Authors: Andrew Gross
Reckless (8 page)
W
ithin days, the first responses on Thibault began to arrive.
A search of his criminal history came up empty, both in the States and with Interpol. His photograph hadn’t matched any that caused alarm. An asset check showed no liens or judgments against him. His personal bills were paid in full and on time.
Thursday, Hauck was at his desk with a coffee, going over an immigration search on the guy who had perpetrated that mortgage fraud, when Richard Snell from London called back. “I’ve got an update on that subject you had me looking into.”
“Thibault,” Hauck confirmed. He grabbed a pen. He had never met Snell, but the Brit was ex-Goldman, ex-Kroll, and had a reputation in the firm as a top-notch manager. “Go ahead.”
“First, as you suggested, I checked his name against the alumni roll of the LSE. There is no record of anyone named Dieter Thibault having been there, which I know is to no one’s surprise. There was a Simone Thibault, who received a degree in 1979. You’re certain you have the correct school?”
“I’m only going on what I was told,” Hauck replied. It only confirmed what Merrill Simons had already said.
“You also stated you did a criminal and Interpol check,” Snell continued. “No reason to be redundant then. I did a quick search into the two investment companies you supplied. Christiana Capital Partners and Trois Croix. Both companies are basically investment shells. For a network of individual funds that are hard to track. They’ve been mentioned a couple of times in the business press here as among the bidders trying to buy up various real estate and Internet properties. Combined, they do list assets under management as over one hundred million euros. No one really has a sense of where the cash originates from. You mentioned some kind of connection to the Belgian royal family…”
“Supposedly there are photos of them in his New York office.”
“Haven’t been able to confirm that one yet. These families tend to go on and on, of course. More minor royals running around Europe than the rest of us. But no one I’ve run Thibault’s name by has ever heard of him in those circles, Ty. I’ll keep at it. But I did raise some peculiar issues though…”
“Fire away.”
“Thibault’s own CV lists stints at various banks. The KronenBank in Lichtenstein is one. It’s a bank that has been under some scrutiny in the past, coinciding with the time Thibault was there. It’s known as a loose place for people who would like to transfer assets quietly and without detection. They set up instruments known as
stiftungs
…Heard of them?”
“Remind me.”
“
Stiftungs
are, in effect, trusts,” the Brit explained, “protected from most outside scrutiny, perfectly legal, but where the identity of the benefiting recipient can be a bit murky, shall we say. By intention. These assets can then move about from bank to bank across the globe, not so easy to trace.”
Hauck had had some experience with money transferred through these vehicles into offshore accounts in the race to locate Charles Friedman in the Grand Central bombing case. Very difficult to trace without a subpoena from Interpol, which was almost impossible to get.
“KronenBank is a small, restricted private bank,” Snell went on. “Thibault was listed as a
Vermogensverwalter,
the equivalent of an investment manager. The bank was also in the news some years back for something they call ‘doubling up.’ Taking commissions from both the client
and
the financial broker where they placed their money—say, a U.S. hedge fund. It all could be perfectly legitimate, of course, but in this particular case, there are reasons I’m slightly skeptical.”
“Why is that?” Hauck asked.
“I don’t know…Thibault’s company lists Simpston Mews, Limited, as one of the real estate transactions they have been a part of. It’s a big development along the Thames. Along with the Kai Shek Waterfront Project in Shanghai.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I asked our people who would know here. No one’s ever heard of Christiana or Trois Croix in this arena. Not to mention something else…”
Hauck flicked his pen. “What’s that?”
“Thibault also lists the AMV Bank in Belgium as a place he once worked. I contacted the head of personnel there. A man named Gruens. He confirmed that a Dieter Thibault did, in fact, hold a position there. Between the years of 1992 and 1994. His title was key account-holder manager. Looked after VIP depositors, I assume. Very efficient, Gruen remembered. Well regarded. Good marks from his clients as well. In 1994, he moved on.”
“To Bank AGRO. In Amsterdam,” Hauck concluded, checking Thibault’s history.
“No. To manage some investment fund in Switzerland, as Gruen recalled,” the Brit corrected him. “It’s been almost fifteen years. The records are boxed away in some warehouse somewhere.”
“
Switzerland?
I don’t see that in Thibault’s background anywhere,” Hauck said, flipping through his papers.
“No,” Snell confirmed, “you won’t.” The Brit seemed to be hesitating, as if he was holding something back. “Gruen asked me why I was interested in Thibault after all these years. Not to divulge anything, I said he had a cash bequeath set aside for him, that he’d been named in a will. Which seemed to generate no small surprise…”
“Why?”
“Because Herr Gruen, as it happens, seemed to recall that the Dieter Thibault who worked at their bank went missing while on a business trip to France and was never seen again. A year or two after he left.”
Hauck stopped writing. “That would be 1994 or ’95?” he said, surprised.
“He said that one of Thibault’s clients had read about it somewhere and passed it along to the bank. As I said, fifteen years ago. I went so far as to wire him a photo of
your
Thibault, from the Internet.”
“And?”
“And the Thibault who worked there was apparently short and already starting to go bald,” Snell said flatly.
“Oh,” Hauck grunted, his mind flashing to Merrill Simons, sinking back in his leather chair.
Thibault had falsified his past. More than that, he had taken over someone’s identity. A likely dead person’s. If that was false, everything about him could be false. Who did that—except a person with a great deal to hide? Hauck thought of Merrill. The awkward smile, the hopeful expression on her face when she talked about how she hoped things would turn out.
I suppose you could say we’ve fallen in love.
“It would be of help if you could find me a set of fingerprints,” Snell said. “Or better yet, a sample of his DNA. Soon as you give me the go-ahead, we’ll track down just who this bugger really is.”
W
ednesday and Saturday nights Hauck coached a team of twelve-and-under kids in a local youth hockey league. The dad of his second-line winger was the sponsor: the Trident-Allen Value Fund Bruins.
Hauck had played peewee and Catholic league hockey since his early days in town, when he was more of a football star. When he moved back, he’d played defenseman in an over-forty league until a bullet from the Grand Central bombing case (coupled with another to his abdomen) put an end to his playing days.
Now he took some joy in teaching the kids a few of the basic skills and how to come together as a team. Not to mention twice a week he got to lace up the skates—though a few of the kids could outrace him end-to-end without even busting, and he could barely spray up any ice these days.
Wednesdays, they practiced at the Dorothy Hamill rink in town. That night, he picked Jared up at Annie’s place. He had taught the boy how to skate and Jared liked being on the ice in makeshift pads and a helmet with a stick in his hands. Hauck thought it was good for him to be with the regular kids. And Annie agreed. There was always a shoot-around net set off in one of the corners and Jared would try to steer pucks into it, never quite able to lift them off the ice. Every once in a while he’d call out to Hauck in an elated voice. “Look, Ty, er, coach,
I scored a goal!
”
That night, practice was getting a little spirited. They were playing a team from Long Island that weekend that was supposed to be really strong and nothing seemed to be working. Jeremy Purdo, the goalie, was stopping everything that got to him, daring the offense to get one by. By the time Annie showed up after nine to take Jared back, tempers were flaring. He didn’t want to leave until the team did. Hauck said it was okay for her to let him stay.
The frustration on the offense grew. “Schuer, you’re supposed to be over here!” Tony Telco, the first-line center, shouted. Another kid yelled, slamming his stick, “Balzon, are you even awake, dude?”
Maybe Hauck let it go on a bit too long.
Near the end, a shot from the point came in and there was a scrum in front of the net. One of the attackers went down as the forwards tried to jam the puck in the net. Jared skated close by.
“Hey!”
Hauck blew the whistle loudly, trying to settle everyone down.
For a second, no one stopped. A lot of pushing and shoving. The pile moved closer to Jared. Hauck grew a little worried. He skated in Jared’s direction and blew the whistle three times.
“Alright, that’s enough, now!”
The players finally stopped and the puck squirted out of the pileup in front of the goal. With everyone standing around, Jared slowly wove his way in and pushed out his stick, lifting a neat chip shot past Purdo, the sprawled goalie, who shot out his stick to try to stop it as the puck went by.
“Goal!”
Jared shouted, raising his stick into the air.
For a second everyone just stood around, Jared’s call echoing through the rink. Then the buzzer went off and the rest of the attacking squad shot their sticks up.
“It’s in!”
Jared gleefully looked around.
“Goal, coach! Goal!”
“It’s a goal!” Hauck confirmed, signaling with a point toward the ice that it was in.
The members of the power play all skated over, smirking at the goalie, patting Jared on the helmet. Even Purdo came up and tapped his stick against Jared’s pads. “Sweet one, dude!”
Jared made his way along the boards to where Annie was seated, bundled in a knit cap and muffler. “I scored a goal, Mom!”
“I saw! I saw! Yes, you did, babe.”
Hauck skated over. He affectionately patted Jared on the back. “So whaddaya think, you ready to take a regular shift?”
“I don’t know, Ty. Maybe it was a little lucky.” He had a smile as wide as the Long Island Sound.
And so did Annie, beaming, except there was a hint of tears in it.
I
n the stylish dining room of her Normandy on Dublin Hill Road, Merrill Simons sat around the dinner table with her guests.
On her left was Ralph Tamerin, founding partner of Tamerin Capital, a large hedge fund in town, and his wife, Kitty; Tom Erkin, a wealthy investor in biotechs; Ace Klein, the flamboyant president of U-Direct! who had his own cable show; and George and Sally Ravinowich, wealthy investors whose famous yacht was one of the largest schooners in the world.
Dani was holding court as well.
Merrill had assembled the evening for him; he was hoping to stir up a little interest for the buyout of an auto-parts company in the Baltic he was trying to put together. She watched how he worked the table. Charming and worldly, he created confidence by painting a picture of prior deals he had done over there, along with their dazzling returns.
Deals, Merrill was now realizing, she had never quite seen.
She’d decided not to confront him with any of her suspicions just yet. She’d asked about certain things, and for each question Dani always had a glib reply. She decided to wait until something firm from Talon came back.
And for now, everyone seemed suitably dazzled. Except for George, who was even more dazzled by the Del Dotto cabernet.
“Merrill, this is first-rate juice,” he said, tipping over the third empty bottle. Dani had made sure the wine steadily flowed.
“I bet there’s another one or two down there,” Merrill replied. Wine was always Peter’s thing, not hers, and his cellar, from which they used to entertain a who’s who of industry, was one of the perks of the divorce. She smiled impishly at Sally and Kitty. “I’m sure Peter wouldn’t mind.”
Normally, she would have asked Louis, who handled things like that, to bring it up, but he was overseeing the desserts in the kitchen, so she headed out of the dining room to the door leading down to the basement.
On the way she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She knew she looked good for forty-four. She’d had a little work done, like most of her friends. Eyes smoothed, tummy tucked, a little Botox, of course. But she still looked perfectly natural. She worked out regularly and had her own private yoga instructor. She smoothed out her ruffled, white off-the-shoulder blouse and headed down.
One thing you could definitely say was that Merrill Simons knew how to entertain.
In the basement, she passed through the gym, the yoga studio, the private surround-sound theater with fifteen seats. The accumulated toys of her twenty-two years with Peter. While he was growing in the firm, they were able to share each other’s rise into means and importance. They were invited to lavish parties, traveled to exotic places. Had the kids in prestigious schools. They had science wings and squash centers named after them.
But once Peter reached the top, everything seemed to change. He grew to think he was the most important man in the universe, and the people he surrounded himself with usually verified that fancy. He no longer seemed to recall that she knew him as an insecure bond trader who couldn’t even decide what tie to wear. He became a fixture on CNBC and took calls from finance ministers from around the globe. He traveled with knockout Ivy League assistants. First it was the kids, then it was the stress and demands of the job. He stopped touching her. Then it was the long-legged lingerie model with the hard-to-pronounce name.