Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  That evening, Antonia got a call on her cell. She spoke in rapid Italian, bubbling with excitement as she got off the phone. She explained her chief editor in New York was close friends with Robert Manson; a legend…one of the top investigative reporters in the world, who’d been key in breaking stories responsible for getting a president impeached and taking down several of the largest companies in North America after uncovering fraud. The best news was that he’d agreed to meet Steven in Paris at Charles De Gaulle airport on Friday to hear him out. Manson was arriving to interview the French President, and would take an hour to meet Steven.

  Antonia’s connections had afforded Steven access he could never have hoped for, and he now had a shot at blowing the Griffen scheme wide open with the most credible artillery he could imagine. For the first time in a long while, he felt like the tide was turning – thanks to Antonia. Antonia…

  By now he wasn’t surprised, but nonetheless Steven was captivated by the villa’s blend of magnificent rustic character with every conceivable modern convenience. It occupied several acres half an hour south of Florence, with a compound of buildings built around a great house that had eight bedrooms and rose three stories above the olive trees and grape vines. It was easily thirty thousand square feet, with a full-time staff of a dozen workers. Nice little country retreat – Steven wondered what Dante’s main residence was like.

  Antonia insisted they go into Florence and get him some reasonable clothes…and have a real hairdresser attend to his appearance before Friday. Not a bad idea, he reflected, considering a sideburn trimmer was never intended as a high society hair-grooming tool. He protested the idea of her leaving her convalescence at the villa so soon after being released, but she assured him she’d be fine with an attendant and a wheelchair. Besides, she was stir crazy already; the villa was almost worse than the hospital. She was ready to claw her way through the walls after only a few days of country solitude.

  He relented with a smile; she had that ‘Tinkerbell’ way about her sometimes, a spirit that needed to radiate.

  So off they went. Steven had what remained of his hair cut, with Antonia, presumably, offering the hairdresser directions in staccato bursts of Italian. Antonia was relishing her liberation after being cooped up; seemed more than game for it, and the wheelchair worked out perfectly. Steven had a feeling he and the attendant would be more exhausted than Antonia by the end of the day, traversing the busy shops and streets, searching for clothes that met her approval.

  Friday morning they drove to Florence. Steven caught his plane to Paris. He was scheduled to meet Robert Manson in the Air France First Class Lounge at 1:00; Antonia’s editor had told Manson to look for a man in his late thirties wearing a red St. Martin baseball hat. The old hat trick came in handy. Steven’s flight arrived at 12:30, and he was seated in the lounge by 12:50.

  At a little after 1:00 a voice behind him asked: “Steven?”

  He rose and turned to greet Robert Manson, who looked tired from his transatlantic flight, though still ready for action. They adjourned to one of the private meeting rooms, and for the next two hours Steven took him through the intricacies of the scheme, offering copies of all the documents along with a binder he’d prepared. Manson asked a lot of questions, and by the point they’d run out of time he’d pretty much absorbed it all.

  “That’s the whole ball of wax,” Steven told him. “He’s touting junk biotech companies whose products are garbage or worse – making a fortune from a speculative bubble he creates with his contacts in the media and with the brokerage houses, then makes another fortune when he kills the speculation and the stocks fall through the floor. All the while managing an offshore fund that’s laundering cash for the scum of the earth. Oh, and let’s not forget his partner faked his death to escape an FBI investigation. But maybe most importantly, the scale of the problem extends to far more than Griffen; our government’s sold us down the river, and is using the manipulations to line its pockets. And now you have the file, and all the proof.” Steven took a breath. “What do you think?”

  Manson framed his comments carefully. “Well, I want to independently verify your background on the companies and his investors, but if it checks out, I think this is a hell of a story – especially the adjutant auto-immune destruction part,” Rob observed.

  “I agree completely.”

  “So, yes, this is what we still call news, even in this day and age. What you’ve described is the systematic robbing of the markets by a career criminal, to benefit some of the biggest known crooks in the free world; and he’s getting away with it. It makes you wonder how deep the rot goes…” Manson stood up and shook Steven’s hand.

  Steven patted his arm for good measure. “I’m just hopeful you can expose this, and put a stop to it…at least in this case.”

  “I get it, Steven. Really. Give me a week. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go interview a President.”

  The flight back to Florence gave Steven time to reflect on whether he’d put his best case to Rob Manson. He replayed his presentation in his mind; went over it for any holes. There weren’t any.

  Now it was almost over. Everything that he’d worked for – lost so much for – was in someone else’s hands. He felt oddly deflated.

  Antonia met him at the gate. Even in Italy, where there was no shortage of incredibly stylish and beautiful women, Antonia was a stunner, sparkling even in the dense airport crowd. She’d insisted on standing up to meet him but was resigned to being trundled back to the car in the wheelchair by the silent and discreet attendant – one of Dante’s domestic staff. Despite her injury she couldn’t contain her excitement and wanted to know all about the meeting.

  “Eh, so he will be your knight in shining armor. That’s what it sounds like. I think you may have won, Steven,” she said.

  “We’ll see, Antonia. We’ll see. But it’s looking good from where I’m standing.”

  The drive back to Chianti was enjoyably quiet, although Steven noted the driver was no less aggressive and reckless than Antonia when it came to negotiating the Italian roads. Must be something in the water, he decided. Still, it was good to be back with her. Now, he just hoped his meeting had achieved its purpose.

  They’d both know soon enough.

  ~ ~ ~

  On Sunday afternoon, Steven got a two line e-mail.

  [Monday morning New York Times. Your info checked out. Left a message to get Griffen’s side this AM, no response. Get ready for shit to hit the fan. RM]

  Checkmate: Chapter 19

  The article broke on Monday, front page of the business section. It laid out, in detail, the entire scheme; from the offshore fund and its criminal clients, to the mechanisms used to tout, and then crush, the manipulated companies. Impeccably documented, it was the equivalent of a nuclear blast. Manson was a force to be reckoned with – his special report would inevitably drive law enforcement to investigate the allegations, as well as spur other reporters to pick up the trail and expand coverage. The obvious criminality involved and the roster of clients reading like a rogue’s gallery of the world’s most despicable miscreants ensured it would be covered by the mainstream media. Lurid stories sold papers, and this was as lurid as it got in the dry world of business journalism.

  ~ ~ ~

  The phones at Griffen Ventures were ringing off the hook at 5:30 a.m.. Griffen got his first call at home from Glen Vesper at 6:02.

  “Have you seen the New York Times?” Glen began.

  “No, I just got out of the shower. What’s up?” Griffen asked.

  “Go online and read the article by Robert Manson, front page of the business section, and call me back on my cell. It’s a disaster.” Glen hung up.

  Griffen’s blood froze. He ran to his computer and logged on, then navigated to the New York Times site. He read the article. His vision blurred and his blood pressure spiked through the roof. He realized he was hyperventilating. Griffen read it again. He was sweating, though it was sixty-eight degrees in the
house. His hands began to shake uncontrollably. How the fuck had they gotten this stuff? He called Glen back.

  “This is bad, Glen.”

  “How much of it is true…any…all? What documentation could they have on your offshore investors, and how could they have gotten this level of detail?” Glen was trying to figure out what kind of damage control, if any, he could implement.

  “I have no idea. Goddamn it. Glen, assuming it’s all accurate, what should I do?”

  “I don’t think I can advise you very well at this point. I would expect an indictment within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, though. Thinking out loud, you have to be around to be served. Just an observation,” Glen said.

  “Can we sue the paper? Get a retraction?”

  “You can sue anyone. That’s why I’m asking if it’s true. If it isn’t, we go in with guns blazing. If you have a who’s who of international criminals as your investors, and it can be shown you’re engaging in money laundering, racketeering and securities manipulation, you’re dead meat, Nicholas. I say that as a friend,” Glen stated.

  Griffen tried to kick his mind into gear, find a way out. “If, hypothetically, I was out of town for this, could I mount a defense from another locale?”

  “I can’t counsel you to leave the country. But if you’d theoretically gone on vacation yesterday, I could probably mount a decent defense. The real question is, is there a defense?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that. I’m not going into the office today, for obvious reasons. I’ll be on my cell.”

  What the hell was he going to do? It would be a matter of minutes before he started to get serious calls from his domestic investors on his cell, alleging breach of fiduciary obligation, or worse yet, fraud. And his offshore investors wouldn’t be thrilled they’d been publicly exposed – it put the fund at risk of being frozen if there turned out to be a sustained outcry.

  He needed to play out the scenario. If, or rather when, the Attorney General or the FBI or the SEC went after him, it would endanger his domestic accounts, and they would effectively have control over the offshore fund through him – assuming they had him in custody. They could subpoena all the records and prove a pattern of manipulative trading, so that would be a Milken-level prison sentence, at least. Then you had the laundering charges, which would be more like twenty more years if they got serious. Throw in civil suits from damaged shareholders and he’d be worse than dead. That wasn’t an option.

  His cell rang again. He looked at the number.

  Washington.

  Fuck. Emil.

  “Griffen.”

  “I just read the paper. This is very serious. We can’t be associated with anything criminal. Your involvement with undesirable elements has made you persona non-grata, and I can’t do anything to help you. We’ll need to extract our funding immediately, no excuses. I have a call in half an hour. I suggest you think about what you’re going to do. Again, we cannot afford any embarrassment or exposure on this, and you’ve overstepped what we can run interference on. I’d suggest you forget you ever heard of me, immediately after you wire our funds to the Turks and Caicos account. The alternative could be unpleasant.” As always, Emil’s voice was not menacing; actually quite business-like, but the implication was clear.

  Griffen was on his own, their protection suddenly gone. That sealed his fate. He’d have to get them their cash back this morning, or risk not seeing tomorrow; they were one group he couldn’t screw around with. Their money was in the fund’s slush account, so it wasn’t a huge problem, but their lack of backing was. Goddamn it. How had it imploded so quickly? Think. Concentrate.

  He had to get some breathing room to work this all out. The percentage of his domestic fund comprised his personal money, and would be frozen once an indictment came down, which looked certain at this point; you couldn’t have the New York Times say you were a crook and not get indicted, not when it was Robert Manson reporting. So it was a question of when.

  How long did he have?

  His offshore account in Anguilla was worth thirty-five million dollars, but that was pledged as collateral for the offshore fund, and was locked up by the bank. He could kiss that goodbye. That left his Cayman account he brokered through Canada. That was only four million dollars. Not enough to mount a good defense or disappear and live well. He’d have to make four turn into thirty in a hurry if he was going to have any options. He needed more time.

  But time had run out.

  Checkmate: Chapter 20

  Steven buzzed and bubbled with sheer elation. He wanted to dance around the room. The bastard had gotten punched right between the eyes. Enjoy that, you piece of shit.

  He was disappointed the article hadn’t had any of the information on the probable intelligence angle, but figured it had gotten killed at the editing stage. If you were going to tell the American public they were being screwed out of their retirements to fund covert operations in bum-fuck, you’d better have irrefutable evidence, not educated guesswork.

  Manson hadn’t used the Cavierti material, either. Probably because the photos weren’t ironclad proof. They could have been doctored, or shot three years ago. Still, he had a back channel to cause some discomfort with the info.

  He got online and sent the scanned photos and the FBI dossier to Cliff Tomlin, explaining the circumstances behind Cavierti’s faked death, along with his current whereabouts. He figured that would buy Cliff some points with the FBI and would also hurt the Griffen network, presuming Cavierti still worked with Griffen, which seemed most likely.

  The market wouldn’t open for another two hours, so he chatted with the Group. They were all giving each other cyber high-fives for a job well done; except for Spyder, who was absent from the party.

  Steven had Pogo upload the entire NY Times article on the site, so it would be available for perusal for more than one day. He also had Pogo create a section on the site devoted to other companies manipulated by Griffen, and uploaded all the data Gordo had assembled. That was eye-opening stuff, all right. No question about there being a systematic manipulation – the patterns were absolutely clear once you understood what you were looking at.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I can’t be involved with this, Rick. If he’s still around when they indict him, it’ll be a given they start peeling the onion on his domestic investors. We can’t allow that. I can’t be implicated in any way.” The man speaking was in his mid-fifties, and carried himself well. He was already at his desk at seven in the morning, alert and in command.

  “I agree. I’ll speak to our manager, and have him call the gentleman in question and convey our concerns in the strongest possible terms.”

  “I think a call to the DA, indicating there are dynamics that are more federally-driven on the U.S. accounts should buy us enough time to get them sanitized. He’ll play ball; won’t want to step on our toes,” the older man told him.

  “I’ll follow up on that. Is there anything else, Mr. Vice President?”

  “Not for now, Rick. Keep me apprised of the situation. That will be all.”

  The older man sat down heavily in the seat behind his desk, the crest of the United States of America adorning the wall behind him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ten minutes later, at a private investment-banking firm in Washington, a short, bird-like man was pacing in front of his speakerphone.

  “Rick, I get it. I had no idea this idiot had half the criminals in the world laundering cash through his offshore fund. I’m pretty sure he kept the U.S. side clean, but at this point, who knows?” The man spoke very quickly, a rapid-fire peppering of words.

  “Stewart, you know we have complete faith in you and your ability to make this turn out well. If I may be so bold, might I suggest the best way for this to play would be for him to disappear? Then his second-in-command takes over temporarily, and any investigation is limited to Griffen personally, and his offshore entity.”

  As the senior aide to the Vice President, Rick handled sensitive
issues and problematic situations. He was aware of the Agency’s involvement in Griffen’s financial structure, but had served as a Chinese wall between the Vice President’s affairs and theirs. He’d actually viewed the Agency’s presence as an insurance policy that Griffen would never be scrutinized, and so never troubled the VP with that information. But he hadn’t factored in a frontal assault from the press. Now it was damage control time, and he had to contain the fallout to the offshore fund. The domestic end could not be subject to any investigation.

  “Easier said than done,” Stewart said. “I can be a bird whispering in his ear, but I’m not sure the DA will walk away and leave the domestic accounts out of it.” Stewart Pinkerton was a partner in the banking firm, managing a coterie of high-profile investors.

  “Be creative, Stewart, there are ways to trade that off. No one wants to hurt innocent people here. I can take care of the local issues, and chat with the DA to compartmentalize the damage to the offshore entity.” Rick was a problem solver. When he called, people listened. He’d make some calls.

  “Talk’s cheap. You don’t know Griffen. And what about your guy’s friend? The favor? That’s still in play.”

  “I think we have to consider that favor done. Self-preservation is now the imperative. Would it help if we did a conference call and I spelled things out?” Rick was perfectly willing to share his wishes with Griffen in terms he’d understand.

  “Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to speak to his attorney. I know of the man; good reputation. Glen Vesper. I’ll have a word with him first, and keep you out of it unless there’s no other way.” Stewart wanted to keep his client happy. The fish didn’t get bigger than this one, and it could be disastrous to his reputation and power base if he lost the account. He’d do whatever it took.