by D. F. Bailey
※
As he walked through the eXpress doorway, Dixie Lindstrom waved Finch over to the reception desk.
“Gabe Finkleman gave it to me ten minutes ago.” She handed him an inch-thick, sealed manilla envelope. A floral script that could have been hand-written by Martha Stewart herself was inscribed across the front cover: Mr. Will Finch.
“Who’s Gabe Finkleman?”
“One of the Berkeley journalism interns.”
“That would be me.” A long-armed creature with a toothy smile grinned at Finch from his chair behind a computer monitor. He stood up and shook Finch’s hand.
“That’s everything I could find about GIGcoin. Ms. Lindstrom said you wanted it by noon today?” His voice rose and cracked on the word today. “Let me know if you need anything more.” Finkleman flashed another eager smile and then slumped behind his monitor to continue his work on the endless stream of low-level demands that landed on his screen.
“Sure. Thanks.” Finch turned back to Dixie. “Wally in?”
“At a meeting.” She pointed downstairs, to the recently shuttered San Francisco Post. “Last rites, I think.”
Finch frowned. “Right. Ask him to see me when he returns.”
He continued down the aisle toward his cubicle in the bog. Three other writers were banging out copy on their terminals, their ears wrapped under noise-canceling headphones. Nothing had changed much. Even the dust balls under his desk remained in place. Some had apparently mated and borne offspring.
He turned on his computer and while the system sprung to life and loaded a fresh stream of email into his in-box, he opened the manila envelope and glanced at the contents. Finkleman had printed reams of material related to GIGcoin. A cover sheet provided his summary. An international corporation, GIGcoin Bank and Exchange, was registered in the Cayman Islands. So far the bank didn’t have an internet presence, but all the requirements to launch a site were “in situ” (Finkleman’s phrase). In other words, he said, the bank could be online and fully functional before the evening news. A “whois” search of the bank’s internet identity was blocked, but somehow Finkleman had found the incorporating charter for the bank. The document, registered in George Town, one of the most secretive legal jurisdictions in the world, contained the few scant details required by Cayman law. Which included — and here lay the gold nuggets, Finch realized — the list of corporate directors and their national residences: Reginald Doncaster (England), Hans Hertel (Germany), Alexei Malinin (Russia), Jerry Chi Chen (China), Hiroji Akihiro (Japan), and Dean Whitelaw (USA). And at the bottom of the list, signing on as a non-regional director: Senator Franklin Whitelaw.
In his mind he saw the pieces connecting Dean Whitelaw to the GIGcoin software lock into place. Furthermore, the Russian contact from Sochi’s dark web link had to be Alexei Malinin: the answer to one of Finch’s three questions.
Will looked over the cubicle barrier and scanned the office. The interns’ desks tethered together behind Dixie’s reception area stood empty. Damn.
“Finkleman!”
A moment later Finkleman’s long right arm waved tentatively in the air as he emerged from the men’s room. “Me?” he mouthed.
“Come here.” Finch notched his voice a few decibels lower.
“Sorry,” Finkleman said, “did I miss something? In that report?”
“No. But now I want you to produce a complete biography on these seven corporate directors. The first one on the Russian, Alexei Malinin. Can you get it to me by” — he checked the wall clock above Wally Gimbel’s office — “say, four o’clock?”
He grimaced. “Maybe.”
“Good. Three-thirty would be better.”
The intern’s eyes widened with doubt.
“Oh. One more thing, Finkleman. What’s the best dining room in San Francisco? In your opinion.”
He shrugged. “The Ritz-Carlton?”
“Good choice. Sometime, Finkleman — not today, but soon, and definitely before you return to journalism classes in September — I’m going to buy you lunch at the Ritz-Carlton and you will tell me by what means of stealth and native cunning you acquired the incorporation documents for the GIGcoin Bank and Exchange in Grand Cayman.”
※
Wally Gimbel staggered into his office, plunked himself down in his leather chair, tilted backwards as far as the counter-weight chair mechanisms would permit and then stared dizzy-eyed at the ceiling. Finch imagined this is how his boss might appear as he settled into a dentist’s chair before a problematic root canal surgery.
“That bad?” Finch eased into one of the guest chairs opposite Wally’s desk.
“Worse than I imagined.” He pointed to the floor, a gesture everyone at the eXpress used to refer to the now-defunct daily newspaper one floor down. “Guys I’ve worked with for decades threatening lawsuits for their sudden dismissal. Hell, Parson Media is offering a week’s pay per year of service. And their pensions remain fully vested.”
“Sounds bleak.” Finch calculated the benefits. In his case it would amount to a little over ten grand, less taxes, plus a pension he couldn’t touch for another thirty years. With that kind of money he might survive for three months.
“The bleak part is seeing the anger the old boys have for me. It’s not my fault that we’ve entered the twenty-first century.” He tipped forward and set his hands on the desk. A look of surrender crossed his face. “At least we can help some of them.”
“How?”
“We’re bringing Stutz and Wengler on board the eXpress.”
Good. More writers. Once again the eXpress would scavenge the Post to staff the online editorial section. Stutz and Wengler were both competent. More than. Plus they’d fit into the digital ethos of the eXpress.
“Anyway, that’s my day so far. How’s your’s shaping up?”
“Like always; ups and downs.” Finch provided a summary of the SFPD press conference including his abrupt departure from the Hall of Justice, and the hour he spent with Fiona. “She’s doing better. I think she’s going to write the first-person piece on her abduction.”
“And consequent serial rape.” A look of horror crossed Wally’s face.
Finch closed his eyes and turned his head away. “I feel so shitty about it. Wally … I was the one who pushed her into it.”
“No. I did.” He shook his head. “And I just assigned her to chronicle the entire chain of events. To expose Justin Whitelaw’s twisted mind. You know as well as I do, you track down the story wherever it leads and then you tell the world. That’s what we do. That’s the job. She knows it, too.”
Of course. It takes someone half-insane to be so addicted to this kind of work, Finch thought. The adrenalin, the hunger for glory, the rat-like cunning, the relentless chase. Every reporter had to be part sociopath, part Hemingway, part MENSA master. And because it paid so badly, you had to disrespect the need for money. Or at least pretend to.
Wally drew a long breath as if he were preparing to run a second marathon in one day. “Okay, leave Fiona for me to handle.” He paused. “Anything else for me?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
“Lord help me.”
“It’s like a gourmet meal, Wally. And I’ve saved the best for last.” Knowing he had to deflect Wally’s exhaustion somehow, Finch smiled as he slid Finkleman’s file across Wally’s desk blotter. “Read the summary when you have two minutes. The new intern, Finkleman, did a decent job.”
“Who?”
“The Berkeley intern Dixie brought in. Skinny kid.”
Wally glared at it as if he couldn’t bear the weight of any more trouble. “What’s in it?”
“Okay, so this is a two-part story.” Finch leaned closer, pointed to the file. “Part one is in there. Dean Whitelaw and five oligarchs from around the world have incorporated a private bank, GIGcoin Bank and Exchange, in the Cayman Islands. GIGcoin is a new digital currency set to launch any day.”
“So why do we care? Dean Whitelaw’s
dead. This is nothing more than an obituary note. Forget it.”
Finch held up a hand to stop any further objections. “Part two goes back to the flash drive that Toeplitz gave to Gianna. Which now legally belongs to Eve. We got one of your nephew’s friends to crack it open.”
“One of the kids from Mother Russia?” He barely stifled a laugh.
“Yeah.” Finch smiled, conceding the joke. “Sochi. The flash drive also has a web link that led to one of the six partners, a Russian named Alexei Malinin, who holds one of two keys needed to unlock the GIGcoin software — and that software is also on Eve’s flash drive.”
This time Wally held up a hand. “Wait, wait, wait. So Eve has a software program, some kind of online money machine that Toeplitz developed. And the Russian has one of two keys needed to launch this thing. Sounds like nuclear weapons.”
Finch let out an amused smile. That had been his first thought, too. “Close. More like nuclear money.”
Wally looked away and studied the Diego Rivera painting on the far wall, The Flower Carrier, an image of a latino laborer dressed in white cotton and a yellow sombrero loaded with a massive basket of flowers as he crawls uphill on all fours. A modern Sisyphus.
After another moment Wally sat upright, startled by some inner revelation. “So this GIGcoin is —"
“That’s right,” Finch said. “GIGcoin is the answer to your what-the-fuck question.”
Wally drew an hand over his mouth. “It’s all about the software. Why Toeplitz was murdered. Not because he’d decided to testify for the DA in the case against Whitelaw, Whitelaw & Joss.” He blinked as if more facts had just clicked into place. “And it’s why Toby Squire broke into Gianna’s condo. To steal the software.”
“What threw me off,” Finch admitted, “was Gianna’s murder. But that wasn’t really part of any scheme. Just part of Squire’s madness.” He sat back in the chair and wondered why he’d assumed her death was motivated by some criminal intention. There was no intention at all. Just random bad luck that morphed into insane depravity.
He considered this another moment and continued. “So I have an idea about how to find the second key.”
“How’s that?”
“Malinin wants to meet. He’s sure to know who has the second key.”
Wally’s eyes cast a look of suspicion. “What’s in it for him?”
“He wants the GIGcoin software.”
“I bet he does.” He glanced away and chuckled under his breath. “But I can’t imagine that Eve will give it to him.”
“Maybe not, but I want to interview him.”
“All right. But Russian mafia? After what happened to Fiona, you have to take someone with you.”
“Got it covered.”
“Who are you thinking of?”
“Eve and Sochi.”
“Where are you going to meet this Malinin?” He turned his wrist, adjusted his watchband.
“Honolulu.”
Wally let out a snort of disbelief and then laughed as if he’d been ensnared in an elaborate practical joke.
“Give me a break, would you? A multi-million dollar newspaper collapses under my nose and the next day you expect me to finance an all-expenses-paid trip to Waikiki. Really?”
※ — TEN — ※
SOCHI CAME INTO Finch’s condo with a look of triumph on his face. “Rasputin’s done it again.” He opened the palm of his right hand to reveal Eve’s flash drive.
“Done what?” Eve struggled a moment with her suitcase clasp, then snapped it shut.
“Cracked the password to the password manager.” He strolled into the living room, a duffle bag propped on his shoulder. “Just now,” he added and pointed down the hall toward his condo.
Eve paused. “So. Does it open all the other files on the drive?”
“It does. I haven’t examined the files, just ensured that they can launch. Exactly what we agreed to.” He looked at her with a measure of pride. He’d accomplished his end of the bargain. It was up to Eve to determine the value of the files and then pay him his ten percent. “We could go through them now.”
She heaved her suitcase from the sofa onto the floor. “How long will that take?”
He shrugged. “Couple of hours?”
“No time,” Finch said. “Are you packed?”
“All set.” He slapped the duffle bag with his free hand. “If you’re not going to open it now, then you should take this.” He passed her the thumb drive. “Store it someplace that’s secure. And keep this password” — he gave her a yellow sticky note containing a long string of printed letters and numbers — “in a separate place. And don’t tell anyone, including us, where the drive and password are. Either of them.”
“All right.” Eve thought a moment, took the drive and paper slip and walked into Finch’s bedroom. Then she returned and tugged on her suitcase handle. “We’ll meet you at the airport in an hour. Meantime, I’ve got to get something back at my condo. Will, can you drive me?”
※
Eve had booked three economy class seats from San Francisco International Airport to Honolulu. In the departure lounge, Finch received an email from Gabe Finkleman containing profiles of the six partners linked to GIGcoin Bank and Exchange. After the plane lifted into the air and looped over the bay, Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge, he decided to get to work. He leaned under the seat and drew his laptop from his courier bag.
His challenge was to transform the conspiracy underlying an international business enterprise into a riveting story that the average reader could understand and want to read from beginning to end. Because he knew the plot would unravel in many layers and textures, Finch had to write an opening that grabbed readers by the throat and then screamed at them: Read this. These bastards are screwing us all! He closed his eyes and tuned his ears to the pitch of the jet engines as the plane climbed to thirty thousand feet.
“Aren’t you glad I booked us in a day early?” Eve set her hand on his arm and smiled with a look of longing. “Imagine. A day on Waikiki Beach. When was the last time you sat on a beach, Will?”
“I dunno. Maybe somewhere in Iraq.”
She frowned. “All right. So enough already! I’ve baked an actual vacation day into this trip and all you can do is joke about it.”
“Okay, no jokes. I’m going to love a day at the beach with you. Really. But for now, I’ve got to write this story while it’s percolating in my head.”
“Percolating?”
“Just ignore me,” he said. He drew the dinner tray out of the arm rest and set his computer in place. “I’ve got five hours to read Finkleman’s research and crank out the beginning of the story for Wally.”
“Okay, I won’t let you touch me until we get to the hotel in Waikiki. But after that all bets are off. Besides, I’ve got my own reading to do.” She pulled a book from her bag and flashed the cover at Finch. Bitcoin for Dummies. “Sochi’s gift to me.”
They glanced across the aisle at Sochi who occupied the far window seat. He sat hunched over his laptop, his long beard floating an inch or two above the keyboard. He plugged a flash drive into the USB slot on the laptop, typed in a series of keystrokes, unplugged the drive, inserted another and repeated the sequence.
“What’s he doing?”
“No idea.” Finch glanced up the aisle where the cabin crew prepared the coffee cart. He relished a fresh dose of caffeine and the fuel he needed to get to work.
He knew that readers needed a backgrounder to the GIGcoin story, so he began by drafting a side-bar: “Bitcoin Basics.” He laid it out in five bullet-points:
• Bitcoin is a digital currency that can be transferred globally from buyers to sellers without oversight by banks or governments. Consequently it is a currency of choice in the underground and criminal economy.
• Bitcoin can be exchanged via desktop computers or by smart phone apps called “bitcoin wallets.” Millions of dollars can be transferred in bitcoin in under a minute. A “block-chain ledger” �
� bitcoin’s most innovative contribution to financial technology — tracks each transaction using a distributed, de-centralized accounting system. However, it’s impossible to identify all bitcoin buyers and sellers. Users can remain anonymous.
• Bitcoin can be exchanged for dollars, pounds, Euros and other fiat currencies at on-line bitcoin exchanges or corner store bitcoin ATMs. In April, 2014, one of the largest exchanges, Mt. Gox, headquartered in Japan, lost 850,000 bitcoins from their client accounts. Valued at over $450 million at the time, the loss has never been recovered.
• Bitcoin was launched on the internet on January 9, 2009 by Satoshi Nakamoto to little fanfare. On 17 November 2013 its value peaked at US$1,216.73 per bitcoin. It now trades for just under $400 per unit.
• Satoshi Nakamoto’s identity is a mystery. Newsweek Magazine’s March 6, 2014 cover story purportedly unmasked the bitcoin creator, but the article was immediately dismissed by industry insiders. Other outings have proven equally fruitless. From 2009 until 2011, Nakamoto communicated only by email. As the currency caught fire, all contact with him stopped and he vanished from the public eye. Experts speculate that “Satoshi Nakamoto” is a pseudonym for a group of elite cryptocurrency experts who remain unknown.
After scanning the sidebar, Will turned his attention to Finkleman’s file. Except for a ten-minute break to eat something that almost resembled camembert cheese and some broken European crackers, he worked without a break until the plane descended over the north shore of Oahu and landed in Honolulu. As they touched down he ran a word count on the two articles he’d drafted. Twenty-five hundred, sixty-three words. Not bad for first drafts. From these two stories he could build the series that he knew would smash down the front gates to the GIGcoin palace. And once inside, who knew what he’d discover?
※
Finch lifted his head from the blanket and looked past the potato-white flesh of his toes to the surf as it crashed onto the hot sand of Waikiki Beach. Eve was right, their one-day vacation was a triumph of self-indulgence. He couldn’t believe his luck.