The Trust

by Norb Vonnegut

  “They learned about our twenty-five-million-dollar wire?” Father Ricardo was struggling to find an answer, anything to end the barrage of questions.

  “So they have a guy on the inside. Big deal. Happens all the time in bank operations.”

  Claire pushed the bangs from her face and cautioned me with her eyes.

  “The Palmetto Foundation,” I continued, my voice more respectful, “wired money to the Manila Society for Children at Risk in the past. And you’ve always been able to hide your activities. There’s got to be something different.”

  “I signed a purchase and sale for the hotel.”

  Biscuit, ever the real estate lawyer, looked like someone had hit his internal light switch. “Your name is on the contract?”

  “My name and the Manila Society for Children at Risk.”

  “What’s the price?” I asked.

  “Thirty-eight million.”

  “We only sent you twenty-five.”

  “We forfeit our escrow if we don’t wire the balance in three days. Now do you understand my urgency?”

  “The whole thing?” I asked, incredulous. “You forfeit one hundred percent?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could you be so stupid?”

  Father Ricardo glared at me. “I never anticipated a problem, because—”

  “Because of what?”

  “My deal with Palmer. Which you blew.”

  Biscuit shook his head. “Here’s how I see it, Padre. In the past, you operated under the radar. Rent payments, payroll, and ordinary expenses that people forget. Nothing major. Now you commit to a thirty-eight-million-dollar purchase. Twenty-five down. Thirteen to follow. And the bad guys ask, ‘Who is this priest?’ They start their homework.”

  “With the help of an insider,” I reminded everybody.

  “And before long,” Biscuit drawled, “they wonder, ‘Who’s the sugar daddy funding our boy?’”

  “And stealing our workforce from the streets.” I couldn’t keep myself from interrupting. I liked Biscuit’s clarity.

  “The bad guys Google the Palmetto Foundation. I know that’s what I would do. And they find Palmer and JoJo all over the Internet, where the whole world can see their money.” Biscuit sat back. “You think that sums it up, Padre?”

  “It’s the foundation’s money,” corrected Claire, returning to her seat.

  “Palmer and JoJo Kincaid have always been targets.” Father Ricardo sounded defensive, but for the moment his distress was over. “And everybody at this table knows it.”

  “We’re in a helluva fix,” I said, parroting Annie’s story about the Texas governor. “You risk losing twenty-five million dollars, Father. This gang wants two hundred million from the Palmetto Foundation. And we don’t know if they’ll return JoJo in one piece.”

  * * *

  Father Ricardo was right about Palmer and JoJo. They had always been the prey. I tell clients all the time, “Big lifestyles make big targets.”

  More than once, Palmer rejected my advice to hire bodyguards. He dismissed it as too alarmist. “For chrissakes, Grove, we live in Charleston.”

  Not everybody is so cavalier. That’s why I maintain a short list of security services for clients and prospects who express an interest. Same thing with kidnap and ransom insurance, or “K&R,” as it’s known in the trade. When my guys travel to Mexico or Venezuela, I tell them, “You’re crazy if you don’t look into a policy.”

  One of Microsoft’s billionaires is the gold standard for personal protection. Journalists love to write about his 414-foot yacht. The helicopter pads and attendant submarines make for good reading. But the ship’s crew is what interests me.

  It’s a team of ex–Navy SEALs.

  * * *

  Father Ricardo surveyed Claire, Biscuit, and me. His tears were gone, his resolve back, both of which were a relief to me. When he spoke, his voice was soft, no more than a velvety whisper. But his message reverberated with the power and gravitas that come only from men of the cloth.

  “I’ve been fighting these beasts a long time. And, right now, I regret my errors in judgment more than anything else in the world. I’d do anything to turn back the clock. To rescue JoJo. To heal her wounds. If I’m guilty of anything, it’s trying to save more kids. Because I saw no end to the butchery.” He paused a beat. “But know this. If you go to the authorities, if you delay payment, if you second-guess their ransom note, these men will kill her.”

  Claire was transfixed.

  “You know them personally?” I asked, recalling how his confession began.

  “Only as adversaries.”

  “But you can get to them, right?”

  “Through my team, yes.”

  “The mercenaries?”

  “I don’t like that term. But our men, one in particular, know the world of these gangsters.”

  “Fine. We go to the authorities, Father, and make sure they talk to your guy.”

  “U.S. law enforcement can’t move fast enough,” he objected.

  “There’s an FBI agent riding my ass. Trust me, she’ll drop everything.” So much for me keeping secrets.

  “FBI?” Father Ricardo asked, hearing about the Bureau’s interest for the first time. “What do they know?”

  Claire, who had been silent, stood up. She folded her arms across her chest and paced in one direction, then the other, as though organizing a jumble of thoughts. Biscuit, the reverend, and I looked at her.

  At first, she addressed me. “Right now, only one thing matters. That’s JoJo. And I want her back. No matter what it costs.”

  I bit my tongue, praying she would stop.

  “We don’t have two hundred million.” Claire swept back her hair. “Not yet anyway.”

  Please don’t go there.

  The Palmetto Foundation had $140 million in assets. By Friday, Palmer’s gift of $150 million would take our total to $290 million. In my business, we treat everything on a confidential basis. And neither Biscuit nor Father Ricardo needed to know the extent of our resources.

  “Dad’s gift to the Palmetto Foundation—”

  “Is irrelevant,” I interrupted. “We need the authorities.”

  “Totals one hundred and fifty million,” Claire finished, overriding me.

  “It won’t be in the account until Friday.”

  She wriggled her palm back and forth, the Whoa signal. “I’ll have the money tomorrow.”

  I wanted to scream but tamped down my emotions. “A two-hundred-million-dollar payment includes funds from other donors. That’s not right, Claire.”

  “Use our forty,” the reverend argued. “That takes you to one ninety.”

  “But your escrow?” Biscuit leaned into the conversation. Everybody was talking at once.

  “I don’t care if we lose the property,” said Father Ricardo. “I can raise more money. But I can’t live with JoJo’s death on my hands.”

  “Your goons will take the money and kill her anyway.” It was so obvious to me.

  “They’re businessmen.” Father Ricardo dug his elbows into the table. “If they kill hostages, families will stop paying ransoms.”

  Around and around we went, until my phone rang and “I Walk the Line” shattered the tense air. I let my boss go into voice mail. Anders dialed a second time, more Johnny Cash, more “I Walk the Line.”

  On the third ring, Father Ricardo barked, “For the love of Christ, will you answer that thing?”

  “Katy, I’m in a meeting. I can’t talk.”

  “Fine, but get back to New York City tonight.”

  “Why?” Claire, Biscuit, and Father Ricardo stared at me.

  “You’re meeting Morgan Stanley at eight tomorrow morning.”

  “No I’m not.”

  Before she could reply, I said, “Hang on. There’s another call coming in.”

  Ordinarily, I would never put my boss on hold. But my phone said, “Blocked.” And it occurred to me—I don’t know why—that JoJo’s captors might be on
the line. “Hello?”

  “Hello, sweetheart.” It was Torres.

  I stood up, excused myself, and walked down the stairs to the kitchenette, away from the ears in the conference room. “What do you want?”

  “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

  The sarcasm was getting to me. Everywhere I turned somebody was copping an attitude, even a damn priest. “You’re right. Call me back in five. By then, I’ll be primed with F-bombs.”

  “Hey, we’re partners,” she soothed. “You getting anywhere with Ricardo?”

  “Hang on.”

  I introduced Torres to my Hold button and returned to Anders. Not much of an uptick. She snapped, “Don’t do that again.”

  “Tomorrow is a nonstarter.”

  “You’re gumming up the works,” she growled.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Morgan Stanley. They fast-tracked the due dilly. We don’t expect any antitrust problems. We only need to check one more box, and that’s getting brokers in front of their people.”

  I looked at the freezer door and thought about what was sitting inside. I remembered how Palmer Kincaid had guided me. Helped me through the years. Been there every step of the way. Wall Street could stuff it. I didn’t care about “gumming up” a deal with Morgan Stanley. There was only one thing on my mind: JoJo Kincaid.

  “You yanked Percy’s account from me.”

  “Knock it off.”

  “Remember the last thing you said to me?”

  “No.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the FBI?”

  “Who told you?” Anders sounded uncomfortable, really uncomfortable.

  “Reschedule the meeting.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation.”

  “Exactly.” She knew what I meant. My way. Not hers.

  “You’re putting me in a difficult situation.”

  “It is what it is.”

  I hung up on Anders and clicked back to Torres. “I have no idea why you’re riding me. Or what I’ve done. But right now, I don’t care. Got that? I don’t care. Last time I checked, you weren’t my biggest problem.”

  “What’s wrong?” Agent Torres detected something new in my voice.

  And I heard consternation in hers. She wasn’t an ally. Nor a friend. I didn’t like her. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t understand why she came at me like a Mack truck the first time we met. Or my firm for that matter. I eyed the freezer door again, long and hard. I may never know what possessed me, how I found the resolve to mouth off to an FBI agent. Especially when I needed the Bureau’s help. Maybe all the hostile phone calls in the middle of a board meeting made me crack. Or maybe it was that refrain in the hostage note: “The woman dies.” Whatever. I wasn’t thinking straight.

  “Frankly, Torres, it’s time you reimburse the FBI.”

  “For what?”

  “Salary, pension, medical benefits. That’s a start. You probably owe them interest and penalty fees too. Don’t tell me they provide you with a vehicle.”

  “You need my help.” That’s the last thing Torres said before I clicked off.

  Dial tone.

  Claire, Biscuit, and Father Ricardo stopped squabbling the second I returned. The reverend asked, “Everything okay?”

  “Peachy. Now, about the money.” I placed my mobile on the table, but it interrupted again, vibrating with the annoying hum of metal against wood. I almost threw it out the window.

  “Can’t you turn that thing off?” implored Claire.

  “Sorry.” I looked down at the LCD display. It was my firm’s CEO.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  BOARD MEETING

  Call me cynical. But hear me out.

  I work for a big investment bank, a sprawling empire of combatant egos. The best way to deal with managers is to avoid them. Their annoying memos sprout mushrooms near the bottom of my in-box. Their incoming phone calls go straight to voice mail. Caller ID has increased my productivity tenfold at the office.

  Here’s the thing. I avoid the brass. If I stay out of the pasture, I can’t step in the bullshit, right? Most days the strategy works. Managers leave me the hell alone, because I deliver revenues, year in, year out. And everybody on Wall Street knows, “It’s the fees, stupid.”

  Every strategy has a flaw. The one in mine is the CEO. It’s impossible to ignore him.

  * * *

  The LCD on my cell phone read PERCY PHILLIPS. I knew what to expect. SKC’s CEO was coming after me. A journalist from The Village Voice once described him as a bipolar pit bull stuck on manic. If you ask me, the guy nailed it.

  For the third time that morning, I stood up and left. Which was nerve-racking because Claire, Biscuit, and Father Ricardo continued their discussion from my previous absences. And I was missing out.

  “Grove here.”

  “You hung up on Anders.” Percy spoke in a controlled Chicago accent, da Bears, da brats, interrupted by the occasional burst of squeaky inflection. “Last I heard, insubordination gets you fired.”

  “I have issues with a client.”

  “You have a problem with me.”

  Strike three. First it was JoJo’s severed pinkie. Then it was an FBI agent demanding that I snitch on a priest. And now it was the CEO busting my balls with career threats.

  “We’re meeting Morgan Stanley tomorrow morning,” Percy continued. “You’re at that meeting.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Pawns are blind, and kings don’t negotiate. I could tell Percy was pissed. But for the first time in my career, I didn’t care what he said. Or thought. Or demanded. As long as JoJo’s life was on the line, everyone at SKC could go screw themselves. My gut said Palmer’s wife was close, that she needed me, that the next twenty-four hours were critical. There was no way I was leaving Charleston until she was safe.

  Percy paused to sort through his thoughts, unaccustomed to pushback either from me or from the other minions on our floor. I could almost hear him frown at his need to shift tone. “Private Client Services does four hundred million in revenues. Your team is twenty million of the total. I need your help, Grove.”

  His words sounded like another hand job from above. “Anders pulled your account. And now you want my help?”

  “Morgan Stanley insists on meeting you.”

  “My team’s only five percent of department revenues.”

  “I doubt fifty stockbrokers in the world run a twenty-million-dollar business. Especially in this market.”

  When commands fail, bosses hit the sycophant switch.

  I suddenly understood Percy’s urgency. “Your deal’s on the ropes?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “You just did.”

  His jaw probably hit the floor.

  I was worked up. Didn’t care what happened, either to my job or to Percy’s deal. Indifference, it seemed to me in that mother of all eureka moments, was the most luscious feeling in the world. Whoever cares the least enjoys the most power, corporate titles notwithstanding.

  “Why can’t our lawyers make up their minds?” I demanded.

  “They have nothing to do with this.”

  “The hell. Agent Torres of the FBI stormed through SKC’s doors. You recognize her name, right?”

  “Grove.”

  “She scared the crap out of our lawyers. Tax fraud. Patriot Act violations. Wire transfers to the wrong guys. You name it, Torres implied it.”

  “I’m begging you to give it a rest.” Percy’s tone had turned sarcastic.

  I pressed on, empowered by my detachment from SKC. My diatribe was gaining speed and building momentum. “MoFo comes in and distances you from me. And me from Morgan Stanley, because the hired guns think I’ll fuck up your deal.”

  “I don’t have time to sit here while you get it wrong.”

  That comment shut me up.

  “I need y
our help,” Percy echoed from before. The CEO was not one to ask for anything. He usually snapped his fingers and got what he wanted.

  “I’m listening.”

  “You’re right about what happened. More or less. But ultimately, it was my decision to tell Morgan Stanley about your FBI problems.”

  “Sounds like we need new lawyers.”

  “I’ve been your client for two years. I know you make good decisions, even if you’re on a one-man mission to save all the world’s underdogs. I know you play aboveboard. That you didn’t do anything wrong. On purpose, that is.”

  A little late for this, Percy.

  “Are you afraid of what happens after I handle the FBI? You think I’ll sue SKC for wrongful termination?”

  “Just attend tomorrow’s meeting, Grove. We’ll pay your legal bills.”

  “Why?”

  “SKC needs this deal.”

  “You sound desperate.”

  “Banking revenues are way off. Unless we sell your division, our share price tanks.”

  I almost hung up on the spot. “So this is all about SKC missing its numbers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like it’s time for you to manage expectations. Because I won’t be present tomorrow morning.”

  “Come on, Grove.”

  “Just do the deal without me.”

  “We tried.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I advised Morgan about the FBI’s interest in you. And they want to cool things off until your problems play out.”

  “Even with me out of the picture?”

  “Afraid so. It’s not like we can indemnify them for bad press.”

  “Then what does my presence accomplish?”

  “It takes bad press off the table. You turn your business over to Zola. Morgan Stanley pays you a whopping big number to ensure your cooperation. Say twenty million. And you sign a nondisclosure agreement so nothing ever hits the press. We all make money and move on.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this at the start?”

  “I tried.”

  “You said I have a ‘problem’ with you.”

  “I’m trying to make you a rich man,” Percy insisted. “You’ll never work another day in your life. Unless, of course, you want to open your own hedge fund. And if you do, SKC will invest fifty million and raise another fifty million from clients. That’s a hundred million, bud.”