“Mind if I take this down to the copy room myself?” asked Alex. “I’m going that way anyhow and can save you a trip.”
“That’s fine. And by the way, I appreciate your keeping the gore out of it. I know it must be an incredible experience to see an air crash site, and you may even have your own ideas as to what actually happened down there. But the Mexican authorities really like to keep this stuff low profile, and if we’re all going to keep our heads—if you know what I mean—we’d best follow their guidelines and not dramatize or cast any doubt on their ability to handle an investigation. Some of them just can’t handle criticism.”
Alex gulped and gave a straight reply, “Sure, no problem. We go by the book.”
Book, bullshit. There was no way Alex was going to let this story get out without mentioning some of what he’d seen. It could go one of two ways, he thought: McDonald would either applaud him for having the courage to write it as he saw it or fire him for having broken the rules. At least the story would be out and, in the worst case, he could pursue it for someone else, maybe a news organization with a taste for the bizarre.
Alex took the draft from McDonald and folded it up and put it in his back pocket as he walked down the hall to the copy room. He then pulled another version out of his breast pocket and laid it on the desk of the lead copy editor, Jerry Melvoy, with a note:
“Jerry, get this one on the wires ASAP. It’s hot. Hal McDonald has approved it. Alex Ginsberg.”
The text read as follows:
In the late evening hours of November 25, a private charter jet carrying flamboyant Argentine banker Ricardo Guttmann crashed and burned in a mountainous jungle area minutes prior to its scheduled landing in Acapulco, Mexico. Reported dead were Guttmann, along with a pilot and co-pilot from Executive Air, a New York air charter operator. However, the remains of the three bodies found were burned beyond recognition, and there were only two heads and four hands; what was identified as Guttmann was only a charred torso.
Mexican authorities have determined after initial investigation that the cause was pilot error. Since the crash took place outside the USA, the NTSB will not investigate. The aircraft was a Gates Learjet 24B, a model that has been in service for many years and has an excellent safety record. Guttmann has banking interests in Argentina, Belgium, Luxembourg, Israel, and New York, and it is likely his disappearance will have significant repercussions on four continents. Guttmann is rumored to have connections with the left-wing Montonero guerillas, who oppose the current right-wing military dictatorship in Argentina. Telephone calls to his corporate headquarters in Buenos Aires have gone unanswered.
THE AFTERNOON EDITION of El Universal, along with hundreds of other newspapers worldwide, carried the rogue version of Alex’s article. McDonald was reading the article when the phone rang. Predictably, it was Capitán Ramírez.
“Yes, I have seen it—actually, I’m just reading it now, Capitán Ramírez.
“I don’t know how it happened, really, but this is not the article I saw, and I certainly did not approve it.
“You want to talk to Ginsberg? I can have him call you to apologize. His address? Let me look it up for you.”
McDonald fumbled in the top drawer of his desk and found Alex’s home address, then read it over the phone to Capitán Ramírez.
“Again, I want to say how sincerely sorry I am about Mr. Ginsberg’s lack of sensitivity to your concerns, and I hope this does not reflect badly on our—”
Capitán Ramírez slammed down the phone on his end before McDonald could finish his sentence.
Visibly shaken, McDonald marched down to Alex’s office and charged in without knocking. Startled, Alex stood up to meet his boss—now adversary—head-on.
“Alex, I don’t know what got into you. I just had a call from Ramírez, and he is absolutely livid!”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you block the real story, and I hope I haven’t done too much damage—”
“Damage?! Kid, would you classify an A-bomb as doing damage? It’s a great story, except some very important people wanted it to blow over, and you’ve just opened up one helluva can of worms. I’m not sure if I’m more pissed off because you made a fool of me by publishing your ‘special edition’ or because you’ve just ruined my excellent relationship with the Mexican Federal Police.”
“At this point, is there anything we can do for damage control?” Alex was beginning to realize he’d created a real firestorm.
“Kid, you are one naive journalism grad. You still don’t get it! You’re dead meat. Ramírez said he wanted to talk to you, but he didn’t want your phone number. He didn’t even ask if you were still in the office. He wanted your address, and I had to give it to him.”
Alex now understood that journalistic freedom ended at the border. His body trembled as he imagined the kind of meeting in store for him. He’d often read about the brutality and torture for which the Mexican police were known.
“I don’t see you have a lot of options, and neither do I. As of right now, you no longer work for UPI. Somehow, I’ll get you a final paycheck. If you’re smart, you’ll head down the back stairs, exit the building by the rear door, and get a cab for the airport. If I were you, I’d grab a seat on the next plane for a U.S. destination and not look back.”
Within minutes a police car, sirens blaring, screeched to a stop outside Alex’s apartment building. Four officers charged up the stairs, burst into his apartment, and trashed the place. Nothing was left on the shelves or in the dresser drawers. Glassware was smashed, bookcases overturned, and his TV and stereo system destroyed.
At the airport, Alex eyed the departure board and spotted a flight in the boarding stage. He ran up to the ticket counter with only his briefcase under his arm and bought a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. He left behind all his worldly possessions and could only imagine the fate that had befallen them.
Exhausted, Alex collapsed into his seat. As the plane taxied away from the gate, he was relieved to be a step ahead of his pursuers, but he still didn’t feel safe.
Had he seen too much at the crash scene to go unsilenced? What was at the bottom of the banker’s disappearance, and were there others who would be interested in what he’d seen and might try to track him down?
As the plane made its way to cruising altitude, Alex ordered a Johnny Walker on the rocks to help him ponder the future.
WITHIN A WEEK, word of Alex Ginsberg’s rogue journalism made it to the personnel offices of all the major news organizations. Alex instantly became a pariah; no one would touch him. It was obvious that neither a commitment to the news or the First Amendment were driving hiring policy; he was a liability. All this made it impossible for Alex to find a salaried job as a reporter with a major news service; he was relegated to freelance work, and under a pseudonym at that. For all practical purposes, Alex T. Ginsberg became Allen Gale.
In the days and weeks that followed the crash, the financial press was filled with stories, written by others, about failures of the banks in the Guttmann Group on four continents. He kept tabs on the Ricardo Guttmann story, but at a safe distance, waiting for the right moment to share what he’d seen.
But no auditor, government investigator, or reporter could get a handle on what had happened. What they learned was that there was a $200 million hole in the books, but it seemed the one person who would presumably have known how it was done had been reduced to ashes.
CHAPTER 9
December 2017
“E-M-M-A, I NEED YOUR HELP!” the attorney yelled from his corner office.
“I can’t remember how to put an alternate message on my voicemail!”
He was nearly in a panic state. It was five o’clock on Thursday afternoon, the day before he was to leave on his first vacation in several years. He was clearly frazzled and had emptied his desk drawer in an attempt to find the written instructions, without success.
“No problem, David,” Emma said in her usual helpful tone. Emma Campbell had worke
d for N. David Winkler, better known as “David,” since he joined Kelly, Friedman & Green nearly forty years ago. In that time, he’d worked his way up the ladder from associate to top-level tax partner. His previous years of experience with a small international law firm in Europe had given him confidence and valuable problem-solving skills. When he returned stateside and made the switch to tax law from international deal-making, he thought he could succeed by working smarter, not harder. But law practice had become a business, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t escape the billable hour rat race.
“It just takes a couple of buttons, and you’ll be ready to record your alternate message,” said Emma. She did her magic and passed the handset to her boss, who read from his computer screen in an upbeat tone:
“You’ve reached the voicemail of attorney N. David Winkler, of the Private Client Group of Kelly, Friedman, and Green. I’m out of the office but will return on Tuesday. Please leave a message and I’ll call you back.
If you require urgent assistance, please hit the pound key, dial zero for the operator, and ask for my assistant, Emma Campbell, who’ll try to help you. Thanks for calling, and have a great day!”
“You’re only taking a four-day weekend, David. Relax and enjoy it. You deserve a break. I don’t know anyone more dedicated to this place than you.”
“Thanks, Emma. Thanks for everything. You’re a one-woman cheerleading squad, and I know you’ll hold down the fort until I’m back. Just make sure they don’t take my nameplate off the door while I’m gone. It’s a funny feeling to leave, even for a couple of days.”
There was a growing undercurrent of competition and dissatisfaction within the firm, which had become nastier over the years. “Blue shirt” personal injury lawyers, with their large contingent fees, were pitted against “white shirt” business lawyers, with their large corporate and banking clients and cyclical transactional work. The economy was on a serious downturn, and the white shirts were having a tough time keeping busy—except for the workout group, which was thriving.
Winkler’s tax practice was mostly hourly-fee—not based on a percentage of any recovery or tax savings—and he often wondered if the stress between the various practice groups in the firm would one day cause it to split up.
Most recently, the Business Litigation Group had won a billion dollar contract case after three years of litigation, which brought in millions in fees. But as the case drew to a close, the Management Committee was struggling to fill the pipeline for the dozen lawyers and two dozen legal assistants who’d worked days, nights, and weekends on that lawsuit. Behind closed doors, they were hoping the other side would appeal, just so they could put some bodies to work for that client for another couple of years.
Winkler shut down his laptop, closed it up, and put it in its case as Emma watched, somewhat concerned.
“You’re not taking your computer with you, are you?”
“No way,” he said with a smile. “I wouldn’t even think of it. I promised Eve a four-day second honeymoon in Aruba. No lawyer’s yellow pad, no cell phone, no computer. I just want to stick this baby in the closet and go home before I think of something else I should do or the phone rings again. Tomorrow, we’ll be sipping Margaritas around the pool in Aruba, thinking about where to go for a fabulous seafood dinner.”
THE ALARM RANG ON HIS SIDE OF THE BED, and as the lawyer struggled in the dark to find the ‘off’ button, a second alarm went off on Eve’s side. They always used a failsafe system in case one of them screwed up in setting the alarm.
It was three o’clock, an ungodly hour to wake up, but a necessary evil. They had twenty-five minutes before the airport driver would arrive. It would take half an hour to the airport at that time of night, giving them a full two hours before their six o’clock departure.
As they each washed in front of their respective sinks in the master bathroom, he looked over at Eve as she soaped her upper body. After more than forty years of marriage, he still reacted as strongly as the first time he saw her. He quietly stepped behind her, put his lips to the nape of her neck, and gently stroked her bare back with the tips of his fingers, down to her waist. She shuddered, turned, and they embraced; for a moment, they wished the driver was coming a few minutes later.
AS THEIR FLIGHT APPROACHED ARUBA, the pilot pointed out numerous islands and clear green and blue waters below. He gave an estimated arrival time of twenty minutes, “subject to traffic.” Could he be serious? Could there really be congestion at the Aruba International Airport?
The landing was smooth, with a round of applause from the happy vacation-bound passengers. They grabbed their carry-on luggage and made their way down the stairs from the plane onto the tarmac.
They were told it would be hot and humid, but with a constant breeze. It was about two-thirty in the afternoon, and the weather was, indeed, extremely hot and humid. As they exited the plane, they felt like they were walking in front of jet engines that were still running, but they were shut down. Luckily, the breeze was a stiff fifteen to twenty miles per hour.
The Reina Beatrix International Airport in Oranjestad, Aruba, was relatively small, especially considering Aruba has over one million visitors a year. Expansion was in progress, but that day’s visitors were still dealing with an overburdened airport.
Anxious to settle in at their hotel, the couple moved quickly through Immigration to the baggage claim area to find three conveyor lines. Five flights had landed within recent minutes, and one poor baggage handler was doing his best to rotate putting baggage on lines A, B, and C. They waited, and waited, and waited for any sign of the bags from their flight.
There were air conditioning ducts above the conveyor belts, but evidently they weren’t working. The place was steaming, and Winkler’s T-shirt was already stuck to his chest. Dozens of representatives from local hotels and travel agents were lined up outside the Arrival Hall, with placards bearing the names of clients. Winkler spotted an agent from Aruba Travel & Tours, with his name on a sign, and walked over to her as Eve continued to watch for their luggage.
“Welcome to Aruba, Mr. Winkler,” she said. “I hope you had an easy flight.”
“The flight was fine, but we’ve been waiting half an hour for our bag, and this place is a sauna.”
“I am truly sorry for the delay, but you’ve arrived at peak time, and things here are just not as efficient as they should be.”
At that moment, Eve spotted their bag and pulled it off the conveyor belt. She quickly walked to the Arrival Hall, passing right by the Customs Inspector, who didn’t even take the time to wave her through and seemed to be looking only for locals bringing in merchandise.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Winkler,” said the travel agent. “We have a bus waiting for you outside to take you to your hotel, but there’s more congestion outside. This is a special day for Aruba. We have three hundred Arubian students leaving for the Netherlands to begin their university studies. They’re all going on scholarships provided by the government since Aruba has no university. So today their parents, other family members, and friends have all turned out at the airport for an emotional goodbye, with a host of dignitaries and brass band as well.”
They boarded the bus, which gradually filled with other travelers heading for various hotels around the island.
As the last passenger was seated, a short, stocky, bald gentleman in his sixties stepped on, positioned himself next to the driver, and picked up a microphone.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Mr. Tips, and on behalf of the Governor of Aruba, my job is to give every visitor a personal welcome. Welcome to our beautiful island! You’re my twenty-ninth tourist bus leaving the airport today. I know you’re eager to get to your hotels, but I’d like to take a few minutes to give you a brief introduction to the island, its people and languages.”
After a short discourse on these topics, including the prevailing U.S. dollar exchange rate, he passed out fliers from the best restaurants and jewelry shops on the
island, which he said would greatly appreciate our business.
“I should also tell you that today it’s unusually hot and humid,” he said as sweat poured off his brow and he did his best to mop it up with a handkerchief. “You’ll forget all this, though, when you take a dip in our crystal clear, blue waters. Also, there’s a tip box at the front of the bus. Your driver is the best of all the drivers on the island and would certainly appreciate a little something from each of you. Once again, have a pleasant stay!”
Mr. Tips then jumped off to greet the next bus, the bus driver closed the door behind him, and to everyone’s delight, the air conditioning began to work.
As the bus began to make its way from the airport to their hotel, they passed dozens of cars parked along the airport fence adjacent to the runway, with family members of the scholarship students waving goodbye to the departing flight to Amsterdam. They saw police cars with flashing lights and the brass band and dignitaries lined up on the tarmac, next to the KLM plane. The students briefly looked back at their families as they entered the aircraft, bound for a life and country much different than they’d ever known in Aruba.
SONESTA SUITES WAS JUST MINUTES FROM THE AIRPORT. It was a brand spanking new first-class resort, highly recommended by one of Winkler’s partners, who’d been scuba diving in Aruba for years.
The building was pale pink, with fresh white trim. There were two wings, each with five stories, surrounding a large central pool area, with a garden restaurant and bar. Two freshwater pools flanked the central pool, a beautiful free form pool with tropical garden islands in the middle. Palm trees of all types and sizes lined the pathways, as well as hundreds of different tropical flowers and bushes. It was a beautiful, idyllic setting.
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