Voices Behind the Curtain

by Gordon Zuckerman

  * * *

  MIKE HAD BEEN INVOLVED IN SOME STRANGE CONVERSATIONS, BUT nothing like this one. Never in my wildest imagination have I ever considered the idea of seeking the assistance of “organized crime” to protect me and my friends in our own government!

  Unsure or not knowing how to react to Marco’s question, Mike Stone chose to stare straight-ahead and remain silent.

  Observing Mike’s reaction, Marco sensed he had received the only answer Mike was willing to give. He knew that meeting had concluded.

  CHAPTER 22

  A Quiet Evening with Cecelia

  NEW YORK, APRIL 1949

  Each night after work, Mike looked forward to arriving home. No matter how difficult his day had been or how much evening work remained in his briefcase, Cecelia always made him feel appreciated and loved. From that first day when he met her on the Cal campus, almost 15 years ago, he had never ceased to be amazed by her fascinating presence. Her special way of greeting him, her exquisite dinners, her consistently insightful conversations, her unrestrained affection always represented the high point of his day.

  The memory of his meeting with Don and Marco Tancredi still dominated his mind as he approached the front door of his apartment. What is it that we don’t understand about our Democratic Free Enterprise system that causes us to protect ourselves from our own government? Is it our pursuit of profit that causes so many complex problems, or is there some other unseen expectation that could be pushing us to such extremes?

  Just as he was reaching to insert his key in the front door, Cecelia pulled it open, as if she sensed his presence on the other side. The sight of the petite Asian woman with her fine figure dressed in traditional Chinese clothing always delighted him. Without a hair out of place, and with perfectly applied makeup, she leaned in for the kind of kiss most men only dreamed of. The two martinis, prepared to their liking and served in well-chilled long-stemmed crystal glasses, were sitting on the sideboard just inside the entrance, one for him and one for her.

  Tonight was one of those balmy New York evenings, the kind that encouraged you to be outside. The couple carried their drinks out on the terrace overlooking the East River, the boroughs of Queens, Brooklyn, and the expanse of Long Island. Enjoying their nightly tradition of sitting on the balcony, sipping their drinks, enjoying the view, feeling the warm, soft breezes, telling each other about their day could take 15 minutes, and sometimes much longer.

  Having recently returned from her extended stay on the West Coast, Cecelia was anxious to share what she had discovered. Clinking her frosted glass with Mike’s, she asked, “What do the Army Language School, the Harvard Business School, Hastings Law School, and Dr. Tom’s program all have in common?”

  Mike knew he wasn’t expected to answer her rhetorical question. From many years of experience, he was familiar with Cecelia’s long-standing habit of answering her own question.

  “One, they each have such outstanding academic programs, they are able to differentiate their curriculum and attract some of the finest young scholars from all over the world.

  “Two, their autonomous character provides the schools with the flexibility to determine, generate, and adjust their course curriculum to reflect the most advanced academic progress, independent of the influence of donors, the government, or vested private interests.

  “And three, their part-time employment structure allows them to recruit the most recognized and experienced teaching professors, many of which are simultaneously employed by other universities.”

  Visibly excited, Cecelia was like a sailing ship, sailing downwind, under full sail. Pausing only long enough to take another sip of her martini, Cecelia was using the planned interruption to study Mike over the rim of her glass. She needed to observe his reaction before proceeding.

  * * *

  HAVING ATTENDED CAL BERKELEY AND THE HARVARD BUSINESS School, Mike was thinking about his own experiences. It’s strange to remember what it was like in those days. Most of what I recall had something to do with my survival instincts. It seemed to me that our total being was dedicated to doing what was necessary to get from Monday through Saturday, just to start the process all over again the next week. At the time, I certainly don’t remember giving much thought about the relative excellence of the case material, the history, and experience of my professors, or the privilege and advantages of being a member of a group that contained so many bright students who had been drawn together from such diversified backgrounds.

  “Cecelia, not only do I think you have come up with an exciting idea for a new school, but you also may have answered two other questions that, on occasion, have been creeping into my mind. If our recent observations about the continuous resurfacing of these Power-Cycle threats are accurate, we may be required to grow our own forces and begin to think about perpetuating our leadership.”

  It wasn’t until they were halfway through dinner when Mike started to tell Cecelia about the distressing revelations Marco and Armando had disclosed to him. “If we allow that to continue, we will have a much more difficult timeproven political malfeasance. We could try to fight them in the courts and in the press, but I seriously doubt we could do much to stop them. On the other hand, if there was some way we could get our hands on Manuel’s files, we might have the information we would need to expose what is happening. The threat of properly supported exposure could become a very powerful weapon.”

  “I don’t know anything about Arena,” said Cecelia, “but I have to believe his volunteering to turn over his records is the last thing he would want to do.”

  “Maybe not so difficult,” a smiling Mike said. “I checked. He maintains a variety of accounts at our bank right here in New York. Perhaps tomorrow I need to take advantage of my executive privileges and have a look at those accounts.”

  * * *

  ARRIVING EARLY AT THE BANK, MIKE USED HIS BANK CREDENTIALS to gain entry to the private accounts’ file room. There was a long list of credit memorandums pertaining to Señor Manuel Arena, Arena Productions, and its sister companies, Arena Motion Picture Distribution and Arena Properties.

  The corresponding voluminous files contained carefully dated copies of all the different cash transfers that had been made from his motion picture theaters into a master Arena Studios account.

  Unwilling to risk involving a subordinate, Mike decided to personally search through all of the files. Each day as he was preparing to leave the office, he checked out one or two files, placed them in his briefcase, and took them home to peruse and return the next day.

  At home, after dinner, he and Cecelia would study the contents of each file and make notes. They were beginning to use every horizontal surface of their spacious apartment to place their notes. Hopefully, they might discover some pattern that would assist in their interpretation of what might be happening. After a couple of weeks, Mike and Cecelia had amassed quite a collection of notes. What had once been a fanatically cleaned and neatly arranged apartment had become a burgeoning garden of paper landscaping.

  Each morning after he left for work, she would search among all the growing number of piles. Walking from room to room, she would pick up one set of papers and place it next to another. For 3 days, she continued her reorganizing and analyzing of what appeared to a growing sea of seemingly unrelated bits of information.

  When Mike arrived home on the evening of the fourth day, he was confused and disappointed. She wasn’t waiting to greet him—no hugs, no kisses, no martinis, and no help removing his coat was being offered. Confused, he entered their apartment. His dear wife, uncharacteristically clothed in her pajamas, wearing no makeup and her hair pulled back ponytail style, was sitting in the middle of what looked like a sea of small papers. She was holding a clipboard in her left hand. She was using her right hand to pick up, one at a time, the small notes scattered around her. After carefully returning the note to its original resting place and with her hand now free, she would write some kind of notation on the paper attached to th
e clipboard.

  * * *

  NOT UNAWARE OF HIS PRESENCE, SHE HELD UP HER FREE HAND BEFORE saying, “I think I almost have it. Can you wait for a moment? I think I’m on the brink of confirming a pattern I discovered late last night.”

  * * *

  HIS ATTENTION FOCUSED ON THE MAKING OF TWO MARTINIS. HE WAS surprised when he heard his normally demure wife excitedly exclaim, “Mike! I broke the code! You have no idea what Señor Arena has been doing! I have checked and rechecked my notes. I am confident that I have discovered how he is skimming his own operation.”

  For the next 15 minutes, Cecelia walked Mike through her findings. When sorted on a chronological basis, the weekly transfers of funds from each city approximated the difference between the revenues that were reported for sales tax purposes and what had been recorded in the theater ledgers. Next, she showed him the difference was equal to the amount of money that was transferred, each week, into his personal account.

  “He’s skimming,” Mike said aloud.

  “And from some very dangerous people. While it appears no single transfer is large enough to be easily noticed, I’d bet when you add it all together, over a long period of time, the total represents a significant amount of money. Certainly enough to catch the attention of his Cuban investment partners.”

  Shaking his head in pleased disbelief, he said, “Cheating on your taxes is one thing, but it pales in comparison to what Arena’s done—and to what might happen if his Cuban investors were to learn about it.

  “But, we are not finished. Knowing what he has done is one thing; proving in court is quite different. Somehow, we need to find a way to match his deposits to the missing movie house revenues. Once we can present documentable courtroom evidence to him, Arena is going to have to make a choice. He can take his chance, one of surviving the attack from his Cuban investors, or he can provide us with the information we are seeking.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Dr. Tom Burdick

  BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA, APRIL 1949

  The Sentinels’ doctoral professor was looking forward to Mike’s visit. Tom Burdick had been keeping close track of his former six most unusual students who had received their doctoral degrees 1 June of 1935, almost 15 years ago. Over the course of those years, rarely did he not spend time thinking about how talented and responsible they were, and all that they had accomplished . . . He would often think, How often during a long teaching career do six students come along that redefine the study of history, develop a conceptual model for interpreting the future consequences of current events, and organize themselves into a proactive group to oppose those who abuse the privileges of “Democratic Free Enterprise”?

  * * *

  THE STUDENT AND THE TEACHER WERE SITTING IN THE DINING ROOM of Tom’s Berkeley Hills home. They were savoring a bottle of prewar French Bordeaux Tom had been saving for a special occasion.

  Chuckling, Dr. Tom said, “I still remember that first day when we met in the basement of Larry Blake’s Berkeley restaurant. Not before or ever since have I had the opportunity to observe six young people who emitted so much bright light needed to illuminate whatever path in life you might choose to follow. I still recall sitting back and watching the six of you peel the skin off the onion, distilling your own unique conclusions, and then searching for ways to fit them all together into a large mosaic. When you began to organize your thought processes in what eventually became your Power-Cycle concept, I think I knew, even then, that you were entering new intellectual territory.

  “After you graduated, on my own, I would select some current issue, research it, and look at my work through your Power-Cycle prism. It was uncanny how accurate the conclusions I was able to draw about what future consequences that I was able to predict. I was so impressed, I designed some new research projects to be used for future cases. I used them to introduce your Power-Cycle concept in my classes. Consistently, over the last 4 years, the Power-Cycle course has been voted the most popular class in our doctoral program.”

  Fascinated, Mike asked, “If the subject matter was so popular, why didn’t you expand the size of your classes? Why didn’t you talk to us?”

  “Partially because my reach still isn’t what I’d like it to be. Although the Power-Cycle curriculum has become so popular, the total number of students we are reaching is still a very small number.

  “Then there is the second problem. When it became clear that you failed to attract the cooperation of the people whose assistance you needed to prevent the German industrialists from starting the Second World War, I realized there was an important question that still remained to be asked and answered.

  “Five years later, when the six of you came together to provide the proactive leadership and problem-solving skills required to prevent the Germans from using their ‘fortunes of war’ to start a future Fourth Reich, I realized the best information in the world, without the active participation from people who know how to make things happen, is just interesting information.”

  * * *

  TOM WAS SURPRISED AS HE WATCHED A WORRIED LOOK APPEAR ON Mike’s face. “Was it something I said?” he asked. “Did I upset you?”

  “No, not upset me. Are you kidding? Something you said triggered another concern, something Cecelia has begun to worry about. She is beginning to question what we should do, if these ‘Power Cycle’ problems keep occurring. How are we going to perpetuate what we have started. It would be interesting to see how she might react to what you have just told me.”

  Tom was confused. “Why Cecelia? I would have thought that you and Jacques, as the group’s unofficial leaders, would want to lead the discussion.”

  Finished listening to Mike explain why Cecelia had the time and the interest, Tom said, “I completely understand. Please have her call me. I’d be happy to talk to her. Now, if that is settled, why don’t we take a break? It’s a beautiful day. We can walk and talk at the same time.”

  * * *

  THE TWO MEN BEGAN THEIR LEISURELY WALK UP SANTA BARBARA Road, turned left on Spruce Avenue, and headed up the inclined street toward the entrance to Tilden Park. Mike, preoccupied by explaining his purpose for calling on his old professor, wasn’t paying any attention to the fast pace he was setting. They were barely halfway up Spruce when Tom stopped. Breathing hard, he asked, “What are you trying to do, kill off your old professor? Can we stop for a minute while I try to catch my breath?”

  Finally, when he was able to talk without gasping, the thoughtful professor asked, “When I received your note, knowing what you wanted to discuss, I was able to find out some very interesting things regarding Señor Arena. Before I answer, I would appreciate it if you would answer a question for me.

  “If what you have been suggesting regarding the effort by the militaryindustrial complex to resurrect military spending is true, why are you so concerned? Are you certain you want to place yourselves in a position where you and your friends are playing judge and jury regarding the need for new military armaments? Aren’t there other people who are responsible and more qualified to make those kinds of decisions?”

  * * *

  “TOM. IT’S NOT THAT WE OBJECT TO THE IDEA OF REARMING THAT concerns us. It’s the way these military prime contractors are attempting to use their wealth and influence to circumvent traditional governmental appropriation practices that we are questioning. Perhaps I need to explain.”

  After resuming their walk at a slower pace, the old professor asked, “When you and your Sentinel friends have placed what you have learned under your ‘Power-Cycle’ microscope, what have you discovered that has convinced you that you’ve stumbled on to the opening gambit of military industrialists attempting to exert their influence within our government for their own selfserving interests?”

  “Tom, let me share with you what really has us bothered. We have convinced ourselves that a postwar military buildup in the United States could trigger a reciprocal response by the Russians. While we don’t anticipate that aggressive rearmam
ent programs might lead to another world shooting war, it could mean years of escalating military spending, weapon development, and heavy government spending. If these programs are not properly evaluated by the designated and qualified congressional committees, how do we not know that a very costly ‘Cold War’ has not been triggered by those who are intent on introducing agendas of self-interest? Our interest in Arena is directly connected to learning more about his relationship with J. Jordan McWilliams and those military-industrial executives.”

  * * *

  THE TWO MEN HAD REACHED THE TOP OF SPRUCE AVENUE. THEY were able to enjoy the view of the eucalyptus forests and vegetated grandeur of Tilden Park dropping away to the east. Looking west, they were able to see San Francisco Bay, the ships passing beneath the Golden Gate and Bay bridges, and the skyline of San Francisco.

  Retracing their way back down Spruce Avenue, both men were enjoying the westerly grand vista while they thought about Mike’s explanation of the possible consequences of what could occur should the industrialists succeed. They had turned onto Santa Barbara Road when Tom suddenly announced, “Your hunch was right. Jordan’s friend, Manuel Arena, is one bad and very dangerous Mexico City business coyote. I was successful in learning some things about his movie business that you may find interesting.