Game of Greed

by Charlotte Larsen

  And that is exactly what Ferguson has done. Not by himself, of course, but by supporting his client in articulating the contracts and terms and agreement with the five or so subcontractors who carried out the actual surveillance. And nobody, except Schwartz’s team and Francis’s team, that is, has so far wondered why The National Times recently has had more breaking news stories about celebrities and politicians than its usual share of breaking news would indicate.

  The phone hacking has produced a significant number of scandals involving cabinet members, a supreme court judge, an ambassador, and a number of well-known actors and actresses, leaving individuals exposed to public ridicule and private grief. What may have been aberrant or even deviant private behavior suddenly has become public knowledge for dissection and opinion. Privately, Francis holds the belief that any person who seeks public office of any kind should behave accordingly, in private matters as well as publicly. But he realizes that his definition of behaving properly does not necessarily coincide with those of other people and that the standard he holds for himself is higher than most people’s. Nevertheless, he has little if any respect for any person, in public office or not, who exercises greed or selfishness, mistreats other people, seeks to enrich himself on the backs of others, or just generally gives less back to the world than he claims for his own purposes.

  And there are powerful groups out there who would crucify not just The National Times’ editor in chief, but anybody who’d supported him in crossing the line of privacy by hacking into private phone conversations. Groups that are extremely strong on discretion, and on a person’s right to feel protected privately, as long as he or she didn’t break the law. And these groups would have Ferguson’s head if they found out. And once they had Ferguson, the whole firm of Smith, Turner, and Stevenson would suffer greatly, too. The legal firm has, since its founding, prided itself on playing aboveboard and couldn’t afford to hit the front pages with its name in the same sentence as the words “hacking” or “intrusion.” The firm has far too many clients who have absolutely no interest in running the risk of personal exposure.

  The small crowd is still paying homage to Ferguson when Francis walks right up to him, slaps him on the back, alpha-male style, and says in a loud, hearty voice, “Congrats on the scoop on Associate Justice O’Malley. What a story! Who would have known O’Malley was such a dirty old man ”

  Quite as he planned, he’s cut short by Ferguson, who takes him by the elbow, guiding him away from the group. Francis good-naturedly follows along.

  “What are you saying?” Ferguson hisses under his breath when they are out of earshot. “Are you accusing me ?”

  Francis drops the affable manners and says coolly, “Yes, actually, Bernard Ferguson, I am accusing you. And if you don’t do exactly as I tell you, the whole world will soon be judging you, too.”

  Ferguson is still in the afterglow of love from his earlier encounter, and that lowers his guard. He appears unsure whether to laugh Francis off or get offended. And while he deliberates this, Francis moves in. “You have attracted the attention of some people who right now are debating whether to harm you physically or just throw you out there unprotected, with a big, fat sign around your neck screaming, ‘Phone-hacker!’ My guess is they will do the latter. More damage, less risk. For them, that is. So, you see, Bernard, you have endorsed your last illicit act as a lawyer. Personally, you can go to hell for all I care, but you are not going to bring Stevenson and his buddies down with you. I am quite determined not to let that happen. So, here is the deal, Bernard. You will very publicly, and very soon, disengage yourself from The National Times and all other clients whom you have encouraged to act in a gray or even black zone. You’ll turn the tables and accuse them, hence distancing yourself most efficiently from their wrongdoing.”

  Bernard Ferguson has not been a highly successful lawyer for nothing. He can determine a certainty when he hears one, and by now, he has decided neither to get offended, nor laugh it off, but actually to take Francis seriously. “How can I do that? They’ll expose me. Claim that it was all my idea and my doing. They’ll pose the counteraccusation that I made the whole thing possible.”

  Francis looks at him without a shred of empathy. “Frankly, my friend, I don’t care how you do it, as long as you do it. You are one of this country’s top lawyers. You’ll think of something.” He pauses. “Anyway, let me just enlighten you as to the other option, should you choose not to follow my suggestion. The other option is quite easy for you. You will just do nothing, and in a few days, Smith, Turner, and the other friends will very publicly and quite theatrically hang you out to dry. They will distance themselves not only from you but from The National Times, as well. And believe me, that will be a bumpy ride for you. No newspaper that size and with that kind of standing is going to take an accusation of that magnitude lying down. It will damage them far too much. It will wipe out the advertising. And since you’re already lying down, they will step on you in order to clean themselves.”

  Francis takes a step back, looking Ferguson up and down as if eyeing him for the first time. “Yes. That’s exactly what they will do. And that will be the end of your career, my friend. Your name will be dragged through the mud, your cronies will look aside when you pass them on the street, and nobody will take your calls anymore. Comprende?”

  Bernard Ferguson asks, “What’s your interest in this?” Francis nods appreciatively. Quite a composed character, he thinks. Cool and clearheaded. Understands the ramifications. He’ll be fine. He’ll do what it takes.

  “Let’s just say that I have the interest of Smith, Turner, and Stevenson very much at heart.” He hands Ferguson his card an unprecedented action for Francis, but then again, not often does he come across people quite this cool. “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you disassociate yourself.”

  Bernard takes the card and flaps it against the palm of his hand, looking Francis straight in the eye. “Thanks. I guess I’ll stay in touch.”

  Oh, yes, you will, Francis thinks as he leaves the party.

  It is two in the morning in a dark room of a sleazy hotel in Amsterdam’s red-light district. A man wrapped in a dark winter coat with the collar turned up is sitting in the room’s only lounge chair. His face is indistinct in the darkness, which is broken only by irregular flashes of red light from a neon sign outside. In the shadows, he looks like a menacing and avenging angel.

  Laughter and male voices are audible in the corridor, one clearer than the other. The sounds are getting closer. Somebody fumbles with an old-fashioned key and the door bursts open. An older man enters first, slightly unsteady on his feet, fumbling for the lights. He’s followed by a young man, hardly more than a boy. While the older man is wearing what appears to be a well-tailored gray suit, the young man is heavily made-up, wearing tight leather pants and, despite the freezing cold outside, a black fishnet T-shirt and no jacket.

  The older man finally locates the light switch and flips it, but he takes a shocked step backward when he sees the man in the chair. By now, the door has been closed and locked by the young man, who throws the key to Francis.

  Francis catches the key in the air. “Sit!” He points to the bed.

  The older man looks from Francis to his young companion, uncertain what to do. He seems to consider making a run for it, but Francis interrupts any thoughts of that kind. “Sit down, Craig! Now!”

  The name seems to do the trick. The older man, Craig Moore, lowers himself gingerly onto the bed.

  “Go into the bathroom, James, and put the water on high.” The young man does as he’s told. Francis waits for the water to start hissing, pipes howling, behind the closed bathroom door.

  “What were you thinking, Craig? He’s fifteen! Just one year younger than your eldest daughter.”

  The man shakes his head, “Who are you? I didn’t know! He picked me up. Who are you?” His voice rises.

  Oh, my God, Francis thinks, these bloody people! The best and the brig
htest. How come they never learn to control their distasteful desires? Fully grown men in positions of trust and power. Are they simply unable to control their urges? Or, God forbid, do they hate their life and lifestyle so much that they unconsciously expose themselves to a complete wreckage of it? Human nature is so very base, so very noble. The frailty of man, the ease by which he slips down the road to hell. And what does that make me? What right do I have to judge? Or even to interfere? I hope I at least give them an opportunity to right what’s left of their miserable lives.

  Aloud, he says, “I am here to give you a choice. I don’t care who you fuck. I don’t care how. I don’t care when. For all I care, you can rot away here with your little lover boy, or with ten of them. But when you happen to be one of the highest-earning partners in Smith, Turner, and Stevenson, I do happen to care. And when you’re also the one responsible for most of the governmental cases you guys pull in, hence placing you in some highly influential people’s confidence, then I start to care a lot.”

  Craig Moore is visibly shaken now. Sweat is pouring down his face, getting in his eyes. He blinks.

  Francis allows him time to compose himself before going on. “You don’t need to comment on this, Craig, nor is there any sense in denying it or trying to explain. You know as well as I do that two things are true.” Francis holds up two fingers. “One: You are a very important partner in Smith and company. Two: You’ve been a bad boy. Fifteen, Craig! He’s a bloody child!”

  The man hangs his head, either too embarrassed or too stunned to say anything. Or maybe just too smart. Nobody gets to his kind of corporate altitude without some shrewdness.

  “Now, you have been getting away with this for years. But that will very soon change. There are some people out there who want your head on a platter. Well, actually, not your head, but Smith, et cetera, et cetera, and these people will get it by exposing you to the press.” The man looks alarmed, as well he should be. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m one of the good guys. And I may be able to offer you a way out.”

  Francis pauses for effect and allows the man to experience the mixed emotions of fear and relief. Mainly fear, he guesses. “My organization has a great range of information. Little slips by us. And our guess is that the bad guys, the ones you really have to watch out for, Craig, they don’t have any hard proof of your little indiscretions. Yet. But they will, Craig! Soon! If we are to go by your usual frequency and habits. We know that you routinely fly out to a couple of favorite places and have your way with these very, very young boys, Craig. Now, that is obviously going to stop. Right now. And forever.”

  He punctuates each syllable of the last words with his right hand. “Or it’ll be in the morning papers, then the national stations will pick it up, then the wife will get sad, the kids will be embarrassed, your partners will look askance at you and your clients you know, the ones so very keen on political correctness and the absence of any aberrant sexual behavior you know the ones? Pretty much every single one in your portfolio, buddy. They’ll take a hike. Far away from Smith, et cetera, et cetera. Then you’ll be suspended or asked politely to take a very early retirement. You get the picture, Craig? It’s not pretty, and you’ll never live it down. That’s it for you. Finale!”

  The man is holding his face in both hands. He is probably a good man, Francis thinks. A good father, a good husband. A man who can be relied upon to make the right decisions. A dependable man. That is, in all matters but his own sexuality.

  Francis delivers the coup de grace. “No more, Craig! Never again. No more porn. No more boys. No more flights that are not strictly business-related or do not include your wife. From now on, you are going to be as pure as a choirboy. Pardon the pun. Or your life as you know it is over.” He pulls Craig’s hands away from his face. “Do we understand each other?”

  The man mumbles something unintelligible.

  “Do we understand each other?” Francis suddenly roars at the top of his lungs. The man jumps. “Yes. Yes, we do. I understand,” he blurts out.

  “Good.” Francis stands up and pulls down his cuffs. “I’ll let myself out. You’ll pay James and wish him a happy life, making sure not even to touch the tip of his finger. And then you’ll get some sleep. You have a plane out of here at six o’clock in the morning. Goodnight, Craig.”

  And with that, he crosses the room at a brisk pace and leaves.

  Chapter 16

  On a windy evening, Francis and Dhammakarati are sitting in front of Francis’s fireplace on Mercer Street. Dhammakarati is not wearing his monk’s robes but is dressed in anonymous jeans and a sweater. He’s missing the familiarity of the light summer wool of the robes and feeling rather like a different person in these Western clothes. He’ll never get used to them. Francis is explaining about the twenty senior partners, each of whom the research team has described in exquisite detail. Each partner has his or her peculiarities. Most are innocent, but a number of them are not, with offenses ranging from forgivable acts of personal gain to cases so amoral and without scruples that it is hard to fathom. Having heard lots of confessions in his time as a monk and with his unusual talent for uncovering people’s innermost secrets, Dhammakarati is not really surprised.

  Human nature is weak and, unless you train your mind hard, it is impossible to live a life free of illusions including the notion that you definitely must pursue whatever your lust and desire may be. He knows this. He’s not surprised. And yet, a part of him marvels at the squalor and dirt lining the upper echelons of power.

  Dhammakarati nods at frequent intervals but otherwise doesn’t pay undue attention to Francis’s talk. He knows that Francis and his trusted intelligence team will deal appropriately with the vices of corporate life. This is not where Dhammakarati can be of any assistance. And he realizes that Francis is telling him this mainly because quite frankly he just needs to tell it to somebody. And with Jo away, Dhammakarati is next in line to his confidence.

  A siren screeches off the walls as yet another police car speeds through the streets below. He simply cannot understand why people would choose to live this close, in such a restricted space, where you can almost hear your neighbors’ thoughts. There is not a lot of privacy in this town, nor is there silence. No wonder they’re all rather jumpy.

  He lets Francis conclude his tale of the weaknesses of each of the tainted senior partners and how that has left each one of them open for retaliation from Schwartz.

  “So, what do you intend to do, Francis? And how may I be of assistance?”

  “I have marked out the top four partners who have left themselves open to blackmail. These are the ones who are crucial to rein in unless we want a mass exodus of key clients. Which obviously is what Schwartz is aiming at. That’s what I would do, anyway.” He steals a glance at Dhammakarati, concerned about the monk’s appraisal of this. He doesn’t get it, of course. Dhammakarati’s face expresses nothing but attention. No judgment, no emotions.

  Francis goes on. “I think we actually have convincing arguments for each of the partners in question and I will have a word with them. I met with Ruben Coello, Craig Moore, and Bernard Ferguson earlier and they’re all playing ball. It was really quite easy. I am trying to cover the others over the next few days while you and your team concentrate on getting Jo out. If necessary, I will also meet with the one surviving founder, Alistair Smith Sr., to persuade him to have a chat with each of the rest of the senior partners. I’ve met him a few times socially, and he’s a crafty old bugger. He’ll do what is necessary to save the firm, I am sure. And he still yields significant psychological power over the much younger people to make them see right. I hope.”

  “What happens if he fails?” Dhammakarati asks. “Can you save the firm by realigning the top five partners?”

  “No. Not in the long run. But it should buy us enough time to go through each of the malignant partners and either put the pressure on hard or have them shipped out quietly during the night in order not to jeopardize the relations with cr
itical clients. There is a whole herd of younger people next in line, ready to take partnership. And Smith, Turner, and Stevenson is a prestigious and renowned firm that can easily attract a new bunch of partners in the space of a few years. It’ll be a tough few years, and they may have to scale back some of their operations, but they’ll survive and be able to rebuild. And who knows, by vetting the new partners heavily, they might even be able to build a better practice, after all. Stronger, less vulnerable to predators like Schwartz.”

  Dhammakarati strokes his beardless chin, still not used to not having a beard after all these years. “Is this really the state of affairs of contemporary corporate life? That so many in top management are playing it dirty one way or another?”

  “No, of course not. But unfortunately, it is rather more common than not. And these partners, or at least let’s say ten to fifteen of them, are no worse than most other people. Very few of us can afford to have our dirty laundry exposed. Very few of us are squeaky clean.” He smiles at Dhammakarati. “Unlike your lot, we out here in the real world are actually quite sordid characters. One of our favorite advertising lines is, ‘Just say no!’ But very few of us do. We say yes when temptation knocks. And close our eyes to the text in small type, disregarding the price attached. What we are dealing with here are about four really bad apples in a quite average basket.”

  Francis stretches his legs in front of the fire. It feels good to sit here with Dhammakarati, who seems to weave an invisible aura of peace and contentment in the room. “Are you shocked, Dhamma?”

  “No. I’ve seen and heard too much to be shocked by human behavior anymore. Basically, we are all the same anyway. Everybody wants to be happy and free from suffering. So, we each do what we think we must to gain pleasure and avoid pain. It’s just that we have very different ways of going about it. My guess is that none of your four bad apples,” he makes quote signs around the phrase with his fingers, “wakes up in the morning and says to himself, ‘Today I am going to be an unscrupulous bastard.’ Everybody struggles with life. Getting it right. Trying to make sense of it.” He looks at Francis. “Even you. Even you try to make your life seem meaningful and do things that give you a sense of satisfaction. No?”