by Roman Klee
“Did you notice? They’re taking things. I don’t want to say steal, because you know … but I suspect Cranston. That guy always gave me the creeps.”
Nathan felt bad about what he was hearing. He had no way to know for sure if any of it was true because he didn’t know Svetlana. On the other hand, why would the people he just called, lie to him? They had no good reason and since they were not expecting his call, they had no time to invent their stories.
But none of them would comment about Budd Wright. The evening was a private affair and no one else’s business. All Nathan could work out was that some of Cunningham’s contacts clearly had not been there. Nathan tried the last number. There was no answer, not even a voicemail.
He checked the name: Dr. Sam Lazard. And the address: Hillside Avenue, Alpine, New Jersey.
It was more than an hour’s drive away and he wanted to get back home in time to watch the Super Bowl. Dr. Lazard could wait for another day.
Nathan thought Svetlana’s apartment was still impressive, but it had acquired an air of faded grandeur. With so many valuable objects scattered around the rooms, it was no real surprise that some of her staff had helped themselves.
Svetlana had lost a great deal of her mental sharpness. Still, what could he do about it? She was not a client of the Trust’s so the problem was for members of her family to sort out. They had probably taken the missing Canalettos, the Tiepolos (and who knew what else?) and placed them in storage for safekeeping. It was the sensible thing to do.
When Nathan returned to his barely habitable apartment at Saint James Place, he found a note from his Chinese landlord asking for more rent and threw it straight in the trash can.
Nathan was no closer to knowing the real reason for Budd’s visit to New York.
Only he was sure the guy hadn’t turned up to play bridge.
Δ = T –27,608,400
As instructed, Nathan made six changes before getting off the bus at the south end of Palisade Avenue.
Nathan wanted to say, who do you think I am, Jason Bourne?, but he was unsure how his new best friend would respond.
“Recognize where you are?” asked Antonio.
Once Nathan reached the Holland Tunnel, he could have gone the rest of the way with his eyes closed. Because he never forgot the street where he had grown up.
He played catch with his dad. “Don’t drop the ball!” And then that’s precisely what he did. The same thing happened when his team reached the final of the state high school baseball tournament and he had to catch the ball again. He dropped it and his team lost. And for his punishment, he was forced to run naked around the schoolyard, holding a placard that read: This is the face of a loser! Kick his ass!
Mrs. Lombardo’s house across the street. The day when he finally hit the ball, high and long (his hand-eye co-ordination was poor said the school coach). His baseball smashed clean through her front room window. She called the cops and Nathan was grounded for a month.
Gina’s bedroom, one block down on Ogden, where he played his first birthday tape of R.E.M. songs.
His first driving lesson in his dad’s Chevy. His eighteenth birthday present, a secondhand Ford Maverick and his dad arrested the same night for drink driving.
Yes, for sure the scholarship boy remembered where he was. It was the place where he was never good enough, where he had to strive to be top of his class, where second best didn’t cut it.
“It’s changed,” said Antonio. “But I guess you never wanted to come back.” Orofino was right about that. Then he asked, “Do you like your new office?”
Nathan didn’t want to sound ungrateful, but he explained that he hadn’t had time to move onto partners’ row.
“Make sure you choose a cheap trash can, right?”
Nathan grinned. He remembered how at Solomon, spending on partners’ offices could include rosewood paneling, tropical fishtanks and Jeff Koons’ artwork. One guy had his own private bathroom remodeled, including a ninety-thousand dollar commode.
“See, Nathan, things are tough for you right now, but that can change real quick.”
Nathan just nodded—he wasn’t expected to reply. The two men walked to Vincenzo’s Caffè. They ordered espressi and a couple of cannoli. Then the real talking began.
“There are new developments. Tomorrow afternoon, Jade Wright will meet with her family’s lawyers and then she’s gonna see Cunningham. I need to know where her husband is.”
Nathan was starting to see how difficult the task ahead of him had become.
“When we speak, you’ll never mention Budd Wright. You’ll never put his name in texts or emails. You will only call him by his code name—Darth Vader. And you’ll just use the first letters. Solomon is E E, the Evil Empire.”
Nathan accepted what Antonio was telling him, even if it sounded ridiculous to an outsider. Because he knew the Wall Street convention. When investment bankers were involved in sensitive corporate deals, like hostile takeovers, they gave the bidders and the bid targets weird names to put rival bankers or corporations off the scent—just in case their communications were ever intercepted or simply overhead in an airport lounge.
It still made Nathan feel pretty dumb, especially as he wasn’t a science fiction geek and he had never seen Star Wars in any of its multiple episodes.
Antonio then laid down a strict protocol for Nathan to follow.
“You must never use your own computer or smartphone to record stuff you pass on to me.” Nathan thought this was odd. How in the world did Orofino think he would send him valuable intel—by semaphore maybe?
“See, the FBI has gotten smart. They do wiretaps faster than a crow can crap. When you talk on your cell, assume they’re listening in. Because they are!”
Orofino explained he had devised ways to short-circuit the information arms race. Investing in military-grade encryption and smothering every call in electronic noise was one approach. But it also attracted rather than deflected attention.
“So we go back to basics. We use paper and pen.”
Nathan had to write his messages on a legal note pad.
“Insert a sheet of card between the paper to stop pen marks showing through.”
Antonio produced a copy of Dante’s L’Inferno, and explained how Nathan had to copy half a page chosen at random, and then write the original message using invisible ink between the lines. Orofino handed over a small box containing the equipment and chemicals for producing and decoding secret writing.
“If we need to talk, you’ll receive a text asking, what’s the price of lemons? You’ll go to Liberty Street and check for an empty Cherry Coke can and a Big Mac wrapper outside the Fed’s front door.” Then he listed the additional steps Nathan had to take.
Finally Antonio dealt with the problem of how to communicate time sensitive stuff. He told Nathan to always use a cybercafé and pay for his time in cash.
He gave him the details for creating and sending a SS-SD (seven-second-self-destruct) email—the message would be erased seven seconds after a reader opened it, leaving no electronic signature. Orofino said it guaranteed anonymity from government snoopers.
His final gift was a false ID card, bearing the name Dan Schillaci. Nathan was sure he would never use it.
He stared at the unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. Nathan hadn’t touched a drop since that last time. The tension was starting to come back, weighing him down, like a giant black bird sitting on his shoulder, pecking constantly at his skull. Had he ever been good enough? Did he deserve success?
Nathan picked up a copy of the Solomon Employee Manual, he kept meaning to throw out.
He reread the dress code section. Women: no black nail polish, no flashy jewelry, keep nails short, plain flesh colored underwear acceptable. Piercings and tattoos prohibited. Apply perfume after showering, never after lunch. Men: knot a tie in keeping with face s
hape, get a haircut every month. No unruly beards or earrings. Underwear must not be visible. Never clean or iron your own shirts—have them done professionally. Avoid cigarette, garlic and onion breath.
Deviating from what the manual said was not allowed. The rule was two strikes and then you were out.
Freedom of expression and action were tolerated just so long as everyone agreed with the Brothers. In Nathan’s opinion, the firm’s corporate slogan should have been: Let paranoia thrive!
The Loyalty Police hunted down anyone not authorized to speak about the firm publicly. They scanned all employee hard drives, monitored all phone calls and email accounts. Automated profanity detectors screened out curse words. Private email addresses were forbidden. They used snooping software to track people who used aliases to disguise their real names. They banned all Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn accounts.
But sometimes their actions appeared to be justified. Nathan recalled a story about a Latino guy who worked in the back office. After a computer disk containing important trading algorithms went missing, two private security agents turned his apartment inside out and threatened his family with immigration trouble if he didn’t cooperate.
Now Nathan realized he would have to behave more like the people at the firm he had recently left. Because, he suspected they were right; only the paranoid survived.
Δ = T –27,522,000
Before they entered the Trust’s boardroom, Pete Cunningham described the meeting with the Wright family as the most important Nathan would ever attend. It was odd, but after a long fallow period in his career, Cunningham was now deluged with high-octane work.
And there was more good news. Because his work overload had miraculously turned into the gift that just kept on giving. There were too many issues to sort out in a single meeting. A quick mental calculation, and Cunningham had acquired more billable hours than there were hours in the year.
Cunningham told Nathan that he had dealt with Bruce Glickman over at Concoran & Block in the past; they had not always seen eye to eye. And although he hadn’t known Nathan for long, Cunningham was quick to praise the new recruit for his contribution so far. Nathan casually brushed the compliment aside.
The Trust’s senior partner especially liked the scenario planning idea. On a number of PowerPoint slides, Nathan listed all the possible things that could have happened to Budd Wright. And after some more thought, he increased the number from three to six, including thirteen sub categories. He added a probability analysis using Monte Carlo simulation software, but then removed it.
However painful it would be for all the people present in the room, they’d have to talk through the various scenarios, if only to eliminate the least likely.
I. MURDER
a. Plane sabotaged
II. ACCIDENTAL DEATH
a. Mechanical failure
b. Extreme weather
c. Pilot error
III.STILL ALIVE
Search party update pending
a. Lost: sheltering in mountain refuge
b. Found: sheltering in mountain refuge
c. Lost: sheltering in the open
d. Found: sheltering in the open
Risks to survival due to prolonged exposure
e. Dependant on altitude and weather conditions
IV. KIDNAPPED AND MOVED TO ANOTHER LOCATION
a. Awaiting communication and ransom demand
V. LOSS OF MENTAL CAPACITY
a. In confused mental state, unsure of his whereabouts
b. In a state of shock, unable to communicate
VI. NEVER BOARDED THE PLANE
a. Budd Wright now at different location
During Nathan’s practice session before a panel of the partners, he had added one highly controversial scenario, which several of his colleagues found distasteful and they insisted he remove it. There was no point in causing unnecessary offense, especially as they didn’t have time to check it out.
Nathan looked over the list of people who would be attending. At the top, two lawyers from Concoran & Block; Bruce Glickman and Cliff Dixon. (They wanted to send two more, but Cunningham said no.)
Then Jade Wright and her second eldest daughter Carla Wright-Bruening.
She was married to Dirk Bruening. He had inherited a fortune at the age of twenty from his father. Although he never provided any supporting evidence, he always claimed his family made its fortune by selling out its tech investments just months before the dotcom bubble burst—very much like Carla’s father had done.
The Wright’s only son Jimmy. He was taking time out from touring and had just returned from Phoenix, where he was helping the little people take on the Big, Bad Banks, (the triple B’s as he liked to call them). Together, they were challenging aggressive foreclosure practices through the courts.
There would be two no shows; Pam, who was busy preparing the planting for the new soy bean crop at the family’s Kansas farm and couldn’t spare the time away. And Mary Beth, who was organizing a charity event for some friends on the West coast. Nathan was ready to go. There was only one small problem—Liz had not turned up.
Nathan hoped he sounded confident. He looked around the room, trying to gauge the reaction of his small audience. He thought the presentation had gone well. He returned to his seat, ready to take any questions.
Jade was the first to speak. She started off positively enough, thanking everyone for taking the time and effort to be there. And then she switched into full denial mode, refusing to contemplate the worst.
“Hell, I don’t think you have any idea what’s going on! Fancy charts don’t impress me!”
Nathan looked down at the table, he had no idea the right way to respond. He may have read one of her Christmas letters, but it turned out that Jade Wright was not exactly how he imagined her to be.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I know Budd is alive and well. You can call all your Swiss pals as much as you like. But I won’t wait for them to get their thumbs out of their asses.”
One of her lawyers tried to interrupt, but Jade was having none of it.
“I already hired my own team and they’re gonna be on the ground tomorrow. Budd will be back at Esmeralda by next week!”
Cunningham knew from his past dealings with the Swiss, that this kind of intervention would not go down well. Their rescue service Rega, had its own tried and tested ways of dealing with high profile incidents. Understated but efficient, were two important Swiss watchwords—though he appreciated they were most likely lost on someone like Jade Wright.
“I admire your optimism Mrs. Wright,” replied Cunningham, “but I don’t think we can be as certain.” He tried his best to calm her down. It was not his first time dealing with over confident clients.
“Well, at least I know what I’m talking about. Bruce told me they picked up Budd’s emergency beacon, so my husband has to be alive. I gave him a pack of trail mix and I figure that helped. I added extra nuts … he’s a big health freak.”
Nathan looked awkwardly at his boss. This was not totally new to him, because he suddenly remembered reading about the personal security beacon in Jade’s Christmas letter—though up until that point the minor detail had slipped his mind.
His boss had remained in the dark and for that matter, he had no idea how far Jade would go in order to find her husband. Clearly she was not the kind of woman who relied on government officials to get things done. Nathan realized they should at least have anticipated this. But before either one of them could answer, Glickman stepped in.
“Mrs. Wright is taking a proactive approach here. The Swiss ambassador in Washington is a close friend. As we speak, he is getting all the paperwork cleared for our guys to begin a new U.S. led search for Budd within forty-eight hours.”
This was not what Cunningham wanted to hear.
&nb
sp; He had come ready to take over the co-ordination of the entire search and repatriation exercise—if needed. He expected to handle this because of his predecessor’s relationship with the Wright family and Budd in particular. Now he feared they had all the ingredients for an almighty diplomatic row.
Just to begin with, there were multiple jurisdictional issues to consider. There was the media to handle as well. While he was busy in the boardroom, producers working on every network from CNBC to the BBC and from CNN to CNC, were piecing together Specials on Budd Wright’s amazing investment career.
Unless Cunningham got out the correct version of the news, the personal trauma for the family would increase with each new piece of media speculation. He offered what he thought was good advice: Don’t switch on the TV or radio and keep off the internet. Carla’s reaction was, “Yeah right … and do you have kids Mr. Cunningham?”
He knew how badly it went down with most clients when he came over all legalistic. This was potentially a nightmare situation. The prospect of egos clashing was increasing by the minute. In deciding to take on the Wrights, they were all placing their carefully nurtured reputations on the line, except for Nathan—who had the least to lose.
Jade shuffled the pages of the presentation handout and drew large asterisks and question marks around the last list of bullet-points. She demanded to know why exactly they had listed her husband’s mental condition. Budd had never had a single sick day in his life. What was the point of speculating about something that was not even true?
“We have to cover all the bases. I understand you don’t want to think of Budd as suffering any illness. But in our experience these things happen and it’s never best to sweep them under the rug.”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t make any sense what you guys are telling me. And if you think I’m paying for all this BS—you’re yanking my chain!”
This was not going well. So Cunningham was mightily relieved when Glickman spoke.
He pointed out that the Trust was acting on behalf of Budd’s eldest daughter, so there was no possibility of it sending Mrs. Wright the tab for its services.