by Noah Hawley
And these days—in the unstructured hours of her life—Sarah wondered, was she staying alive now just to move money around?
I shop therefore I am.
* * *
When Ben got back to the office, he found two men waiting for him. They sat in the outer office reading magazines, while Darlene typed nervously on her computer. Ben could tell from their suits—off the rack—that they were government. He almost spun on his heels and walked out, but he didn’t. The truth was, he had—on the advice of his lawyer—a packed bag in a storage unit and a few untraceable millions offshore.
“Mr. Kipling,” said Darlene too loudly, standing. “These gentlemen are here to see you.”
The men put down their magazines, stood. One was tall and square-jawed. The other had a dark mole under his left eye.
“Mr. Kipling,” said Square Jaw, “I’m Jordan Bewes from the Treasury Department. This is my colleague, Agent Hex.”
“Ben Kipling.”
Kipling forced himself to shake their hands.
“What’s this about?” he asked as casually as he could.
“We’ll do that, sir,” said Hex, “but let’s do it in private.”
“Of course. Whatever I can do to help. Come on back.”
He turned to lead them into his office, caught Darlene’s eye.
“Get Barney Culpepper up here.”
He led the agents into his corner office. They were eighty-six stories up, but the tempered glass shielded them from the elements, creating a hermetic seal, a sense that one was in a dirigible, floating high above it all.
“Can I offer you anything?” he said. “Pellegrino?”
“We’re fine,” said Bewes.
Kipling went to the sofa, dropped into the corner by the window. He had decided he would act like a man with nothing to fear. There was a bowl of pistachios on the sideboard. He took a nut, cracked it, ate the meat.
“Sit, please.”
The men had to turn the guest chairs to face the sofa. They sat awkwardly.
“Mr. Kipling,” said Bewes, “we’re from the Office of Foreign Assets Control. Are you familiar with that?”
“I’ve heard of it, but honestly, they don’t keep me around for my logistical know-how. I’m more the creative thinker type.”
“We’re an arm of the Treasury Department.”
“I got that part.”
“Well, we’re here to make sure that American businesses and investment firms don’t do business with countries our government has deemed off limits. And, well, your firm has come to our attention.”
“By off limits you mean—”
“Sanctioned,” said Bewes. “We’re referring to countries like Iran and North Korea. Countries that fund terrorism.”
“Their money’s bad,” said Hex, “and we don’t want it here.”
Ben smiled, showing them his perfectly capped teeth.
“The countries are bad. That’s for sure. But the money? Well, money’s a tool, gentlemen. It’s neither good nor bad.”
“Okay, sir, let me back up. You’ve heard of the law, yes?”
“Which law?”
“No, I’m saying—you know we have this thing called laws in this country.”
“Mr. Bewes, don’t patronize me.”
“Just trying to find a language we both understand,” said Bewes. “The point is, we suspect your firm is laundering money for—well, shit, just about everyone—and we’re here to let you know we’re watching.”
At this, the door opened and Barney Culpepper came in. Wearing blue-and-white seersucker, Barney was everything you’d want in a corporate attorney—aggressive, blue-blooded, the son of the former US ambassador to China. His father was pals with three presidents. Right now, Barney had a red-and-white candy cane in his mouth, even though it was August. Seeing him, Kipling felt a wave of relief—like a kid called to the principal’s office who rebounds when his dad arrives.
“Gentlemen,” said Ben, “this is Mr. Culpepper, the firm’s in-house counsel.”
“This is a casual conversation,” said Hex. “No need for lawyers.”
Culpepper didn’t bother shaking hands. He leaned his backside against the sideboard.
“Ask me about the candy,” he said.
“Pardon?” said Hex.
“The candy. Ask me about it.”
Hex and Bewes exchanged a look, as if to say I don’t want to. You do it.
Finally Bewes shrugged.
“What’s with the—”
Culpepper took the candy cane out of his mouth, showed it to them.
“When my assistant said two agents from Treasury were here, all I could think was—it must be fucking Christmas.”
“Very funny, Mr.—”
“Because I know my old racquetball buddy Leroy Able—you know him, right?”
“He’s the secretary of the Treasury.”
“Exactly. Well, I know my old racquetball buddy Leroy wouldn’t send agents down here without calling me first. And since he didn’t call—”
“This,” said Hex, “is more of a courtesy call.”
“Like where you bring over cookies and say welcome to the neighborhood?”
Culpepper looks at Kipling.
“Are there cookies? Did I miss the—”
“No cookies,” says Ben.
Bewes smiles.
“You want cookies?”
“No,” says Culpepper, “it’s just, when your friend said ‘a courtesy call,’ I thought—”
Bewes and Hex exchange a look, stand.
“Nobody’s above the law,” says Bewes.
“Who said anything—” says Culpepper. “I thought we were talking about dessert.”
Bewes buttons his jacket, smiling—a guy with a winning hand.
“A case is being built. Months, years. Sanctioned at the highest level. And you want to talk about evidence? How about you’d need two tractor trailers to haul it all to court.”
“File a suit,” said Culpepper. “Show a warrant. We’ll respond.”
“When the time comes,” said Hex.
“Assuming you guys aren’t parking cars in Queens after I make a phone call,” said Culpepper, chewing on his candy cane.
“Hey,” said Bewes, “I’m from the Bronx. You wanna call a guy out, call him out. But make sure you know what you’re buying.”
“It’s so cute,” said Culpepper, “that you think it matters the size of your dick. ’Cause, son, when I fuck someone, I use my whole arm.”
He showed them the arm, and the hand attached to it, at the end of which a single finger was raised in salute.
Bewes laughed.
“You know how some days you come to work and it’s a drag?” he said. “Well, this is gonna be fun.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Culpepper, “until it goes in past the elbow.”
* * *
That night at dinner, Ben was distracted. He reviewed his conversation with Culpepper in his head.
“It’s nothing,” Culpepper had said, dropping his candy cane in the trash after the agents left. “They’re traffic cops writing bullshit tickets at the end of the month. Trying to get their quotas up.”
“They said months,” Ben responded. “Years.”
“Look at what happened to HSBC. A fucking wrist slap. You know why? Because if they gave them the full extent of the law, they’d have had to take their banking license. And we all know that’s not gonna happen. They’re too big to jail.”
“You’re calling a billion-dollar fine a wrist slap?”
“It’s walking-around money. A few months’ profits. You know that better than anyone.”
But Ben wasn’t so sure. Something about the way the agents carried themselves. They were cocky, like they knew they had the high card.
“We need to close ranks,” he’d said. “Anyone who knows anything.”
“Already done. Do you know the level of nondisclosure paperwork you have to sign to even work the front desk
here? It’s Fort fucking Knox.”
“I’m not going to jail.”
“Jesus, don’t be such a pussy. Don’t you get it? There is no jail. Remember the LIBOR scandal? A conspiracy worth trillions with a t. A reporter says to the assistant attorney general, This is a bank that has broken the law before, so why not be tougher? The assistant attorney general says, I don’t know what tougher means.”
“They came to my office,” Ben had said.
“They took an elevator ride. Two guys. If they really had something it’d be hundreds of guys, and they’d walk out with a lot more than their dicks in their hands.”
And yet sitting in a corner booth with Sarah and Jenny and her fiancé’s family, Ben couldn’t help but wonder if that was really all they’d walked out with. Ben wished he had videotape of the meeting so he could watch his own face, see how much he’d given away. His poker face was usually top-notch, but in that room he’d felt off his game. Did it come through in the tension around his mouth? A crinkle in his eyes.
“Ben?” said Sarah, shaking his arm. From the look on her face, it was clear a question has been thrown his way.
“Huh?” he said. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t catch that. It’s pretty loud in here.”
He said this, even though the place was dead quiet, just a few blue-hairs whispering into their soup.
“I said, we still think real estate is the way to go, money-wise,” said Burt or Carl or whatever Shane’s father’s name was. “And then I asked your opinion.”
“Depends on the real estate,” said Ben, sliding out of the banquette. “But my advice after Hurricane Sandy is, if you’re buying in Manhattan, pick a high floor.”
He excused himself, dodging Sarah’s disapproving look, and went outside. He needed some air.
On the curb he bummed a smoke from a late commuter and stood under the restaurant’s awning smoking. A light rain fell, and he watched the taillights sheen on the black macadam.
“Got another?” asked a man in a turtleneck, stepping out behind Ben.
Kipling turned, eyed him. A moneyed man in his forties, but with a nose that had been broken at least once.
“Sorry. I bummed this one.”
The man in the turtleneck shrugged, stood looking out at the rain.
“There’s a young lady in the restaurant trying to get your attention,” he said.
Ben looked. Jenny was waving at him. Come back to the table. He looked away.
“My daughter,” he said. “It’s meet-the-new-in-laws night.”
“Congrats,” said the man.
Kipling puffed, nodded.
“With boys you worry, will they ever leave the house?” said the man. “Find their way. In my day they kicked you to the curb the minute you hit voting age. Sometimes before. Adversity. It’s the only way to make a man.”
“That what happened to your nose?” said Kipling.
The man smiled.
“You know how on your first day in prison they say find the biggest guy and kick his ass? Well, like anything else, there are consequences.”
“That’s—you’ve been to prison?” said Kipling, feeling a tourist’s thrill.
“Not here. Kiev.”
“Jesus.”
“And later in Shanghai, but that was a piece of pie, compared.”
“Are we talking bad luck or—”
The man smiled.
“Like an accident? No, man. The world’s a dangerous place. But you know that, right?”
“What?” said Kipling, feeling a slight premonitory chill.
“I said you know the world’s a dangerous place. Cause and effect. Wrong place, wrong time. You could fill a thimble with the times in human history a good man did a bad thing without thinking.”
“I didn’t, uh, I didn’t catch your name.”
“How about my Twitter handle? You want to Instagram me?”
Kipling dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk. As he did, a black car pulled up to the curb in front of the restaurant and sat, idling.
“Nice talking to you,” said Ben.
“Hold on. We’re almost through, but not quite.”
Kipling tried to get through the door, but the man was in the way. Not blocking him exactly, just there.
“My wife—” said Ben.
“She’s fine,” said the man. “Probably right now thinking about dessert. Maybe have the meringue. So take a breath—or take a ride in the car. Your choice.”
Kipling’s heart was going a mile a minute. He’d forgotten this feeling existed. What was it? Mortality?
“Look,” said Ben, “I don’t know what you think—”
“You had a visit today. The party police. Señor Buzz Kill. I’m being obtuse deliberately. Except to say—maybe they spooked you.”
“Is this, like, a threat scenario or—”
“Don’t get excited. You’re not in trouble. With them maybe. But not with us. Not yet.”
Kipling could only imagine who us meant. The realities of the situation were clear. Though he had always dealt with factotums and middlemen (white-collar criminals at best), Kipling had made his bones at the firm by exploiting previously underutilized revenue streams. Revenue streams that—as his visit from the Treasury agents only reinforced—were of an extra-legal nature. Which is to say, in plain English, that he laundered money for countries that sponsor terrorism, like Iran and Yemen, and countries that murder their own citizens, like Sudan and Serbia. And he did it from a corner office in a downtown high-rise. Because when you deal with billions of dollars, you did it in plain sight, creating shell companies and disguising wire-transfer origin points six ways from Sunday, until the money was so clean it might as well be new.
“There’s no problem,” Ben told the man in the turtleneck. “Just a couple of young agents getting overeager. But upstairs from them we’ve got things locked down. At the level where it matters.”
“No,” said the man, “you’ve got a few problems there too. Changes in executive policy. Some new marching orders. I’m not saying panic, but—”
“Look,” said Ben. “We’re good at this. The best. That’s why your employers—”
A hard glare.
“We don’t talk about them.”
Ben felt something electric run down his back and pucker his asshole.
“You can trust us, I’m saying,” he managed. “Me. That was always my pledge. No one’s going to jail over—because of this. That’s what Barney Culpepper says.”
The guy looked at Ben as if to say, Maybe I believe you, maybe I don’t. Or maybe he was trying to say, It’s not up to you.
“Protect the money,” he said. “That’s what matters. And don’t forget who owns it. Because, okay, maybe you cleaned it so good it doesn’t connect to us, but that doesn’t make it yours.”
It took a second for Ben to translate the implication. They thought he was a thief.
“No. Of course.”
“You look worried. Don’t look like that. It’s okay. You need a hug? All I’m saying is, don’t forget the most important things. And that’s the following—your ass is of secondary importance. Only the money matters. If you have to go to jail, go to jail. And if you feel the urge to hang yourself, well, maybe that’s not a bad idea either.”
He took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one between his lips.
“Meanwhile,” he said. “Get the flan. You won’t regret it.”
Then the man in the turtleneck walked to the waiting black sedan and got in. Kipling watched as it pulled away.
Chapter 17
They went to the Vineyard on Friday. Sarah had a charity auction. Something about Save the Tern. On the ferry out she brooded about their failed dinner with the maybe in-laws. Ben apologized. A work thing, he told her. But she’d heard that too many times before.
“Just retire then,” she said. “I mean, if it’s stressing you out this much. We have more money than we could ever use. We could sell the apartment even, or the boat. Honestly, I could care l
ess.”
He bristled at the words, the implication that this money that he’d made, that he continued to make, was somehow worthless to her. As if the art of it, the expertise he’d accumulated, his love of the deal, of every new challenge, was valueless. A burden.
“It’s not about the money,” he told her. “I have responsibilities.”
She didn’t bother arguing further, doesn’t bother saying, How about your responsibilities to me? To Jenny? As far as Sarah was concerned she’d married a perpetual motion machine, an engine that must keep spinning or never spin again. Ben was work. Work was Ben. It was like a mathematical equation. It had taken her fifteen years and three therapists to accept that—acceptance being the key to happiness, she believed. But sometimes it still stung.
“I don’t ask for much,” she said, “but the dinner with the Comstocks was important.”
“I know,” he said, “and I’m sorry. I’ll invite the guy to the club, play nine or eighteen. By the time I’m finished buttering, he’ll be president of our fan club.”
“It’s not the husband that matters. It’s the wife. And I can tell she’s skeptical. She thinks we’re the kind of people who try to buy their way into heaven.”
“She said this?”
“No, but I can tell.”
“Fuck her.”
She gritted her teeth. This was always his way, to dismiss people. It only made things worse, she believed, even as she was jealous of him for being so carefree.
“No,” she said. “It matters. We have to be better.”
“Better what?”
“People.”
An acerbic reply died on his tongue when he saw her face. She was serious. In her mind they were bad people somehow, just by being rich. It went counter to everything he believed. Look at Bill Gates. The man had committed half his wealth to charitable causes in his lifetime. Billions of dollars. Didn’t that make him a better person than what—a local priest? If impact was the measure, wasn’t Bill Gates a better man than Gandhi? And weren’t Ben and Sarah Kipling, by donating millions to good causes each year, better people than the Comstocks, who gave—at most—fifty grand?