Kirk was now wide awake as he glanced out his window. Damn. Still dark!
“Okay – thanks. I'll take a look.”
Click!
Kirk ran his hand through his shaggy black hair and yawned. The clock said 4:30 am.
Shit, he thought. A special courier job – hush-hush. I hate those jobs! And why now? Can't they let me take some time off? He looked over at the woman in his bed – still sleeping. It's no wonder I can't keep a woman – it seems like I always have to work – cleaning up someone else's crap!
Alisa moved under the covers and opened her eyes. She looked at him and said in a groggy tone, “Do you have to go out of town again?”
“Probably,” Kirk replied. “That's what they usually want.”
“Mmmm,” she moaned as she moved. “Tell 'em you don't want to go. Tell 'em I want you to stay in town.”
Damn clingy woman, he thought. And then he replied, “I can't. They're sending a package to me this morning, and then I've gotta go handle business.”
* * *
Following receipt of the package, Kirk looked through it and made some telephone calls. Soon, he was on the road.
Kirk’s first stop was Metalworks, Inc.; a foundry located in western Pennsylvania.
It was a sunny day when he drove onto the foundry complex. He continued on toward a sleek modern building, situated on the edge of the campus. Noting that it was indeed the headquarters, he parked in a visitors slot. He paused for a moment, taking in the smooth lines and art-deco like appearance of the building.
Like other ‘below-the-radar’ jobs he’d done, Kirk had already engaged an investigator to screen MetalWorks and its ownership. The place was just as he had seen in the investigator’s pictures; and he was pretty certain that this was the foundry that they wanted to use. After all, he thought, the investigator verified they could handle the order, and that the owner keeps his mouth shut!
Kirk walked up to the receptionist's desk and smiled at the young brunette. She smiled back and spoke to him in a well-cultivated southern accent. “May I help you, sir?”
Kirk absorbed the vision of her sexy curves – curves barely held inside of her skirt and sweater. “Yes, I'm Kirk Kincaid. I have an appointment to meet with your CEO, Mr. Hammond at 10:00 am.”
“I know he’s expecting you, sir.” Her drawl was as sexy as her looks. “Please have a seat. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
She picked up her telephone and hit a number on the keypad. “Mr. Hammond, your 10 o’clock is here. Yes. Mr. Kincaid.”
While Kirk waited, he took in MetalWorks’ lobby. Against one wall was a display of awards and product samples – prominently displayed was a sample silver bar and an array of silver coin blanks. Continuing to scan the room, he noticed how the contemporary styling and artwork of the room accented the precious metals on display. Kirk was still pondering the styling of the lobby when Mr. Hammond appeared.
George Hammond was a squat burly guy in his early 50s. Clean cut and full of energy, he strode quickly into the lobby, reaching his hand out as he drew closer to Kirk. “Good morning, Mr. Kincaid. I'm George. George Hammond.”
They shook hands. “I'm delighted to meet you, George. Please call me Kirk.”
Introductions and small talk complete, Kirk followed George into his office. George gestured toward an inviting lounge chair. “Please, sit down.”
When they were both seated, George blurted out, “Kirk, I know that we talked a bit on the telephone about fabricating tungsten bars. So where is this going? How can I help?”
Kirk leaned forward and looked intently into George’s eyes. “Before we begin, I want your promise – your solemn word – that you will not ever tell anyone of our conversation. Is that a deal?”
“Yes. Of course, Kirk. My relationship with each of my clients is very personal. I never divulge my clients’ information.”
Kirk stood up and began pacing. “George, I need to obtain about 1.3 million solid tungsten bars.” Kirk then whipped out a piece of paper and handed it to George. “This is a list of detailed specifications.”
George looked at the sheet:
Top Surface: 251.8 x 77.8mm
Bottom Surface: 232.8 x 53.8mm
Thickness: 33.8mm
“Of course” George replied thoughtfully, “this size order will take me a long time to produce; probably several years.”
“I understand.” Kirk nodded. “Actually, it will be beneficial if we can spread it out over, say, maybe eight to ten years.”
George nodded an acknowledgment and continued. “Our contract will need to stipulate that we deliver in multiple batches of bars. And the contract needs to be structured so that you pay me up front for each batch of materials, and that we receive full payment for a batch of bars at the time we deliver.”
“That's fine.” Kirk nodded again.
“And we will deliver each batch of bars on a recurring schedule,” George concluded.
Kirk was nodding his head. “George, that sounds good to me.”
“Very well.” George felt good about this. “I will draw up a contract that you can look over.”
“One other thing,” Kirk interjected.
“Yes?”
“This agreement is between you and me. I expect that you will keep this deal in your personal confidence even after the deal is delivered. Okay?”
For a split second, George’s jaw tightened and his eyes hardened. And then his expression shifted into a pleasant smile. “Okay, Kirk. I promise you – absolutely – that no one will hear of this from me or anyone under my employ.”
“Great!” Kirk smiled as he shook George’s hand. “Please let me know when you have the contract drawn up. I’m anxious to iron out the details.”
“I will be in touch,” George replied.
Kirk noticed George’s change of expression – and in light of this, Kirk was a bit concerned about George. Nonetheless, with two promises of confidentiality in hand, he departed believing that George was on board with the program.
But Kirk did not know about George’s thoughtful analysis. Nor could Kirk know that George checked the specifications of the tungsten bars against the specs of gold bars from the London Bullion Market Association – and found them to be nearly identical. Nor could Kirk know that George’s suspicions had been raised, and that George suspected he would be a party to the counterfeiting of gold bars.
Kirk knew nothing about George’s perception of the deal. Kirk was pleased.
* * *
Once the final contract with MetalWorks was drawn and signed, tungsten bars began rolling off the production line in short order. The contract specified production of 1.3 million tungsten bars, about 520 bars per business day, to be delivered in a constant stream over a ten year period. The contract also stipulated a monthly payment schedule, that transportation was to be Kirk’s responsibility, and that the finished product was to be transported out of George’s facility on a weekly basis.
Although George needed time to ramp up production, he knew that his operation was more than equal to the task. He contacted his tungsten suppliers and placed orders for the necessary materials, to be delivered weekly. And he also added a graveyard shift dedicated specifically to the project, and hired a couple more men to work it.
George was indeed concerned about the legal aspects of the project, and the risk – especially the risk that he could go to jail. But he had dealt with these kinds of risks before. Hell! He'd worked with bankers before! And so, he was confident he could deal with those problems. Damn, this is a great contract, he mused.
* * *
The next stop on Kirk Kincaid's tour was a visit to Rheingold Fabrication and Brandon Payne. Kirk had worked with Brandon before – on ‘not so savory’ kinds of deals. Indeed, Kirk knew Brandon as an astute businessman; and he also knew Brandon as shrewd and unsavory. Shrewd, because he took a backwoods metal foundry and made it into a highly profitable business; and unsavory, because he would deal with the devil
– if the price was right.
So when Kirk Kincaid contacted him by phone, Brandon knew there was the prospect of a deal in the works. And meeting over coffee seemed like a small investment to find out the particulars.
“So Kirk, what are you into these days?
“Oh,” Kirk paused in thought, “I’m still working for the same people. And doing about the same thing.”
“People? Like, what people?”
“You know. The bigwigs who’re trying to corner the markets.” Kirk smiled. I’m their expediter, their go-to guy, their hatchet man. I’m the man they count on to get things done.”
Kirk smiled as he sipped some coffee. “So, Brandon. What have you been up to?”
Brandon shrugged as he looked down at his coffee. “Oh, you know. Just getting by.”
There was a question dangling on the tip of Brandon’s tongue; and he finally blurted it out. “Have you run across any good opportunities lately?”
“Yes,” Kirk responded with a smile. “Maybe even something you’d be interested in.”
“I'm listening.”
“Well, it’s pretty simple, really,” Kirk replied. “I’ll deliver a shipment of tungsten bars each week. I want you to stamp certain markings and distinct numbers on each bar, and then plate each bar in a 1/16th inch covering of gold. And then keep them in storage until we come to pick them up.”
“Hmmm.” Brandon looked down at his coffee, and then looked at Kirk. “I'm guessing that you’ll want to purchase the silence of my men. Correct?”
“Yep. It's absolutely vital that nothing about this is ever leaked. Not ever.”
“Hmmm.” Brandon stroked his chin and then smiled. He joked, “so, should my staff plan on entering the witness protection program when this is done?”
“No,” Kirk replied. “But in the future, they sure need to watch what they say.” Then Kirk looked at Brandon with a steady gaze. “It could be dangerous for them otherwise.”
Brandon acknowledged Kirk's reality with a sober nod. And then he continued. “And the feds. Is there any risk that the feds will get into our soup?”
“No,” Kirk replied, “I don’t think there’s any risk of that.”
“And this gold we’re supposed to use. Would you be ensuring delivery of it?”
“Yes, but you’ll be financially responsible for it once you sign for it; and you’ll need to store it in a very secure place.” Then Kirk looked at Brandon with curiosity. “You DO have a secure vault, don’t you?”
“Of course. With our vault and all the security procedures we employ, I can take care of storing it.”
“Great!”
“So, how much work do you have? How big is this?”
The corner of Kirk’s mouth crooked upward as he looked at Brandon with level eyes. “About 1.3 million bars. And I anticipate the job will be stretched out over 8 to 10 years.”
Brandon whistled softly. And then his eyes narrowed. “What are you gonna do with all of –” he stopped himself in the middle of the question and held up his hand with a wry look on his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking.”
“That’s okay,” Kirk responded. “But my question to you is this: are you willing to go in on it with me?”
Knowing the money part of Kirk’s deals were always worthwhile, Brandon responded without hesitation. “Absolutely.”
“Then how about we iron out the details?”
“Let’s do it.”
Chapter 5
It was nighttime, and it was dark. There were lamps in the park, sparsely distributed throughout, creating a dim glow. One could easily find an illuminated park bench, as there were several standing underneath a light fixture. But one could also find a bench that was not illuminated; a bench that was secluded – engulfed in the darkness – if one looked hard enough.
Seeking such a bench, the man strolled easily through the park, along one of the several paved walkways. He was a short, stocky man. Built low to the ground, he rumbled along slowly; as though he were a tank. He took a draw from his cigarette. Exhaling, he flicked the butt off to the side of the walkway. He continued his stroll.
The tank came upon a dimly-lit bench, occupied by a lone man of indeterminate height. The tank sized up the lone man, and sat down next to him.
One could see the tank reach inside his coat and produce a package of some kind. “Cigarette?”
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” the tank said as he lit up.
“Thanks for meeting with me.”
“What can I do for you?” Asked the tank.
The lone man sniffed noisily, almost anxiously. “I need you to allocate some serial numbers for your smelter’s gold bar run. Take those numbers out of production, and give them to me.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
“So,” Tank hesitated. “How many numbers do you want?”
“I want five hundred thousand. And if this is to be done as a ‘mistake’, then I want the mistake to be unseen for at least 20 years.”
“You can’t be serious! Who do you think I am?”
The lone man turned and looked into Tank’s eyes. “I am indeed serious; and I have a high regard for you and your work. After all, we’ve done some great deals in the past.”
“So, can you do it?”
Tank hesitated. “Hmmm. I think I can, but I may need to disappear after it's done. Not that I expect it to be discovered; so I don’t need to disappear right away ...” He paused, then continued in a grim tone, “But when it’s discovered, they’ll know that I did it. And I don’t want to go to jail.”
“So, how much do you need to do this?”
“Well, I’ll need to disappear. And from that moment forward, my job prospects won’t be worth a pile of dog shit.” Tank let out a chuckle. “So, I’ll need to find a place to hunker down, live a different life and stay out of the way.”
“Yes?” intoned the lone man.
Tank exhaled a sigh and threw his butt down on the ground. “Leave it to you to screw up my life!”
“So, how much do you want for this?” The lone man repeated his question; but this time, with a smile.
“Okay. Okay. I can do it for ten million. But you gotta transfer it to my Swiss bank account.”
“Done.” The lone man declared, without hesitation.
Tank was taken aback. The speed of the deal, and the magnitude of the price; all of a sudden this looked much larger than just some vacant serial numbers for gold bars. Sure, gold bars were a lot of money; but serial numbers? What could anyone do with serial numbers?
“I will contact you when I have the numbers.”
“When will that be?” asked the lone man.
“Soon.” Tank stood up. Tank was perplexed; but he knew sure as it was nighttime in the park that he’d left money on the table. But then he thought, maybe leaving money on the table is the best way for me to stay alive!
Tank stood up and began walking away from the bench, continuing his casually measured pace through the park. A minute or so later, he stopped and looked back at the park bench; the lone man was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
Bailey Keating drove up to Jacob-Mortenson’s facility and entered the high-security manufacturing area. As he navigated the shop floor toward his office, several of the men greeted him along the way – joking and smiles lit his passage. Although short and stocky like a tank, he moved easily along the walkway and past a pallet of gold bars. Bailey loved the look and feel of the gold. Glistening gold metal – each weighing in at thirty-odd pounds and 400 troy ounces – had a way of heightening his emotional energy. It was just like driving a high-end sports car or walking on acres and acres of one’s own land. Gold was substantial, and wealth.
Bailey Keating was gainfully employed as a mid-level administrator for Jacob-Mortenson, a large smelter and refiner of precious metals. Management was smart and capable, and they had looked favorably on Bailey
during his fifteen year tenure. In return, Bailey had repeatedly demonstrated his loyalty and dedication to the Company.
Bailey managed the accounting and tracking of precious metals. This included both the arrival of raw material, as well as the shipment and sales of newly finished product. In this capacity, Bailey performed flawlessly, to the credit of all concerned.
Bailey liked his office – it was adjacent to the shop, and equipped with windows that allowed him to look out onto the shop floor. And so when he was working at his desk, he would frequently look out a window and observe the final stage of gold ingot production – the actual pouring of the gold into forms that defined the dimensions (and therefore the size and weight) of each London Good Delivery gold bar.
Bailey reached his office and entered. And then he immediately turned to the window and looked out. And as he watched them pour a gold ingot, his favorite pun ran through his mind: ingot we trust! He smiled and chuckled to himself, I really crack me up.
Bailey stooped down and spun the dial on a two-drawer filing cabinet. The combination lock moved easily under his short thick fingers and the top drawer opened quickly. Removing The Book from the cabinet – for this was the book that itemized all of the London Good Delivery[4] gold bars and their dates of manufacture – he sat down to his desk and opened it to the crease with the bookmark protruding. As keeper of The Book, Bailey kept the bookmark creased at the page from which the next serial number was to be issued.
At the open page, the next serial number had already been written in. Below the entry, Bailey drew a large ‘X’, and wrote in “Serial numbers 100,001 – 600,000 rescinded due to accounting changes. Next serial number begins at 600,001.”
As sole keeper of The Book, Bailey knew that it was highly unlikely that the rescinded numbers would be noticed. And if they were noticed, he could easily pass it off as an accounting change.
He copied the range of rescinded numbers on a piece of paper and shoved it into his wallet. Then whistling through pursed lips, he began working on his daily tasks.
Greed Page 14
