The Vulture Fund

by Stephen W. Frey

  * * *

  —

  Leeny sat on the bed naked, her legs pulled up to her chest and her arms clasped around her shins. From over her knees she gazed at the light emanating from the crack beneath the bathroom door of the hotel room. Behind it John Schuler was doing something. Who knew what? Who cared?

  She shook uncontrollably but did not cry. She was past the point of crying. For the last two hours Schuler had taken her every way he wanted. Every way he could think of, grunting like a pig each of the four times he had reached his climax.

  She pulled her legs even more tightly against her chest and closed her eyes. She was a billion-dollar whore. He had promised mightily after each orgasm that when he arrived at the office in the morning, the first thing he would do was sign the letter committing Chase to a billion-dollar underwriting for Broadway Ventures and fax it over to her at Walker Pryce. She shook her head. The man in Washington would be smiling if he knew of the sacrifice she was making.

  But it was worth it, wasn’t it? Letting this runt have his way in exchange for a billion dollars. She had avoided certain jail time for her insider trading crimes, and when the project was over, she would be paid five million dollars and would run away and hide forever. Or maybe she would stalk the little banker behind the bathroom door first, kill him in cold blood, and then run away and hide forever—with her five million dollars.

  Four times in two hours he had exploded. She had never seen anything like it. How could he keep this up? Yet he claimed to want more. She was not a religious woman, but suddenly she slid her hands together over her knees and began to pray to any god willing to listen that John Schuler might have a heart attack in the hotel bathroom.

  Leeny kissed her knee gently. Steady, girl. Keep everything in perspective. A means to an end, that was all this was. Suddenly she thought of Mace. At least he had been forthright with her in New Orleans about his intentions. And he had been tender and gentle during their couplings. Schuler had manipulated her into bed, threatening to pull the deal if she didn’t come to the hotel with him. He had exhibited no sensitivity during their sex, just wanton selfishness. She shook her head. The irony of it. She loathed the little man in the bathroom, yet she was helping him, taking his career to even greater heights. He would make millions off the loan to Broadway Ventures. And he was having her body every way he wanted, using her terribly. Against her will she had begun to care about Mace, yet she would in the end help bring about his death.

  In the bathroom, Schuler stared at his phallus, fully erect again, and smiled. Cocaine, mainlined through a tiny straw as far down the opening of the shaft as possible, turned even a balding, overweight, middle-aged businessman into an accomplished lover for the night. Carefully he refolded the thin paper into its triangular shape, trapping the precious cargo inside, and hid it in the wicker basket full of complimentary toiletries. She would not be likely to use anything in there if she came to use this room.

  He opened the bathroom door and without turning off the light moved to where Leeny sat on the bed. Gently he caressed her cheek for a few moments. Then slowly he took a fistful of her long blond mane and began to pull her to the edge of the bed.

  “You’re hurting me,” she whispered.

  But he did not stop until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Then he slid several fingers beneath her chin and pulled it up until she was looking into his eyes. “You are exquisite.”

  “Thank you so much,” she said hoarsely. How? she wondered. “Haven’t you had enough yet?”

  Schuler smiled down at her. “I could never get enough of you, Leeny.” He caressed her cheek again. “Get down on your knees.”

  “John, it’s four in the morning, and I’ve got to catch a plane in a few hours. Please let me—”

  “Get on your knees.” He interrupted. His voice was firm. “You wouldn’t want me to reconsider the loan to Broadway Ventures, would you?”

  “No,” she said softly. Slowly Leeny slid from the bed to the floor, then turned so that her upper chest rested on the mattress. She felt Schuler getting down behind her. God, it was terrible. She felt him playing, touching. She closed her eyes tightly. Someone would pay for this. Then he was inside her. She grabbed the sheets and bit into the mattress. Someone would pay dearly.

  * * *

  —

  Becker spoke on the phone to someone in Chile as Slade watched. The man had been like a father to him for the past five years, and he felt a deep affection for him. But ironically he did not trust him personally. How could he? Becker was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Trust had become a relative beast to Slade Conner in his years of military service. You trusted people in certain ways but not in others. Malcolm Becker could be trusted to go to any length to protect the welfare of the country, but he could not be trusted with an individual’s well-being. Becker would quickly sacrifice an individual for the sake of the whole.

  The anonymous letter Slade had received this morning was in all probability a sham. Just someone attempting to worm his or her way into the most confidential records of the CIA, someone trying to find fire where there probably was none to find. It happened all the time, especially in this city. Washington was full of people who didn’t care how they obtained information as long as they did. Washington was full of enemies.

  Still, as he watched Becker complete the call, some of what was in the letter nagged at him. There were enough slivers in it to make him wonder.

  Becker replaced the phone in its cradle. “Good morning, Slade.”

  “Good morning, General.”

  “How have you been?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Good.” Becker picked up the coffee cup and sipped at the steaming black liquid.

  Every time Slade came here it was always the same. Good morning, Slade, how have you been and then a sip of coffee. The general’s life was one master regimen. Discipline bred dynasties. Practice made perfect. Those were the general’s credos.

  The general replaced the cup on the desk. “You have always served me in outstanding fashion.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  “Slade, I won’t beat around the bush. I need your special talents again.”

  Slade nodded. He had known that would be the purpose of the meeting as soon as he had not seen the Rat Man in attendance. “What do you need me to do?”

  The general breathed deeply. The air made a whistling sound as it rushed in and out of his nostrils. “Our friend Preston Andrews is becoming a problem.” Becker paused for a moment to gauge Slade’s reaction to the mention of the vice president. But there was no reaction. It was one of Slade’s special talents to remain completely impassive to any piece of information, and up until now Becker had appreciated the talent. Now he wanted to be able to read that face. “I need you to locate some information for me with respect to Andrews.” Becker’s eyes narrowed.

  Inside, Slade breathed a sigh of relief, but he showed nothing to the general. When Becker had mentioned special talents, Slade had thought Becker meant Slade’s ability to create deadly accidents. Loyalty to the general was one thing. Killing the vice president was quite another. Slade nodded.

  The general nodded back. “So I have your cooperation?”

  “Of course.”

  Becker smiled. Conner was a loyal man. The CIA needed more men like him, willing to do whatever it took. Becker leaned forward. “What I am about to tell you is top secret. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Becker hesitated for a moment, then began again. He used his stern commander’s voice. “Mr. Andrews is trying to create a scandal here at CIA. He is trying to create something he can use to drag me down. He is doing this for a very good reason. He is petrified that I am going to beat him in this fall’s election for the office of the presidency. So he is attempting to concoct a story to discredit me, so he can
get me out of the race and win the election.”

  Slade’s blood pressure ticked up slightly. The words in the letter came rushing back to him as he glanced at a picture on the office wall. “A high-level contact in the Whitman administration.” The entry in Guilford’s date book: Preston Andrews.

  “Andrews has a dirty little secret. His family business, Andrews Industries, is going down the toilet. And I am led to believe that he may have misused funds at the corporation unbeknownst to other family members. There is the possibility that Andrews has committed serious fraud at the company in an effort to fund his campaign against me. But it goes even beyond that.” Becker leaned farther over the desk. His eyes had become nothing but slits, and the blood vessels in his scalp bulged. “I have information that Andrews is somehow attempting to engineer a conspiracy of massive proportions, something that will generate huge profits for him, enough to bring his company back from the brink of disaster, fund his campaign, and more.”

  Slade swallowed hard. What the hell did that mean? He wanted to ask Becker how he had come upon this information, but he knew that was pointless. Becker would never say. “You want me to investigate him.” Slade did not phrase the words in the form of a question.

  “Yes. I want to know everything there is to know about the man. I’ve had my B team at work for a few months, but now it’s time for the first string. I want you everywhere you can get. His family home in Michigan, his company, his accountants’ office, his attorneys’ office. Everywhere. I want exact financial information with respect to Andrews Industries, I want exact information with respect to his personal finances, and I want to know if there is any truth to what my contact in the Mideast has told me.”

  Slade raised an eyebrow. Contact in the Mideast. That was the credibility drop, the few words that were meant to legitimize his accusation of the conspiracy of massive proportions.

  Slade eyed Becker. Perhaps he should have followed Mace to the financial world after college. Wall Street had seemed so useless and complex then. But it seemed so straightforward and simple compared with what he was involved with at this point. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” He stood and saluted the general.

  19

  “Leeny, this is Roger Hamilton.” Mace shook Hamilton’s pudgy hand, then guided him toward Leeny. “Roger is a senior vice-president here at Maryland Mutual Life and the chief investment officer with respect to its entire mortgage portfolio. As you know, Leeny, Maryland Mutual is the third-largest life insurance company in the United States and also one of the largest long-term real estate lenders.”

  Leeny gazed at Hamilton glassy-eyed. It was just ten o’clock in the morning. That meant that horrible little banker John Schuler had kissed her good-bye in the stark room of the Hotel InterContinental only four hours before. A rough kiss she had forced herself to endure, the kind of kiss she would have expected from a fourteen-year-old. But she should have expected him to kiss her good-bye like an inexperienced adolescent. He had made love all night in the same fashion.

  She had slept through the short early-morning flight from La Guardia to Washington’s National Airport and during the cab ride from National to Maryland Mutual’s downtown Washington offices as well, not bothering to provide Mace with an explanation for her exhaustion. Fortunately he had not asked what the problem was.

  Finally Leeny gathered herself and focused on Hamilton’s obese face. “Good morning,” she said hoarsely. She tried to smile provocatively at the portfolio manager, who was obviously impressed with himself, but it was not in her now. She had actually considered calling Mace, after Schuler had finally left her, to tell him to go to Washington alone this morning, but she knew he might tell Webster that he had come here by himself, and that would infuriate Webster. She did not want to give Webster an excuse to become angry at her.

  “Hello.” Hamilton responded with a stiff, pompous accent, taking her hand as if it were a tedious chore.

  She almost recoiled at the touch of his cold, clammy hand.

  “Leeny has been primarily responsible for raising the partnership money for Broadway Ventures, but she will be involved on the investment side as well.” Mace was playing his part well, making everyone comfortable, setting the stage. As usual, he was on his game: perfectly prepared, cool, and collected.

  “I see.” Hamilton seemed only vaguely interested.

  She attempted to shake her hair sexily for him, to make herself more alluring, to play the part she knew she was expected to play. But it wasn’t working. She wasn’t feeling at all sexy. The image of Schuler on top of her over and over was still fresh in her mind, and Hamilton reminded her of Schuler: fat, balding, and useless. Hamilton was simply a taller, fatter version of the little Chase banker. With a pompous accent to boot. “How are you this morning, Roger?” Leeny took a halfhearted stab at being cordial.

  “Fine.” Hamilton pulled his dead-fish handshake from her grip and turned away abruptly, then solemnly moved behind his desk and sat.

  Mace hesitated for a moment, wondering what in the world Leeny’s problem was.

  She shrugged quickly and turned away. When the shit began hitting the fan, she wasn’t going to mind putting this arrogant investment officer through the meat grinder. He wasn’t going to be so arrogant then. She could already hear him crying like a baby as he watched the value of his portfolio plummet before his eyes. He’d be begging her to take the mortgage paper off his hands.

  “How big is the mortgage portfolio here at Maryland Mutual now, Roger? Did I hear it was thirty billion now? Is that right?” Mace glanced out the office window, toward the dome of the Capitol rising in the distance, before he sat down in one of the two chairs positioned in front of the desk.

  Hamilton folded his arms across his upper belly as he sat in the desk chair. “Thirty-two billion.” He sniffed.

  Leeny moved to the other chair in front of the desk and sat. She could almost hear Hamilton begging her to buy the mortgage bonds—at any price. It would be sweet revenge for his insolent manner. In the end she would give him something for the paper, pennies probably, but not before inflicting great pain.

  Mace nodded at the figure. “Impressive.”

  “Yes, it is.” Hamilton was as impressed with himself as with the size of the portfolio.

  Mace pushed himself to smile. The client was always right, he kept telling himself. Grin and bear it. “How is your wife, Shirley?”

  Hamilton cracked his first thin smile since Mace and Leeny had entered the room. “Checked the prompt cards back at your office, did you, Mace?”

  Mace shook his head. Shirley was a wonderful woman, warm and caring. Mace had met her two years ago at a closing dinner in Manhattan. They were there to celebrate the successful arrangement of financing, put together by Mace, for a gleaming new seventy-two-story office tower to be constructed in midtown for which Maryland Mutual had provided the bulk of the construction and permanent mortgage financing. So how did a man like Roger Hamilton snare a woman like Shirley? It was just one of those things in life that defied logic. “How is she?”

  “She cooks, cleans, and takes care of the children, the kinds of things a woman ought to be doing with her day.” Hamilton turned his face toward Leeny as he said the last few words but did not take his eyes from Mace.

  Leeny felt her blood boil. She would bury this man. Alive. Up to his neck. Then smother his head with pollen and let the hornets loose. And watch him suffer.

  Mace coughed once. Hamilton was an asshole. There was no denying that. But he controlled bonds with a face value of thirty-two billion dollars, a good deal of which was invested in Manhattan real estate. If Webster was right and property values in New York City really did take a nose dive, Broadway Ventures might be able to pick off a nice chunk of those bonds at a price well below their face value and then sell them at a tidy profit when prices rebounded. “I’m glad Shirley’s doing well. She’s a nice woman. I remembe
r her telling me about her rose garden at the closing dinner for the Ames property.” Mace smiled evenly at Hamilton.

  Hamilton realized immediately that he had been upstaged, that Mace actually did remember his wife. He rubbed his face for a moment. Suddenly he wanted to get on with the meeting. “So let me get this straight, Mace. Walker Pryce is raising a vulture fund because it anticipates that real estate prices are going to plunge. Is that right?”

  Mace nodded. He recognized where this was headed right away, but there was no way around it, and he had an answer prepared.

  “And you wanted to come up here today to tell me about it so that when the crash hits, I’ll sell you some of my bonds at a cut-rate price.” Hamilton continued.

  “Something like that, Roger.” Mace grinned.

  “So that you and your investment banking friends at Walker Pryce can buy back the same paper you sold to me. Of course you sold it to me at a hundred cents on the dollar and you’ll buy it back from me at ninety cents. If I’m lucky.” Hamilton rubbed his face again. “How much have I bought from Walker Pryce? Probably four billion of the thirty-two in the portfolio.” Hamilton answered his own question. “Now you come here to tell me the real estate world is about to fall apart after you sold me all this stuff.”

  It was the classic conflict of interest all investment bankers faced, whether they were dealing in the corporate, real estate, or mergers and acquisitions market. Investment banking firms represented both buyers and sellers; this, by definition, created problems. When the chief executive officer of a company decided to sell stock to the public, he wanted his investment banker to obtain the highest price possible for the shares. But the investor—the individual or institution that ultimately purchased the shares—wanted to see the investment increase quickly in value, and that might not happen if the initial price was too high. In the end one or the other would not be happy. It was inevitable.

  To make matters worse, the investment banker made money irrespective of the outcome. Firms like Walker Pryce took a hefty commission, sometimes as much as 7 percent of everything that was bought or sold, no matter where the share or bond price headed after the transaction.