Shadow Account (14 page)

“Sorry again about all that,” Gavin apologized. “I know I told you I’d be here at eight, but I got caught at a meeting downtown. If I’d been here on time, none of that would have happened.”

Conner noticed Gavin’s glance at the drawer containing the stack of bills. “Don’t worry about it.”

Their eyes met for a moment.

“Mandy showed up at the office this afternoon to get a look at Rebecca for herself,” said Gavin. “As you suspected she might. I got to Mandy before she was at Rebecca’s desk for too long. I took her to my office and had a long talk with her, and I think I got her calmed down. But it’s going to be touch and go for a while.”

Gavin had been calming Mandy down at the same time her husband was with another woman, Conner realized. Stone was such a slime bucket.

“Mandy wanted to talk to you,” Gavin continued, “but you were over seeing Davenport.”

“She wanted to talk to me?”

“She seems to like you for some reason.”

Conner grinned. “She just doesn’t know me very well.”

“Yeah well, I can’t have Paul distracted by divorce right now,” Gavin muttered. The old man’s expression brightened. “Hey, we’ve finally got ourselves an A-list client, pal. The world’s going to be pretty impressed when it hears about us winning the Pharmaco mandate.”

“
You
got the client,” Conner pointed out. Stone was right about this. It had been Gavin’s reputation that had made the difference. “You figure it’ll be announced in Monday’s newspaper?”

“No, no. I asked the CEO to keep the mandate quiet. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years on Wall Street, it’s that you do your best work when you fly below the radar. Once the deal is done, we’ll let everybody know what our role was.”

Gavin was the consummate professional. He wanted his name in the
Journal
so badly so he could let the financial community know he was back. Despite that, he was going to do what was best for his client. It was a good lesson. Keeping the ego in check, no matter how hard it is to do, pays dividends down the line.

Gavin rubbed his hands together. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, pal. First thing Monday morning I want you cranking on the Pharmaco valuation. I’ve asked the CEO to get his assistants to send over all the internal numbers by messenger. We need to figure out very quickly if the European bid is fair.” He winked. “I have a feeling it isn’t.”

“I won’t be in the office Monday,” Conner spoke up quickly. He was going to Washington. He was certain the answer to what had happened to Liz somehow involved Global Components and their accounting firm, Baker Mahaffey. Conner saw the old man’s temperature flare. “I’ll be ready to go first thing Tuesday morning,” he promised. “And I can do a lot of prep work this weekend.”

“Pal, I need you to be in Monday morning. As soon as the numbers get to our offices, I—”

“I can’t, Gavin.”

“
Can’t?
Why not? What in God’s name could be more important than this mandate?”

“Personal business.”

“Personal business?”

Conner stared back at Gavin, not flinching. “Yes.” Despite the deal they had struck yesterday at Helen’s grave, he would say no more. Not yet.

Lucas relaxed onto the couch of the Georgetown apartment and flipped on the television. Cheetah had left an hour ago, and Lucas had used the time to continue researching the five jewels. It was going to be tough going. Forty-three possibilities and so much information to cull.

He glanced at his watch. 9:04. The network anchor was just handing off coverage to a White House reporter. Moments later, the president of the United States appeared behind his desk in the Oval Office, flags on either side.

Lucas smiled as the president looked directly into the camera. The man looked the part with that straight silver hair, strong jaw, and reassuring smile. And he had that NPR voice laced with the hint of a southern drawl.

The president was originally from Massachusetts, but party leaders had determined that a southern drawl would hold more national appeal than the New England hard
a
accent. So they’d arranged for him to hone it for a few years prior to the election. Lucas had seen tapes of the man speaking twenty years ago, and the difference between then and now was remarkable. But that was America. All about packaging.

“Good evening, my fellow Americans,” the president began. “I speak to you tonight from the Oval Office on a matter of grave importance. Trust. A simple word but a vital concept that somehow seems to have been forgotten by corporate America and Wall Street. Forgotten by a financial system that has been one of our country’s greatest assets. A system the entire world depends on every minute of every day. As it has ever since a few men began to trade securities beneath a small tree in lower Manhattan many years ago. On ground that is now the New York Stock Exchange. A system that touches every man, woman, and child in our country through IRAs, 401Ks, savings accounts, insurance policies, and mutual funds. A system under fire but a system that
must
endure. A system I will not allow to be compromised by a few evil people.

“At its core, this great financial system of multiple capital markets depends on a fundamental trust in numbers. This may sound obvious, but it is so vitally important. We must be able to trust those who compile, audit, and analyze those numbers for us. The system depends on the public’s ability to open a company’s financial statements and believe that the data between the covers is absolutely accurate. It depends on the public’s ability to believe that the figures presented on the pages are ‘fair and accurate,’ to borrow a phrase from my friends in the accounting world.”

The president paused for a confident smile, conveying to millions on the other side of the lens that even with all the demands on his time, he understood the nuances of financial accounting. That they had chosen well in the last election, and would be wise to make the same choice again in November.

“Without that fair and accurate presentation of a company’s income statement and balance sheet our system is no more dependable than that of a third-world country run by a dictator who could nationalize assets at any moment. Because without that accuracy, a strong company may turn weak overnight, and a man or woman’s life savings may disappear in the blink of an eye. Which is an abomination. Something we simply cannot let occur ever again in our great country.

“I will keep my remarks brief tonight. At this time, I only want to assure you that in the coming days I will propose a series of regulatory reforms aimed at preventing the kind of irresponsible and unforgivable examples of corporate largesse we have all witnessed—or worse, been directly affected by—in recent times. Unforgivable actions committed by corporate executives and Wall Street investment bankers, with help from their accounting partners, that have been driven by unbridled greed.

“I will call this initiative Project Trust. A contract between you and me. A promise to clean up corporate America, Wall Street, and the accounting profession. I will be working directly with senior members of my administration, including Secretary of the Treasury Alan Bryson, who will personally direct Project Trust. Secretary Bryson is a man who came to Washington three and a half years ago with great experience in these matters. He is the man who ran Morgan Sayers, one of the largest and most respected investment banks in our great nation and the first major Wall Street house to shun the questionable practice of promoting price targets on the stocks of companies they do business with. Alan Bryson is a man of unquestioned integrity. Together, he and I will make certain that your retirement investments and stock portfolios will no longer be threatened by the vagaries of a few individuals acting purely out of self-interest.

“I will make my specific reform proposals associated with Project Trust clearer in the coming days in another speech, but have faith that I will not allow what has happened in the boardrooms and on the trading floors of our country to continue any longer. And that those few who have caused irreparable damage to so many, will pay a heavy price. Our country has been and will continue to be strong at home and abroad. Good night and God bless the United States of America.”

A shiver ran up Lucas’s spine as the network anchor reappeared on the screen. Not because the last sentence of the president’s speech had affected him deeply. The reaction had come because the pressure on him had just been ratcheted up several terrifying notches. The president had thrown down the gauntlet in front of the entire nation, making Alan Bryson his finance czar in the war against corporate and Wall Street fraud. In the war against absurd salaries and bonuses, hidden loans, massive option grants, and out-and-out stealing. Suddenly the need for the operation he was running to succeed had just become infinitely more essential. The party was depending on him. An election lay in the balance.

“You okay?”

The young girl was looking down at the floor of the narrow hallway leading to the stage. Looking down at the four-inch red heels she was wobbling on. Partly because she wasn’t accustomed to heels this high, and partly because she was more nervous and scared than she’d ever been in her life.

The woman reached out and lifted the young girl’s trembling chin. “You okay?” she repeated.

The girl nodded hesitantly, her arms crossed over her barely covered breasts, her eyes fixed in a stare of resignation, as though she knew she had no choice. There were bills to pay and this was quickest and most lucrative way of satisfying those debts.

“It’ll be all right,” the woman murmured.

“Will it?” the girl whispered.

“Just don’t look at their faces.”

Then the girl was gone. Whisked away by a security guard to the edge of the stage. It was her time.

The woman heard a voice announcing that it was the girl’s first time on stage, then a roar of approval.

“Bastards,” she muttered, hurrying back to the dressing room. She hated seeing that petrified expression of a first-timer. Hated hearing that roar of approval from the animals. Hated knowing that the girl she had just spoken to had now headed down a path from which there was no return. Could she have stopped her? Maybe not, but she hadn’t even tried.

For the first time in her life, the woman wanted out. Not because she was ashamed. For her, this had been the right choice because she was strong and able to disregard the terrible influences that were all around. But it was time to get out. Only a little while longer, she reminded herself, slamming the door of the dressing room behind her. Then she’d be able to leave this behind forever.

As long as the man she’d chosen to depend on came through. It was all in his hands now, and she hated having to rely on anyone but herself.

“Conner?”

“Yes?”

“It’s me again.”

Jackie seemed on edge this time. “What’s the matter, Jo?”

“I reached my friend at Baker Mahaffey a few minutes ago.”

“What did she say?”

“She said there
is
a young person named Rusty on the Global Components account.”

Bingo. And a minute ago he’d talked to an Ameritrade broker on their twenty-four-hour help line. The broker had confirmed that Global Components’ stock price had closed at sixty-two dollars a share Wednesday afternoon—just as the e-mail from Rusty had indicated. Conner had no doubt now that Global Components was Project Delphi’s real identity.

“Thanks, Jo.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“One more thing.”

There was a frustrated moan at the other end of the line. “What is it
now
, Conner?”

“I want to meet Monday in Washington with that lead partner from Baker Mahaffey.”

“What?”

“You said his name was Victor Hammond. I want you to call right away and set up the meeting.”

“You have some nerve.”

“Please, Jo. You’ve got to do this for me.”

“And you’ve got to tell me exactly what this is all about if you expect any more help from me, Conner,” she said angrily. “Everything. I’m not dialing one more number until that happens, and I’m not promising anything either. If I don’t like what I hear, I’m washing my hands of it.”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Okay, go right ahead.”

“I can’t now.”

“Conner!”

“You have to believe me that this is not a good time. But that I will tell you everything.”

“When?”

“Are you working this weekend?” he asked.

“I’ll be here Sunday to finish up some tax work.”

Conner smiled. Jackie was acting irritated so she could wedge herself into the loop. By nature, she was extremely curious. “I’ll come by your office around four on Sunday. But you’ve got to get me that meeting with Hammond.”

There was a long pause.

“What is this meeting supposed to be about?” Jackie finally asked.

“Starting a relationship with Phenix Capital. Let Victor know that Gavin Smith is Phenix Capital’s founder. He may not recognize the name of the firm, but he’ll recognize Gavin. And tell Victor I have a transaction I want to show him. An opportunity for immediate income. He’ll like that.”

Another long pause. “All right.”

“Thanks, Jo.” He was about to end the call when she spoke up.

“Conner?”

“Yes?”

“Do you ever try crossword puzzles?”

“No.”

“Start.”

“Why?”

“It’ll give you a new perspective.”

11

Lucas had always been dedicated to structure. He took five shirts to the cleaners every Saturday morning. On the first Monday of every month, he cleaned the keyboard of his computer and the touch pad of his telephone in his tiny West Wing office with a Q-tip dipped in rubbing alcohol. And every New Year’s Day he went through his perfectly ordered closet and bureau and threw out any article of clothing he hadn’t worn in the last twelve months. Structure gave Lucas comfort.

Just as risk gave him heartburn. He didn’t try to be the center of attention in West Wing meetings. He didn’t play the stock market. And he didn’t enjoy games of chance involving dice and cards, because there were too many factors he couldn’t control. Chess allowed him to plan far in advance without having to worry about luck playing a role. It allowed him to methodically put himself in position to win, while tempting his opponent to take chances born of impatience.

Patiently putting himself in the best position to win while letting others take risk. That was how Lucas had lived his life.

His father had been a dreamer. A small-time attorney who accepted cases based on how much they interested him, not on the potential payoff. As a result, the family had constantly teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. It was Lucas’s mother who’d instilled in him the need for structure—and practicality. She detested living in a drafty split-level home on a quarter-acre lot. Which was why it had always surprised Lucas that she’d allowed him to choose politics as a career after scrimping and saving to put him through Northwestern. She’d made it clear early on that she wanted him to be wealthy, and most of the time you didn’t get wealthy in politics. Not unless you made it to that club Lucas had heard whispers about.

From the office doorway Lucas watched the sixteen analysts as they sat quietly behind metal desks arranged in two neat rows. Poring through annual reports, proxy statements, and SEC documents covering the forty-three companies. Those critical forty-three companies the jewels had been involved with as board members and senior executives. The analysts were scouring the data for anything that was inconsistent with control guidelines Lucas had provided. Reading and rereading blizzards of reports and jotting down copious notes on legal pads when something caught their attention. Pausing only long enough for a sip of coffee or a bite of bagel, courtesy of the United States government.

The analysts were Georgetown University business school students earning twenty dollars an hour for as many hours as they could log. They thought they were working for a nonprofit shareholder rights group funded by an anonymous benefactor who was tired of watching corporate executives and board members use public companies as personal playgrounds. Lucas suppressed a smile as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his thin chest. They would have been surprised to learn that the anonymous benefactor was actually Franklin Bennett, the president’s chief of staff. With a little help from Sam Macarthur, of course. A man who currently sat on the boards of ten companies and had probably used one or two of them as his personal playground along the way.

Lucas had understood immediately that, by himself, he couldn’t accomplish what Bennett wanted. Not in the compressed period of time Bennett had laid out. There was simply too much information. He needed help and quickly formulated his plan to use the Georgetown business students. They would be familiar with the documents that had to be scoured, but wouldn’t ask too many questions. They’d buy the story about the anonymous benefactor because all they cared about was twenty bucks an hour.

Lucas was proud of how quickly Bennett had embraced the plan. Of how Bennett had praised him for the way it involved well-trained resources who would do as they were told without suspecting anything. Of how the plan minimized risk.

He grimaced. It minimized risk, but didn’t remove it. If one of the analysts found something, then there would be a problem. He just prayed to God none of them ever knocked on the office door.

A familiar figure appeared at the front of the room and ambled confidently past the unoccupied receptionist desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Reed,” Cheetah called, using the alias Lucas had given the analysts. Only two of the analysts even bothered to look up.

“Good morning.” Cheetah seemed subdued. Not loose like he’d been yesterday afternoon at the apartment. “Come in.” He stepped aside, allowing Cheetah to enter the office first, then dropped a towel down on the floor to cover the small crack at the bottom of the door. He didn’t want the analysts overhearing what was said.

Cheetah nodded approvingly, easing into a chair in front of Lucas’s rented metal desk. “Glad to see you’re being careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“Good. You
need
to be. It’s pretty grim in here,” Cheetah observed, checking out the office’s gray, bare walls.

Lucas had set up the operation on the third floor of an inconspicuous five-story building in Rockville, Maryland, northwest of downtown Washington by fifteen miles. He’d rented the space and recruited the analysts a week ago, but hadn’t brought them in until he’d received the “go live” order in the limousine yesterday. This was their first morning.

“What did you mean about needing to be so careful?” Lucas asked.

Cheetah picked up a copy of the
Washington Post
from Lucas’s desk and held it up, pointing at the front-page picture of the president sitting behind his Oval Office desk. “Did you see that speech last night?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

Lucas shrugged. “And what?”

“And the president is
really
going for it with Project Trust. I mean, he’s going after everybody. Corporate execs. The Street. Accountants.”

“Which is
exactly
what I told you he was going to do yesterday. Why are you surprised?”

Cheetah dropped the newspaper back on the desk. “You didn’t make it clear how far he was going.”

“He didn’t say anything earth-shattering in the speech,” Lucas said, frowning. “Just the standard crap. There were no specifics.” Lucas had recognized Harry Kaplan’s fingerprints all over the speech. It had probably taken him less than five minutes to draft it.

“I’m not talking about the speech,” Cheetah said, his voice low. “I’m talking about what’s going on behind the scenes. I spoke to a couple of my sources last night after the speech. People who matter in the party are very uncomfortable about this. They’re getting the impression that the president is serious this time. So the pressure is squarely on those narrow shoulders of yours to keep this administration in the clear.”

Lucas’s eyes shot to Cheetah’s. He hated it when people said anything about his size. “Everything’s under control,” he said evenly. Pressure was an understatement. He’d gotten only a few hours’ sleep last night.

“Don’t try to fool me with the casual act,” Cheetah said. “You’re so damn nervous about the next ninety days, you probably can’t hit the can when you piss.”

“Why did you want to see me?” Lucas asked quickly, irritated because Cheetah was right. “What was so damn important that you had to see me right away?” Cheetah was going to New York City this morning. He’d called the apartment at the crack of dawn to see if he could stop by on his way to the train station.

“I wanted to see the operation,” Cheetah explained, gesturing toward the door. “And see if anyone had found anything. Anything I need to check out?”

“No, they just got started. Besides, there won’t be anything to check out. You’ll earn your two hundred and fifty grand without lifting a finger.”

“I hope so,” Cheetah said. “Okay, then I’ll keep checking out the five subjects through my—”

“The jewels,” Lucas snapped. “The jewels.”

“Right, the jewels.”

“Is that really all you wanted? Just to see the operation. Is that why you came all the way out here to Rockville?”

Cheetah didn’t answer for a few moments, then slowly shook his head. “No. There’s something else.”

Lucas had heard a different tone in Cheetah’s voice. “What?”

“I found out that you’re West Wing.”

“Congratulations. I’m sure that was tough. So?”

“How much contact do you have with Franklin Bennett at home?” Cheetah asked.

“Not much,” Lucas admitted.

“Did you know him before you came home?”

“No.”

Cheetah hesitated.

Lucas sighed. “Look, I’ve got a lot of work—”

“I’ve been suspicious of Franklin Bennett for a long time.” Cheetah glanced at the towel running along the bottom of the door. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“What about?”

“This operation.”

“Why?”

“I know a lot of people inside the party. Deep inside it.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And there are those who question Bennett’s motivation for setting up this thing.”

“
You told people about this operation?
I ordered you not to discuss it with
anyone
.”

“Easy, Lucas. Give me a little credit. The people I spoke to don’t even realize what I told them. Or what they told me.”

“Uh huh. So why do these people question Bennett’s motivation?” Lucas’s mind was racing through the possibilities. He’d been in politics for twelve years, but all that time had been spent in midlevel positions. Suddenly he was in the big leagues, and there were smiling assassins everywhere. “I don’t understand.”

“Maybe this operation is really just cover,” Cheetah suggested mysteriously.

“Cover?”

Cheetah ran his hands through his red hair. “You have to understand how Franklin Bennett operates. Bennett spent twenty years in special forces before cycling out into a corporate career. The first six he was boots on the ground in hostile countries. The last fourteen he was involved with top secret projects. He’s a master manipulator.”

Lucas frowned. “His résumé doesn’t indicate that. It just says he was a regular Marine.”

“He wasn’t a regular Marine, I assure you.”

“How do you know?”

“I can also assure you he didn’t say good-bye to the intelligence community after he entered the private sector,” Cheetah continued, ignoring the question. “Just like he didn’t say good-bye to the private sector when he became the president’s chief of staff.”

“What do you mean?”

“When he left the military, he took a post as a senior vice president for a communications equipment manufacturer named International Telephone and Wireless Corporation.”

“I’ve heard of ITW. So?”

“In addition to manufacturing, ITW operates a services division responsible for all telecommunications wiring and installations at every important foreign embassy in Washington, D.C. And another division that does the same thing for embassies of countries deemed unfriendly to the west in Ottawa, London, Paris, Madrid, Bonn, and Tokyo. You’d never know it, because those two ITW divisions aren’t identified in any corporate information or in any SEC reports.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Like I said, you have to understand how Bennett thinks if you’re going to be in business with him—and survive. He’s always operating with several agendas. You can never be certain which one is real and which ones are decoys, simply providing cover for the primary mission.”

“Are you saying that this operation might be cover for another agenda?” The words seemed to stick to Lucas’s tongue.

“Maybe. Or maybe your operation involves the real agenda. It’s just that the real agenda isn’t what he’s told you.”

“Spell it out.”

Cheetah leaned back and contemplated the ceiling. “If you’re trying to get elected, what’s the only platform you
never
run on?”

“Raising taxes,” Lucas replied automatically. During his years in Washington Lucas had been involved in two campaigns. He knew the answer to that one cold.

“Right. And why?”

“Because people always vote with their wallets,” Lucas answered. Like he was reading from a campaign textbook.

“Exactly. When it comes down to it, human beings care more about money than any social issue. Because they care more about themselves than anyone else. It’s human nature,” Cheetah said matter-of-factly. “Everybody in this country, rich or poor, believes he or she ought to be paying less taxes.”

“Agreed. But what does that have to do with me?”

Cheetah nodded at the newspaper lying on the desk. “The president launched the opening salvo of a very ambitious plan last night. Project Trust. My contacts tell me the president’s planning things behind the scenes that will drastically change the lives of a lot of important and influential people. People who want the system to stay the way it is. Executives who like running billion-dollar companies any way they want, granting themselves stock options, bonuses, perks, and loans whenever they want to. Wall Streeters who would look at increased government regulation with about as much enthusiasm as they would a rectal exam. Accountants who’ve been able to pry their way into some pretty lucrative consulting work over the last decade and who are now going to be frozen out of it just as the getting is getting good. Ordered by the government to go back to the basement, put on the green eyeshades, and be satisfied making six figures, not seven.” Cheetah paused. “The president is going to radically change the corporate landscape. Gold mines are going to turn to salt mines. Easy street’s going to turn into panhandle alley. He’s going to take these people who consider getting paid five million bucks a year their birthright, and make it a challenge for them to earn a hundred grand. Which still sounds like a lot to you and me, but wouldn’t support their lifestyles for more than a few weeks.
Now
do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You think the president of the United States has become an enemy of his own party?” Lucas said deliberately, his voice hollow.

“Exactly. I think the president is out there on his own as far as Project Trust goes. He doesn’t have any behind-the-scenes support from the party leaders. In fact, I think they’re against him. That’s what my contacts claims. I saw Alan Bryson being interviewed on CNN this morning about last night’s speech. About his role as the main man in the president’s new initiative against all the corporate crap that’s been going on. Bryson was saying all the right things, but he looked like a man who owed the Mafia a lot of money. He looked scared.”