He had gone to such lengths to acquire the code because he felt that if someone was trying so hard to keep something from you, it was probably worth having and someday would prove valuable. Tonight he was going to find out if he was right.
To check a record of a past trade, portfolio managers had to submit a written request for the file to the administrative assistant. It might take hours for the woman to retrieve it from the hall of records, and no copies were ever made.
Management claimed to have implemented the cumbersome system for two reasons. First, in keeping with Sagamore’s high standards, they wanted meticulous records of all activity maintained on-site, not just at the broker shops that executed the trades. Brokers were known to be lax in their attention to detail, and Sagamore did not want to be unable to provide trade records if the SEC requested them.
The second reason the executive committee gave for the security surrounding the hall of records was that it did not want portfolio managers inspecting the investments made by other Sagamore portfolio managers. It wanted diversity and original thought within the firm. It was really a tacit admission that the firm didn’t trust its own employees, but that admission was not greeted as resentfully as it might have been in other industries. People in the financial world were conditioned not to be trusted.
The small light atop the keypad flashed from red to green, and the lock snapped open. David pulled the handle up and pushed. The door swung open, and he switched on the overhead lights. It was as if he had suddenly gone back in time. Rows of file cabinets stretched back to the wall, filled with trade records arranged by company in alphabetical order. He almost laughed aloud. A single laptop computer could easily have stored all the information in this entire room of file cabinets. However, the executive committee had considered the computer option and rejected it. The members of the committee were older and less familiar with computers, and therefore less trusting of a computer’s security. They worried that the information might be too easily accessible to too many people. They were too worried, David thought to himself. There was something in here they didn’t want people to see.
For the next two hours David systematically reviewed several specific files he believed might fit the pattern. Each time he identified the pattern he was searching for, he pulled the buy order—a yellow piece of paper on which was the name of the company in whose shares Sagamore was investing, the number of shares purchased, the date purchased, the brokerage house with which the trade was executed, and the portfolio manager who had ordered the trade—and walked down the hall to the office equipment station and made a photocopy. Then he quickly returned to the hall of records, replaced the original in its file, and moved on to the next trade.
When he closed the last file, he had accumulated forty-two trades that could potentially confirm his suspicions. He placed the copied pages in a small box, carried it out of the hall of records, carefully relocked the door, and headed to his office.
It was after two a.m. and he was fighting sleep. He had been awake since six yesterday morning, and the three beers he had consumed after Jesse left for school were working against him as well—of course, they had also given him the courage to do this. He considered fixing coffee in the firm’s executive kitchen but decided against it. It would take too much time, and he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.
The Bloomberg machine on the credenza behind his desk beeped to life as he flipped the power switch. Bloomberg was a worldwide financial news network that provided real-time prices on stocks, bonds, and currencies in any market around the globe. It also provided historical stock price information as well as significant news on the subject company.
David entered his password into the machine, then reached for the first trade record from the top of the box. For another two hours he researched price fluctuations of the specific stocks around the dates Sagamore had invested in them and searched for any news stories about the subject companies for those dates as well.
Finally, after he finished researching the forty-second trade, he took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. So that was how they had done it. Elizabeth Gilman and Art Mohler weren’t geniuses after all. They were simply master manipulators with connections to die for. No wonder they shunned publicity like the plague. They didn’t want the SEC observing these same patterns.
David rose from the desk chair, put the trade records and the price and news histories he had printed from the Bloomberg machine into the box, then put the box into a sports bag he had brought from the trunk of his car. In seconds he was back out into the reception area, sports bag over his shoulder, waiting for the elevator.
As David waited, he leaned back against the wall next to the elevator bank and shut his eyes. It was after four in the morning and he was almost out on his feet. But the research had proved invaluable, and now he was glad Jesse hadn’t been able to go out tonight.
He shook his head and opened his eyes. What they were doing at Sagamore should have been obvious to him long ago. He should have figured it out as soon as they set him up with the GEA investment. However, the money and the pressure to perform had blinded him. But now what was he going to do with the information? As Finnerty had pointed out last week in Middleburg, David had bribed a senior government official and committed fraud at Doub Steel. If he went to the authorities, things could get messy. And a district attorney might not necessarily find what was in the box to be proof positive of what was going on.
The bell chimed and a red arrow over the far doors illuminated. David moved slowly to the doors as they opened. As he turned into the elevator he bumped into a man coming out. David stepped back, staring at the long sandy blond hair, beard, and mustache. Instantly he recognized this man as one who had been in Art Mohler’s office several times over the past few months. But for what?
“Hello,” the man said. He reached down to the car’s control panel and turned off the power.
David took another step back. After ten at night the elevators would not leave the lobby unless you punched in a specific code. Clearly the man knew the code for this floor. But what was he doing here at this hour? “Can I help you?” he asked.
Gordon Roth didn’t respond immediately. He glared at David for several moments, then glanced down at the sports bag hanging from David’s shoulder. “Maybe. What’s in the bag?”
“Jimmy Hoffa’s remains.” David put his hand down on top of the bag as if to protect it.
“Very funny.” The .44 Magnum hung from Roth’s shoulder holster inside his windbreaker. He pressed it against his chest with his arm. “What’s in the bag?” His tone turned unfriendly.
“None of your business. Who are you, anyway?” David demanded.
“I work for Mr. Mohler.”
“Doing what?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Okay. Then it sounds like we’re even. I’m leaving.” David stepped toward the car, but Roth blocked his path.
“Let me see the bag.” Roth’s voice was ice-cold. He moved toward David as if to grab the strap from his shoulder, but David stepped back again.
“Hey, easy.” In the faint light David spied the gun protruding from inside the man’s windbreaker. He swallowed. This was no time to be a hero. “If you want to see it, I have no problem with that.” Slowly David dropped the bag to the carpet, knelt down, and unzipped it. “Here, take a look.”
Roth pulled a flashlight from his pants pocket, flicked it on, bent over, and glanced inside the bag. It contained three tennis rackets, several cans of balls, and tennis clothes and shoes. Beneath the athletic equipment was the box with the copies of the trades and the Bloomberg information David had spent the last four hours compiling.
Blood pounded through David’s veins. What the hell was he going to say if the man saw the box, opened it, and found the copies?
“Why did you bring all of this stuff up to the office?” Roth wanted t
o know.
“One of the other portfolio managers wanted to see that Wilson racket. He was thinking of buying the same model.” David’s heart skipped a beat as the man reached into the bag and touched the racket.
But the man looked no farther. “What were you doing here tonight?” Roth stood up. “It’s after four in the morning.”
Relief coursed through David. “I was doing some research on a company I’m thinking about putting Sagamore into. It’s a time-sensitive project. There are rumors in the market that the company is about to be taken over, and I want to get in before the price goes up.” The man seemed satisfied with the explanation. “Wall Street never rests, and if you want to play on it, you have to live by its rules. Which sometimes means you work at odd hours.” David zipped the bag shut again, slung it over his shoulder, and rose, hoping the man wouldn’t notice the unnatural sag in the bottom. “But I’m not certain why I have to tell you all this.”
“Because I asked,” Roth hissed.
“I see. Well, I’m going home to get some sleep. It’s been wonderful chatting with you.” David moved for the elevator, but still Roth would not allow him to pass.
Finally, Roth moved to the side. David walked deliberately into the car, trying not to seem too eager to leave, pressed the button for the lobby, and watched as the long hair and beard disappeared behind the closing doors. As the car began to descend, his shoulders sagged heavily.
For a long time Roth stood in the reception area not moving. David Mitchell hadn’t seemed nervous, but the tests they had administered before offering him employment at Sagamore had indicated that he was extremely strong psychologically. Which was, of course, why they liked him, why they wanted him. Roth turned and slowly began moving toward the double doors. He would report this incident to Mohler in the morning.
* * *
—
Thirty minutes later, David staggered through his apartment door, threw the sports bag on the sofa, and walked to his bedroom. He was about to undress when he noticed the light on the answering machine flashing. He walked wearily to the night table, sat down on the edge of the bed, and pushed the message button.
“David, it’s Johnny. I’ve got the information you wanted on those two accounts. It certainly wasn’t difficult to find.” Johnny’s voice became sharper. “And hey, if this was some kind of joke, I don’t appreciate it. The name on both those accounts is yours. David J. Mitchell. There isn’t any money in the accounts now—in fact, in both cases there hasn’t been much activity. Just one deposit and one withdrawal.” Johnny’s voice paused for a moment, then laughter crackled from the machine’s speaker. “But they were pretty large deposits. The first was for one million, the second for two million. I knew you were getting paid well out there at Sagamore, but I had no idea it was that kind of money. Anyway, give me a call tomorrow. It was good to see you.” The voice paused once more. “I hope you’re all right. Bye.”
The machine clicked off. For several minutes David sat on the bed, staring into the darkness. He had taken the account numbers from Finnerty and sent the money out to the Caymans, supposedly to his godfather, Senator Webb, the man who had arranged for the A-100 contract to be awarded to GEA under cover of the black budget. Supposedly in exchange for three million dollars—one at contract signing and two when production began. But the money hadn’t gone to Webb at all. David had unwittingly sent it to himself. Now it was gone. They had swept the accounts clean so that on the off chance David did discover what they had done, he wouldn’t be able to return the money to Doub Steel. The whole thing had been a setup after all.
David fell slowly back onto the mattress. They could nail him on fraud and embezzlement charges—three million dollars’ worth. Because undoubtedly that three million was sitting in another account somewhere in the world. Another account they had set up with his name on it, but that he wouldn’t be able to find. At the appropriate time they could present documentation showing that David had spirited the money away and that it was still sitting in an account waiting for him.
They were guilty too—of many things. But there was no way David could approach the authorities. He couldn’t prove anything. They could, or at least the courts would believe them even though it was a frame. He was the only person who would lose by bringing the law into the equation now. It was perfect. Finnerty was right. They were very smart people who played to win.
David put his hands behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling fan rotating slowly above him in the predawn light. And then it blurred before him as he made the connection. He rose quickly from the bed and ran for the door.
Chapter 26
“This way,” Todd whispered as he turned left down the darkened alley.
Jesse followed him closely as he moved cautiously along the eight-foot chain-link fence topped by razor-sharp barbed wire. Ten minutes before, they had left Jesse’s rental car on a lonely side street—so as not to attract the attention of private security personnel—and now they were moving covertly through the shadows of the city’s warehouse district. “How much farther?” she whispered back.
“It’s not far now.”
“Good.” It was almost one in the morning and she was exhausted after a full day of work and class until ten.
Suddenly Todd grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward a building on the other side of the alley. “Come on!”
“What’s wrong?” Then she saw the security vehicle coming toward them, spotlight flashing.
“Just come on!”
Broken glass crackled under their feet as they sprinted across the pavement to a large doorway recessed several feet into the structure.
“Press yourself against the wall,” Todd ordered. “And look away from the alley.”
Jesse obeyed instantly, forcing herself against the rough brick as though she were trying to squeeze into one of the cracks in the mortar.
The private security car rolled slowly up the alley, spotlight flickering from side to side. Jesse heard radio static and the purr of the engine as the vehicle moved slowly over the broken glass. She squeezed herself more tightly against the brick. This was insane. They were going to be stopped before even getting to the LFA building. And how were they going to explain themselves? Two people hiding in a warehouse doorway at one in the morning, dressed in black.
She held her breath and closed her eyes as the car moved around the corner of the doorway. This was it. In the next instant she was going to sense the brilliant spotlight bathing the doorway and hear a terse voice coming through a speaker in the security vehicle’s grille instructing her to kneel down with her hands behind her back.
But the car didn’t stop. It glided past their hiding place, reached the small side street from which she and Todd had turned into the alley only moments before, turned left and roared away into the night.
Todd let out a long breath. “That was close.”
“I’ll say.” Jesse brushed crumbled mortar from her cheek as she relaxed.
“They were a little early tonight.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’ve been down here checking the place out. They had a pretty set schedule for their rounds. They were ahead of their normal time this evening.”
“Earning your fee, huh?” She tried to laugh, but her voice cracked as she spoke. She took several quick breaths to calm her racing heart.
“You bet,” Todd replied, scanning the alley for any further trouble. “Come on. Time’s wasting.” He began jogging down the alley.
She took a deep breath and ran after him.
They followed a twisting course through the maze of side streets and alleys crisscrossing Baltimore’s warehouse district. Most of the huge buildings they passed were in reasonable condition—obviously in current use. However, some stood like lonely ghost ships, their windows smashed out and their walls crumbling. During the day, when there was commercial act
ivity, this area was as safe as any in the city. But in the gloom of early morning it seemed eerie and foreboding as they pressed on toward their target.
Finally, Todd slowed to a walk. “There.” He pointed at a building across the street as he bent over to catch his breath.
At one time the building had been a warehouse. LFA had converted the wide-open two-story space into offices by erecting partitions. There was a small door in the middle of the wall facing the street, but otherwise the building’s front was an uninterrupted wall of bricks.
“I wouldn’t have a clue this was LFA.” Jesse passed a hand over her forehead to wipe away the perspiration. “There are no signs in front, nothing to tell anyone this is it.”
“And for good reason,” Todd said. “If you were running a militant outfit I doubt you’d want to advertise your headquarters either.”
“It’s not a militant outfit,” Jesse said forcefully.
“I know.” Todd laughed, holding up his hands. “I just like razzing you.”
“So how are we going to get in, Einstein?” Jesse asked. LFA’s headquarters looked impenetrable.
“Follow me.”
They jogged around the side of the building to the unused loading bays at the rear of the structure. It was pitch black here and they had to feel their way along the wall. Finally Todd stopped, pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, and pointed it ahead and up until he located the fire escape. Then they moved forward again until they were directly beneath the ladder. Todd stretched high up in the air to reach the bottom rung. He pulled hard and with a loud screech brought the ladder down. With Jesse close behind, Todd scaled the ladder to the first landing.
The Inner Sanctum Page 22
