Power Blind

by Steven Gore

  “I’d never realized Landon was that cynical. He constantly wraps himself in grand ideas.” Gage leaned back in his chair. “You know what Brandon told me when I went to see him after Charlie died? He said Landon took St. Augustine and Thomas Hobbes to read on a flight to Beijing a few months ago.”

  Burch raised a hand like he was seeking his teacher’s attention in class.

  “I know one. From Hobbes. ‘There is always war of everyone against everyone, and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short’.”

  Burch glanced around the elegant, bright-lit dining room, and at the San Francisco elite now collecting at the bar.

  “Not so poor here, of course.” Burch looked back at Gage. “I tried to read the Leviathan at Oxford, a long, boring book written in an archaic kind of English. I never finished it.”

  “Landon didn’t either. I don’t think he struggled his way as far as the chapter where Hobbes says corporations are ‘like worms in the entrails of natural man.’ ”

  “Maybe he just skipped that part while rushing to read the celebration of the all-knowing, all-powerful sovereign.”

  They ceased speaking as the waiter delivered their drinks. Scotch for Burch. Beer for Gage.

  Gage raised his glass, “Happy birthday.”

  Burch raised his in turn. “Thanks, old man.” He took a sip and set the glass down. “Who else knows about what’s been going on besides you?”

  “It’s hard to tell.”

  “Landon?”

  “I’m not sure he’s ready to accept the reality.” Gage said. “The question is whether there’s any way the scheme could be legal?”

  “From a tax perspective or campaign finance perspective?”

  “Both.”

  Burch took a sip of his Scotch.

  “Are they still doing it?”

  “It looks like the tax gimmick ended four years ago, possibly because one of their clients got investigated by the IRS.”

  Burch nodded. “I remember that time very well. Everybody who’d been using captive insurance to move money offshore and then back in again tax free, was bailing out. The real crime wasn’t making premium payments to an offshore insurer, it was that the money was returned right away to officers of the companies.”

  “But what if the money was returned to the U.S. and put in someone else’s pocket,” Gage said. “Maybe sent from an offshore finance company and into a U.S. bank, and then invested in CDs or time deposits and held there until they needed it.”

  Burch stirred the ice cubes in his drink with his fingertip.

  “It wouldn’t be a good idea from an investment perspective,” Burch said. “They could make a lot more money elsewhere.” He paused in thought, then said, “This reminds me of a group in Chicago. They sent about two hundred million offshore as insurance payments, then invested the money in mutual and hedge funds operating out of the Caribbean and made a killing, tax free. An illegal kind of 401(k).”

  “Except Brandon and Anston’s aim wasn’t to make money,” Gage said, “just to move it into political campaigns.”

  “But that’s pretty risky from a bank regulator’s point of view. Campaigns are notoriously bad at making good on loans.”

  “But there’s no risk if the loans to the campaigns are secured by the deposits Anston and his people made.”

  “So, basically, you think it’s a money laundering scheme.”

  Gage nodded. “Say the bank pays them three percent interest on their deposits and they pay the bank five percent interest on the loans. Or even two percent and four percent. The two percent spread between what the bank pays them and what they pay the bank is the bank’s fee for laundering the money.”

  “Brilliant. The bank takes no risk at all.”

  “And there’s something more,” Gage said. “I think they’ve put a lot more money into the banks they’re using than they’ve taken out. I’ll bet they have a couple of hundred million waiting to be tapped.”

  Burch stared down into his glass, shaking his head.

  “Seems to me they found a huge loophole,” Burch finally said. “Big enough to drive a trainload of money through.” He looked over at Gage. “The question is whether it’s sleazy enough for you to act on.”

  “That’s sort of what Landon said to me.”

  “My guess is they’re trying to turn your strength into a weakness.”

  “Which strength is that?”

  “Your sense of fair play. Isn’t that why Landon has called you every single time somebody has tried to sabotage his campaigns? It wasn’t as if you were ever a button-wearing supporter.”

  Gage shrugged.

  “And now you’re on the other side, they know you won’t do anything unless you’re certain this campaign finance scheme is illegal and Landon was in on it.”

  “Certainty may not be an option.”

  Burch fell silent for a few seconds, then cocked his head and raised his eyebrows.

  “You’ve got me wondering what they’ve been up to for the last four years, since they closed down the insurance end.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe they had enough money. By that point as much as four hundred million had passed through Pegasus, maybe even more.”

  Gage sensed motion by the restaurant entrance. He spotted Burch’s wife, Faith, and Alex Z walking toward them. Happy birthday smiles on their faces.

  Gage took Alex Z aside after lunch as they made their way across the parking lot to their cars. One of Alex Z’s bodyguards trailed behind.

  “It’s not long before the nominations come to a vote,” Gage said, “and Pegasus is still a black box.”

  “What do you need, boss?”

  “I need to know everything about who is really behind Mann Trust. If you need more help from Jack, just ask for it, but keep his name out of whatever you do.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got an idea how to shine some light inside.”

  Gage shook his head. “It’s more like following all the trails to see where they lead. We’re still years behind these guys.”

  “What are you going to be working on?”

  “Porzolkiewski. There are some things I still need to look into.”

  “How is he?”

  “Suicidal.”

  Chapter 76

  Boots Marnin’s cell phone rang as he sat beating on the steering wheel of his Econovan parked on the frontage road near the San Francisco Airport.

  “I lost the fucker.”

  “What fucker?”

  “The rocker. Gage’s database guy. He’s got a bodyguard who’s the best countersurveillance driver I’ve ever seen.”

  “You still don’t know where Gage hid him?”

  Boots looked up at a Virgin Airlines flight rising into the sky, then down at the airport. “I know lots of places he isn’t.”

  “Don’t let me down on this one. We need to know where everybody is just in case, and we already have over two hundred grand invested in you.”

  “I’ve got Gage nailed down and I’ve got Palmer’s wife nailed down and I’m sure the Muslim kid is staying with the rocker.”

  “How’d you get onto the rocker’s tail this time?”

  “A birthday party for Gage’s pal Jack Burch at the St. Francis Yacht Club.”

  “Why didn’t you stick a GPS under his car?”

  “You think I’m an idiot? His security guy never left . . . son of a . . .”

  “What ‘son of a . . .’?”

  “Nothing. I’ll call you later.”

  Boots disconnected, tossed his phone into the console, then reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a flashlight. He jumped down from the van and flattened himself on the ground in one motion. He worked the beam on the underside as he scooted farther and farther under. He finally caught sight of a black two-inch-by-two-inch tracking device duct-taped to the undercarriage.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He reached into his jeans pocket for his pocket knife, then stopped.<
br />
  Wait a second. A rope can pull in two directions.

  He slid out from the under the van, climbed back in, and headed toward the San Francisco Mariner Hotel.

  Rosa M. was slipping on her bra at nine-thirty the next morning when Boots reached over to pick up his ringing cell phone from the nightstand. Rosa’s cleaning cart was parked near the door. Now that he got what he wanted, as far as he was concerned she was human wallpaper.

  Boots recognized the caller’s number.

  “I was just heading out,” Boots said.

  “Don’t bother,” the familiar voice said. “Our guys down at Evergreen Security found the rocker.”

  Boots sat up. “How?”

  “There were a bunch of Internet and commercial database searches about Mann Trust early this morning. Our people traced them to a DSL line going into a loft on the Oakland waterfront. We backtracked and found that the same computer had been researching Pegasus over the last few days.”

  Boots’s eyes settled on his alligator-skin Tony Lamas on the floor of the open closet, once more feeling like a dinosaur.

  “Do you have a place lined up just in case?” the caller asked.

  “Yeah, it’s perfect.”

  Chapter 77

  Tell me something I don’t know,” Marc Anston said, gazing over the Ocean Beach seawall toward the fog-filtered Farallon Islands.

  Only the footfalls of an occasional daybreak jogger and the squawk of seagulls intruded on the rustle of the low-tide surf.

  “That’s the part that’ll cost you.” Daniel Norbett glanced down at his worn Ferragamo loafers, now dusted with sand. The Cayman Island accountant gave a little shiver, unused to the chill of Northern California mornings.

  “How can I be sure you’ll deliver?” Anston asked.

  Norbett cinched his trench coat tighter, then laughed. “That’s a stupid question. I protected your ass in my Miami case.”

  “I wasn’t part of your case.”

  “But you were part of what Quinton was doing and I sent the U.S. Attorney off in another direction.”

  “Quinton doesn’t seem to see it that way.”

  “Only because his ego blocks his view.”

  “I know, and it’s the cost of doing business with ex-pat British lawyers. They’re stamped out of the same mold. I hated dealing with those guys even back in the Contra days.”

  They fell silent as a runner stopped on the sidewalk behind them and bent to retie her shoe.

  Norbett watched her straighten up. “And there’s something else. I think Quinton and Brandon may have outsmarted themselves when they talked to Gage.”

  “By saying . . . ?”

  Norbett waved a forefinger side to side in front of Anston. “You don’t get that either without a little money up front.”

  Anston folded his arms across his chest, weighing the offer and breathing in the salt air. He hated dealing with snitches. Norbett might not have informed on him and Quinton in order to beat his last case, but he snitched on someone.

  “How much?” Anston asked.

  “Twenty-five thousand.”

  “I thought Gage only gave you ten.”

  Norbett jerked his thumb toward the multimillion-dollar condos spread along the Great Highway behind him.

  “We’re in another period of irrational exuberance.”

  Anston reached for his cell phone and punched in a number.

  “Quinton, this is Anston. Transfer twenty-five grand to Norbett . . . That’s what I said, to Norbett . . . No, not from Pegasus, you idiot, from one of your accounts, then reimburse yourself from Pegasus.”

  Anston handed the phone to Norbett. “Give him your account details.”

  Norbett read off the numbers from a slip of paper he’d withdrawn from his wallet, then disconnected.

  “Sometimes that asshole doesn’t think,” Anston said. “Let’s walk.”

  I didn’t tell Gage anything he couldn’t figure out for himself,” Norbett said, as they returned a half hour later to the same spot along the wall. “I kept pushing the insurance angle toward a dead end. And played dumb about Brandon Meyer. But it’s only a matter of time until he catches on.”

  “What about the Jamaican woman? How do we know she won’t blabber what she told you to somebody else?”

  Norbett raised his palms toward Anston. “Don’t touch her. I need her to keep an eye on Quinton. He doesn’t seem to realize how big this thing is and how hot it might get if it explodes. He may melt.”

  “There won’t be time for that to happen. I have a plan to contain things. I’ll just need to move it along a little faster.”

  Anston watched Norbett climb into a taxi to the airport in the Cliff House Restaurant parking lot overlooking Seal Rock. Seagulls fought over food wrappers blowing across the pavement, flailing and squawking and tumbling in the air. It gave him a feeling of revulsion, just like Norbett, the snitch who pretended he wasn’t, who pretended he’d protected Anston in his Miami debriefing, when he was only protecting himself.

  Anston reached for his cell phone as the cab pulled away.

  “You have somebody in the Caymans?”

  “No,” Boots said, “not the Caymans. But I got a guy in Havana. An hour flight.”

  “Our friend just leaned on me for money and I don’t want to have to keep paying him off for the rest of his natural life.”

  “I take it the emphasis is on natural.”

  “Exactly. I’ll tell you when.”

  Chapter 78

  Socorro piled her baggage at the front door, then walked into the den to retrieve a col-lection of DVDs to keep her company at Gage’s family ranch. She smiled to herself when she realized the stack was absurdly tall. She calculated how many she could stuff into the pockets of her carry-on and left the rest piled on top of the audio stand. Her cell phone rang as she zipped up the last compartment. It was Faith pulling up in front.

  Socorro slid her bags onto the porch.

  “This is some pretty raggedy luggage,” Faith said as she climbed the stairs.

  “I know, but it’s hard to get rid of. It’s been too many places.” Socorro pointed at the torn security tapes from a dozen countries crisscrossing the locks of the hard-sided Samsonite. “There’s one from China right on top of the one from Taiwan.” She smiled at Faith. “I think some Chinese customs agent was trying to make a political statement.”

  “It’s not much of one unless your bag passes through Taiwan again and the Chinese get a look at it.”

  “Not likely. We only went there because Charlie had some people to talk to. It was one of Anston’s super secret missions. They paid for me to go along to make it appear we were just a couple on vacation. I think I was the cloak while he was the dagger. I still don’t have a clue what we were doing over there.” She paused and shook her head. “They say marriage is about communication, but Charlie always practiced radio silence.”

  Faith grabbed the suitcase, gave it a tug, and then added a second hand to lift it from the landing.

  “Jeez,” Faith said. “How long are you going for?”

  “Why don’t you take the carry-on? I’ll get that.”

  Faith shook her head as she lurched down the steps. After reaching the bottom, she extended the handle and let the wheels carry the load down the walkway to her SUV. Socorro followed with the rest and helped Faith hoist the suitcase into the back. Faith glanced at the bulging carry-on as Socorro set it inside.

  “That thing is about to burst,” Faith said. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to fit it into the overhead compartment.”

  Socorro locked her hands on her hips as she examined the lump of luggage.

  “I’ll cross that bridge later.”

  When are the kids arriving in Nogales?” Faith asked as they drove south past the Opera House toward the freeway.

  “They have a wedding to attend on Sunday. They’ll fly out afterward and stay through the week.”

  “How are they adjusting?”

  “C
harlie Junior seems to be doing okay. Sandy is . . . I really don’t know how Sandy is. She’s been . . . I guess the word is erratic. Sometimes she treats me like I’m really fragile and she seems afraid she’ll say or do something that’ll upset me. Other times, she becomes as demanding as a drill sergeant.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “It didn’t start until a week or two after Charlie died. She called early one morning, maybe five o’clock, asking if I was okay and if the dog was okay and then ordering me to go around the house to make sure the doors were locked. She even tried to order me—order me—to get an alarm system.”

  “Did you ask her what prompted the call?”

  “She said she had a bad dream.”

  Faith headed toward short-term parking lot after following the sweeping flyway onto the San Francisco Airport grounds.

  Socorro looked toward Faith. “You don’t need to come in.”

  “It’ll take you an hour to check your luggage and get up to the security checkpoint. I’ll keep you company.”

  They found a parking spot and took the elevator down to the departure level of the domestic terminal. Check-in moved fast enough for them to have time for a cup of coffee before Socorro needed to join the security line.

  “Are you thinking about writing again?” Faith asked, after they sat down at a table.

  “I only have one book left in print. I don’t even know what the children’s market is like now. I’m not even sure I know how to speak their language anymore.”

  Faith smiled to herself as she remembered proofreading the first of Socorro’s “Oops” series of children’s books about a little girl who wiggled her way out of one jam after another, but learned a moral lesson each time.

  “Your carry-on was so heavy I assumed you had a laptop and manuscripts in there.”

  “DVDs. I’m going to spend every day before the kids get there watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert and every Thin Man movie ever made. All black and white, except for An Affair to Remember. For that one I’ll be crying my eyes out in living color.” She raised her cup. “To love in its many hues.”