by Peter Parkin
Juan sat back in his chair and gave Mike a steely courtroom glare. This was a man who clearly was used to confrontation, and probably thrived on it.
"My job is to assure myself to the best of my judgment at the time, that the principals to a transaction are who they say they are. No court would expect me to pry off someone's bandages to make sure their face matches their photo. Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Baxter. And don't try to tell me you weren't here. I met you. The voice is the same, the height and build are the same, and I have copies of two of your photo identifications. If you were a judge, a Brazilian judge, who would you believe—you, or me?"
Mike jumped from his chair, leaned over Juan's desk, and slammed his right fist down on top of the file. "You should have done more than you did! Someone was clearly impersonating me. And that couldn't have been Gerry Upton with this man, because he would have known the man wasn't me."
Mike could see the slightest hint of a smile turn the corners of Juan's mouth.
"Well it just so happens I did do one more thing. I had Mr. Upton swear out an affidavit attesting to the fact that you were who you were representing yourself to be. The document is right here in the file. And it was indeed Mr. Upton who was with you— unlike you, he wasn't wearing bandages all over his face so I could clearly see that his face matched his photos."
"I wasn't wearing..." Troy put his hands on Mike's shoulders and stopped him from yelling any further. Mike could feel the blood rushing to his face, could feel the heat.
"Mike, let me handle this, okay? You're too distraught right now. Calm down."
Troy gently pushed Mike back down into his chair, and then he turned to face Juan. "Can you advise us as to why there was so little documentation verifying the value of these real estate purchases? We have discovered that these are both fairly useless lots for our purposes, and we had to physically go to each one to discover that. Weren't you being paid to look out for our interests?"
Juan began leafing through both files again, pulling out papers and putting them aside. "I beg to differ Mr. Askew. You'll see that all appropriate documentation is here in both files: geological surveys, appraisals on fair market value, and copies of letters sent by me to Mr. Upton in Toronto—by registered mail—advising him of my opinion and warning of the restrictions to value enjoyment."
"Let me see." Troy reached over and took the papers. He studied both sets of documents. Then he saw something that made his stomach do flip-flops. He lurched forward in his chair. "What's this? For the Rio property it says fair market value is five million, and for the Angra property, three million. We paid twenty-five million for Rio and fifteen million for Angra!"
Mike reacted to this, leaning forward and grabbing the documents out of Troy's hands. He took out his glasses and started reading. The more he read, the more violently his hands shook.
"Mr. Askew, the two of you seem to be pretending you had no knowledge of anything that transpired. So, okay, I'll play your little game with you. Yes, you paid a total of forty million for two properties that had a sale price of only eight million. But, at the direction of Mr. Baxter and Mr. Upton, development monies were invested in a Brazilian bank account covering both properties. It would appear as a dual property purchase for forty million on your balance sheet, but in fact you only paid eight million to the vendors. The remaining thirty-two million was diverted to an account that would disperse funds as the development of the two properties commenced.
"I assumed at the time that it was done in this fashion to allocate all of the capital costs in advance, that would be needed to prepare these properties for your projects; for example: dredging, filling, etc. And of course, your balance sheet would look better by capitalizing the full forty million as real estate. In any event, all legal by Brazilian law."
Mike felt bile rise up into his throat from his stomach. "Do...you have a record of the bank account that the remaining thirty-two million was deposited to?"
"Yes, I do." Juan wrote out the number. "This account is in the Banco Vargas here in Centro. And before you ask the question, I want to show you the signed authorization from both Mr. Baxter and Mr. Upton, giving us permission to deposit these funds in that joint account."
Mike and Troy looked at the signatures. They were, without a doubt, Mike's and Gerry's. Mike's hands were shaking very fast now, and he clenched his fists attempting to hide it. But then his forearms just started trembling. There was nothing he could do to stop it.
Troy stepped in front of his friend and asked, "Juan, what name is this joint account in?"
"Let's see...yes, here it is... 'Baxter/Upton Reclamation Ltd.' And the signatories to the account are Michael Baxter and Gerald Upton."
Mike lost it. He pushed Troy out of the way and grabbed the frame of Juan's desk with both hands, heaving it over onto its side, knocking Juan backwards. He leaped over the desk and yanked the handsome little man up by his collar, slamming him back against the wall. "You tell me what's going on here, or I swear I'll..."
Suddenly the door to the office swung open and a young lady ran in. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the chaos, put her hands to her mouth and screamed, loudly. Following her in was a muscular young man in a suit, well over six feet tall. He yelled out, "Let go of him, right now!" He rushed toward them and met up with Troy first. Troy stretched out his hands trying to slow the young man down, but he was thrust aside with ease.
Mike let go of Juan and turned around just as the big guy reached their corner of the office. The man swung his monster fist at Mike's head. He easily dodged it and lashed back with a solid fist to the younger man's midsection. He groaned and doubled over in pain. Mike finished him off with an uppercut to the jaw that sent him decisively to the floor.
He turned back to face Juan, who was busy dusting himself off, seemingly unconcerned with his dazed associate lying on the floor.
"Mr. Baxter, this is the last time we will meet. Leave this office now before I phone the police. Believe me, you do not want to spend a night in our jails. I will overlook this violence on the condition that you never return here again. Go to the bank and get your money, then leave this country." A sarcastic smile crept across Juan's face. "Oh, and make sure you have photo identification with you. The bank will want to see it. You do have it, don't you?"
Troy was at Mike's side now, and spun him around toward the door. "Let's get out of here, Mike. This is not a good situation."
Mike nodded and they both headed for the door to make their escape. But Mike turned around to address Juan one last time. "We'll sue you, you slimy bastard. I don't know what kind of scheme you've pulled here, but I promise you we'll get to the bottom of this."
Juan just smiled his best smile, displaying brilliant white crowns sparkling against his dark complexion. "You can try to sue me. Sure you can. But remember, this is Brazil."
*****
They were sitting in an office in Banco Vargas, waiting for the busty Financial Services Manager to call up the bank account on the screen. She was fiddling with the key entries, leaning forward over her desk, squirming in the most creative ways imaginable to properly display her breasts. Troy had to keep looking away, and of course kept looking back. He felt a stiffening in his crotch and wondered how on earth he could have imagined visiting that nudist colony. He would have been tarred and feathered in the town square.
Mike had calmed down now, but he was quiet, deadly quiet. They hadn't said a word to each other as they made the walk through Centro to the ornate stone edifice occupied by Banco Vargas.
Troy looked closely at him as they sat there waiting for big boobs to find their account. Mike's right leg was bouncing up and down underneath his chair, in perfect cadence on the balls of his foot. He had his hands clasped together in his lap, but Troy could tell that it was more like a death grip, the whites of his knuckles being a dead giveaway.
What was the deal with that anger back at Paradis' office? Troy had never seen such an outburst from Mike before, and he had known
him since their university days. Mike was not a violent man. But the anger and fighting skills he had unleashed were a shock to Troy. What was going on with his friend? Sure, these were shocking developments that they had uncovered, but Mike's outburst seemed like overkill.
Big boobs shifted her head from the screen, and turned toward them. "I've located your account, Mr. Baxter, but I have to advise you that it shows a zero balance. I called up the history, and it looks like you and Mr. Upton authorized a bank transfer of the entire thirty-two million dollars to a numbered bank account in Panama—two years ago, shortly after this account was opened. I have your signatures on file authorizing it, and also copies of your photo identification on file. You should know also that due to privacy protections in Panama, I am barred from disclosing the name of the account-holder."
"Can you at least tell us the name of the bank?" Troy had his pen and paper poised ready to write down her answer.
"Yes, of course I can do that. It's Banco Liberacion Nacional, in Panama City, Panama.
Mike tilted forward as if he was going to say something, then just leaned back in his chair again and sighed, a look of defeat written on his face.
"Would you like to see your signatures and photo identifications?" Big boobs looked concerned.
Troy glanced at Mike, waiting for a reaction, an outburst...anything. Mike just laughed and shook his head. "What's the point?"
Suddenly he tilted forward again, this time with a loud gasp escaping from his mouth. He clutched frantically at his chest, then just keeled over onto the floor.
Chapter 12
"What time did you say our flight is to Acapulco tomorrow?" Mike was sipping his second scotch, nicely washing down the steak and potatoes he had just devoured.
"It's at 6:05 a.m., and you had better go easy on the booze, Mike. You scared the shit out of me this afternoon." Troy was watching his friend closely, on the lookout for any troubling signs.
Mike was starting to feel uncomfortable with the mother hen glares that Troy was casting him. "Look, Troy, I've been given a clean bill of health. You were there—the doctor said I was fine. Just a stress collapse, kind of like exhaustion, he said. And let's face it, I've had enough stress the last couple of days to last me a lifetime."
"Well, I'm sharing that stress with you too, Mikey. You're not in this alone."
"Thanks. I appreciate your saying that but let's face it—it looks like I'm the one who diverted funds, not you. I'm the one who's been set up."
"Mike, quit being so self-centered. The entire company has been put at risk with this, not just you. The Board and shareholders will have some serious questions, as will the Ontario Securities Commission. We've made disclosures that are no longer true, and a balance sheet that needs restating. We have tens of millions of dollars missing, apparently sitting in some tinpot tax haven in Central America."
Troy paused for effect, then continued. "This is bigger than just you. I'm a senior officer of this company too, so I share your stress. And we'll deal with it together."
Mike reached out and squeezed his friend's arm. "Thanks for the kick in the ass, buddy. I needed that. And thanks for looking out for me and being a good friend."
According to Troy, Mike had only been unconscious for a few minutes. He came around, lying on the floor of the bank office with several frantic ladies hovering over him, Ms. Big Boobs about to give him CPR. The next thing he knew, he was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. They hooked him up to monitors, and carried out several tests until he was finally given the 'thumbs up.' Of course they had insisted on keeping him overnight, but Mike flatly refused.
"Are you sure you're up to flying to Mexico? We could just head right home instead and go back there some other time."
"No, we're going to get this over with. I want to see the complete picture. We've owned the Mexican properties longer than the Brazilian ones; four years if I recall. So, who knows, we may be okay there. But we need to find out."
"Fair enough." Troy paused and scratched the back of his head, which Mike recognized as his usual signal that something was troubling him.
Mike raised his glass, and gestured in Troy's direction. "Fire away. What do you want to ask me?"
"You know me too well. Okay, what was going on in Paradis' office with all that anger and fighting stuff? You don't do that sort of thing. Sure, you have a shorter fuse than me, but I've never ever seen you behave like that. Forgive me for saying this, but you were totally out of control. That's not you."
"I agree, it's not. I'll be honest with you—that's been happening a lot lately: the subway thing, some blackouts, saying things that don't sound like they're coming from my mouth. Our family doctor said that these all might be side effects from the lightning accident, but he can't say for sure. All I know is, I don't seem to be myself at certain times, and I seem to have these behaviors, skills and knowledge that I didn't have before."
Troy's eyes betrayed his shock. "Geez, this all sounds kind of creepy, Mike. I don't want to scare you but it reminds me of one of those multiple personality things. Is your doctor looking into this for you?"
"Yeah, he is. But I'm not holding my breath. There's not a lot of data they have to go on, so the effect of lightning on humans is apparently mostly guesswork at the present time. It's still a relatively uncommon occurrence, particularly for two people to bash their heads together at the same instant they're zapped. He'll probably just prescribe drugs or have me lie on a couch and talk to him a few times, for all the good that's going to do."
"Those punches you landed—good god, you looked like a pro boxer! I don't recall you ever having boxed before. Did Gerry teach you a few things back when we were in university?"
"No, I've never boxed in my life. I can't even recall getting into any fights in grade school. I kind of kept under the radar and managed to keep a full set of teeth." Mike chuckled. "I was your basic wimp."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Mike drained his glass of scotch and signaled to the waiter to bring some more. "Maybe. I'll let you know when things become clearer to me." He didn't want to confide in Troy just yet, his theory about the lightning bolt connecting his and Gerry's brains at that last second of Gerry's life. It was too bizarre to talk about, and he was starting to feel like a freak. He didn't want his friend thinking of him that way.
Troy scratched the back of his head again, and blurted out the thing neither of them had talked about yet. "Gerry was embezzling. I would never have thought he was capable of such a thing. He was a straight-up guy and a great friend. Are you as stunned as I am?"
"Yes, and no. Now that I look back I realize that he had turned somewhat distant the last few years. Sure, he joked around and we all traveled and golfed together, but the serious conversations we used to have just kind of stopped. He seemed to put up some sort of shell, and this embezzlement was probably the reason why. I always assumed it was because of the tragic deaths in his family that caused him to cocoon.
"The embezzlement must have been the thing he was carrying around. What a huge guilt trip, and burden—wondering when he would get caught, and knowing that he had been betraying the company and his friends. Not to mention the risk of going to prison."
Troy finished off his scotch, and signaled to the waiter to bring them the check. "Who do you think that guy was with Gerry, all bandaged up pretending to be you? Gerry obviously had a partner, and together they pulled off a pretty slick crime. They had your identification forged, they were careful to make these land purchases outside our normal scope of operations to reduce scrutiny. Also, they knew that the controls would not be as stringent in Brazil. I wonder also if that lawyer was in on the scheme."
"I've been wondering about the exact same things, Troy. And they knew the shit would hit the fan one day, so they created a diversion to make it look like the CEO, me, planned this embezzlement. I've been royally set up. I do look pretty guilty if someone wanted to follow the trail. Interesting that this could have c
ontinued for quite some time if Gerry hadn't died. And I wonder when it all started. What other surprises might we discover?"
Troy paid the check, leaving a typically generous Canadian-style tip, and they headed out into the street. It was a humid night and both were looking forward to getting back to their air-conditioned rooms and peeling off their clothes.
Once they reached the hotel Mike lit a cigarette. Troy waited outside with him until he finished his smoke. "Troy, did you notice Gerry living differently at all? Any expensive purchases out of the norm?"
"No. Mind you, none of us are poor. This is what I don't get. Gerry certainly didn't need the money so why would he do it? Why would he take such a risk?"
"I don't get it either. It doesn't make any sense to me, and it seems totally out of character for Gerry—at least the Gerry we knew."
The two friends would carry that thought to sleep—"the Gerry we knew."
*****
Two days later, Mike and Troy were in the air on their way back to Toronto from Acapulco's Alvarez International Airport. It was going to be the longest flight of their lives as they pondered how they would explain to the Board of Directors, the shareholders, and the Ontario Securities Commission, that in both Acapulco and Huatulco they had discovered the exact same plot of deceits as they had uncovered in Brazil.
They would have to explain that in Mexico someone pretending to be Mike, as was the case in Brazil, had been a man with a bandaged face and with impeccable documents of identification. That he and Gerry had spent twenty-five million dollars of the company's money for two properties in Mexico that were really only worth five million. That the twenty million extra had been diverted to a Mexican bank account under the name of Baxter/ Upton Reclamation Ltd., and that same money had been transferred almost instantaneously to a numbered bank account at the Banco Liberacion Nacional in Panama City, Panama.
After the initial shock wore off, the flustered Board members would understand that the company had been scammed in both Brazil and Mexico by virtually identical schemes—the only difference between the two countries being that Mexico happened four years ago, and Brazil, two. And the CEO was saying he knew nothing about it, nor did he know how useless the four properties were. What kind of CEO was he?