by Bob Graham
With the staff baggage and twenty metallic cases of equipment loaded, the Dodge pulled into the airport traffic and headed to the Long Beach Marriott.
Laura settled back in the Lincoln Town Car for the thirty-five-minute drive to the Beverly Hills Hotel. She opened her iPhone and scanned the eighteen voicemails that had accumulated during the flight. She deleted all but one: her sister Kendall had left an urgent message.
“Kendall, it’s Laura. I just got to L.A.”
In a strained and whispering voice, Kendall said, “Laura, I’m so glad you called. Daddy was badly injured in a hit-and-run accident this morning. He’s still in surgery. The doctors aren’t optimistic. Mom has completely broken down. Please get here as soon as possible.”
Laura stiffened, as she seemed to every time her father was mentioned. “I am so sorry. Please let Mother know I’m thinking of her.” Laura could visualize her father wandering to the edge of the street, unaware of the traffic until it was too late.
“I’ll get there as soon as I can. But—”
“Please hurry. Laura, there isn’t much time.”
“I understand, Kendall, but I’ve just gotten in from an international flight, and I’ve got a whole bunch of things lined up here in L.A. and—”
“I’m sure you’re very busy, as always, Laura, but this is one situation that can’t be put on hold for you. If you want to see your father alive—”
“You’ve made your point, Kendall, I’m going to do my best to come as soon as—”
“Or maybe you don’t,” her sister interrupted, continuing her own thought. “But I’d think you’d feel you owed it to your mother, at least, to be by her side at a time like this.”
It had been almost ten years since she last saw him. Her father had lived a long life and had more than his share of achievements and recognition. If this was his time, so be it. But that was not language Kendall, or the other girls, for that matter, could possibly understand.
“I’ll be there soon,” Laura said.
As soon as she hung up, she realized she was crying.
JULY 16–17
Los Angeles ☆ Long Beach, California
The Beverly Hills was one of Laura’s favorite hotels. Its South of France ambience amidst the palm trees of Southern California appealed to her. And there were few places as ideal for connecting and being seen as its venerable Polo Lounge. There she had met Warren Beatty, her professional breakout, with a spread in Rolling Stone magazine.
But this afternoon she was tired, with demanding and emotional days ahead. After checking into her suite, she called Kendall.
“How’s Mother?”
“Resting in the visitors’ lounge. Daddy’s in Intensive Care. We’re still waiting for some definitive word. Laura, it is very depressing here; we’re pretty much down to prayers.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I finish here. Tell Mother I love her.”
“Laura, Mother needs you. All of your sisters are here to take control of the situation now,” Kendall emitted a pained gasp, “and what might happen. You would be a great emotional boost to her and a help to the rest of us.”
“Kendall, I’m not here on a vacation. I made this professional commitment months ago. There are many people depending on me. I can’t just up and leave.”
“Laura,” Kendall screamed, “your father may not live another twenty-four hours. I don’t care what you thought of him or what your personal history might have been. He—we—deserve your being here before he is gone. And no one is going to forget it if you are not here for the end.”
The connection cut off. Laura stared at the phone incredulously for a moment. “Point made, as usual, Kendall,” she said.
Laura spent the next two hours in the spa, took a light room-service dinner, and was asleep by 8:30.
She arrived at Peninsular Tower promptly at 5:30. “John,” she glowered at the lighting technician, “when the sun is fully up, the reflection will overwhelm Jeralewski. Move the lights and umbrellas to the rear of the yard, under the palm fronds.”
With the lighting as she had directed, Laura snapped test images of John, examined them, and waved the gear further into the shadows until satisfied. “Okay, we’ll go with that.”
At 8:15 the equipment was broken down and moved to the penthouse offices. At twenty-seven floors of glass curtain wall, the Peninsular Tower dominated the Long Beach waterfront. The reception area for the penthouse offices was decorated in modern Spartan. Except for the occasional Warhol or Hiler, the tone was eggshell white. The surroundings softly echoed serious, prosperous business.
Forty minutes of setup and light-checking in the managing partner’s office passed before Jeralewski arrived. Laura rose, responding to his nod. He was deeply tanned, with prominent cheekbones and chiseled features. In a throaty voice that suggested roots somewhere in Central Europe, he said, “Ms. Billington, welcome to Peninsular.”
He was shorter than Laura had anticipated, no more than five feet, eight. His suit was suavely Global Executive, British pearl-grey wool with an indigo pattern in an Italian cut. The flapless coat accentuated Jeralewski’s trim, muscular buttocks. Cuff links bearing the seal of the president of the United States of America adorned his French blue shirt. The only noticeable concession to the West Coast was his tasseled oxblood loafers.
None of the modernism of the lobby invaded his office. More like those on Capitol Hill, Jeralewski’s walls were covered with photographs of the occupant with prominent figures. The most important officials from the Reagan and first Bush administrations were represented, with no fewer than thirteen depictions of the two presidents. The wall-to-wall carpeting provided an innocuous stage for a Heriz Persian rug. Through her mother Laura knew about these rugs and calculated she stood on more than $300,000 of ancient wool. The furniture seemed lifted from a London men’s club. The chief executive’s mahogany desk anchored the near side of the room, facing a plush semicircle of silk-upholstered chairs. Light streamed in through a floor-to-ceiling glass pane facing the ports of Long Beach and Los Angeles and on to the Pacific horizon.
“Please, Ms. Billington, take a seat.”
Laura eased into the centermost of the chairs, and before she could offer the standard formalities, Jeralewski interjected, “I have heard and read a great deal about you. Your work is compelling, particularly your recent portrait of President Putin, and I am pleased the magazine accepted our suggestion and selected you to take the photographs.”
Accepted their suggestion? They had asked GQ for her? That wasn’t how it was done. She waited for more. After a long pause he said, “I wonder if I might have a few private words with you after our session?”
Laura felt a slight moistening of her underarms. She had had sufficient experience with the flattery of high-profile subjects not to be surprised by his words. Yet she did feel oddly anxious and uncomfortable in his company.
She said stiffly, “Of course. Now, shall we begin?”
Jeralewski rose, brushed a spot of imperfection from his coat. His Naval Academy ring caught the glint of the morning sunshine. “Where?”
“If you please, here. I prefer to do the portrait at the beginning and then the informals.”
With the subject before the camera, Laura was dissatisfied with the intensity of the light. “John,” she implored, “drop a double scrim over the key light.” Satisfied at last, she began.
An hour and twenty minutes into the shoot, as Laura captured Jeralewski “reviewing” office papers, the credenza phone rang. “Ms. George, I’m occupied,” he announced sternly. “Please handle my calls until Ms. Billington is finished.”
He was quiet for several seconds, then, “I’ll take the call.”
With the phone tucked under his chin, Jeralewski scribbled on a note pad. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, “I have no reason to suspect our understandings have been altered without permission.” For two minutes he listened, frowning. “This is not the time for this conversation. Could you come to my office
after three?” Laura snapped the shutter.
Another hour of candids: Jeralewski conversing with colleagues and bystanders in the garden and at the formal entrance of the Peninsular building. Laura was winding up. She was confident GQ would be pleased.
As her staff was dismantling the photographic gear, Laura’s iPhone hummed.
“Laura, Kendall ... ”A pause conveyed the message. “Daddy died twenty minutes ago. He never recovered consciousness. The doctors said he was in no pain.” Another longer pause. “The rest of us are all here. Mother’s in no condition to make plans. We hope you can be here tonight.”
Now that he was dead, a strange mixture of—what?—relief, shame, sorrow, and anger swept over her. Were things still that complicated between her and her dad? Well, I can’t think about that now. Laura looked at her watch. “I’ll get the next flight I can,” she said.
As Laura came back into the executive suite, Ms. George was sitting at her desk near the entrance to Jeralewski’s office.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Laura said, “but there’s been a family emergency. I will have to postpone my meeting with Mr. Jeralewski.”
JULY 17
Washington, D.C.
As was Ben Brewster’s norm, at five o’clock he was preparing to call it a day. He could not resist poking his head, centered by quarter-inch-thick bifocals and topped by a scalp so hairless it reflected light, into Tony’s office.
Tony looked up. His hope that this was the beginning of peace negotiations was short-lived.
“Have you heard the Cuban national anthem?”
“Brewster, I really don’t need any of your paranoid xenophobic shit,” Tony replied.
Undaunted, Brewster continued. “Last February, I was at Foxy’s bar on Jost Van Dyke in the British Virgin Islands—”
“And I’ll bet they could spot a fellow virgin when they saw one.”
“No, listen: I was walking up to the bar from our catamaran. Foxy himself, an old, skinny black guy with a big smile, was sitting under a coconut tree by the front door strumming a ukulele. He asked me, ‘You ever heard the Cuban national anthem?’ Without waiting for an answer he sang, ‘Row, row, row, your boat gently down the stream—’”
Tony picked up a yellow government-issue pencil and mentally calculated the minimum number of moves to maneuver the point into Brewster’s anal region, when he recalled his Tuesday promise to Carol. “Before I drive this up your ass, would you like to act like a professional for a change?”
Brewster lowered his flabby and bulging buttocks onto Tony’s guest chair. It emitted a squeak of protest.
“What’ve you got?” Brewster asked.
“I’ve been told that DOJ has opened an investigation of a corruption case involving BAE and the Saudis. It struck me as strange that we would be prying into a case involving our best ally and a crowd we’d gone out of our way to protect after 9/11. You’re supposed to be our expert on all things Saudi—what’s up?”
Brewster looked taken by surprise. “Where’d you get this from?” “Let’s just say I heard it around.” Tony knew that if the situation were reversed, Brewster would never divulge a source to someone on his own level. In Washington, information was the real currency of power.
Brewster squirmed in the chair. “Maybe one of our defense firms is still pissed off over losing those F-15 sales.”
“Got to be more to it than that.”
“I dunno. You know how much weight those Beltway bandits swing at 1600 Pennsylvania.”
Tony was about to respond when Brewster rose abruptly. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help. See you tomorrow; maybe we can sing the National Anthem together.”
Tony brandished the pencil threateningly as Brewster stuck out his mighty ass in provocation. “I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m told your aim has fallen off since you left the tennis circuit.” He gave a foppish sort of wave as he exited the office, closing Tony’s door behind him.
As soon as he was back in his own office, Brewster closed that door, too, and moved across to the window. He punched ten digits into his Droid, waited several seconds, and then punched in four more.
Another pause and then he said, “I need to speak with Mr. Jeralewski.”
JULY 17
Washington, D.C. ☆ Zurich, Switzerland
About six in the evening, while he was immersed in the latest cable from Kabul, Tony’s Blackberry rang. It was his Uncle Luis from Hialeah.
“Tony,” he said in Spanish with a solemn voice, “your friend Senator Billington has been killed in a car wreck. The radio says he was at Columbus Hospital and he never regained his senses.”
“What!” Tony said, stunned. He felt his body go suddenly slack. “Is there any more?”
“Not that I know, but I’ll keep listening.”
“Thank you, are you doing okay?”
“Yes, thank the Lord.”
Tony leaned back. He realized his hands were shaking. He had talked with the senator the day before and made reservations for a trip to Miami to see him and consider his requests for help.
He called Mrs. Billington, leaving his message of condolence with the third daughter, Suzanne. She relayed the funeral arrangements. He booked a turnaround flight to Tallahassee on Wednesday that would get him to the state capital in time for the funeral.
Since Georgetown, Tony had drifted from his Catholic upbringing but retained a belief in a Supreme Being. He offered up a silent prayer for his friend.
Promptly at three o’clock, Carol presented her papers to Franz Schmidt, manager of the personal accounts section of the Zurich-Alliance Bank. A warm shower and two hours of sleep had washed away the initial jet lag of her night flight from Dulles.
Rising to inspect the papers, Schmidt offered Carol the facing chair. “Welcome, Ms. Watson. We have been anticipating your arrival. I trust your arrangements have been satisfactory.”
“Quite.” Carol responded. “This is a beautiful city, and I hope to get to know it better while I am here on my government’s business.”
Schmidt moved a manila folder to the center of his desk. He did so with the assurance and élan of one who had spent a career overseeing the financial needs of some of the world’s wealthiest and most celebrated clients. “I am pleased you will have that opportunity, although I must say, your assignment is challenging and for us rather novel.”
“Novel?”
“Yes. As you know, we Swiss have prided ourselves on a tradition of confidentiality in our private banking relationships. This would be particularly true of our official and special clients.”
“My government appreciates your discretion. However,” Carol paused as she sought the words to describe what to her was an opaque assignment, “in this instance we have concerns about a corrupt relationship that might compromise decisions affecting our national security. My government is gratified by the offer of cooperation extended by yours, and Zurich-Alliance.”
Schmidt lifted his brown-rimmed glasses. “It is my understanding you are specifically interested in the records reflecting transfers from the British corporation BAE Systems to certain Saudi clients of this bank during the period April to June 1991. Correct?”
“At least that appears to be the point of origination of my government’s interest.”
“Ms. Watson, I am certain you are aware of the sensitivity of these records and the degree of departure from standard practice for the bank to voluntarily agree to provide you with access?”
It seemed to Carol as if she were fighting a duel, only instead of foils, the politest and most carefully chosen of words were the weapons.
“Mr. Schmidt, as you might have been informed, I was one of the Treasury officials involved in the investigation of UBS.”
Whether Mr. Schmidt was aware of her involvement or not, he was intimately familiar with the UBS case. After years of protracted and often contentious negotiations, UBS had agreed to reveal to the U.S. Treasury the names of 4,450 wealthy American clients holding more than
$18 billion in offshore accounts and suspected of evading U.S. tax laws.
“And as you also might know,” she continued, “under our revised treaty with your government, the U.S. is pursuing not only tax fraud but also similar financial crimes such as money laundering and corruption. It is under this authority and with the insights our Treasury Department has gained in pursuing UBS and other financial institutions that I am investigating the designated accounts. I am confident of my ability to fulfill my assignment, and your assistance in doing so will be very much appreciated.” Looking directly at Schmidt, over the greenshaded bank office desk light, she added, “In exchange, you can be assured of my professionalism and discretion.”
“Thank you for those assurances. I have made arrangements for a private office here in our section to be at your disposal.” Rising again, he indicated the door and led Carol from his office.
With the door secure and the manila file before her, Carol turned from the cover sheet marked “Account 67-H39-4” and dated for the Swiss fiscal year, the calendar year 1991, to the following pages of entries. The first nineteen pages reflected in chronological order a series of credits to the account, primarily from European and North American sources, in amounts denominated in British pounds, Euros, and U.S. and Canadian dollars, most in excess of seven figures.
On page 20 was an April 11, 1991, entry for 100 million British pounds from BAE Systems Inc. Carol noted similar entries in May, June, and July. Even with the closest inspection, she failed to detect further BAE entries until October, when, on the first Wednesday, 250 million British pounds had been credited from BAE, with the same amount on the same day in November and December.
Carol looked up on hearing a light knock on the wooden door. Mr. Schmidt opened it and indicated it was the normal five o’clock closing of the bank, but magnanimously assured Carol she was welcome to stay as long as she might wish. Otherwise, he extended an invitation for dinner at his home. With the second stage of travel weariness descending, Carol accepted, returning her files to him for safekeeping.