Long Way Down (13 page)

“This month?”

He laughed. “No, they’re not that bad. Since the system went live.” He peered at the screen. “In ’04. They’ve done all the updates, but somebody should tell them there’s better systems out there. A VPN is only as good as the wall around it.”

“Leave them a message,” I said.

He laughed again. “Most excellent!” He typed something. “There. I left the names of two much better security programs.”

“Go back to the list.”

We read through the list of intruders. Much of it was coded information, but McKenna was able to translate instantly. I gave
him the trade dates and he pinpointed the applicable lines. The account holder information appeared and my heart sank.

“Oh shit.”

“Sorry,” he said.

The break-ins that had directed the trade in question had been authorized by an IP address at Arinna Labs. I had just discovered the evidence that would guarantee Philip Haley an all-expenses-paid one-to-five-year stay at one of our federal government’s gated communities.

I sat back in the hard plastic study chair, closed my eyes, and exhaled a load of pent-up frustration. Virgil now had a problem, too. The firm’s investment in Arinna was going to be worth less than the price of a ham sandwich in Smithfield, Virginia. Maybe I could just tell him to dump the stock. If I didn’t tell him why, would it still be considered insider trading?

“Hey, Virgil. I think you should sell Arinna.”

“Really, Jason? Why is that?”

“I can’t tell you. But I really, really, really think you should.”

Nope. It smelled just like insider trading. That would be compounding the problem.

“That’s weird,” McKenna said.

I opened my eyes and tried to focus on the page in front of us. “What’s weird?”

“Well, look.”

I didn’t see what he was talking about.

“The account that he used? It was set up three weeks before the trade.”

Okay,
I thought.
Haley planned ahead
. “So?”

“Arinna didn’t set it up. The IPs don’t match. Haley couldn’t have done it.”

“Are you positive?”

“I will be—once I get into Arinna’s system. I’m working on it,
but it may take me more time. Arinna is a hardwired private network with full Internet access available only through a group of well-guarded ports. I left a sniffer there and eventually one of the employees will log in unsecured. Then I’ll have their password and I’m in. But for now I’m fairly confident that it was not Haley. He wouldn’t have the skills. Whoever it was, hacked in and created the account using the Chinese government as a front.”

“What do you mean? Why couldn’t it be the Chinese themselves?”

“Because I’ve seen their work.”

“Haley thinks that’s who’s setting him up.”

“No. No. No. The signature is all wrong.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know who. But that’s where the trail dead-ends. Someone must have piggybacked, the same way we’re doing.”

“Through the Chinese government’s computer system?”

“Not impossible.”

“Who could do this? Could you?”

He thought about it. “I don’t know. Theoretically? With the right resources, yeah. I’d want to assemble a team.”

“Could Philip Haley have done it?”

“Not a chance. You’d need a dozen or so top people working on this for weeks. A government could do it. The U.S., Israel, Russia. But why would they bother? A major corporation could put the right people in place, but you run into the same question. Why?”

“What about amateurs? Anonymous, for example.”

“This wasn’t some mass attack on a system. This was a surgical procedure. I suppose some billionaire with a grudge could assemble the right people to do it.”

“That’s interesting. I’m on my way to see a billionaire this afternoon. I’ll try and find out if he has a big enough grudge.”

T
he Palm Beach Yacht Club is not in Palm Beach. It is in West Palm Beach. That is a world of difference. You can see Palm Beach across the Intracoastal Waterway, but Palm Beach real estate is much too valuable to waste on yacht clubs. Banking, wealth management, high-end shopping, and golf take up all of the space not devoted to luxury homes.

There were three Bentleys lined up at the entrance to the club, waiting for the uniformed valet attendants to help two septuagenarians out of a Ferrari. I paid off the cab and bypassed the rescue attempt before they resorted to the Jaws of Life.

The club was halfway out on a floating dock, and all the boats I passed must have cost more than my Manhattan apartment. Those were the small boats. The big boats out at the end of the dock were more in the apartment building range.

New money was welcome at the club as long as it behaved like old money.

I shared the elevator ride to the second floor with a well-dressed couple in their fifties—well, he was certainly in his fifties. I couldn’t tell with her. The blond ponytail said late teens, as did the minidress
and the gravity-defying lift of her breasts, but she’d obviously had so much work done on her face and neck, she might have been the guy’s mother for all I could tell.

I was overdressed. The only other men wearing ties were working there.

My ears were still crackling and popping from the plane ride and all the mucus clogging my sinuses and it took me a moment to translate the words that the maître d’ was saying.

“Mr. Penn is not expected until six-thirty. Would you care to wait at the bar?”

I had taken two cabs and a two-and-a-half-hour flight to get there at six p.m. and Penn was coming from less than a mile away across Flagler Bridge. And he was going to be late.

The bar was lined with women. There was one man—short, balding, and looking every one of his seventy-something years. The rest of the space was filled with women sipping martinis, cosmopolitans, or glasses of white wine. The age range was almost impossible to determine, but I gave a guess at mid-forties to late sixties. Or more. Not one wore a wedding band, though there were plenty of diamonds adorning the rest of their fingers, as well as their wrists, necks, and earlobes. The whole room sparkled and flashed.

I ordered a tonic with lime. I was afraid that if I had a real drink while waiting, the alcohol would gang up with the cold medicine and I would be comatose by the time Penn arrived.

The appraising looks from the women were not coy and flirtatious, nor were they cold and disdainful. They were merely calculating, and in the first two minutes I was there I felt that every woman in the room knew everything about me—suit size, boxers or briefs, left or right, and marital status—and they had determined my bank balance and credit score to within a percentage point or two. Then they all lost interest.

My suit, a three-season, silk-wool blend, custom-made at Saint
Laurie, was too heavy for Florida—even in December. My complexion was pale, ergo I was a snowbird and not part of the “season.” I was both too old and too young, neither to be kept nor a keeper, too well-off but nowhere near wealthy enough. Mr. In-Between. There on business. A hint of history, or mystery, but not enough to be intriguing. Harmless.

“The lobster bisque is just too rich. I can’t eat it,” I overheard. “It’s not worth the time on the StairMaster the next day.”

“Mmmmm,” answered another woman. “It’s worth every minute.”

I took my tonic and lime and retreated to the window. A spectacular sunset was bleeding purples, pinks, and deep reds all over the low West Palm Beach skyline, reflected in the windows of the hotel across the water. There was a CD playing—Chris Botti. More refined and restrained than I usually liked, but his lush tones fit the mood. Skeli would have liked it there, though she might have preferred hearing Lyle Lovett. The women at the bar would not have seemed sad to her, and they would have welcomed her, recognizing a fellow survivor and one with a great laugh. I missed her.

A blue-black sky crept westward, dousing the reds and pinks. In minutes, the last rays were extinguished and replaced with a display of more sparkling diamonds splashed across a velvet sky.

“Mr. Stafford?” The maître d’ was back.

“Yes?”

“I am so sorry, but Mr. Penn sends his regrets. He will not be able to join you for dinner this evening. He asks that you call his office in the morning if you wish to reschedule.”

I found that I was speechless. Blame it on my cold, or the medicine, or blame it on the environment, but I did not explode in exasperation. I mumbled something about everything being “just fine.”

“Certainly, sir. Mr. Penn did say that you might still want to take his table and that anything you order for you or any guests would, of course, be on him.”

My head cleared. “Really?” I was still calculating—the value of my lost time, and time away from my son and Skeli. I looked down the bar and did a quick count. “Will Mr. Penn’s table hold a party of eight?” I said.

The maître d’ allowed a frisson of stress to show in one eyebrow before answering. “I am sure that is not a problem, sir. Can you give me ten minutes?”

“What’s your name?” I said.

He hadn’t expected the question and almost stalled before answering. “Uh, Brian, sir.”

“Well, Brian, ten minutes will be just about perfect. As Captain Picard would say, ‘Make it so.’” The last time, Penn had given me five minutes of familial piety before brushing me off. This time, he hadn’t even bothered with the burlesque. Figuring in all my travel time at my usual rate, he owed me large. I turned back to the bar. “Ladies! Could I have a moment of your time? Ladies?” I spoke just loud enough to get their attention and yet not alarm anyone. “It seems that I am fated to dine here alone. I have been stood up by a business acquaintance. Unless, of course, you all agree to join me. I hear the lobster bisque is to die for.”

Not everyone at the bar agreed to join me for dinner, but I did manage to persuade four of the women to accept Mr. Penn’s unknowing largesse. Marc Devereau, the seventy-something man at the bar, agreed to anchor the other end of the table.

“Would you be willing to help me with the wine list?” I asked him.

His chest puffed out and he smiled his acquiescence.

I passed the book to Melissa, who handed it on down the table,
the movement setting off a shower of brilliant flashes and rainbows from her wrist. “May I admire your bracelet? Or watchband. What do you call it?”

“A reward for bad behavior.” She briefly lowered both eyelids in a blatant parody of bashfulness. And she put a hefty dose of heat behind it. I was sure it had worked for her more than once before.

The articulated metal band was more than an inch wide and covered in diamonds, easily complementing the oversized watch face, itself sporting a dozen eye-catching jewels.

“More like a going-away present,” the fourth woman said. Lani.

A comradely giggle erupted from Barbara and went around the table. Marc smiled. He had, I was sure, heard the line himself more than once before.

“Are you here long, Mr. Stafford? I would love to show you something of our town,” Carol said, leaning forward just enough to reveal the depth of her décolletage.

“I was brought up to never disappoint a lady, but in this case I’m afraid I must. I’m on the last flight back to New York tonight.”

“You won’t even stay the night? Winter sunrises are so beautiful.”

“Then I’ll have to come back,” I lied. It was a white lie.

“You’ll be welcome anytime,” she cooed.

Mentioning that I was already spoken for would have been boorish. Instead, I let her squeeze my hand while giving me the kind of smile that should be reserved for just before the lights get turned out.

“If we’re all starting with the bisque,” I said to the table, removing my hand while I still could, “then I think we should have a hearty champagne.” To Marc: “Did I see a Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Rosé? It will stand up to the soup.” It was also the second most expensive champagne on the list.

Marc looked over his Armani bifocals. “An excellent choice.”

“And pick a red, would you? I’m having the rack of lamb.”
Because I was missing Skeli and knew that’s what she would have ordered.

“Well, if you don’t mind a touch of infanticide, there’s a ’99 Château Margaux that would go nicely.”

Marc was already well into the spirit of the occasion.

When the champagne arrived, I proposed a toast to “the absent Chuck Penn,” but when I saw the measured response I quickly added the words “to his absence.” This won me a laugh from Lani and polite smiles from all the rest. But everyone raised his or her glass, and Marc soon called for a second bottle.

“
Two
more bottles,” I said. At that moment, I was feeling the old recklessness that came from trading unimaginable sums of money and partying on expense accounts. “And can we get some appetizers for the table? Hot
and
cold.”

Out of politeness or indifference, no one asked me about my relationship with Charles Penn. They asked me questions about my business (“financial security consultant,” which could have meant just about anything) and they asked me where I lived.

“The Ansonia? Yes, I love it. I had a cousin who moved to the West Side.”

And who probably hadn’t been heard from since.

I let the topic turn from me to a discussion of the “season,” parties to be attended or avoided, and pointed but harmless gossip about people I did not know. Lani made a point to fill me in with CliffsNotes descriptions of these people, mixing politeness toward me with a catty appreciation of her neighbors.

“The Ellisons. Saint Louis. Old money, but you know what they say about old money. The way you get it is by never spending a cent of it if you don’t have to.”

“Joan Price. A bore, but a really nice bore, if you know what I mean.”

“Tom Ketchum. A bully at heart. He was something in finance.
Not hedge funds. He married two doormats before meeting Sybil. As you can hear, we’re all rooting for her. She is
such
a bitch.”

I ordered two bottles of Corton-Charlemagne to accompany the salads and appetizers that came next. I ate some of the buffalo mozzarella and tomato salad. I can always persuade myself that I’m eating healthy if it’s buffalo mozzarella.

“Lani, you all seemed to have a similar reaction when I mentioned Chuck Penn. Is he not entirely welcome here?”

I could hear Marc entertaining the rest of the table with a story about Emperor Charlemagne’s wife—his fourth—who was the first to insist that white grapes be planted in the Corton vineyards. She had objected to the red wine stains on her husband’s white beard.

“Oh, I think you want Carol to tell you about that.”

Carol turned from listening to Marc. “About what?”

“Our host was just asking about that arrogant prick, Penn.”

Carol was a still-very-attractive fifty-something. I had no doubt that she’d had “work done”—I was the only one at the table who hadn’t, I was sure—but it was well done and minimal. A flash of anger went across her face before she spoke.

“Pour me another glass of that white wine—a big glass. I love telling this story, but it also takes something out of me.” She took a fortifying sip that lowered the level in the glass by a good half inch. “There was a woman here in Palm, married to a man who owned a chain of local newspapers. You know, the ones with two pages of things the mayor wants you to know, and which no-neck wonder is this year’s scholar athlete, and when the library will reopen after the hurricane, and then ten pages of classifieds and public auction notices from all the people who won’t ever use Craigslist. It was a good business. The man wasn’t a particularly good man, but he treated the woman well, took good care of his kids, and never let his mistress call the house.”

She broke off as the entrées arrived. I was pleased to see that no one had ordered anything inexpensive.

“I’m all ears,” I said after letting her get a first bite of her lobster fra diavolo.

“Mmmm. One moment. This is delicious.”

So was my lamb.

“Well, along came Mr. Penn. He wanted to buy the newspapers. The man wouldn’t sell. Penn waited six months and offered him twenty percent less than the first time, acting like he was the only bidder in the world. But the man didn’t want to sell, told him so, and thought that would be the end of it.”

“What did a billionaire want with a few million dollars’ worth of newspapers?”

“Oh, they were worth a good bit more than that. The man owned hundreds of them all through the South. So here’s where Penn got crafty.” Her jaw was set a bit firmer, her eyes a bit steely. “He made a play for the woman. Convinced her that what was good for the goose and all that rubbish. As many times as I have heard that said, I can’t tell you how many times it has proven to be
so
not the case. Anyway. He seduced her. It wasn’t really that hard. She was lonely and he’s a good-looking man, if you like that big bull look. She thought she was having some fun.”

I was beginning to anticipate the ending to this story—and it was ugly.

“But the husband found out,” I ventured.

“Someone sent him pictures.”

“I see.”

“So there was a lot of yelling and finger-pointing and many awful things were said before they finally agreed on a divorce. Only, splitting the assets became a problem. She didn’t want to own half of a chain of newspapers. He didn’t have the cash to buy her out. The lawyers fought over that like two pit bulls.”

“And Charles Penn comes back into the picture.”

“Oh, yes. He made a lowball offer to ‘help them out.’ All cash. The lawyers wanted the man to take it. The judge ordered him to.”

“And Penn got the newspapers for pennies on the dollar.”

“No. The woman finally had her eyes opened and saw what that snake had been up to all along. She agreed to a thirty-year note and a trust. Saved the man’s ass. Her ex-husband married the mistress—who all agree is a bitch on wheels—and kept the papers. He has never missed a payment. If he does, he forfeits everything, so the ex-wife is well taken care of. The kids all sided with her. She’s happy.”