He had other things to concentrate on now. He gunned the gas, enjoying the pulse of power as he pulled onto the freeway.
He’d live to fight another day.
Checkmate: Chapter 22
Steven watched the trading. Allied had stabilized at around $11; a catastrophic plunge for the day. Even though it was now public knowledge the stock had been played, it would still take time for many investors to believe the whole thing was a sham and dump their shares. Many would wait for a bounce to sell, which Steven believed was a fool’s errand given the article, but that’s what made a market. As it was, there was no way the company would recover from the revelations in the article, so a trip to the penny stock ‘pink sheets’ was a foregone conclusion.
Steven considered the damage the fall must have inflicted on Griffen, and smiled. He checked his e-mail, and saw a message from Stan Caldwell, with an attachment:
[Thought you’d like to see this, if you haven’t already. Looks like the end for him. Stan]
Business Wire. 9:30 A.M. Nicholas Griffen, Founder and Manager of Griffen Ventures Investment Group, today announced his resignation as director. “Due to the controversy resulting from the libelous and false statements irresponsibly published in the New York Times, I feel that the group has been unfairly tarnished and will continue to be damaged if I remain the director. Therefore, effective immediately, I am naming Matt Conway as interim manager until an independent individual can take the position full time. It is unfortunate certain segments of the press have chosen to abuse their power in a deliberate attempt to harm our investors. I am confident that the allegations contained in today’s article will be proven to be baseless and without merit.” Griffen Ventures Investment Group has been a leader in biotechnology investment for over 20 years.
Steven sent it to Pogo to upload onto the site. This was a great day. He’d lived to see his adversary get hung out to dry, and was watching his portfolio increase in value by being correct about the Allied fraud. He felt sorry for those who had been duped into investing in the company, but he’d done everything he could to alert the world that the company was a sham, and the website had sounded the alarm for weeks to everyone who could read. Anyone with even a casual interest in the stock would have had to have done some research on it, and with the site so prominent on the message board discussions, they would have had to simply ignore the facts and stay long anyway.
Financially, Steven had done well by being on the right side of the trade – for once. His short position had more than tripled in value and he’d bought put options as well as sold calls most of the way down; going five times the money on those already. By the time the smoke cleared, he’d have made a lot of money, and while that was hardly compensation for the losses he’d suffered at the hands of Griffen – Peter and Todd’s faces came unbidden into his consciousness – it still meant that he was now ‘of secure means’ and could do pretty much whatever he liked from this point on. Maybe spend more time on his cryptography hobby – the market had occupied much of his time, as had running for his life, but perhaps now he could indulge that vice. Whatever. He’d figure it out.
Steven looked down the hall. He watched Antonia as she sat reading a book in Italian, singing softly to herself, a leg absently swinging off the side of the chair, and realized it was finally over. The whole thing. Just a few loose ends, and he’d be free to move on from this whole sorry episode and live his life; a life with the woman of his dreams.
~ ~ ~
Griffen’s cell interrupted his thoughts – he muted the car stereo when he saw the number displayed. It was Canada calling. The broker confirmed his account number and identity, and confirmed that he’d purchased $2.96 million dollars worth of Allied September put contracts. Griffen instructed him to place limit sell orders on the puts when Allied hit $9. Why be greedy? That would net him, by his rough math, $14 million, plus the original $3 million invested, and the $1 million in diamonds and the $1 million remaining in Canada in cash – close enough to $20 million for jazz. He paid no tax on the gains, because the Canadian account was undeclared and treated as a foreign investor from the U.S.’s standpoint, a hundred percent tax-free. $20 wasn’t $30 million, but he could still have a nice life.
Griffen terminated the call and hit the mute button on the stereo console. Music flooded the interior of the car.
He hummed along with the CD player and watched the scenery going by, ruminating where he wanted to live in his forced retirement. Costa Rica? Could be too close to the U.S., and a lot of Wall Street players liked to hang out there, so perhaps not such a hot idea. Pity, that, because it was so hospitable and the natives were very, very friendly. Maybe Thailand? Decisions, decisions. He’d stay in Toronto tonight, and hop on a plane tomorrow.
Griffen liked the sound of Thailand. He’d always been an aficionado of all things Asian, and the region had the reputation of being very forgiving of the sorts of entertainments well-heeled Caucasian gentlemen of a certain age favored.
He was sure he’d be able to get a flight to Bangkok out of Toronto, if not direct, then avoiding the U.S. flight system. He had nothing but time once across the border, so he wasn’t particularly worried.
Griffen stabbed at the stereo controls and cranked the volume. Def Leppard boomed from the stereo, and he bobbed his head with the beat.
In spite of the adversity thrown his way, in the end, life was good.
~ ~ ~
Steven saw the headline when he opened Spyder’s e-mail. Wow. A broad smile spread across his face as he read on:
According to the attached NY Times article, Griffen had been charged with eleven counts of securities fraud, money laundering, and violation of banking laws. Oddly, the domestic fund wasn’t being charged, although the DA indicated he was reserving the right to do so at a later date. It was only the offshore fund and Griffen named in the article – that sort of figured, because all the evidence pointed to the offshore entity as the one used to handle the criminal funds.
Griffen was a wanted man now, and would be on the run for the rest of his natural life. That was somewhat comforting, although it wouldn’t bring back any of the dead.
He saw another e-mail from Cliff with an attachment. He opened the message.
[Thought you’d find this interesting. Our man on the inside at the brokerage reported Griffen placed a huge order on Monday morning to buy Allied puts. It would seem he was betting on the stock dropping. Enclosed is the brokerage statement. Note the $9 limit order. Cliff]
So he’d bought a ton of puts the second he figured out the jig was up? Smart, Steven supposed. After all, he’d done the same thing.
Steven opened the attachment and considered the buys; ran the math on his calculator. Griffen made almost $15 million off his play when he sold at $9. The only conclusion was that he’d known it was going to go through the floor, and had decided to profit personally even as his offshore fund crashed and burned, taking the banks and brokers and investors’ money with them.
What a piece of shit.
Steven thought about it. What could he do with the information? It was confidential and part of an ongoing investigation, so he couldn’t send it to the papers. And given the Canadian origin he wasn’t sure what the U.S. authorities could do about it.
Then Steven had a terrible and wonderful idea. An idea so evil it shocked him for a second.
He realized it was truly Karmic. The great circle. What comes around, goes around.
Perfect.
Checkmate: Chapter 23
In the offices of Griffen Ventures, an all-hands meeting was underway. A dignified, impeccably dressed and groomed man was addressing the staff.
“Matt here has done a remarkable job during a challenging and volatile period in the firm’s history. I’m pleased to be taking over as Managing Director, and appreciate all the hard work you’ve put in during the recent difficulty. Consider this the beginning of a new era for Griffen Ventures.”
The speaker came across as polishe
d and sincere. His name was Samuel Finch – a well-known investment manager recently recruited from Vanguard. His resume read impeccably, and featured an MBA, as well as a six-year stint with the CIA, ostensibly as an international banking expert.
“As my first official duty, I’m changing the name of the fund to Midas Ventures Biotechnology Investments. It’s more in keeping with our current goals and identity. Let’s hope that it bodes well for our future performance.”
After a few more platitudes, the meeting was adjourned. Samuel called Matt into his office.
“I want to sell December calls on Allied today, and short the stock to vapor over the next week. Say $20 million worth.” Samuel wanted to make a buck or two off the play.
“Easy enough, sir,” Matt remarked.
“Call me Sam. I also want to sell January calls on Prometheus Industries, to the tune of $40 million. I have a feeling they’re deeply overvalued here. Let’s start shorting them too, but not fast enough to raise suspicions,” he instructed Matt.
“Any insights on why you have this strong feeling?” Matt asked him.
“Let’s just say I have a hunch it would be a good trade,” Samuel said.
He’d actually been told by Rick that Prometheus was going to be the subject of a federal investigation, which would tunnel its share value over the next month. The Prometheus short would put the fund up by at least 25 percent for the year, ensuring that even with all the drama, most investors would keep their investment in the fund. They were, after all, in it for the money.
Everyone was.
~ ~ ~
In his Buenos Aires condo, Jim Cavierti was packing his bags when he heard his door open. His heart sank. He’d expected to have enough time to get away before they heard the news about Heliotrope; he’d only found out in the last few hours himself.
Griffen had fucked him. Big time.
All it would have taken was one phone call to give Jim a warning that the fund was going to be rendered illiquid, and he could have disappeared within an hour. But after twenty years of partnership and forty-five years of friendship, Griffen hadn’t bothered. And now he’d left Jim to explain the situation to the Germans.
Five men walked into his bedroom. It had a magnificent high-rise view of downtown and the river. Truly panoramic.
“Jim, we’ve just heard that our investment has been rendered worthless,” said the shortest of the group. Helmut Weiss was the head of the Wolfsatz, an utterly ruthless man in his seventies whose stock in trade was murder and abuse.
“Helmut, I just found out myself. We’ve all been screwed by Griffen. I had twenty million in that fund right along with your money,” Jim explained, which was true. He still had many millions from his side businesses with the New Jersey mob and the Germans, but he’d also lost a big chunk of cash.
“I understand, Jim. But what am I to do now? I can never really know if or when you had knowledge of your partner’s actions. Do you see my predicament?” Helmut had a problem, all right. Which meant Jim had a bigger problem.
Helmut looked around the room; saw the bags half-packed on the bed.
“Going on a trip?” he asked.
Jim knew it was over. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.
“Boys, why don’t you help Jim with his trip? I thought I saw his car waiting downstairs,” Helmut said with an awful grin. He turned and walked out of the room.
“No, please, no, listen, Helmut? HELMUT? I DIDN’T KNOW. I SWEAR I DIDN’T KNOW...” he heard the front door close.
He looked at the men.
“Please, don’t do this. I can make you all rich. Please. Just listen.” Jim was getting frantic. They grabbed him under his arms.
“I have millions. I’ll give each of you a million dollars if you let me go. Please. Think about it. A million dollars. Just tell Helmut you killed me, and you’ll all be rich. Rich,” he pleaded.
The leader of the group walked over to the sliding glass door that sealed them off from the balcony, and pulled it open.
Really a remarkable view.
Thirty-one stories, and you could see the Teatro Colon, the Cemetery, the River, the Boulevard of Liberation – literally the whole city laid out like a tapestry before you. It was one of the best addresses in town.
The wind bit cold on the skin. A little drizzly, still. You could smell a tinge of exhaust and hear the noise of traffic from a distance.
“Please...oh, God no…just listen, two million apiece, seriously, two million, where are you ever going to see that kind of money…” One of the goons slammed his fist into Jim’s jaw, knocking out most of his teeth and abruptly terminating the negotiation. Brass knuckles. Tears streamed down his alarmed face, mingling with the blood and remnants of teeth leaking out of his ragged mouth. A stain spread at his crotch.
“Ahhh, Scheise. Get rid of him,” said the leader.
“Nnnnppph...mooo...nooooooo...nooooooooooooo...” moaned James Augustus Cavierti – the very last sounds he ever uttered, as the third man grabbed his feet and they sent him sailing over the balcony, out into the grey Argentine sky and towards the cold and final embrace of the sidewalk below.
Checkmate: Chapter 24
“Fore!” The Vice President connected solidly with the ball, his form perfect, and watched as it sailed off into the distance towards the ninth hole. He was an avid golfer, and loved the early Fall for the crispness of the air. It had a certain exhilarating snap to it.
A security detail stood a discreet distance away. His partner in the game today was Dennison Harding, a longtime friend and prominent business personality, the CEO of Camber Funding Group – a fund that specialized in technology and biotech plays. Dennison was a lean, dashing-looking sixty-year-old with a good tan and great teeth, framed by a full head of salt and pepper hair. His demeanor bespoke old money, breeding, panache.
“Great shot, Mr. Vice President,” Harding observed.
“Thanks. It was good, wasn’t it?”
“Really good, I’d say.” They got into their cart and made their way to the next hole.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you on that other matter. I did everything I could. Who knew?” said the Vice President.
“Well, it’s not the end of the world. I would have liked to have seen the stock go to fifty dollars before I had to pull the plug, but sometimes shit happens,” Dennison reasoned. “We still did well on it. A shame, though; it could have been a home run. We were close there for a bit. Really could have worked out spectacularly.”
“There was no way of knowing our player would have misjudged his information control so badly. Stewart vouched for him before he was pointed at Allied. That’s the problem when you have amateurs in the game. It’s impossible to predict the stupidity factor. Oh, well, no good deed shall go unpunished, right?” He smiled at Harding. “Again, apologies all around. I tried,” said the VP.
“Stewart’s a good man. No hard feelings. Like they say, you win some, you lose some.” They got out of the cart, looked carefully at their balls and the line of sight to the ninth hole.
“It’s only money. We’ll make it up on the next one,” Dennison concluded.
They both sighed, weary of the weight the world had placed upon their shoulders.
“I’ll bet you five dollars you can’t get your shot in two strokes,” said the VP.
Dennison took another look at the shot, and broke into a wide grin.
“You’re on.”
Checkmate: Chapter 25
Griffen was enjoying his enforced retirement immensely. He had a huge house overlooking the water in Phuket, Thailand; a retinue of servants to attend to his driving and cooking and cleaning needs; and a regular rotation of very young, very willing girls to keep his body fit and his mind amused. He’d tapped into the local sub-culture, had a virtually limitless supply of narcotic substances available to him, and employed a security team that was loyal, experienced, and first rate. Life was good.
He missed the action of the Str
eet, but he was getting rather used to the international lifestyles of the rich and pampered. And there were few better countries to be rich and pampered in than Thailand; where a man’s needs were understood, and with no silly taboos or social mores to keep one from enjoying all life had to offer.
The villa he’d rented on Surin beach was very private, up the coast from Patong Beach. The town and all the action you could handle was only a few minutes away. Most everyone he encountered spoke English, especially in a resort area like Phuket, which had lots of American and Australian visitors; primarily college-age tourists; for Thailand was still inexpensive compared to the rest of the world. The island itself was lush and incredibly verdant, no doubt a function of the torrential rains that irrigated the area all through spring and summer. If you could handle monkeys everywhere and bugs the size of baseballs, it wasn’t a bad place at all to pitch your tent.
Griffen had decided to stick around until March or so, and figure out where he’d spend the other half of the year by then. He’d bought his way into a Thai passport, and he was untroubled by the U.S. judicial system’s fist-shaking; it was all clearly for show – there had been no serious attempt to track him down. While it was true he could never go back, he was having the time of his life here, so what was he really missing out on? Phuket Island wasn’t Manhattan Island, but at the end of the day, who cared? You could get a fourteen-year-old girl for the night for $30, or rent them by the week for $150. The Villa cost him four thousand per month; quite a bargain for such a lavish, palatial hideaway.
If he felt like going out and getting a bit of stimulation, he took in the cockfights; and there were a several kick-boxing venues where he could watch the locals literally kick the crap out of one another.
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