for a few days so we can document who’s involved?” Steven asked.

  “I...” He paused. “No. I will not be involved in this anymore. This is dangerous for one’s health, no? Come by and I’ll give you back your money.” Domingo sounded scared. And something else. He couldn’t quite place it.

  “Keep the $500, my friend,” Steven said. “Thanks for doing the research.”

  “Ah, no, is okay. Where can I send it? I can meet you,” Domingo offered.

  That was strange. Why was Domingo so eager to give him his money back? It had to be because he wanted to find out his location. His arm hair bristled.

  “I’m at a private residence over by the Teatro Colon. Seriously, you can keep the cash. It’s yours.” Steven wanted to discover if his instincts were correct. If they were, Dom wouldn’t take no for an answer. He would want to get Steven over to his office or find out where he was.

  “John, I cannot take money for something I did not do. I drive by the Teatro every day on the way home. It is no problem to drop by. What is your address there? I’ll stop by this afternoon when it’s convenient for you.”

  Bingo. Something was definitely going on here. Steven paged furiously through his little street map of the area around Teatro Colon. He looked at one of the building numbers. Calle Bolivar. 1145 Bolivar.

  “I’ll be at 1145 Bolivar, number two, today at around 3:00. It’s in the district a few blocks from the Teatro. Just knock at the front door or press the buzzer. My friends left town for the weekend so I’ll answer the door. Number two. I appreciate it, Domingo.” He hung up.

  He told Antonia his suspicions. She was furious.

  “What a pig. He’s worse than an insect, selling you out. What are you going to do?” Her outbur
st didn’t last long, but you could see the flash of anger in her eyes.

  “I’m going to go have a cup of coffee or hang out on the corner on Calle Bolivar, wherever that is, and see who shows up. Should be interesting,” Steven concluded.

  “I’ll go with you. They won’t be looking for a couple. We can get you a raincoat and a different hat, and have coffee together. A lone man might look suspicious.”

  She was right. He hated to involve her, but she was right.

  They headed in the direction of the Teatro district, acquiring a black overcoat and a fedora-style rain hat for Steven along the route. Antonia thought he looked like Humphrey Bogart or a spy in a Le Carre novel.

  “You know how to whistle, don’t you?” he asked.

  His Bogey left a lot to be desired, but she seemed delighted by the attempt.

  After a couple of wrong turns they found the street. 1145 Bolivar was a multi-story stone apartment building, so he’d been lucky there. Across the street and on the corner stood one of the thousands of small coffee shops that dotted Buenos Aires.

  Once inside, they took a seat, ordered coffee, and waited. It was 2:40. At 3:05 a car pulled up, and four men got out while the car double-parked in front of the building. Two of the men went up to the door and looked for a buzzer, while the other two positioned themselves by the side exit gate.

  Steven paid the bill, and he and Antonia disappeared around the corner as the echo of rapping on the apartment door followed them down the street. He got on his PDA as they returned to the hotel and tapped out an e-mail to the Group.

  [First PI compromised. Need reliable second one in BA. Also, anyone ever hear of a group in BA called Wolfsatz (phonetic)?]

  Antonia was seething with indignation over the episode, which he supposed was her substitute for fear. Once they arrived at the hotel, they returned to their room and discussed what to do next. Steven wanted to get more information on the Wolfsatz, and was delighted with the idea of a group of Nazis, who’d come over after the war to set up a criminal enterprise, being tied to the Griffen offshore fund. Talk about a pejorative spin. How did you explain that to your legitimate investors? Drug Cartels, Arms Dealers, Nazis. Nice bunch.

  He checked his PDA, and there was another message from Spyder in his Hotmail inbox. It was the name and phone number of a PI in Buenos Aires. Spyder said he was dependable, a one-man shop – and used to handling sensitive matters. Steven called him.

  “Servicios Alliente,” a woman’s voice announced.

  “Buenos tardes. Diego Alliente, por favor,” Steven replied.

  A few moments, and then a man’s voice.

  “Si?”

  “Diego? Habla Ingles?” Steven asked.

  “Yes. How may I help you?”

  “My name is John Cassidy, and I need to have some photographs taken of some men that work for a company I’m considering doing business with. I need to be sure they are who they say they are. They may be criminal or dangerous, though; I have an unpleasant feeling about them. Is this something you can do?” Steven asked.

  “Of course. It will cost you $600 per day, minimum two days; half in advance. I handle all of the photography myself,” Diego explained.

  Diego would start first thing Monday. Whenever he got something, he’d e-mail the photos to Steven. The retainer could be dropped through the mail slot at Diego’s office over the weekend. It was all very efficient, which increased Steven’s confidence in the new PI’s ability to perform.

  Steven wrote out Terrasol’s name and address, put six hundred dollars into an envelope with the note, and wrote Diego’s name on it; he’d drop it off tomorrow, on Saturday. He logged into Hotmail and created another one-time e-mail address, and then wrote that on the note.

  You had to love the Internet.

  Checkmate: Chapter 10

  Griffen received the call from Anguilla around mid-day. Townsend had gotten the hotel phone records for a young lady Steven Archer had apparently initiated a relationship with; an Italian, Antonia something-or-other. Townsend promised to fax the information to him with the details; there were calls to St. Martin, and three to Italy. They’d gotten her passport number from the hotel, and ran a preliminary search on her through Interpol, which turned up no criminal record. Townsend told him that according to his source, one of the employees at the hotel, they’d been inseparable the entire time they’d spent there, and it was likely they were traveling together.

  The Anguillan police chief’s advice was find Antonia, and you’d find Steven. Not bad counsel.

  Griffen instructed him to fax the details over, and considered his next step. Sergei meant well, but if they were dealing with an Italian traveling on an Italian passport, he leaned towards getting his Italian ‘investors’ involved. He’d have to feel Sergei out and evaluate his attitude on the idea. He’d been getting mixed signals during the last few discussions, and he needed someone who was going to take care of his issue quickly and definitively; which so far, for all his efforts, Sergei hadn’t been able to do.

  Griffen certainly had no intention of revealing to his agency investor the depth of the problem he had. He knew they were just as likely to handle it by pulling their money and ‘dealing’ with him as they were to help him. So there was no appeal from that source; he’d already used up his capital with them by requesting a little assistance early on, with the Homeland Security play. No, the last thing he needed was for them to view him as a liability, bungling around with Russian organized crime figures.

  Maybe it was time for some professionals from the old country.

  ~ ~ ~

  They spent the weekend mostly in the hotel room, except for the odd sortie to restaurants and Steven’s errand with the PI. On Saturday night they attended a tango show – at Antonia’s urging. She insisted that once they had more time they would return and take tango lessons. She’d never seen anything like it; neither had he. There was an intrinsic grace and fluidity to the movements; a dignity, if you will. As he watched the performance it dawned on him how much he’d missed while cocooned within his little neighborhood in California. There was a whole world out there he’d never imagined.

  On Sunday, Antonia had booked a spa session for herself, so he was left to his own devices for half the day. In the hotel, he visited the surprisingly well outfitted gym and ran on the treadmill for an hour, and then, since he was the only one in the room, worked on his form and strikes for another hour. He’d missed the activity after sitting on stuffy planes and hanging out in hotel rooms, and he made a mental note to start running again as soon as was practical. He went back upstairs and sluiced himself off in the shower before browsing the web via his PDA. He’d gotten an e-mail from Spyder on the Germans.

  [Wolfsatz are regional players in the white slavery/prostitution trade and the drug and arms business in BA. They’ve been around since the Forties and started off as a moneymaking enterprise by ex-Nazis. I’m forwarding some classified documents I came across from one of my sources at an intelligence agency. Don’t ask how. Hope it helps. They’re extremely violent. Don’t F with them. Spyder]

  There was an attachment, two pages of scanned documentation on the Wolfsatz; the information wasn’t up to date because whoever had compiled it had apparently lost interest when the original leadership died off, to be replaced by the next generation. The document was thorough, listing fourteen different companies they controlled, including one named Tierra Sol. So that’s why the initial data scan didn’t pick it up. Terrasol. Tierra Sol. A simple spelling glitch.

  He sent back an e-mail:

  [Thanks. Can you get similar proof on Ecuador and Swiss Co’s? Verbal won’t work. I need docs.]

  Now he had documented proof that one of the four major investors in the offshore fund was playing with dirty money, and oral statements that the Panamanian and Swiss companies were bad. If Spyder could get docs on the other two, that left the Russian trading company. He was starting to like his odds a lot better, and Griffen’s a whole lot less
.

  He told Antonia what he’d discovered and about the documentation on the Germans, and she was cautiously optimistic; the Argentina chapter seemed about over, but now that he’d gotten what he’d come for the obvious question was where did he want to go next? He was thinking maybe Moscow, which Antonia felt was a terrible idea. She had friends who’d been there recently, and the whole city was controlled by warring segments of the Russian mob, making for a dangerous and brutal environment to encounter under even the best of circumstances; sort of a Chicago in the Twenties with Slavic accents.

  That gave Steven an idea. He pulled up his Hotmail and sent a query off to his Canadian secret service contact, Cliff Tomlin, asking him to run Adriatic Trading through their computers to see if it got any hits. He figured there was no harm in asking.

  Antonia sidled up to him. “Caro, why not Italy? I can show you around. You can ravish me regularly. We can eat too much and drink good wine, and I know every inch of it. Why not?” Antonia had been thinking long and hard about their next destination.

  Italy? Why not indeed? He needed someplace quiet he could lay low and put the whole case together; someplace safe, far away from any bad guys. Italy sounded as good as anywhere, and Antonia knew the lay of the land. You couldn’t get much farther from Newport and Argentina, which seemed suitably prudent at this point.

  They talked about Italy for hours, and Steven, who’d never been, soon found himself warming to the idea. It sounded like there were far worse places to hide out, and far worse people to hide out with than Antonia; so perhaps Italy was good. That could make things easy; her whole power and contact base was there, and he didn’t know what he’d need, or to expect, over the next few weeks.

  The problem with being on the run, he was finding, was that the little things became difficult, a production. Trying to remember what name you just gave someone, for starters; or being prepared to flee on a minute’s notice for another thing.