The Great Game

by D. R. Bell

  “And you?”

  “There were some interesting projects that I enjoyed doing, but nothing that I would call great. Perhaps one day. And why did you go into historical economics?”

  “I tried physics, and it was too precise for me. Then I tried literature, and it was too subjective. I think economics appealed to me because it allows for different interpretations, but is also measurable. And I find it fascinating to study economics in a historical context, to understand how economic developments during a particular time period influenced politics and social movements. In a sense, it’s also about looking at the whole problem.”

  For the remainder of the flight both focused on re-reading and memorizing their current stories. David now knew by heart the names of the schools he attended, his family’s favorite vacation places, the projects he worked on in Irvine. Maggie had been less happy to memorize that she ran away from home just after finishing high school in Prague, never went to college, married at nineteen, divorced at twenty-one, worked as a show-girl in Vegas, while engaging in the world’s oldest profession on the side. How did they know it was “the oldest profession” anyway? On the way to the car rental place, she grumbled that Javier must have pegged her for an airhead. David reasonably, in his estimate, pointed out that it wasn’t like Javier had thousands of choices to pick from. Maggie just gave him an aren’t you Mr. Obvious look and dialed Platt’s cell number.

  They arranged to meet at Pyramid Restaurant in the hotel at 7:00 p.m. That barely gave them enough time.

  On the drive to the hotel, Maggie asked, “Do you think we should be open with him?”

  David shrugged. “We don’t have much of a choice. He is our best lead right now. And we approached him, not the other way around.”

  Friday, 4/29/2022, 6:59 p.m. CDT

  John Platt must have gotten there early, because he was already waiting when David and Maggie arrived. By the courteous “Are you Mr. Platt’s guests?” from the maître d they knew that Platt was a known and respected commodity there. The man who rose to greet them was tall and thin, with graying hair and a beaky nose. The face of a predator. He was carefully dressed in a business suit, white shirt, and tie. David and Maggie uncomfortably had on the same crumpled clothes they wore that morning in Phoenix. Platt firmly shook their hands with a business-like smile.

  After introductions, during which Maggie stumbled on her new name, Platt said, “I asked for a corner table to give us some privacy. I have dinner nearby at eight, so the time is limited. You are welcome to eat. I’ll just have a glass of wine.”

  The waiter brought a bottle of wine to show to Platt, who apologized to David and Maggie. “I hope you don’t mind; I took the liberty to order a bottle for us.” By the looks of the bottle, David thought that their $900K in the bank wouldn’t make much impression on Mr. Platt.

  After the waiter poured the wine, affirmed that they wouldn’t have dinner, and left, Platt said in the precise manner of a person used to commanding others, “So, tell me what you know about Jonathan Schulmann’s work.”

  Maggie, who clearly did not appreciate being commanded, almost visibly bristled and countered with, “Why don’t we start with you telling us what you know about Jonathan Schulmann’s work?”

  Platt shot back, “You called me!”

  David jumped in. “Mr. Platt, please understand our situation. A week ago I did not know who Jonathan Schulmann was. Mistakenly, we were suspected of having his research. Chinese and Russian intelligence services are after us. We’ve both been kidnapped and almost killed. A number of people we worked with were not so fortunate. Yesterday we escaped from Los Angeles. The names we gave you are not our real names. We don’t know who is a friend and who is an enemy. It would help us greatly if we start by learning more about your relationship with Jonathan.”

  Platt stared at him intently for a moment. “This sounds too crazy to be made up. Why do you want to know? Why do you want to find his work?”

  “We want to know the truth. Some very good people died in the last few days, and we’d like to understand why, and perhaps make sure they did not die in vain.”

  Platt took a deep breath, made his decision and started. “Jonathan and I met in Georgetown law school. That, of course, is public information. We became very close friends. I was always supposed to come back to Dallas to run the oil company that my father started. I tried to get Jonathan to come with me, but he would not. He wanted to make his own way in the world. I would visit him when I went to Washington, and he came to see me in Texas. Our wives did not get along, so we didn’t socialize as families. We never lost touch, just drifted apart a bit. We reconnected when he got divorced and went to work for CFTC. By that time I was CEO, and Southwest Oil and Gas was the largest independent oil and gas company in Texas, so I had to deal with CFTC. Since we are not publicly traded, I didn’t have many business-related dealings with Jonathan when he moved to SEC, but by then the relationship was re-established. I knew he was looking into the dollar crisis of 2019. Since our days in law school he’d been like a bulldog in these things, latching onto a topic and not letting go until he figured out the real story. So I am not surprised if he uncovered something big.”

  After a sip of wine, Platt continued. “You should understand that being a head of an energy company in Texas means being in politics. I’d known Mitchell Williams since we were in our twenties. I was a major donor to his governor’s campaign in 2014 when he unseated Perry. I contributed to his presidential campaign in 2020. When he was killed in September, it was a big personal loss for me. It became an even bigger loss when I found out that my friend Jonathan Schulmann was killed in the same explosion.”

  “Do you think they were there together?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if they knew each other. I had not introduced them. I don’t know if they were planning to meet in Philadelphia or if it was a terrible coincidence. I’ve been wondering ever since.”

  Platt looked at his watch and said, “OK, your turn.”

  David started in Seattle airport, figuring the story wouldn’t make sense if not told from the beginning. He tried to abbreviate where possible, but the story still took a while. Platt remembered meeting Trimble. He commented that he was not sure now whether the target of the attack was Williams, as commonly assumed, or Schulmann.

  “Mr. Platt, did Schulmann give you anything about his research into the 2019 crisis?” Maggie asked,

  “Please call me John. No, he did not.”

  “We think Jonathan must have given the information, or at least some pointers on where it is, to a person he trusted. Did he give you any clues?”

  “There is nothing I can think of.”

  Maggie slumped in disappointment. David asked, “Who else was killed in the explosion?”

  “Well, there were a number of people. Why do you ask?”

  “Because if Schulmann shared the information with someone, as would be logical to assume, and the information stayed secret, it might be because that person had also been killed. It could have been Mitchell Williams, or it could have been someone else.”

  Pratt sat up straight in his chair, now clearly fully engaged. “Yes, it could have been Mitchell. In addition to Mitchell, his campaign manager Jim Zorn was killed. So were his chief of staff Mike Black and his senior advisor Suzy Yamamoto. There were others, too. These are just the names I remember off the top of my head.”

  “Was Jonathan familiar with any of them?”

  “I don’t know. But I am starting to suspect that Jonathan was in Philadelphia to discuss his findings with Mitchell and his team. The assassination may have been targeting all of them.”

  “But if they are all dead …”

  “There is a chance the information survived. These people did not get to their positions by being disorganized. There must be additional computers, backups. You said that Jonathan’s sister was visited by the FBI?”

  “Yes, she said one of them was named William, but that’s all she remem
bered.”

  “It would be interesting to find out what happened to the FBI investigation. The head of the Dallas FBI office is a friend of mine. Perhaps he can help,” Platt said. “I am running late for my dinner. I have to think how to proceed. Are you staying here in the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s comfortable, but you are welcome to stay with me. I have a big house, and the driver is waiting outside.”

  “Thank you, we are OK here,” Maggie said. David wondered if she had an aversion to any form of help that reduced her independence even a tiny bit.

  “Then allow me to make dinner arrangements for you.” Platt spoke into his phone. “Cathy? Yes, I know I’m running late. Please make a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Brockman as my guests at The French Room. Also, please research possible connections between Jonathan Schulmann and everyone else that died in the Williams’s assassination. You don’t need me to spell his name; he was one of the victims. I will need it by tomorrow morning.”

  Platt got up, saying, “I apologize; I have to go. You will like The French Room. It’s the finest restaurant in Dallas, and on a Friday night you won’t get in otherwise. You can easily walk to it from here.”

  Friday, 4/29/2022, 8:35 p.m. CDT

  The French Room restaurant was both elegant and opulent, as Platt advertised. The maître d first looked at them suspiciously, but after realizing that they were Platt’s guests, he personally brought a jacket for David with “my apologies, Mr. Brockman, house rules” and took them to a window table. “I hope this table is satisfactory.”

  Two waiters appeared, ready to cater to their whims. David opened the menu with three digit prices and looked at it broodingly. He liked John Platt, but he was getting tired of accepting things from others. He shot the menu closed and said, “I want to go somewhere else.”

  Maggie smiled and closed her menu. “With pleasure!” Ignoring the disapproving looks of other patrons and the maître de, they walked out. David almost appropriated the restaurant’s jacket, but Maggie reminded him at the door.

  They found a noisy Mexican restaurant a block away that advertised margaritas with forty different types of tequila. David joked that with her name being Margarita they had to visit. Maggie giggled.

  There was a wait to get a table, but they grabbed two seats at the bar and ordered appetizers and margaritas. Maggie tasted her El Perfecto margarita and laughed. “I like four-star restaurants as much as the next girl, but tonight I am a hell of a lot happier in this place. It feels so good to let loose a bit, to stop running for an hour.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” David said, motioning to the bartender for the next round.

  “Since you’re buying the drinks, Mr. Big Spender …”

  “Why did Andrei called you Sabina when we came to his house?”

  Maggie fell silent, the smile disappearing from her face.

  “I am sorry” David said, thinking damn, I should keep my mouth shut.

  “No, it’s OK. It just reminded me that Andrei is dead … and James … and the others. Years back, Andrei and I were lovers. Then I broke it off. In one of my favorite movies there is a character Sabina that leaves her lover. He knew that and, after he got over the breakup, started calling me Sabina.”

  “Which movie is that?”

  “It’s an old one, called The Unbearable Lightness of Being.”

  David slapped the counter, “I saw that movie! We watched it on one of the online services about five years ago or so. It was about a Czech doctor who was torn between two women.”

  “Yes, that’ll work as a short description.” Maggie smiled. “What did you think of it?”

  “I liked it, but Judy thought it was too heavy, depressing, and explicit. I remember Sabina being this beautiful woman in underwear and a black bowler hat …”

  Maggie snorted. “Typical male. After watching a great movie all he remembers is a woman in a hat and underwear.”

  “I remember more than that,” protested David. “The main character was this guy Thomas …”

  “Not Thomas, Tomas. It’s a Czech name, not American.”

  “Well, of course you would know now that you are Alena from Prague.” Both burst out laughing. David continued, “So this Thomas … no, Tomas … is a playboy and Sabina is his lover. But one day he meets a young girl called Tereza and ends up marrying her, but he can’t let go of his womanizing. And then the Soviet Army invades, and they all flee to Switzerland. Sabina has this black bowler hat that’s somehow stuck in my memory. OK, that’s all I can recall.”

  Maggie picked up the thread. “Sabina has an affair with married Franz, but just as he decides to leave his wife for her, Sabina takes off and goes to California. Tereza goes back to Prague because Tomas continues to see other women; Tomas follows her because he feels he has to take care of Tereza. In the end, Tomas and Tereza move to a farm, where they are happy.”

  David was watching her lips as she spoke. He remembered the feel of those lips on his skin, a wonderful ticklish sensation as they traced the line from his ear to his chest. He was quiet, so Maggie continued, “That’s the plot. Of course it describes the movie, and the book it was based on, about as well as a one-page summary would describe Anna Karenina.”

  “And why do you like it?”

  “Because I can relate to these people. So many things that happen to us are coincidences, caprices of fate that string our lives together. Look at the two of us—you happened to stumble into a café where I was finishing my shift. You could have walked in twenty minutes later, and you and I would have never met. And now we are in a different state using made-up identities and looking for lost files. In school they tell you how deterministic things are, follow this yellow brick road, and you’ll arrive at a particular destination. And then the road crumbles under your feet, and you realize that you better enjoy each and every day because you don’t know what the next one would bring.”

  David was digesting what she said. He at least was astute enough to realize that Maggie saw something of herself in the story. “So who are you in the movie?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we usually see ourselves in one of the characters. Andrei thought you to be Sabina.”

  “I don’t look at things this way. I guess you can say I am Tomas in the way I can be torn between a desire to take care of someone like Tereza and a desire to be free. And I am Tereza, self-doubting and sometimes full of fear. But in a sense you are right, I relate the most to Sabina. I have learned from childhood to despise all the “kitsch” of being like everyone else, of marching in order, of cheap populism. Like her, I left home and moved to California. But I also think she walked away because she did not think she deserved Franz, and I sometimes feel the same way about people.”

  “And who would I be in the movie?”

  Maggie cocked her head to one side and gave him an appraising look. “Hmmm … interesting question. I guess you want to be Tomas. David the womanizer, the one that wants to sleep with hundreds of women. But coming through is earnest and conscientious Franz.”

  “You think?

  “Oh yes. If you could just be Tomas, you would have had as many women as you like, you would have enjoyed them, and they would have enjoyed you back, with no drama and no illusions. If you could. But instead they would sense that it’s not true, that you are not a genuine lighthearted Lothario, and they would lose interest. Am I correct?”

  David mumbled that to a large degree this was accurate.

  “Yes, see. Some women want a bad boy, some want a nice quiet guy, but you are a nice guy trying to be a Lothario, and they would smell a phony. You are afraid of women, Mr. Engineer”.

  “OK, I admit, I am. And you?

  “What about me?”

  “You are afraid of men, aren’t you?”

  “Nonsense! I’ve had many relationships.”

  “And how many lasted more than a year? Be honest.”

  Maggie quietly replied, “One.”


  “And in how many were you the one breaking up?”

  “Most.”

  David was about to press the advantage, but the look on Maggie’s face stopped him. He knew he’d hit a nerve, but he did not want to twist the knife. Feeling cruel and ashamed, he called for a check.

  Saturday, 4/30/2022, 7:22 a.m. CDT

  “You should never ask anyone for anything. Never—and especially

  from those who are more powerful than yourself.”

  — Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

  Maggie woke first, shaken by her usual nightmare of being chased and trying to run away. David was still peacefully asleep. Late last night there was some tension between them. David started settling himself on the couch for the night, but Maggie convinced him to come to bed. He probably was angry at how she’d described him as a Tomas-wanna-be the night before. But she did not like being ignored. It made her feel annoyed and embarrassed. She’d found herself thinking, I wish he’d slam his computer shut and come after me. He’s right when he says he is better with numbers than with people.

  He was cute, but not really what she would have considered her type. She liked people that had some special talent, that were her superior in some regard, be it intelligence, art, or athleticism. She liked smart people, but she was smarter than most of the guys she came across, and she did not have many artistic types in her circle—which left athletes. Athletes were easy to find on the UCLA campus, and they were “cool,” which was a big deal in LA. So she ended up going out with the guys that were tall, fast, strong, and younger than she.

  Maggie had been on her own for over eight years, living mostly in or around the college and around lots of young unattached people. Relationships were easy to form or break, some of her friends had three or four going on at the same time. She never did, she was a serial monogamist. But then, her relationships did not last longer than a few months, and yes, in most cases she was the one breaking up. Maggie was too independent to submit to someone. Trouble was, she couldn’t respect someone who submitted to her. In her mind, submission meant weakness, and she had no patience for weakness. This applied not only to psychological makeup, but also to the physical part of her relationships: when her then-boyfriend suggested a little game involving ties and a blindfold, she at first went along, but a few minutes into it she told him to stop. She did not like the sensation. The boyfriend tried to theorize that her upbringing in Ukraine had something to do with this, which promptly turned him into an ex-boyfriend. But deep inside she wondered if he had a point, whether there was something that prevented her from having an unequal relationship. And most relationships she saw around were unequal, with one side being stronger and the other weaker.