Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome

by Russell Blake

  * * * *

  Chapter 7

  Steven had come to New York after discovering that Griffen was going to speak at a fund-raising dinner for the Vice President. On Saturday afternoon, Steven checked into his hotel at 51st and Lexington. After getting situated in his room, he went down to the business center, got online, and broke the site address to his Group. He was roundly chided for the amateurish job on the interface, not to mention the technical glitches. Several of the gang found typos and grammatical errors, and one hacked his computer while he was online and momentarily superimposed a baboon flashing his bulbous bottom on one of the pages.

  One of the more cynical regulars suggested that he could get a photo of Griffen for the site, as he lived in New York and ‘knew some people’. Steven responded that it would be a hoot.

  The site was now up to 4,700 hits, so people were visiting it. The message board dissemination campaign had been more effective than he could have hoped for. Word was spreading, the collusion gathering more exposure, the boards full of talk of filing SEC complaints referencing Allied's suspicious trading – and apparently some money guys were coming into the stock on the short side. Whether any of this related to the website was anyone’s guess. But still, it was positive.

  Finished with the internet, Steven returned to his room and donned a light summer suit for the dinner. He’d shelled out two thousand dollars to sit at Griffen’s table because it appealed to him to sit within twenty feet of his adversary without Griffen ever knowing who he was. He wanted to get a feeling for the man – up close and personal – look his enemy in the eyes and take his measure; and he’d flown a long way to do just that…

  Steven enjoyed the caress of the balmy, blustery evening as he walked the few blocks to the event. He admired the baroque interior of the overblown hotel lobby before making his way to the large banquet room. At the door, security went over him with a portable metal detector before allowing him to enter the room and pick up his reservation. Griffen was scheduled to deliver a speech about the importance of free enterprise in the market system, which Steven supposed could loosely be translated as ‘why no one should ever regulate me’. He was genuinely interested in seeing the great man make his presentation.

  Seated at a large round table, along with twenty or so other well-to-do men and women, he chatted with the older fellow on his right, who worked in real estate in Connecticut. Steven had decided to pose as the owner of a software company from Washington, in town for the week, and having taken the seat in place of a friend who’d become ill at the last minute. Nobody seemed particularly interested in discussing his background, which was just as well.

  Griffen entered at precisely seven o’clock, the start time for the function, shaking hands and greeting people all the way to his table. He seemed to know many of the attendees, which wasn’t surprising since he and one of the Fed governors were the event’s main draws. It reminded Steven of a celebrity high-fiving audience members at a concert. Griffen was clearly a star.

  The filet turned out to be outstanding, the wine pretty good, and the speeches tedious and predictable. Griffen’s seat was on the far side of the table so the opportunity to interact was limited and Steven felt disappointed his target was out of reach for discourse. After the entree, as he’d listened to Griffen’s self-righteous presentation about the importance of keeping the markets as unregulated as possible, he’d grown increasingly angry at the man – and the situation before him.

  Some of his anger could be attributed to the wine, which reduced his tolerance for bullshit in general, but the biggest irritant was the knowledge that this weasel enjoyed a position of prominence and prestige even as he cheated Joe Sixpack out of his retirement money. He thought about the shareholders who’d lost their life savings on Griffen’s pump and dumps, and had to bite his cheek to sit still.

  Steven’s mood had upgraded to belligerent by the end of Griffen’s speech, and built up a full head of steam while he’d watched his hard-nosed target pontificate on free markets from his bully pulpit – even as he orchestrated a criminal conspiracy.

  After the coffee was served, a gentleman in a tuxedo circulated with a humidor. Steven watched Griffen select a cigar. He did the same, and followed Griffen out to the veranda which was designated as a smoking area.

  Steven waited until Griffen finished lighting his cigar before approaching him to ask for a light. Griffen obliged.

  “That was quite a presentation,” Steven said.

  “Thanks.” Griffen was obviously not interested in chitchat with some peon. Steven forged ahead anyway, figuring this would be his only opportunity to annoy the man in person.

  “I especially enjoyed the part where you defended the actions of big money pools as being helpful in maintaining necessary liquidity in the market,” Steven recalled innocently. “It made pumping and short selling seem almost like doing the Lord’s work.”

  Griffen regarded Steven, appraising him carefully.

  “Look, everyone on Wall Street cheerleads for the stocks they’re pushing and bashes those they’re betting against. The whole street talks its book, and the media sings along with them. That’s the way things have worked since shares started trading. You don’t like the game, too bad. It has nothing to do with the players.” Griffen tapped his ashes on the railing.

  Steven nodded. “That’s probably true. Still, if you happen to be able to read tomorrow’s headlines today, that would mean making huge money was as easy as knowing which reporters to call, right?”

  “That’s an oversimplification,” Griffen said. “Eventually in any market, all facts will be known. That’s the whole idea of the system. I tend to believe that the system works pretty well, and that the last thing anyone needs is a bunch of regulation in a market that’s working just fine.” He held up a manicured finger. “Everyone whines when they’re on the wrong side of the trade, and wants government to step in and get them out of their bad bets. I say, too bad. The market isn’t about coddling losers.”

  Steven considered the logic. “Hmmm. Perhaps. But in your case, where you hold sway over a lot of media outlets, I could see where the temptation to pump the prospects of loser companies you’d gotten into for pennies would be pretty strong, then once the moron money was following along and believing your line of BS, taking the opposite side of the trade and crushing them would be child’s play. Seems to me like that’s a recurring pattern in companies you’ve discovered – probably just coincidence, right?” Steven smiled. “Anything for a buck, and all’s fair, right?”

  Griffen’s face flushed with anger. “Everyone’s got an opinion. One man’s treasure is another man’s junk. Nobody holds a gun to anyone’s head to invest in anything.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t catch your name,” Griffen said.

  “I didn’t mention it. Just thought I’d share an idea with you; you’re more vulnerable than you think. I know what you’re trying to do with Allied, and it’s not going to work. I wanted to tell you that you’ve overstepped this time. You’ve bitten off a big piece – bigger than you can imagine.” Steven stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and turned to walk away.

  Griffen grabbed his arm. “Just who in the hell do you think you’re–” he started.

  Steven pinched Griffen’s wrist at the nerve meridian, causing him to yelp and release his grip on Steven’s arm and clutch the spot from where the pain emanated.

  “It’s rude to get grabby with people you just met.” Steven smiled again. “Consider this fair warning. You’re nothing but a thug, and you’re not going to get away with it on Allied.” Steven glared at Griffen, who had a scowl on his face from the surprise of being accosted – and the discomfort of being so easily swept physically aside.

  Steven looked him up and down. “Have a nice night. I’m sure the rest of your cockroach buddies are waiting for your next line of horseshit. You don’t want to disappoint them, leave them waiting.” With that, Steven turned and walked back into the banquet hall, made his
way to the exit, and then out onto the street.

  Griffen was suitably annoyed by the incident, and his wrist hurt like a bitch, but he was unfazed by some idiot’s threats. He’d made a lot of enemies over the years and was accustomed to his adversaries vowing to bring him to justice. It never amounted to anything. Talk’s cheap.

  This was undoubtedly some disgruntled investor who’d taken the wrong side of the Allied bet and was losing his ass. Boo hoo.

  As the pain diminished, he rationalized that if you weren’t pissing people off and making enemies, then you probably weren’t doing anything worth talking about.

  The Police Commissioner came out onto the balcony with a cigar and greeted Griffen like his long-lost brother. They toasted with hundred-dollar-a-glass cognac, and the incident was forgotten.

  For the most part.

  * * * *

  Chapter 8

  Sunday morning, still at the hotel in NY, Steven checked in with the Group and was delighted to find a picture of Griffen walking out to pick up his morning paper. That was hysterical, especially since he’d been standing across from him in a business suit just twelve hours earlier. The photographer explained he’d tracked down Griffen’s home address in Connecticut. His buddy had snapped some shots that very morning using a telephoto lens. Nice to know the great man went to the bathroom the same as everyone else.

  Somehow the sight of his adversary in a robe, with his hair matted to one side, clutching his paper, made the battle seem winnable. He uploaded it to the site, and linked it to the message boards, under the heading, ‘Wall Street Wizard Plots Next Master Move’.

  Funny, funny stuff. Maybe Griffen would feel a little more vulnerable after seeing the photo.

  Steven checked out of his room and made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. He was scheduled to arrive back in California by two o’clock, leaving much of the afternoon available for relaxation. He considered an early evening cruise on his sailboat with Jennifer to watch the sunset, and calculated that he had plenty of time; the trip hadn’t been such a big disruption after all.

  The flight was smooth – the traffic from the airport home predictably terrible.

  In the late afternoon, Peter called from Florida, catching Steven on the way out the door to the boat. His news on Allied was largely negative – the management team was sketchy; there had been virtually no external audits of the technology or their financials. It had all the earmarks of a company with something big to hide. His news on Griffen was not as encouraging.

  ���Steve, these are bad guys. Even by Wall Street standards, they stink. There’s rumors of them being mobbed up, and they seem to have unusual connections in a lot of regulatory areas. My contacts at the SEC went dark when Griffen’s name surfaced, other than to disclose he’d developed a reputation as a very savvy player. The NY attorney general won’t comment except to point out that securities regulation is the province of the SEC. There’s nothing in the FBI computers on him, although they had a jacket on his former partner. That was closed, but they’re digging it out for me.”

  “I didn’t even know he had a partner. Why was it closed?” Steven asked.

  “That’s standard operating procedure when the subject is deceased.”

  “Deceased? When did he die?”

  “About three years ago. It was in the organized crime file section. It’ll take a few days to pull it out of the archives.”

  “I really appreciate the input, Peter.”

  “I don’t know the full scope of what these jokers are up to, but I can tell you that in my day at the Bureau this would have been more than enough to get a full-scale investigation going. But it doesn’t look like anyone wants to know anything about it, which is just strange, is all I can say.” Peter paused. “Be careful, Steve. I don’t like the way this is shaping up, and if my gut’s right this may be something you should walk away from. I hope you aren’t doing anything to piss them off.”

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  “Watch your back. I’ll check in when I have something more solid.”

  Steven picked up Jennifer at her condo and they made their way down the coast to the boat; a 34 foot Catalina berthed in Dana Point. It was his one foolish indulgence, which he’d acquired the second year his company had been profitable.

  Once past the breakwater a moderate offshore breeze kept the summer doldrums from requiring the little engine be run, which made for a quiet and peaceful afternoon on the water. They both enjoyed the sensation of being pushed through the waves by the usually mellow wind and tried to get out as often as possible, which wasn’t easy given their schedules. They tacked out a few miles, then up towards Newport before pointing the bow back south and heading for home.

  After the cruise they enjoyed a wonderful dinner at Jennifer’s favorite place in Laguna Beach, and rounded off the day by weaving tipsily back to Steven’s house, replete and at peace with the world.

  “Un-fucking-believable.” Griffen was lost for any other words. That didn’t happen often.

  “I figured you’d want to see it firsthand,” Glen said.

  “I want this prick. I don’t care what it takes. He’s totally fucking with the wrong guy. Who does he think he is?”

  “I didn’t hear that. Any of it.”

  Griffen was sitting in the study of his expansive home, staring at the flat screen monitor on his ornately crafted desktop. There was his picture, from that very morning, hair askew, face puffy, windblown, disheveled. It wasn’t the most flattering shot. Glen stood next to him as they considered the image, arms folded over his chest, the golfing hat and sunglasses on his sepulcher-like features creating the impression of an animatronic vision of death on holiday.

  “This is way over the line. Fucking unbelievable. I spent half of yesterday, a Saturday for chrissakes, fielding calls from investors wanting to know if I’m in trouble on Allied. And now I have my fucking privacy blown apart by some anonymous shit-rat? How did he find out where I live? Is he trying to threaten me? Is he trying to say I can find you but you can’t find me? I want this asshole.” Griffen trembled with rage at this invasion into his life.

  “Germany should have some feedback soon.” Glen paused, reading the caption underneath the photo. He carefully considered his next words. “I think he’s trying to be funny.”

  “I’m laughing inside. I want him.”

  “I’ll show myself out,” Glen said. “Enjoy your weekend.”

  Griffen listened to Glen’s footsteps retreating and the sound of the front door closing.

  He leaned back in his chair. From the doorway of the study the smell of jasmine floated into his space. A strikingly beautiful Eurasian girl, half French, half Thai, about twenty years old, entered. She was slim and looked much taller than her five foot three frame suggested. She wore a red silk gentleman’s smoking jacket and five-inch heels, and nothing else. He quickly closed the offending web window, pulled out a vial from his center drawer, dumping a little powder onto an antique mirror he kept in the same drawer. He drew it into his nostril in one powerful pull, using a jade tube with an elaborately carved dragon motif on its side. Viagra and cocaine cocktail.

  “What’s wrong, don’t you want to spend any more time with me today? Isn’t there something I can do to make you feel better? Let me help you relax…” She came around the desk, and lowered herself to her knees in front of him.

  He slapped her. Hard. It was so sudden, so brutal, it took her completely by surprise. She looked up at him and winced through forming tears.

  “I told you not to talk unless I tell you to. Now shut up and suck.”

  Late that night Griffen’s phone rang. Groggily, he fumbled through the dark to reach it.

  “Hello?” he croaked into the receiver.

  “Mr. Griffen? This is Gunther Peck, an associate of Mr. Vesper’s in Germany. I hope I’m not calling too late, but Mr. Vesper indicated I was to call as soon as I had any information available. Do you have a pen? I have the nam
e from the credit card used in the registration. There is no address information but a post office box, yes?”

  “Just a second. Let me turn on the light and get this.”

  In the hour after dawn, the grey Town Car made its way through the Washington suburb of Georgetown to a small coffee house that opened at 5 a.m.. It double-parked outside until a young man in a sweater vest and skater shorts exited the building and jumped in. Upon closer inspection the young man was in his thirties and looked less like a student than a yuppie who watched too much MTV.

  He handed the driver a key-sized flash drive. “Here’s the data we have so far. It would be most helpful if site creator was kept occupied – his interest shifted to other areas. We have reason to believe the site’s an impediment, and he’s beginning to have a negative impact with his activities. We’d appreciate if he was kept busy for the duration.” The speaker was nondescript, calm, but with a note of steel to his voice.

  “I’ll see what we can do. This becomes complicated if it goes much further. We have to be careful of domestic operations. We can hassle him, but not much more. But I’m thinking if we do it right, we can tie him up for months.” The driver never looked over at the passenger.

  “Any help will be welcomed,” said Emil. He shouldered the door open, stepped out onto the curb and was gone in seconds.

  * * * *

  Chapter 9

  Griffen sat in a small deli on the upper West Side, deep in discussion with a giant of a man squeezed into the booth across from him as Manhattan’s Monday morning rush hour crawled past outside. The big man spoke in a hearty voice as he sipped his espresso from a cup that resembled a shot glass in his massive hand.

  “Tell me what you need and I will see that it is taken care of. We’ve had a good working relationship, and I am very happy with your management of our assets.” Sergei Rajeslsky spoke deliberately and could have been thanking Nicholas for buying lunch.