Family Trust

by Kathy Wang

  Extract full utility from Founders’ Retreat (network with at least five high-potential targets per event, be photographed walking outside—note to wear clearly printed name tag, for ease of Getty Images caption)

  Promotion to senior managing director (or lateral move to more prestigious firm)

  Develop Opus opportunity and protect position from encroachment

  Buy single-family home: Menlo Park, Woodside, possibly Atherton fixer-upper

  Increase public profile/be top-ranked search result for Fred Huang. Land keynote speech (how??)

  After the events of the day, however, certainly one through three and possibly all five were in serious jeopardy, a spectacular domino collapse of everything important in his life.

  Erika’s letter had taken exactly one week to reach Lion, a period during which—contrary to Reagan’s predictions of an ephemeral shelf life—it had first meandered through a smattering of high school and college acquaintances, as well as what Fred assumed to be the near entirety of his nine-hundred-person Harvard Business School class. During that time he’d oscillated between terror and annoyance, batting away inquiries from distant friends who felt compelled to “check in,” all while fervently praying for another yet another stay of execution at work, each day bringing him closer to the fantasy that Erika’s email might bypass Lion altogether, as new public embarrassments replaced his own. By the end of day six he’d thought this might have actually been achieved; a rare spot of sunny fortune in an otherwise unstoppable run of shitty events.

  Until this morning. Day seven.

  When Fred walked into the usual conference room for Griffin Keeles’s Tuesday Investment Roundtable—five minutes early instead of the usual four minutes late he had deliberately calculated to be of maximum irritation to the time-obsessed Brit—he did a double take at the sight of Leland Wang, who he hadn’t known was in town, at the head of the table. By the time he registered that there were only two others in the room—Griffin, and a middle-aged woman bearing a hazy familiarity—the mental fire alarms had begun to clang.

  “This is a casual conversation,” Griffin began, as he motioned for Fred to sit. “So I don’t want anyone to misconstrue the purpose of this meeting. However, to be prudent, I’ve asked Maria to join us. She’s here to represent you and your interests, Fred.”

  The woman stroked a red folder and allowed a thin smile. “Good morning.”

  Ah, so that’s who she was. Maria Watkins, the fiftysomething-ish so-called head of human resources, who worked remotely most days while drafting the draconian policies that required everyone else to be in the office. No way this battle-axe would be representing anything close to his concerns, Fred knew—more likely that she would leap across the table and stab him deep in the heart, all in the name of corporate interest. “Now, Fred,” Griffin continued. “As you know, here at Lion we have a very strict moral code. One that was pioneered, of course, by our founder.” He served a respectful nod toward Leland, who remained engrossed in his phone. “Fred, you must be aware that there’s a certain communication making its rounds, in which a former . . . acquaintance of yours makes some startling allegations.”

  “I’m sure you can discern by the nature and tenor of those statements that the person is not of sound mind,” Fred shot back. He had actual proof corroborating this, in the form of an email György and Anna Varga had sent acknowledging their daughter’s “unstable behavior” as of late, a mea culpa prompted by Fred’s changing the password on their iPad, since it was still registered to his Apple ID.

  “Of course. In situations like these we want to cover every angle. Our aim is to ensure we’re conducting our assessments with as much information as possible.” Griffin cleared his throat. “When you first started at Lion, you were given a set of corporate guidelines. Do you remember completing this paperwork sometime during that initial week?” He gestured toward Maria, who opened the red folder and removed a stapled set of worksheets.

  “No.” This wasn’t unusual. These days he signed almost everything placed in front of him without reading it. What was the point of wasting time with the fine print when you knew you had to sign anyway?

  “Most of it is the standard boilerplate you’d find at any large company. Section 10.3 designates the full contents of your corporate email, as well as any activity on your laptop, as data owned by Lion Corp.”

  “Understood.” Fred had always been exceedingly careful never to download porn on his laptop, so they weren’t going to get him on that one; he had a separate MacBook Air at home, specifically reserved for this purpose. Its constant presence on his desk was likely how Erika had become so familiar with its contents in the first place.

  “In the course of a normal review, we unfortunately discovered some concerning material. In-depth searches for reviews of massage parlors and their, ah, associated services.”

  Fuck! Fred cursed Kate, who had brought on this calamity, being the one to inform him of the prevalence of Asian brothels masquerading as massage outlets in the Bay Area to begin with. Her longtime hairstylist operated a few doors down from an especially notorious purveyor; as the stylist owned the salon and in fact the entire building, she was especially privy to the inner workings of its tenants. “The pimps are usually women, called mama-sans,” Kate told him. “Of course, they don’t work; they just manage the operations. And after a while the most successful girl will leave and set up shop somewhere else, sometimes right down the street. And then she becomes her own mama-san.”

  Fred had been immediately fascinated by the ruthless economic efficiency of the business model. “How do they know you’re not an undercover cop?”

  “Well, they get you in a room and start to massage you and see how far they can go. They’ll also wait to see if you ask them for anything directly off the bat; I guess that’s entrapment if you do. Then, they assess whether they think you’re a narc. If they believe you’re clean, they bring up whether you want to tip. Tip being the code word.”

  “Is this just in recent years? I don’t remember seeing so many massage places in our area growing up. Or were we just oblivious?”

  “Oh they were around,” Kate said. For some reason, she had avoided his eyes. “But maybe in other cities.”

  The conversation had been merely interesting over lunch, but by the time Fred returned to work, his interest had taken on a more prurient color, and he’d hunted online for further details. A few news features on local busts, primarily in San Jose, led to a website that reviewed brothels in the manner of restaurants, where users shared graphically written overviews of services rendered and received (High marks for girlfriend experience, except for very beginning—too obvious a show of counting cash inside envelope). The discovery ate up the rest of the afternoon, though Fred was certain he’d never even enlarged a photograph (that required a premium subscription).

  “I visited those websites from links in a San Francisco Chronicle article. I did not engage further.”

  “Unfortunately, given our corporate bylaws, the access of such portals is enough. But then there’s also the length of time spent on each of the sites, which appears to be substantial, as well as the numerous subpages visited. And certain search terms that were entered, we assume with the aim of viewing content featuring specific acts. . . .”

  That was when Fred knew for certain that they had come for him, had lined up the cannons in advance.

  It took an additional forty minutes for them to strip everything away, wipe clean all evidence of his existence at the place he had spent the majority of his waking hours for the past nine years. Termination at the end of the day, with the remainder of his vacation to be cashed out the next pay period; his laptop, which Maria had pointed to as if infected with leprosy, was company property, to be turned in when he left the building.

  When it was over Fred called Jack, who didn’t answer. Not surprisingly, neither did Reagan. Fred hadn’t been able to reach him for several days now. He wondered if Reagan had known what was comi
ng, had watched the journey of Erika’s email as it multiplied and spun, concluding that at some point it would inevitably pool at the feet of Leland Wang. Leland, and that idiot Maximilian he was now installing in Fred’s place at Opus. Leland, who’d barely uttered a word during the entire ordeal except to parrot a quick phrase he’d no doubt cribbed from some famous person’s Wikipedia page: “Personnel is policy.”

  And what sort of policy was that, Fred thought, when you fired good workers and elevated your own cretinous son?

  He could have left the office immediately, but he decided to transfer the remainder of his contacts and important emails from his laptop. He had two meetings left for the day, including an alumni interview for Harvard Business School; Fred figured he might as well show the prospective candidate a living portrait of a less-publicly-touted HBS career. He was informed by the front reception that the applicant had arrived right as he was almost finished with his technology housekeeping. The only item left was Erika’s manifesto, which had been sent to his work address. After a moment’s hesitation, he forwarded it to his personal account.

  Fred would have overlooked the man in the lobby had he not been the only person waiting. He was used to prospective students being in their early twenties, a by-product of the arms race between the business, medical, and law schools to capture future Zuckerbergs in their infancy. “Josh Stern?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” the man said, and he stood. Fred was taken aback. Stern was maybe five four at most, a stature he was used to among Asians but less so with white men. More so, he was old—Fred’s own age at least. Was HBS losing its touch? Maybe this guy was from a rich family. He did have a super Jewish last name.

  “Should we go into your office?” A rather direct question, for an interviewee. Definitely wealthy. No manners or respect for those in senior positions.

  “Of course.” Fred directed him to the space, which now appeared embarrassingly spartan. On the desk stood a solitary plastic crate, the contents of which were all he intended to leave with at the end of the day.

  Stern didn’t appear to notice the barren surroundings. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and smoothly swung shut the door with his hand. “As you may have noticed, I’m a bit outside of the stereotypical profile of a Harvard Business School applicant,” he said.

  “Well, I had thought, but . . .” Fred let his voice trail. Who the hell was this guy?

  The man sat back forward. “Mr. Huang, my name is Josh Stern, though I’m not currently interviewing for any business schools. I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, based out of the Manhattan office. I’m here in the Bay Area this week with several of my colleagues from the SEC, conducting a coordinated investigation into wire fraud and money laundering, among a comprehensive list of other items.” He paused. “Are you aware of an investment entity recently formed between Lion and an outside party based in Thailand, currently referred to as Opus?”

  Fred’s knees gave a violent wobble. “Yes.” Weren’t you supposed to provide the least possible amount of information in these sorts of situations? What did rich people do on TV?

  Stern cracked his knuckles and eyed him as if he knew what he was thinking. “This is not an official conversation, Mr. Huang, nor is it one that has particular legal standing, so I would advise, if you’re looking after your best interests, to be open and transparent.”

  “Uh . . . okay.” Could Stern be lying? But then Fred thought there must be some rule about entrapment, like with the undercover cops and the brothels. Besides, he didn’t even know why the agent had come. “Okay,” Fred repeated. “Yes. Understood.”

  “Are you aware that on January thirtieth, a payment of $20 million was made to the legal pooled holding account of Draper Carlyle by the Opus parent entity in Thailand, followed by another attempted balloon payment of $855 million?”

  “No!” He felt a streak of panic. “No, I had no idea. I mean, I knew that they were supposed to be funding an initial tranche of $200 million, and we, I mean Lion, would be putting in our agreed-upon tranche of $20 million, and that it would all be kept in a holding account until the fund was launched. But that was the extent.”

  “Extent of what?”

  “Extent of my knowledge. Listen, have you spoken to Reagan Kwon? Because he knows a great deal more about this than I do.”

  “That would be very nice, but for the fact that Reagan Kwon has disappeared. If you’ve had any contact with his person since last week, it would be viewed as very cooperative to inform me of such now, along with the details of your conversation.”

  Oh, shit. “Has something happened to him?”

  “Mr. Kwon is one of the key players we are investigating, along with several other individuals in the Thai finance ministry, in the embezzlement of $1.2 billion from the country’s economic development fund. Unfortunately, the actions of one of our sister agencies prematurely shut down an entity we suspect was being used to launder portions of that money in the United States, and in that time Mr. Kwon managed to vanish.”

  Fred processed this in shock. Even when the agent had announced Reagan’s disappearance Fred had never thought Reagan might be the villain in the whole matter; Reagan was already so fantastically rich, it didn’t make any sense. “Do you have any proof of what you’re claiming?”

  Stern looked at him with disapproval. “At the moment, no, which is why this is a friendly conversation. We’re in a phase of information-gathering, and the Thais are dragging their feet. But I, along with my superiors, am convinced that significant fraud has occurred.”

  “This is insane. Reagan Kwon is from one of the wealthiest families in Asia. He has a genuine, bona fide yacht. His sister is a minister in the Thai government!”

  “Regina Kwon is no longer employed in any capacity within the official administration, and like her brother, has also disappeared. I can’t speculate as to the actual holdings of Mr. Kwon’s extended family, but I assume the boat you’re referring to is Killer, on which Mr. Kwon hosted several events late last year and early this year. The actual name of Killer is La Tulipe, and it belongs to one Mr. Jacques Spruch, the former chairman of UBS. Mr. Spruch reported the boat as stolen last February; apparently it had undergone an extensive paint job, as well as had several physical modifications performed on its trim, before ultimately making its way into Mr. Kwon’s possession. I’m told Mr. Kwon disavows any knowledge about the boat’s origin and claims to have purchased it via an anonymous broker. It has since been returned to Mr. Spruch.”

  Fred’s mouth had gone dry. He swiped behind for his fridge, but his hand met only air; the equipment had already been scavenged by office looters. “Excuse me,” he said, clearing his throat. A piece of phlegm had become lodged somewhere in the back, forming a sturdy web; he coughed again and tried to swallow.

  “I’ve come to understand,” Stern said, ignoring his discomfort, “that you acted as a sort of intermediary for Opus in the United States, facilitating and expediting the introduction of the entity to Draper Carlyle. Is this correct?”

  “Well . . .” It didn’t take a genius to understand that it would be best to disassociate as much as possible. “I was the person Reagan may have first approached, but there were a lot of steps taken along the way to set this up, many different players. . . .”

  “And that you continue to have indirect access to Draper’s pooled accounts.” The agent said it flatly, like a statement.

  “I did, but circumstances have, uh, recently changed. My role has significantly shifted.”

  “Are you not,” Stern said, as he squinted at a printout he’d pulled from his bag, “Fred Huang, Founding and General Partner of Opus Ventures?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And as of, let’s see—twenty days ago, in fact—did you not provide a quote to TechCode, referring to yourself as the ‘lead partner and chief American investor for Opus Ventures, the new face of the global technology revolution’?”

  Fred sighed, throwing his hands up in the air.r />
  “I may not have a Harvard MBA, Mr. Huang, but that sounds like a pretty senior-level position to me.”

  “It is,” Fred blurted, before he could stop himself.

  The agent smirked. “Do any of these names sound familiar? Rivermark, Golden Industries, the Warsaw Aluminum Extrusion Corp . . .”

  “No. Are these Opus’s international portfolio investments?”

  “These are all front companies, originally created with the intent of laundering stolen funds for a group of individuals we’ve determined includes several members of the Kwon family. The consortium, as far as we’ve been able to determine, has been around for decades. It may have been initially funded in part by money stolen from the Chinese Nationalist government in the mid-1930s. Each of its members has deep connections to government entities; in the Kwons’ case with Opus, it was the Thais. Money’s skimmed, needs to be made clean, reappears somewhere else—what do you do? Make up a bunch of fake companies to move it through. Which sounds good, but over time and as the amounts get larger, you need the entities to pass increased scrutiny. So you start to add more layers, and structure, and even employees, and eventually the companies become real. Of course, given the nature of the people we’re dealing with, most of them are pure trash. Pornography sites, fake pharmaceuticals, knockoff luxury goods. Though to be fair, a few are quite impressive. Viable business models, lean operations, real product development cycles. It appears that even senior management at some were unaware of the true nature of their employment.”

  Puzzle pieces were reluctantly clicking into place; all the stories regarding Reagan and his very, very rich family; the conjectures about where, exactly, his wealth came from. “So Reagan was stealing money from the Thais? And moving it through these businesses . . .”

  “Yes, though the majority was supposed to transit through Opus, and thus Draper Carlyle. It’s not easy to launder a billion dollars selling $2 Viagra on the internet. A law firm’s pooled account is a far simpler route, if you want to quickly clear a big chunk of cash. And once the money’s in, it can be near impossible to trace. Luckily for us, a junior banker at HSBC who didn’t know he was supposed to turn a blind eye to these sorts of things noticed something unusual about the transaction when the second Opus request, for $855 million, came through, and he notified his superior.” Stern returned to his printout. “Cannabis City, Sino Development Corp, the Parisian Shoe Company, Sugar Enterprises, Tigerlily, Designer-SunGlasses-R-Us . . .”