“Frankly, we don’t think that’s going to take you anywhere,” Banks replied. “From what we heard on the news reports, your work for Ms. Romero will be a short-term, small budget affair. We expect you’ll shut it down in a couple of months without knowing much more than what’s been reported in the press over the years. You’ll get some positive press for being a do-gooder, and she’ll get the feeling she’s done something, but no definitive answers. You need to put some firepower into this, and that takes money, which she doesn’t have.”
“What are you proposing?” asked Winkler.
“Tricontinental Research will hire you for a nonrefundable retainer of $500,000 to investigate the death or disappearance of Ricardo Guttmann, and to trace the missing funds. You’ll be free to share information about Guttmann with Ms. Romero.”
“And what about the money, on the off-chance I find it?”
“If you find the funds, and if we can’t come to an agreement about how they should be disbursed, we throw them into an interpleader action in Federal District Court, if we can get jurisdiction in the United States, and let the court decide who’s entitled to the funds. If they’re offshore, which is more likely, we’ll deal with them in whatever legal system we find ourselves. My guess is that we’ll have lots of folks pressing claims, primarily the Argentine government, which is how it ought to be. But the banking authorities in several other countries are likely to become involved as well.”
“You know this is more than a long shot. Does Congress know its funds are being wasted in this way?” asked Winkler.
“Probably not,” Banks said. “Your duly elected representatives vote on allocations in broad categories. I can’t say whether this one fell into a multi-billion dollar figure for national defense or intelligence, but a small amount eventually trickled down into Tricontinental Research. If you asked your Congressman about it, he wouldn’t have a clue.”
“How do I deal with the potential conflict of interest with Ms. Romero?” asked Winkler.
“You’re the lawyer, not me,” replied Banks. “Frankly, I don’t see any conflict. You maintain our confidentiality, which means you don’t tell her or anyone else what you’re doing for us without our written agreement. I don’t expect your work for us will in any way prejudice what you’re doing for her. In fact, it’ll probably be enhanced by the fact that you’ll have more funds to work with. You can share with her whatever you learn about her parents. If and when you find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, it goes to its rightful owners. I don’t know if you could change that result, regardless of whatever your deal with her on that score is, and I’m not going to ask. That’s strictly between your firm and Ms. Romero.”
Winkler couldn’t mention his contingent fee arrangement to Banks, and he wondered if he should be concerned about it anyhow. It all seemed so far-fetched. Why should he turn down a cool $500,000 because there was a one-in-two hundred million chance he could have a conflict fighting over the missing funds? As Abe Friedman had pointed out at the Management Committee meeting, even if he established that Maria Theresa Romero was the heiress to Ricardo Guttmann’s fortune, it certainly wouldn’t include any ill-gotten gains.
“So tell me, Mr. Banks, if we take your case, I would assume the same people in our firm as are working for Ms. Romero would be billing time to your case. Do you have any problem with that?”
“David, let me be perfectly candid. We’re proposing to pay you a nonrefundable retainer. We ask only for your ‘best efforts’ to achieve the objectives I’ve laid out and weekly updates on your progress. If you want to put all your time down on the account of Tricontinental Research, except that relating to direct contacts with Ms. Romero, that would be fine with us. It seems to me the only reason you’re keeping time is because there’s a chance we may replenish the retainer if you run through it and are making some real progress.
“I hate to pressure you, but I need to know today if you’ll take this on. Otherwise, I have to explore other possible connections with Guttmann. Other lawyers. High-level executives in his companies. People who were close to him and vouched for him on his applications for banking commission approvals—”
“I can imagine the pressure you’re under, Mr. Banks, to see if this will pan out. Can I have until the end of the day? I need a little time to make sure we’re not going to shoot ourselves in the foot.”
“That’s fine, David. Let me know by the close of business today if we’re good to go. If it’s affirmative, you can e-mail me your retainer agreement, and I’ll get it back to you immediately. Here are instructions to get a secure e-mail address if you decide to go forward.” Banks jotted down some notes on a pad of paper, ripped out the sheet, and handed it to Winkler.
“Let me know, one way or the other, by phone. You can use the cell phone number on my business card. Just a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will be fine. I won’t be offended if you decide you can’t take the case, but I really can’t imagine why you’d turn it down. It looks to me like a win-win for your firm, Ms. Romero, and conceivably the governments of the United States and Argentina.”
Winkler led Banks and his associates to the elevator, then returned to the conference room, where Rollins was waiting.
“DAMN, IF THAT WASN’T THE STRANGEST MEETING I’VE EVER HAD,” said Winkler. “Luke, what do you make of all that?”
Winkler started toward the water glasses on the table, intending to move them off to the sideboard, but Rollins stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“David, let’s just think about this for a minute. First of all, I don’t necessarily buy this business about a special-purpose U.S. government front entity to fund a special investigation. I suppose it could be true, but I’m not ready to take it at face value. I’d like to know who these guys really are, and I want to have those water glasses checked for prints and see if we’re dealing with someone known to law enforcement. Do you have some plastic bags around here so I can preserve whatever they may have left on them?”
“Sure, Luke. Emma can bring you some from the kitchen. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know what to think. A guy shows up with a couple of young sidekicks with briefcases they don’t open and who don’t say a word—the only thing they’re missing is dark glasses—and offers you 500,000 bucks to run a search the government—if it really is the government funding this—could do on its own if they wanted to. He gives you a couple of hours to make a decision. He promises to wire you the money up front, as a non-refundable retainer. He tells you in advance you shouldn’t waste your time trying to confirm his bona fides, because you won’t find anything. He tells you he’s funded by Congress, but don’t bother to ask your duly elected representative, because he won’t know. Don’t bother to ask the FBI or CIA. Sounds fishy to me, but on the other hand, isn’t this how big government sometimes works?
“Frankly, if the money is good—and what can be the problem with funds transferred to the firm’s account by wire?—and if you can deal with the potential conflicts of interest, I wonder why you wouldn’t just take it and see what happens down the road if you come up with new information.”
Winkler paused a moment to think. “Assuming Tricontinental Research is a front for someone—and it’s not the U.S. government—if we don’t know who our client really is, I suppose we could be technically violating the Patriot Act or something like that. But why should we have to look behind what’s presented to us as a Delaware corporation, owned by the U.S. government? So, let’s just take things at face value for right now.
“I think my first problem will be with the Management Committee, in light of the apparent conflict of interest. I don’t have the time—or frankly, the inclination—to assemble the entire committee and run all this by them. I think I have to be more strategic. They’ll be most interested in the $500,000 nonrefundable retainer. I’m going to run this by Tom Kelly, Chairman of the Management Committee, to get his buy-in. The others will fall into line. But before we can open a b
illing account and accept the retainer, I need to circulate a conflict of interest sheet. I’ll recommend to Kelly that I simply name the client, Tricontinental Research, indicate ‘consulting on special project’ as the nature of the services, and omit any reference at all to Ms. Romero or Ricardo Guttmann. Keep it simple and extremely low profile. I’ll tell him anyone else who has a need to know can have as much information as I can provide within the limits of the Chinese wall concept.”
Winkler asked Emma to see if Tom Kelly was available for a short visit. He’d just finished a long meeting, was about to start another and was running late, with clients waiting. But Emma said it was important, so he agreed to meet for no more than five minutes.
Winkler gave Kelly an overview of the meeting with Banks from 30,000 feet: The U.S. government, through a special-purpose entity, wants to fund some research on the missing Argentine banker, and the missing funds. It’s a matter of national security, and no, we aren’t sure if this is the real McCoy or someone who wants us to believe they’re hiring us on behalf of the government. No, we can’t do much to check them out; it’s a question of turf, and we’ve been told it wouldn’t do any good anyhow.
Yes, they’ll pay, and they’ve offered a $500,000 retainer—to be wired to the firm’s Client Trust Account as soon as we accept the engagement. No, there would be no real conflict with the Romero case, because we’d be free to share any information we learn in this case with her. At the same time, during the investigation we need to be very careful about confidentiality, even within the firm.
Kelly soaked it all up, stroked his chin, and thought for a moment. “This guy, Banks, from Tricontinental Research, is actually going to pay us a $500,000 nonrefundable retainer for your best efforts to find the banker and/or the money? The entire fee will actually be earned even if you strike out, and regardless of whether you reach that conclusion after a few days, even if you don’t rack up enough time to equal the retainer?”
“Absolutely,” replied Winkler, “that’s the deal, and I’ll get it in writing before he transfers the funds. It’ll be crystal clear.”
“Sounds crazy,” said Kelly, “but this whole thing is bizarre if you ask me. At least this guy apparently has some resources.”
Kelly looked into the glass on a picture on his office wall and straightened his tie in preparation for his next meeting, then started to walk out of his office with Winkler—but suddenly stopped.
“David, make damn sure the engagement agreement says the retainer is fully earned when received. That way, we can take it into fees immediately. It’ll certainly help cover this month’s expenses!”
Winkler shook Kelly’s hand and smiled. He knew the nonrefundable retainer would overcome any other concerns.
Kelly gripped his hand firmly and pursed his lips. “And David, in the event you actually find the money—watch your back!”
CHAPTER 19
WINKLER AND ROLLINS arrived at the Iron Horse Bar a few minutes before two in the afternoon the next day and were surprised to see it was packed. They glanced around the main seating area, looking for a man sitting alone who might be the reporter whose career had gone off the tracks several decades before. They then decided to ask the bartender for Mr. Allen, as they’d been told to do.
“Mr. Allen? Sure, right over there,” said the heavyset, red-cheeked bartender, smiling and pointing to a booth in the far corner of the room. Allen Gale was looking right in their direction. A half-finished glass of bourbon on the rocks in his right hand, he motioned them over.
“Welcome to New York City, gentlemen,” said Gale in a hushed tone. “If you don’t mind, I’d like us to keep our voices kind of low. No need to broadcast, if you know what I mean.” Either Gale was paranoid, or there really were people out to get him.
“I apologize for any confusion about the name, Mr. Allen, I mean, but that’s how I’m known around here. I try to keep a low profile. I’d prefer to keep Allen Gale, and certainly Alex Ginsberg, out of the spotlight. How did you put it all together, if I may ask?”
Gale looked well-fed but worn. His grey hair was long and frizzy, and he had a ruddy complexion, with dark, puffy bags under his eyes. Clearly a serious drinker, he held his glass of bourbon like a longtime friend as he savored every sip.
“Good stuff, Pappy Van Winkle. Thank you, by the way! But I forgot to ask what you fellows would like to drink.” He motioned the waiter over to the table, and Winkler and Rollins each ordered a beer.
“Actually, we first ran into a brick wall after your initial article on the ’76 crash in Mexico,” said Winkler. “We couldn’t find anything more by Alex Ginsberg. It looked like you’d either retired or gone underground. When we found a story about the murder of your friend, Jim Ferguson, just a few days after the crash, we wondered if the two were connected. There was some speculation about this on a blog, years later, and the blogger mentioned you were doing freelance under the name Allen Gale. It’s amazing how things turn up.”
“Yeah, you have a couple too many drinks, mention something in confidence to a friend, and to them that means label it ‘confidential’ on your blog!”
Gale was obviously ticked the connection could be made by anyone intent on pursuing it, but he still held some hope that he wasn’t front page news. He was also aware his drinking excesses sometimes put him at risk. At the same time, however, he motioned for the waiter to bring him another bourbon on the rocks.
The waiter brought the next round of drinks, and Gale reluctantly gave up his glass for another.
“So, let me be brutally honest with you gentlemen. I eke out a meager living as a freelance reporter. It pays the rent, and occasionally a meal and a drink. Maybe more drinks than meals. So, in order for you to get the information flowing here today—to prime the pump, so to speak—I’ll ask you for some cash, say $100 to start the discussion. And obviously, you’re picking up the bar tab as well.”
“No problem, we’ll pay as we go, and let’s see where this takes us.” Winkler reached into the inside breast pocket of his sport coat and took a crisp $100 bill from his wallet. “But I have to tell you, we’re on a limited budget, so this may not be a very long meeting. And do you mind if I record our discussion?” he asked as he put down his recorder on the table.
“Fair enough,” replied Gale. “Let me first ask you fellows why you want to revisit an affair on which everyone else has simply closed the books?”
“That’s an easy one. A client who thinks she may be related to Ricardo Guttmann hired us to dust off a cold case, confirm the official story, and see if there were any loose ends that could be explored further. For her, it’s mostly a question of closure. For us, it’s probably a wild goose chase without any real prospect of getting paid a nickel. I did some work for Guttmann’s organizations years ago, but that’s not really relevant. You seemed like a guy who might have some insights, having been with the Mexican crash investigation team. And since your take on the story seemed to have been lost in later reports, we thought you might be able to provide a different perspective, out of journalistic pride, if nothing else.” Winkler was hoping to get Gale to open up.
“Let’s start with the basics,” said Gale, “and I know I’m in the minority here, but there’s no way anyone can say with 100% certainty that Guttmann died in that crash. It’s all circumstantial evidence. Three people died—pilot, co-pilot, and passenger—that much I’ll give you. And we also know Guttmann’s name was on the passenger list as the only passenger.”
“So, why don’t you think Guttmann died in the crash?” asked Rollins. He knew what Gale’s initial news report said but wanted to hear it from his own mouth.
“It may well have been Guttmann. But what I’m telling you is that no one—not his father or mother, not his wife, who knew every inch of his body—could have identified that charred piece of flesh as Ricardo Guttmann. You must have read my article, right? What was identified as Guttmann’s remains was just a goddamn torso—no hands, no head—just a trunk. It wa
s bizarre. Two other bodies neatly beside him, charred to be sure, but no parts missing, and then this chunk of flesh – and they conclude it’s Guttmann just because his name is on the passenger list. If it was Joe Blow, I wouldn’t question it. But then the shit hits the fan, and it makes you wonder, that’s all.”
“So put the pieces together for us, would you?” asked Rollins.
Gale finished off his glass and motioned to the waiter to bring him another. The $100 bill was still on the table, and he tapped his index finger on it, looking Winkler in the eyes, smiling. Winkler got the message and took another $100 bill from his wallet. It was worth the price to hear this piece of history from the lips of someone who was there at the time.
“What got me ticked off at first was the fact that the Mexican authorities were so quick to conclude it was Guttmann. There was no discussion. No concern that the head and hands were missing or why they were missing. It was just a file to open and close, and watch out if you even suggested they weren’t correct in their conclusions. That was my problem. I asked too many questions and reported what I saw, against direct orders, and the wrath of the Mexican Federal Police rained down on me.
“Then the family wasn’t even asked to identify the remains. Maybe a pointless exercise, but they could have been asked anyhow. No, they’d decided to cremate, so they just directed the funeral directors to take the charred torso represented to them to be Ricardo Guttmann, cremate it, and deliver the cremains to the family. I don’t know if DNA testing was around at the time, but it wasn’t even considered. I suppose someone could even do DNA testing now on the cremains, if they had them, and if they had a verified source of DNA against which to compare, but that’s neither here nor there. The file was closed as soon as it was opened.
“Also, there was no real investigation into the cause of the crash. Pilot error, they said, but that’s too easy. Why would a first-class aircraft with a solid maintenance log and experienced pilot with a clean record go down? They didn’t even interview the controller in the tower that night. There are usually two on duty, but when that plane went down, there was only one. The crash investigator’s report says the plane descended too steeply, but the controller who gave the instructions to descend wasn’t even asked for an explanation.
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