Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  A lot of things fell into place if one viewed things through a cynical lens. Glorified trading houses that were cynically referred to as investment banks were given access to the Fed overnight window when they were made ‘banks’ during the crisis, and now could borrow virtually unlimited amounts of cash from the Federal Reserve at near zero interest, and then turn around and buy T-Bills from the government that paid them a three percent or so yield. The difference between a quarter percent borrowing cost and three percent might not sound like a lot to most folks, but if you did it with, say, a trillion dollars, suddenly you were talking real money, even by Wall Street standards.

  And then there was the question of why so much obvious fraud had been perpetrated during the financial crisis, and yet nobody had gone to jail. Steven had recently seen an article that discussed a hedge fund manager who had made three billion dollars in one year betting against mortgage securities he had a hand in selecting to be sold as AAA to unsuspecting investors. There was plenty of fist shaking and rancor, but in the end, nobody had cuffs on, and it looked as though nobody ever would.

  Spyder’s wry commentary interjection was short and to the point:

  [Ya think the reason there’s no appetite to clamp down on the bad guys is because they’re running money through some of them, and in bed with some of the others? Ugly world we live in, huh? Watch your ass, Bowman. Spyder]

  Spyder then went on to underscore that the same sort of thing was taking place as in the 1920s, when powerful interests would front-run the trading and make fortunes by short selling companies into the ground – witness the massive put options (which increase in value as a stock price goes down) traded right before the ‘unexpected’ crash of Bear Stearns in 2008, and the government’s odd reluctance to investigate that obvious smoking gun. Parties they could easily identify had taken massive bets that Bear would collapse before it did, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy as tens of millions of shares that couldn't have possibly existed were sold into the system, collapsing the share price. Day after day the trading showed incredible volumes of sell orders seemingly designed to do nothing but take the firm's stock price into the toilet, creating the very crisis that would make the bearish bet pay off in a colossal way. The cost to borrow for Bear became huge as the stock price fell and the cost of credit default swaps on its debt went through the roof, guaranteeing it would run into a situation where it couldn't meet its daily demands for ever increasing collateral, ensuring it would fail. And yet nobody seemed interested in who had done it. The media played ball and the whole episode was quickly forgotten, even as new outrages surfaced daily.

  The more he read, the more corrupt it appeared to be.

  Steven called it a day at 3:00, his head whirling from information overload and the ramifications of all the data Spyder had supplied. He approached the counter and paid for his time, and after concluding that he didn't have anything else he needed to do, began the drive back to the boat. When he dialed the Lone Star number from his disposable cell, it just rang.

  No answer.

  It took him almost two hours to make it to San Clemente, and by that time he’d talked himself down. He had immediate problems to deal with, in the real world, and didn’t currently have bandwidth for CIA conspiracy theories or a world where the government actively aided and abetted criminal syndicates in raiding the U.S. economy. A big rig had blown a tire, and most of I-5 North was a parking lot past Oceanside, making any further driving a nightmare for at least another hour.

  Steven pulled over and hit a restaurant for an early dinner, figuring he could wait out the snarl of immobilized vehicles. He really wished he’d brought his laptop, instead of forgetting it on the boat – that PDA was going to be worth its weight in gold to him. After eating, he stopped by at an Internet cafe to check in with the Group. One of them immediately posted:

  [Check your mailbox. Trouble?!]

  His fingers flew across the keys as he typed in the address of his e-mail account. He went to his S_Jordan box, where a blind re-mailer had sent him a message with an attachment. He opened the attachment, and it was an article from that day’s Austin newspaper describing a massive fire at the strip mall that housed, among other things, Lone Star.

  Steven’s gut tightened again.

  This just couldn’t be a coincidence or conspiracy nonsense. Whoever was after him was clearly serious, and ruthless. But part of it made no sense – Homeland Security and the Justice Department didn’t go around burning buildings to shut down websites. If they had grounds to shut it down, which they didn’t, they’d just get an injunction and seize the server.

  In spite of his recent run-in with Homeland, maybe it was exactly what it appeared to be – an accidental fire. They did happen all the time. The whole world didn’t revolve around his website.

  Here he was again; wavering in a never-never land between feeling sheepish and paranoid – imagining assailants behind every tree, and reconciling all the coincidences before taking prudent precautions.

  Accident or not, from a practical standpoint, he now had no site and no server. Finding another ISP wouldn’t be that big a deal – he could sign one up over the web in minutes. The problem was the only copy of his site was on the boat. At least he’d backed it up on the laptop.

  He sent a post to the Group:

  [Weird coincidences, huh?] and got an immediate response:

  [Check six. There are no coincidences. I’ll be on late if you need anything. Gordo]

  He signed off and left the café to go and retrieve the laptop, fatigued from the stress of it all. He felt like he’d been starved of sleep for weeks.

  Chapter 16

  As Steven crested the hill to the marina he saw emergency vehicles everywhere and a plume of black smoke rising from the inky water. He couldn’t get his car anywhere near the entry because the lot was glutted with fire trucks. He drove to the next lot over and parked as close as he could get to his area, then hurried to his dock’s gate, only to find it closed off with yellow crime scene tape and a police barricade. He approached one of the park security men standing around the barricade. “Wow. What a mess. What happened here?”

  “Some guy’s boat blew up. Took out half the dock.”

  “You’re kidding! Which boat? What caused it?” Steven asked.

  “Don’t know. Sailboat, down at the end of A dock.” He pointed nonchalantly in the direction where Serendipity was berthed. “A bunch of other boats were damaged, too. They think it was a fuel leak – filled the bilge with fumes.”

  Inside, Steven was thinking, God, no, say it isn’t Serendipity. It had to be an accident – somebody else’s boat, not mine, not mine, not mine.

  “The divers are pulling up debris and looking through what’s left of the hull right now. Doesn’t help that visibility’s down to nothing with all the oil in the water.” The kid seemed as interested as Steven was – probably the biggest thing that had happened since he’d started working for a living. “The owner was on board. They found some parts of him. Pretty gross.”

  Steven felt like he’d been hit in the face with a hammer. He squinted as he peered down the dock, and it looked a lot like his slip was now gone.

  He needed to know. Had to get by the kid. Stay calm. Think.

  “My buddy sent me down to check on his boat. He saw the smoke over the hill and called the marina. Can I take a quick look? Check on the lines, make sure it’s secure?”

  “No one’s supposed to go down there. It’s a crime scene right now. Give me the slip number and I’ll have someone on the dock check.” At least the guard was willing to try.

  Steven’s slip was A-32. He didn’t hesitate. “A-20.”

  The security guard spoke into his walky-talky. “Guy wants to make sure his boat’s okay. Slip A-20. Can someone look at it? Over.” The radio crackled for a minute.

  Then through the static came the fateful words Steven dreaded hearing. “It’s fine. Boat that blew was A-32. Over.”

  Steven smiled at t
he guy and croaked out a weak ‘thank you’.

  His head spun and his heart trip-hammered from the sudden jolt of adrenalin as he walked away, registering there were plenty of other spectators perusing the dreadful scene.

  He started processing automatically. Todd was dead – it had to be him. So this wasn’t all in his head. Someone blew up the boat. Someone set the web building on fire. Someone was willing to kill to stop him, to silence him and keep the website off the air.

  And they could still be here. Watching.

  He needed to blend in. Couldn’t draw attention to himself. He walked in the opposite direction from his car, and stopped to ask a couple walking their dog what had happened, doing a slow scan of the parking lot as he listened to them.

  There was nothing overtly suspicious, but it was hard to tell.

  He listened as they recounted the same basic story the guard had told, then thanked them and continued walking along the perimeter of the marina. A man with binoculars was studying the aftermath of the carnage; could be innocent, but maybe not. There was no way of knowing whether this was an interested vulture or a deadly predator.

  Steven kept moving past him, quickly glancing at his watch – for all appearances a man on his way home for dinner. He made it to the main access street for the marina parking lots and walked slowly up the hill to the town, never looking back.

  His laptop was now either melted at the bottom of the harbor or in the hands of whoever blew up the boat.

  There could be no doubt it wasn’t an accident. Diesel fuel hardly ever caught fire, and was incapable of generating huge explosions like the one that had taken out the dock. They’d probably rigged it that afternoon, with some sort of trigger set to go off when he opened the hatch. Poor Todd had probably taken his suggestion to wash the boat later; in retrospect, likely a fatal recommendation. Or they could have been watching the boat to ensure the job got done right, by triggering the explosion remotely. Watched for a male in his late thirties going onto the boat, and then pushed a button. Simple, no mistakes. Kaboom. Problem over.

  The laptop was the least of his worries. If they knew his boat, then they knew his car – which meant they had to have the license plates. Then again, if they believed him to be dead, they wouldn’t be looking for it other than to confirm it was in the vicinity. That was a small advantage he might be able to use.

  He needed to get his duffel out sooner rather than later.

  Steven walked into town and found a little cafe where he could kill some time as he thought through a strategy for retrieving his bag from the car. He ordered a cup and a croissant, and determinedly waited for the sun to set. The forensic team would undoubtedly figure out it wasn’t him on the boat, but that could take days, or even weeks. As long as he didn’t post anything on the boards, or call anyone who couldn’t be trusted, he was safe, for now. But what to do about his conviction that the boat explosion had been deliberate? He couldn’t go to the police; they’d just turn him over to Homeland Security, which would be much like being stuck in a gulag. He’d read about HS detainees held without access to their attorneys for years. No thanks.

  Steven felt the anxiety over the hopelessness of his predicament threatening to overwhelm him, and fought down the urge to panic. He needed to stay clear-headed if he was going to come out of this alive. But the transition from being a comfortable retired investor ensconced in a familiar, controlled environment to being a fugitive on the run was jarring. He knew he'd need every internal resource he could summon to make it, so he couldn't afford to waste time grappling with the emotional shock of recent events. That would come later. For now, he needed to think tactically and take simple, achievable steps that would keep him breathing.

  The klaxon scream of sirens wailed in the distance; obviously the commotion at the harbor wasn't over by any means. Steven nursed his cup of coffee and got a second one, for all appearances savoring life without a care in the world. Gradually, the frequency of the emergency vehicles racing to the scene slowed and then stopped, and as evening arrived and the sun slowly sank into the ocean a sense of tranquility returned.

  Once it was dark, Steven walked cautiously down the bike trail into the harbor park – the back way. The cops were still at the scene, and they now had large spotlights mounted on stands shining into the water. He looked around the lot his car was in, and saw no one. Plenty of other cars there. Good. Cover.

  Steven sat by a tree across from the lot for ten minutes, watching for any movement or any signs of surveillance. Nothing. Eventually satisfied that the area was likely safe, he got up, walked across to the lot, kept going past his car, and entered the restroom at the far end of the lot.

  He quickly scanned the confined area, moving from stall to stall as though deciding which to use. Satisfied he was alone, he moved to the sink and ran some water through his hair, then considered his reflection.

  Steven, you’re in the eye of a shit-storm, he concluded. No room for mistakes.

  He listened for sounds around the building. Nothing. Just radio chatter from the docks, and the whine of a winch motor.

  Okay. Showtime. He moved out of the building, seemingly preoccupied with getting the last of the moisture off his hands with a paper towel. Tossing it into a trash can, he did one last visual sweep of the lot. Still empty. He allowed some time for his eyes to re-adjust before walking towards the Porsche.

  There was a sudden flurry of motion by his legs.

  He jumped back. A cat tore by in hot pursuit of an errant pigeon.

  Adrenaline coursed through his already on-edge system, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears as he focused on controlling his breathing and staying calm. He kept walking, reached his car, opened the door. No light overhead, as it was an older convertible. Thank the Germans for small favors.

  He reached behind the passenger seat and grabbed the duffel. So far, so good. He pulled the phone charger out of the lighter socket and pocketed it. Quickly checking the interior of the car, he didn't see anything else that he'd miss or might need.

  Done.

  Steven looked around. All quiet. He got out of the car, softly closed the door, and locked it with his key. He walked away with carefully measured steps, heart still racing, feeling like he’d just succeeded in doing a prison break; Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, sans motorcycle.

  The evening blew a soft, cool breeze but his shirt was soaked with sweat. He edged back to the bike path, scanning the lot a last time to confirm nobody was watching. It appeared that no one had noticed or cared about his stealthy parking lot mission, and for the moment, at least, he was safe. He hefted the duffel and confirmed it was zipped tightly shut, and put the shoulder strap over his shoulder, pulling it tight against his torso.

  And then Steven began to run.

  He ran hard, and he didn’t stop for a long time.

  Chapter 17

  A techno jazz beat swirled softly in the background as Griffen absently watched the two girls pleasure each other. He idly fondled a breast as the brunette slowly drew him in and out of her pouting mouth, moaning as her young friend set her tingling with her tongue while probing deeper with the humming vibrator. Tanya and Sophie, both from Guadeloupe, with charming French accents, and here in the big city with a burning ambition to break into theater. Tanya was a singer, and he forgot exactly what Sophie’s claim to fame was, other than a shaved mons. It didn’t really matter. They had a double-trouble thing they marketed to gentlemen of discriminating tastes, and Griffen was currently enjoying the proficiency of their performance.

  Neither could be more than eighteen years old. All the better. Tanya, the brunette, shifted and shuddered, her pace becoming more urgent as Sophie expertly brought her nearer and nearer to climax.

  His cell rang. The distinct ring he’d programmed for Sergei. Great timing, Sergei. He disengaged from the delicious tangle of appendages and reached over to grab the phone.

  “Your problems are over. Have a nice night.” Sergei’s voice rang flat and unem
otional. He hung up.

  Griffen considered the words. He smiled, and tossed the phone onto the floor.

  Sighing, he ran his eyes over the two hard-bodied island girls in his bed, the empty champagne bottles, the mirror with the dusting of powder.

  “Now, where were we…?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Steven slowed to a steady jog after the first half hour of running, realizing he was somewhere in the hills of Mission Viejo – a staid suburbia, where lawns were trimmed with regularity by hard working gardeners as soccer moms delivered their charges to private schools in tinted-windowed Range Rovers. The evening breezed cool, for summer, with the traffic thinning out as the dinner rush wound down.

  He approached one of the never-ending strip malls and rested on the bench in front of a fruit smoothie place that was still doing reasonable business. He bought a faux pina colada concoction, found a seat outside, and watched the high school girls come and go for their evening libations, chatting about boys, music and the other mundane stuff of youth. Everyone so concerned over their small dramas and challenges, convinced their life was unique and special. A wave of sadness washed over him as thoughts of Avalon intruded into his psyche unbidden, and he fought the overwhelming despair that came with them, recognizing that an emotional breakdown wouldn't solve anything. He could grieve for his canine friend later. For now, he needed to stay focused and determined.