Mace nodded. “Yes. So?”
“I spoke with a friend of mine at the Stillman Company, someone I met because of the fund I manage for Columbia.” Rachel hesitated. “The Stillmans invested only ten million in Broadway Ventures, nowhere near what Leeny told you she was getting from them.”
“Are you certain?” Mace felt a sudden uneasiness, an almost eerie sensation that something was wrong with Broadway Ventures, that Rachel was right.
“I’m positive. You can call him.” She glanced down at the envelope. “It’s all in here, Mace. The newspaper clippings. A memo from the person at LeClair and Foster, unsigned, of course. A copy of a LeClair and Foster senior management memo detailing the evidence against the four people, including Leeny Hunt, on the Northwest Rod and Steel deal team. And the name and number of my friend at the Stillman Company you can call to confirm the amount of the firm’s investment in Broadway Ventures.” Rachel stuffed the papers back in the envelope and handed it to him. “You can keep this. I made a copy for myself.”
Mace took the envelope from her silently. There were too many strange things going on: Rachel’s information; the fact that Leeny had broken into his computer; the odd look on Marston’s face; Webster’s absolute conviction that there was going to be a Manhattan real estate crash; Leeny’s ability to raise a billion dollars so fast. But what could they all mean? Did they really mean anything at all? Even if Leeny had traded on the inside at LeClair and Foster and Lewis Webster had known all about it, so what? She had never actually been accused of anything. It was wrong to trade on insider information, but if the feds couldn’t put together a case, who was he to say anything? So what if Leeny was lying about where the money for Broadway Ventures was coming from? The money was clearly in the account. John Schuler had inked the Chase deal, and he wouldn’t have executed the loan documents without confirming the fact that all the partnership money was in the Broadway Ventures account at Chase. Mace shook his head. It was all probably meaningless, but he had to follow up on what she had given him. It was his nature. He already knew where he was going to start looking for answers.
“There’s one more thing you should know,” Rachel said.
Mace glanced up at her. He had been lost in thought. “What is it?”
“About ten years ago Leeny spent some time in a Montreal mental institution as a result of severe clinical depression. She still uses prescription drugs to control the condition.”
23
Washington, D.C., like New York City, had been wrapped in cold since the beginning of February. But this day the nation’s capital was enjoying a brief respite from the heavy overcoats, gloves, and scarves that were the normal outdoor attire for this time of year. Slade Conner moved slowly down the sidewalk next to the long Reflecting Pool, still frozen solid despite spring’s first foray north. As he walked, he took care to avoid the growing reservoirs in the sidewalk, reservoirs supplied by the melting snow piled a foot high at the edge of the cement. At the west end of the pool Abraham Lincoln looked out sternly from his seat inside the huge marble structure that bore his name.
Usually he would have enjoyed the warm weather, which he much preferred to the arduous Minnesota winters he had endured throughout his youth. But today he could not enjoy himself. Today things such as conformity, following orders, and being the good soldier did not seem to make sense any longer. The maxims he had lived by for so long were coming under scrutiny, and he was suddenly distracted as he had never before been.
Malcolm Becker, hands clenched behind his back, walked beside Slade. Becker stared straight ahead as he moved, oblivious of the deep puddles on the sidewalk. His black leather military-issue shoes were soaked, but he did not seem to notice. His face was grim, and his eyes were fixed upon Abraham Lincoln, who grew larger before them with each step.
“What was it that you wanted to discuss, Slade?” Becker was the first to break the silence. “What was so important?”
Slade removed a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. The sun, already low in the early-afternoon sky, was bright, and its rays reflected strongly off the melting snow.
Slade swallowed hard. It was not normal to question orders. It ran counter to all his training. If he had done this on the sands of Kuwait during the Persian Gulf War, he might have been killed in the instant he had hesitated. But there came a time when one needed to know why, to see the bigger picture.
Slade checked ahead and behind quickly. There was no one around them at this point. The conversation they were about to engage in required complete confidentiality; that was why they had left CIA headquarters.
Becker stopped walking, sensing Slade’s discomfort. “What is it, son?”
Slade stopped and turned toward Becker. He summoned his courage. This was tantamount to mutiny. “General, why did I go to Honduras?” The real question was, “Why did you send me to kill Carter Guilford?” But there was no need to ask it that way. Becker would understand what Slade meant.
Becker did not answer right away. So the pupil had suddenly come of age. He was no longer willing simply to accept the orders of his superior. It was the natural process, and Becker had seen it occur many times over his long career. Now questions had to be dealt with directly and immediately or things could spin out of control. “Take off the sunglasses, boy.” Becker took on the military voice, low and gruff.
Slade removed the dark lenses but did not bother to put them back in his shirt pocket. He just held them in his hand, which fell to his side.
Becker moved a step closer to Slade so that their faces were very close. He ground his teeth together slowly. “I told you that Carter Guilford was working with a Colombian drug cartel. He was giving them extremely sensitive information so that the drug runners could avoid detection on their flights into this country, and he was being paid very well for the information.” Becker’s voice became even lower. “He was keeping some of the money for himself, but he was funneling most of it to Preston Andrews so that Andrews could use it to stabilize his family business.”
Slade’s face remained impassive, but his mind spun. Becker was claiming that the money from the Ortega cartel was actually going to the vice president, the exact opposite of what the anonymous letter had indicated. There could be no doubt that money from the Ortegas had found its way to Washington. But now there were two very different stories on the recipient of the Ortegas’ generosity. This was insane.
“Andrews was able to access information with respect to anti-drug-smuggling activities at the DEA, and Guilford, in his position as head of all field operations for CIA in Central and South America, had our side covered. Andrews approached Guilford a year ago, when his company started to experience troubles. He knew that Guilford needed money, and he himself needed money to prop up his firm. They were a perfect match. Guilford made contact with the Ortegas almost immediately, and it didn’t take the Ortegas long to accept the deal. But now that’s over. Now Andrews needs something else to help him make it out of his jam. And he’s using the power of his office to do it.” Becker paused for a second to allow the gravity of what he had just said to sink in. “Carter Guilford was a criminal, Slade. That was why I had you kill him.” Becker raised his voice to emphasize the words. Slade recoiled slightly, in an involuntary reaction to the word kill.
Becker saw the blink. It was time to slam the door shut. “Preston Andrews is a criminal too, Slade. But I can’t have you kill the vice president of the United States. Much as I’d like to, that might create some problems. But I’ll tell you something. The country would be much better off without him. The fact that he even has a chance to be president of the nation I love so much, a nation both of us have risked our lives for, sickens me.” Becker shook his head. “That SOB went into the Coast Guard to get out of his tour in Nam. I didn’t have all those high-level connections his daddy had. While I was in a foxhole being shelled by the Viet Cong, he was chasing salmon poachers of
f Alaska.” Becker snorted his disrespect. “It’s not that I need to be president. It’s that I want someone other than him to win the election. I would gladly pull out of the race if I knew by doing so I could guarantee a victory for someone other than Preston Andrews. But that isn’t going to happen. It’s a two-horse race at this point. I’m the only one that can keep him out of the Oval Office.”
“And you believe that he is trying to create a scandal at the CIA to discredit you.” Slade’s voice was hushed.
“Yes.” Becker nodded in approval. The pupil was returning to the fold.
“Why have I been keeping an eye on Mace McLain and the young woman Rachel Sommers?”
Becker’s eyes narrowed. So the pupil had not completely returned to the fold yet. “Because I have information leading me to believe that Preston Andrews is working with the investment bank employing Mr. McLain, Walker Pryce and Company. Andrews has had several meetings with the senior partner of the firm, Lewis Webster. I believe that Andrews has recruited Webster to help him conspire to keep Andrews Industries afloat now that the money from Colombia has dried up. I am aware that you know Mr. McLain. I wanted you to keep that line of communication open in case I needed it, so that Mr. McLain would not think it strange if you called him out of the blue.” Becker hesitated. “As I recall, the idea to check up on Ms. Sommers was yours.”
For several moments Slade stared at his commander. Then Becker’s face blurred, and Abraham Lincoln came into focus far behind the general’s right shoulder. What was he thinking? How could he have possibly questioned Becker? A man to whom he owed his career?
Becker inhaled slowly. “It is a difficult situation, son. I know that. But it will work out.”
Slade nodded.
They began to walk again, back the way they had come, away from the Lincoln Memorial. The meeting was over.
“By the way, Slade, have you been able to get any information with respect to Andrews Industries? I know you’ve been to Detroit several times.” His voice was friendly again.
Slade’s thoughts shot suddenly to the two sets of financial statements still hidden in the desk at his apartment.
* * *
—
“John?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Mace McLain.” Mace spoke loudly. The traffic screaming by the Seventh Avenue public telephone made it almost impossible to hear Schuler.
“Oh, hello, Mace. What’s all that noise? Where are you?”
“I’m in between meetings, John.” Mace was short with the Chase banker. He was going to be late to Columbia if he didn’t get going soon.
“Oh. Well, did you get the execution copies of the loan agreement for Broadway Ventures?” Schuler asked. “I sent them over this morning.”
“I got them.” Mace was quickly becoming exasperated. He had another, more important topic to discuss than the mundane paperwork related to the loan from Chase. Like most bankers, Schuler was nothing if not chatty, and sometimes it was difficult to break his momentum.
“You all must be pretty happy overthere at Walker Pryce.” Schuler snorted. “Two billion dollars to play with. It’s incredible.”
“We’re happy all right, John.” Mace got to the purpose of the call as the other man stopped to take a breath. “I need a favor.”
Schuler took a sip from a glass of water. “Name it.”
“I need some information on the investors.”
“You mean the investors of Broadway Ventures?” Schuler asked.
“Yes.”
Schuler took another sip. “I’m not trying to be flip or anything, Mace, but why don’t you just call them up and ask them yourself? I assume you must know them pretty well. They’re your investors after all. Heck, I don’t even know who they are. I wasn’t even allowed to see the subscription agreements. I thought all the secrecy surrounding investor identities was a little much, but Webster gave me an indemnification from Walker Pryce that the investors were all qualified, and that was all I needed. Funny, he usually doesn’t give anything away to the banks, but he was happy to give me the indemnification this time.” The banker chuckled to himself as if it had been a great coup to win the concession from the normally inflexible Webster. “I would guess with all the secrecy involved that there must be quite a few Swiss investors. All I know is that the money is in the partnership account. I’m not sure what I could tell you that you couldn’t find out by calling your own investors.”
It was a dicey situation, Mace thought. If he came clean with Schuler and admitted that he didn’t know exactly who the investors were because Leeny and Webster had kept that information to themselves, he risked alarming the banker. That was something he absolutely didn’t want to do. If Schuler sniffed anything askew, he might become worried and try to squirm out of the loan. And Webster would find out why Schuler was trying to back out, that Mace had been the cause. But if Mace skirted the issue, Schuler might call Leeny to try to find out what was going on.
A truck roared by, bouncing over several potholes. Mace pulled his coat tightly around his neck as the icy wind from the truck rushed over and around him in the dark. “Look, I’m just doing some standard checking on one of the investors.” It was lame, but there was nothing else to say. He used a parental voice. “There’s nothing to be alarmed about.”
“What do you need?” Schuler didn’t sound convinced that this kind of checking was so standard.
“I need you to backtrack the wires into the Broadway Ventures partnership account at Chase. Tell me where the money came from.”
“You want me to check every wire?”
“Yes.” Mace didn’t flinch. “I don’t believe there will be that many.” It was a shot in the dark, but Leeny had raised the money very quickly. There couldn’t be that many investors. The gnawing suspicion suddenly intensified. She had raised the money so damn fast.
“This is a little unusual.”
“Are you saying you can’t do it, John?”
“No, I can do it.” Schuler hesitated. “Maybe you could just give me a little idea of what this is about.”
“John, I have a quick question first.”
“What’s that?” the banker snapped. He was becoming annoyed at Mace’s evasion.
“Leeny has seemed a little strange since that night I left her with you. Do you have any idea what her problem might be?” He needed Schuler to be much more accommodating, and he knew exactly how to make that happen.
“No.” Schuler’s tone was suddenly stone cold.
“Have you spoken to her since that night?”
“No. I thought I was supposed to deal only with you. That’s what she told me anyway. That’s why I’ve been working the documentation on the loan to Broadway Ventures through you.”
That was crap. Leeny never would have told Schuler to deal only with him on the documentation. Schuler was lying. He had used her that night, and now he didn’t want to talk to her. He probably hadn’t even told her until afterward that the loan had been approved. That was probably why he didn’t want to talk to her. The little bastard. It was time to make him sweat. “Did you two go out to dinner after I left your office that evening?”
“No, no. She stayed for a few minutes after you left, then left by herself. I went back to Connecticut. She said she had to meet someone.”
“That’s funny. I thought Leeny said that you and she went out to get a quick bite to eat after the meeting.” He was fishing, but he was certain his bluff would bear fruit.
There was nothing but silence at the other end of the phone for a few moments. “I—I’m just trying to remember. It’s been kind of hectic, you know,” Schuler sputtered.
“Of course it has been.” Mace’s voice was soothing.
“Yes, now I remember.” Schuler began again. “Sure. We did go out for a little while, but just for a quick dinner.” Suddenly Schuler was panicked.
He sensed from Mace’s tone that Mace somehow knew more about the night at the Inter-Continental than he was letting on. And if Leeny found out that he had called Mace from the restaurant to tell him that the loan had been approved, she might begin to scream. If she was aggressive, she could make a pretty good case against him for sexual harassment. At the very least she could make things sticky for him in the Chase executive offices. “Damn it,” he whispered.
The traffic was stopped for a red light, and Mace heard the expletive. He smiled. He could almost see the perspiration forming on Schuler’s upper lip. “Everything all right, John?”
Schuler changed the subject quickly. “Fine. Listen, Mace, I’ll be happy to check out the wire transfers for you.” Suddenly he wanted to get off the phone.
“I need the information fast, John.”
“You’ll have it tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that all, Mace?”
“For now.”
“I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Call me at noon.”
“Thanks for your help, John. Oh, and I’m sure Leeny will be fine. Of course anything that’s bothering her is clearly none of my business.”
Schuler hesitated for a moment. “Of course not.”
Mace hung up the phone. He smiled as he glanced at his watch. There was no way Schuler was going to call Leeny now.
He hailed a cab. Tomorrow he would get some answers and probably be able to put this whole thing to bed in short order.
* * *
—
Becker glanced up from the file lying open atop his desk as Slade entered the office. The air was full of cigar smoke. “Good evening, Major,” he said gruffly.
Slade nodded. “Good evening, General.”
“It’s late.” Becker glanced at his military watch. It was almost midnight. “What did you want to see me about?”
Slade stepped forward, held the folder before him for a second, then dropped it onto the general’s desk.
The Vulture Fund Page 26