Details of the call were relayed to Shepard and Herndon. Since Whitacre had already told Epstein about this abduction, the agents called the lawyer. Herndon explained the situation and asked for details.
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk about this,’’ Epstein replied. “This is an attorney-client conversation.’’
“Well,’’ Herndon said, “can you call Whitacre and get a waiver of the privilege on this issue?’’
Epstein paused. “Always an adventure. Do I have to?’’
“Yeah,’’ Herndon laughed. “You do.’’
That same afternoon, Herndon received a voice mail in reply from Jim Epstein.
“Mark Whitacre has not authorized me to talk to you about the matter we discussed,’’ Epstein said stiffly on the message. “Furthermore, I would ask that I receive no further contact from the FBI regarding these threats.’’
This was beginning to sound to Herndon like another one of Whitacre’s games. Instead of being a matter of concern, the episode quickly devolved into fodder for jokes. By the end of the day, it would forever be known among the investigators and prosecutors in Harvest King as the time Mark Whitacre had been abducted by aliens.
The sun was shining in Hallandale, Florida, on April 5, as Bassett and D’Angelo pulled up in a rental car to a guardhouse in the front of a condominium complex. Bassett rolled down the window as the guard approached.
“We’re here to see David Hoech,’’ Bassett said.
The guard told the agents to park their car. They maneuvered into a spot as the guard phoned Hoech’s condo.
In the weeks since Hoech had revealed himself as the Lamet Vov, there had been a flurry of activity from Cambridge to Washington to Chicago. Ray Goldberg’s information had been relayed to Williams & Connolly, and in no time, Bassett was interviewing the ADM director about his call with Hoech. The agents had since telephoned Hoech himself, who had agreed to an interview.
Hoech appeared at the guardhouse and escorted the agents toward his first-floor condo, which served as both his home and the headquarters of his company, Global Consultants. Inside, the agents were impressed. In the back, a sliding glass door led directly to the beach. This was a man who clearly led a comfortable life. Hoech introduced the agents to his wife, Carol.
“My wife would like to sit in,’’ Hoech said. “Do you have a problem with that?’’
“No, that’s not a problem,’’ Bassett replied.
Everyone took seats around a table.
“Just to start, are you taping this conversation?’’ Bassett asked.
“No, I’m not taping,’’ Hoech said. “Are you?’’
“We don’t tape interviews,’’ Bassett replied.
The interview began with Hoech describing his background. He had fought in Vietnam and then lived in Japan for about a dozen years. During that time, he developed clients in the agricultural industry. After returning to the United States in 1982, he consulted for both American and Japanese companies. By 1995, his business was doing well enough to earn him $200,000 that year.
“But,’’ Hoech said, “I recently lost all of my clients because of my work with the Lamet Vov letters.’’
Hoech claimed that the Shareholders’ Watch Committee consisted of about one hundred members who utilized moles throughout ADM to obtain secret information. Under questioning from Bassett, Hoech said he had known Whitacre since about 1990, and that the two had become friends. Whitacre had told him about the under-the-table bonuses sometime after the raids, Hoech said, and had identified other executives who received illegal compensation, including Mick Andreas.
“Did Whitacre play any role in writing the Lamet Vov letters?’’ Bassett asked.
“None whatsoever,’’ Hoech said. “I have full responsibility for the creation and dissemination of the Lamet Vov letters. And I have no ulterior motives. I am simply seeking to change through all legal means the structure of ADM’s corrupt leadership.’’
Hoech stressed that nothing in the letters was intended as a threat, and that the letters were not an effort to support Mark Whitacre.
“Approved or not, Whitacre defrauded the shareholders,’’ he said. “He should be held accountable.’’
At the end of the conversation, the agents asked if Hoech would identify his sources. He declined.
“Many of my sources, particularly those within ADM, do not trust the FBI or the Department of Justice,’’ Hoech said. “Dwayne is too powerful, and wields too much influence in Washington. Look at that unprecedented press release that DOJ put out saying ADM was not a target of the fraud investigation. What more proof do they need?’’
Still, Hoech said that he would try to persuade his sources to speak with the agents. He promised that they could provide significant evidence of fraud.
The interview over, Bassett and D’Angelo gathered their things. Hoech accompanied them to the door.
“Where are you fellows staying?’’ Hoech asked.
They had reservations at the Embassy Suites up the road, but D’Angelo wasn’t comfortable with the idea of telling a witness how to reach them.
“We don’t have anything yet,’’ he lied. “But we’ll probably go north someplace.’’
“Let me help you get a place,’’ Hoech said, suggesting a few locations.
The agents thanked him for his hospitality and drove to the Embassy Suites in Fort Lauderdale. Bassett and D’Angelo headed to their separate rooms.
The next morning, Bassett found an envelope under his door. It was a fax that had just been sent to the hotel. Inside was nothing important, just a news article about Andreas and Bob Dole in Florida. What left Bassett stunned was the attached personal note. He called D’Angelo.
“Tony,’’ Bassett said. “You’re not going to believe this. I got a fax from Hoech.’’
“What?’’
“Yeah,’’ Bassett said. “The guy somehow figured out where we’re staying.’’
Supervisory Special Agent Kate Killham sat down at her computer in the Champaign Resident Agency, ignoring the sound of a train rumbling past her corner office window. Since taking responsibility for overseeing Harvest King, Killham had faced a lot of unpleasant moments. But this one, right now, was surely one of the worst.
For months, Killham had watched as the case tore at Brian Shepard. By any standard, Shepard was an emotional, pessimistic type who keenly felt attacks on his own character—and Harvest King had been loaded with plenty of those. Killham knew Shepard was paying a price in Decatur. He and his family had lost friends, particularly those who worked at ADM. The Shepards had felt snubbed by neighbors and had received the cold shoulder more than a few times. Everything Shepard feared in the first days of the case had come to pass. His home, his commitment, his entire persona as an FBI agent was under attack. He wanted out of Decatur.
Then, a break. A position opened at the St. Thomas Resident Agency, which reported through the San Juan Field Office. With Shepard’s experience and seniority, he was certainly a strong candidate for the job. If he won the transfer, the Shepards could move to St. Thomas and start over. Whenever Shepard was needed on the price-fixing case, he could fly back. It seemed the perfect solution. All Shepard needed was a recommendation from his supervisors, and he could probably start packing his bags.
Stukey and Hoyt turned the job of drafting the recommendation over to Killham, telling her specifically what to write. Now, with her shoes kicked off under her desk, she stared at the computer screen, feeling unsettled. She began by describing Shepard and his background, highlighting his work on Harvest King.
“He is tenacious, hardworking and dedicated,’’ Killham typed. “He is a mature, seasoned agent with a strong investigative background and a deep commitment to the FBI.’’
She reread the memo so far. This recommendation was sure to win Shepard the transfer. She took a deep breath. Now, as ordered, she killed Shepard’s chances. “Recommendation of SA Shepard for transfer to St. Thomas at this time is tempered by
his crucial, ongoing contribution to the Harvest King investigation,’’ she typed.
Killham felt terrible. In a few days, that sentence would be sharpened, to ensure no one misunderstood its meaning: Shepard could not be recommended for the job. It seemed so unnecessary. Herndon was topflight; he could manage the case alone. Plus, Shepard could have handled any issues by phone, and flown back for the trial.
Clicking the mouse on her computer, Killham saved the memo and printed it out. An agent’s mental health had been sacrificed to Harvest King. It was, Killham thought, a horrible decision. Brian Shepard deserved better.
As the television cameraman turned on his portable lights, Mark Whitacre slid into a chair beside a potted fern. In front of him, a run-of-the-mill art print adorned the white wall of the conference room at Biomar International. The cameraman asked Whitacre to say a few words for a sound check. He nodded and spoke for a moment.
Across the table, Steve Delaney from WAND News in Decatur was in shirtsleeves, ready for his big scoop. For all of Whitacre’s press statements, this would be his first television interview. Even Ginger had agreed to speak on camera. In Decatur, Delaney’s report was sure to be huge.
For more than five hours, Whitacre, dressed in a blue suit with a red tie, took every question Delaney threw at him. Ginger, in an orange dress, looked calm and comfortable when Delaney directed his questions to her.
Sometime during the interview, Whitacre decided to drop his latest bombshell. On a Sunday morning in early March, he told Delaney, he had gone to the office to check his e-mail. In the lot, two men in a car called him over.
“I walked over, and they threw me in the backseat of the car and took me around for twenty minutes,’’ he said.
“Threw you in the backseat of the car?’’ Delaney repeated.
“Oh yeah, very much so, and in a very aggressive way,’’ Whitacre said, a wisp of a smile on his lips. “And they took me around for a twenty-minute joy ride and basically warned me that I better forget everything besides what’s on—this was March third—warned me that I better forget everything besides what’s on tape.’’
Delaney pressed for supporting evidence. But there were no witnesses and no security cameras outside. Still, Whitacre offered vivid details, from the make of the car to the way the back-door locks had been sawed off to ensure that he could not escape.
As Whitacre told the tale, the subtle smile flashed across his face several times. It was an old habit, something Whitacre often did when he was lying.
The entire abduction story was a phony. Whitacre had made it up—telling it to his family, to David Hoech, and now to all of Decatur—as part of a bizarre plan. He was feeling desperate and frightened. He wanted somebody to worry about him, to take charge of the mess he had made. He knew that if he told his lie to Delaney, it would be broadcast across Decatur. Whitacre’s intended audience would almost certainly hear his cry for help.
For Whitacre knew that Brian Shepard watched WAND News. Despite everything that had happened, once Shepard heard the frightening but fictitious tale of the abduction, he might fear for Whitacre’s safety. Then, Whitacre hoped, Brian Shepard might feel driven to reach out to him again.
And help.
CHAPTER 18
Through the expansive windows of his home office in Steffisburg, Beat Schweizer gazed toward the Castle of Thun, its Romanesque towers dwarfed by the majestic Swiss Alps in the distance. It was a breathtaking image, a vision from a childhood fairy tale come to life. But on this day, April 9, 1996, the panorama barely registered with him. The money manager’s mind was racing, caught up in the harsh realities of his life. His dealings with Whitacre had come at a terrible price, costing him security, opportunities, and freedom. Even the once pleasurable prospect of traveling to America was now tainted with fears of arrest.
As computer screens around him flashed the movements of world markets, Schweizer reached a new resolve. He would not allow himself to remain imprisoned in his own country. He wanted to confront his accusers. Schweizer telephoned his lawyer, Kurt Sieger, asking for the names and numbers of American officials involved in the case. In minutes, Schweizer was on the phone with the Office of International Affairs for the United States Department of Justice.
“Hello,’’ Schweizer said in accented English. “My name is Beat Schweizer. I’m calling about the American investigation of Mark Whitacre and ADM.’’
Schweizer’s call seeking a meeting with American investigators signaled a potential break in the fraud case. Until now, he had remained out of easy reach. And, as the man who ran more than $6 million through Whitacre’s bank accounts, he was sure to know more secrets than Hulse, Richter, or the others. There was even the chance—if Whitacre’s story of a corporate-wide scheme was true—that Schweizer moved money for other ADM executives.
Even so, government fumbling almost cost investigators the interview. Schweizer said that he would come to the United States only if he received assurances that he would not be arrested while in the country; the Fraud Section sent back word that they could not guarantee safe passage. Under pressure from Bassett and D’Angelo, the prosecutors reversed themselves, but then informed Schweizer that he needed to speak through his attorney—the last thing the FBI wanted. Finally, Bassett became involved in the arrangements with Schweizer, and the money manager agreed to sit down for an interview without his lawyer present.
The meeting took place on May 13 in a conference room at the Fraud Section’s Washington offices. Schweizer arrived alone, dressed in jeans and a sports coat. He took a seat on the far side of the conference table, warily eyeing the agents and prosecutors across from him.
Bassett handled the questioning. Schweizer said he worked at Swiss Bank Corporation in the Cayman Islands before striking out on his own in 1993.
“Have you managed money for many ADM executives?’’
“No. Just Mark Whitacre and Sid Hulse.’’
“How did you meet them?’’
“Hulse was a longtime customer of the bank. He introduced me to Whitacre sometime around 1991.’’
“What did you know about Whitacre’s assets?’’
Schweizer shrugged. “He said he had accounts in Europe, the Far East, Australia, and the Caymans.’’
Australia. That was new. Bassett brought out some bank records and showed them to Schweizer. They seemed to indicate that Whitacre had accounts in Monaco and Germany, Schweizer said.
“I had assumed he spread his assets around for diversification. But I know nothing about the banks other than the geographic locations. I never confirmed their existence.’’
“What did Whitacre tell you about these accounts?’’
Schweizer thought for a moment. “I remember him telling me that his father had been employed in Australia and that his family was very wealthy.”
Bassett nodded gently with each statement.
“How did Whitacre end up as a personal client?’’
“Around January of 1994, I was contemplating leaving the bank and solicited Whitacre for his business,’’ Schweizer said. “During that time, I also helped him open an account at Swiss Bank Corporation in Zurich.’’
“Why?’’
“I was hoping he would transfer all his assets to Swiss Bank.’’
Methodically, Bassett guided the interview toward the $2.5 million transaction with ABP International—Whitacre’s first deal involving Schweizer, and the one first discovered by ADM.
Schweizer said that when the deal came about, he had not suspected any problems. Whitacre had told him that he and some partners controlled a company called ABP Trading, which was involved in technology transfers.
“Everything about this company sounded appropriate,’’ Schweizer said. “He promised me that his superiors at ADM knew all about it. He said he was dividing his work time eighty percent with ADM and twenty percent with ABP.’’
“What did he want you to do with ABP?’’
“In 1994, he asked me to incorporat
e a company in Switzerland that would be related to ABP. I tried to persuade him to incorporate offshore, since it would be easier and less expensive. In Switzerland, the government requires a capital deposit of $100,000 before incorporation. But he insisted on Switzerland.’’
Bassett wrote that down.
“Swiss law requires corporations to hire auditors,’’ Schweizer said. “He instructed me to hire Ernst & Young, because it was the same auditing firm used by ADM.’’
Schweizer shook his head. “There is something wrong with this man Whitacre,’’ he said. “Why take this risk, hiring the same auditors as ADM? It makes no sense.’’
“What did you do next?’’ Bassett asked.
Schweizer said he helped Whitacre open a corporate account for ABP Trading at Union Bank of Switzerland. Later, Whitacre delivered the $2.5 million check from ADM, filled out to ABP International of Sweden.
“But the check did not have an endorsement from an official of ABP International,’’ Schweizer said. “Union Bank would not accept it. The people in Sweden needed to endorse it. So Whitacre left and took the check with him. It came back to me with the signature. Then I signed it as an officer of ABP Trading, and the bank accepted it.’’
The investigators already knew that the signature on the back—for Lennart Thorstensson of ABP—was a forgery. Now, if Schweizer was telling the truth, it seemed that Whitacre was the forger.
All but $100,000 of the money was wired to the Caymans on Whitacre’s instructions, Schweizer said, to an account called SPM&C at the Caledonia Bank. From there, it was instantly wired back to Switzerland, to Whitacre’s personal account. It sounded like classic money laundering.
“What did you think was going on?’’ Bassett asked.
“I assumed he was hiding money from his partners,’’ Schweizer said.
“Now, your signature’s on the Union Bank account along with Whitacre’s. Was the one hundred thousand dollars left behind in that account as a fee for you?’’
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