Free to Trade (27 page)

The next day was my last in New York before flying to Phoenix. I was scheduled to see a couple of investment banks in the morning. At one of them a persistent little man called Kettering insisted on lecturing me on the opportunities in South American debt, even though I had no interest. He regaled me with a mixture of scolding and abuse. He succeeded in making me feel stupid for not agreeing with him about the financial wonders of that continent, but also irritated the hell out of me.

Tired and battered by the morning's hard sell, I decided to walk from the investment bank's offices up to the restaurant. I needed the air, even though it was only New York's hot atmosphere, which managed to be both dusty and clammy at the same time. I sauntered diagonally through side streets and up the main avenues, slowing myself down, just looking.

I walked along a deserted side street, high buildings on either side. Thin eerie music echoed off the walls of the canyon. A group of short square men, wearing what looked like shawls and bowler-hats, clustered round some rugs, acoustic equipment and a set of primitive drums. They had dark, wind-beaten skin and high, hardened cheekbones. There was just me and them alone on the street. I stopped to listen. The music had a magical quality to it, evoking sheer mountainsides, swooping birds of prey, the age-old loneliness of the Andean altiplano. I don't know how long I stood there, bewitched by the music. Eventually they paused, and only then acknowledged my presence, smiling shyly. I bought one of the tapes they had laid out on the sidewalk. The cover was a picture of the group looking very serious, with the caption 'Las Incas'. I walked on, the music still swirling and swooping inside my head. Within a minute I was back in the blaring bustle of Third Avenue.

The restaurant was light and airy. Skylight and metal tables suggested an informal garden trattoria in Italy. The other diners' sober suits or chic dresses confirmed what it really was: an expensive New York restaurant currently enjoying its brief turn as the place to be.

I saw Hamilton lost in a sheaf of papers. He looked quite out of place amongst the other tables of smart diners. As I drew up a chair, he glanced at his watch and frowned slightly. I looked at my own and saw it was 12.33 p.m. Three minutes late. Who but Hamilton would care?

Stuffing his papers into his briefcase, he asked 'How are you finding New York?'

'Oh, I like it,' I said. 'It's so,' I paused, 'unexpected.' I told him about the Peruvian band I had encountered on my way.

Hamilton looked at me, slightly puzzled. 'Yes, I see,' he said. And then, with an edge to his voice. 'You have seen some investment banks, haven't you?'

As usual with Hamilton I felt slightly foolish. Of course Hamilton was not interested in my thoughts on New York as a city, he wanted to know what was going on on Wall Street.

I told him the highlights of what I had heard. He questioned me closely about one or two conversations I had had which I had thought were completely unimportant. He probed me with questions which I realised I should have asked and hadn't, digging to discover who was buying what. My self-confidence began to wane as I realised that by Hamilton's standards I had done a superficial job of finding out what was really going on.

The waiter had been hovering throughout this interrogation, nervous of interrupting Hamilton. Finally he saw his chance and, after forcing a hurried glance at the menu, coaxed an order from each of us. Hamilton stuck with a Caesar salad, which seemed a bit Spartan to me, given the exotic attractions of the menu. Reluctantly, I gave up the starter, and after a swift glance, asked for a complicated-looking meat dish. Hamilton ordered a large bottle of mineral water. I looked enviously at the next table, where a couple were enjoying a long, relaxed meal and were already on to their second bottle of Montrachet. Why come to a restaurant like this and gallop through a lettuce and a glass or two of water? Oh well.

'How have your other investigations gone?' Hamilton asked.

I told him everything I had found out: how Waigel had been evasive about his involvement in the original deal, about Shoffman and his disappearance, and about the diagram I had found in Waigel's office.

Hamilton listened carefully to every word. When I had finished I looked to him for a response. He was silent for what seemed an age, gently stroking his beard. Then he smiled. 'Good work, Paul. Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.'

After my poor showing earlier in the conversation, I was pleased. 'So what do you think Uncle Sam's Money Machine might be?' I asked.

'What do you think?'

I had thought about this hard over the last twenty-four hours, but had not come up with anything. 'A government defence agency? Some sort of computer? Some kind of government bond fraud?' I guessed wildly, looking to Hamilton for a reaction. He didn't seem too impressed with these ideas.

I shrugged. 'I don't know. What do you think?'

Hamilton paused. 'We have no way of knowing. We don't have enough to go on yet, but it's a start. Well done.' He took a peck at his salad. 'I think you are right, though. Finding out what this thing is, is the key to getting our money back.'

'How did you get on in the Netherlands Antilles?' I asked.

'It was a bit difficult, since I didn't want to tip off Van Kreef, Heerlen that we are suspicious. Rudy Geer was very helpful. My cover was that the recent tax reforms had caused us to look at the possibility of asking for a change in domicile for Tremont Capital. As part of the process, Geer had to check all the documentation.'

'Did he find anything?'

'It's interesting. Van Kreef, Heerlen claim that they did see the Honshu Bank guarantee. When Geer asked them to produce it, they said they couldn't find it in their files. This is of course a terrible thing for any firm of lawyers to admit, so Geer suspects it must be true.'

'What do you make of that?' I asked.

'I don't know. I suppose the most likely thing was that the guarantee was a fraud that was somehow removed from Van Kreef, Heerlen's files. Perhaps by one of their own lawyers who is on the take. It is going to be difficult to kick up too much of a fuss without causing our concerns to get back to whoever owns Tremont Capital.'

'Very interesting,' I said. 'Anything else?'

'Well, it looks as though we will get a court order forcing Tremont Capital's auditors to show us a copy of their accounts. Hopefully that will give us some clue as to where the money has gone. The court order won't be granted until early next week, and they will have a couple of weeks to comply. There's not much I can do until I hear back from Geer, and actually get my hands on those accounts.'

'So, what now?' I asked. 'Do you think we have enough to go to the police?'

Hamilton leaned forward, his blue eyes boring straight into mine. 'We have to get that money back,' he said. His voice was calm, his tone level but there was an edge of absolute determination to it. 'You remember I told you about that lead I had in Tokyo? Well, I think we really might get it. And they are talking five hundred million dollars. That could transform De Jong.' He sipped his mineral water, never taking his eyes from mine. 'If they hear we have lost twenty million dollars in a fraud, our credibility will be blown, and no one will give us their money to manage. Even if it wasn't our fault.'

It was our fault, I thought. Or at least Hamilton's. He had been sloppy in checking the documentation. A rare mistake on his part, but I was not about to try to get him to admit to it.

'But if we go to the authorities, won't they help us find the money?'

Hamilton shook his head. 'The police's top priority is to catch the criminal, not find the loot. That's why most cases of fraud in the City never get to the police or the public. If you can sort it out yourself, you have a much better chance of coming out whole.' There was a slight smile on his lips, mocking my naivety.

'All right,' I said, not really feeling all right about it at all, 'So what do we do next?'

'Well, you've done a good job so far. Keep plugging away, asking questions. There will be a lot of people from Bloomfield Weiss at the conference in Arizona. See what you can find out there. In particular, see if you can find out anything about this "Money Machine". I'll do what I can in London, and wait to hear from Curacao.'

Hamilton saw the concerned look on my face. 'Don't worry, we'll find the money.'

Hamilton brushed away the dessert trolley, dripping with temptation, and paid the bill. We went our different ways, with me taking a taxi downtown to Harrison Brothers.

The afternoon dragged. I was tired and edgy, and found it difficult to concentrate. I was nervous about going along with Hamilton. I felt out of my depth, and although I would normally trust Hamilton to do anything, I had nagging doubts that he was out of his depth too.

Finally five o'clock came, and I could respectably leave. I was due to meet one of Harrison's government bond salesmen at eight o'clock for dinner. That was three hours away, so I decided to head back to the Westbury. I walked to the Fulton subway station and boarded the Lexington Line Express heading north. I changed at Grand Central to get the Local.

It was rush hour and the train was crowded. New York in early September is still very hot and very humid. The train was one of the few on the subway system which had no air-conditioning. I felt the sweat run down my body, soaking my shirt and even my trousers. My tie looked as though it would curl up in the heat.

The train stopped for an age. Passengers were crammed together. Tempers were short. People were muttering under their breath, cursing the goddamn subway system. Even in these conditions, everyone was following the golden rule of the New York subway--never, ever catch another person's eye. He might be a cokehead, a rapist, a serial murderer, a Jehovah's Witness.

I stared at the advertisements. There was poor Walter Henson, an architect famous throughout New York City for his haemorrhoid complaint. There, too, were big, black, ugly cockroaches crawling into a Roach Motel with the caption
'Las Cucarachas entran pera no pueden salir'.

The train lurched forward. My gaze wandered along the carriage. It stopped with a jolt.

There, at the end of the carriage, was Joe. He was staring at me, expressionless. Although I was looking straight at him, he gave no sign of recognition. I tried to regain my composure, but I was sure he must have seen the alarm that I felt when I spotted him.

I tore my eyes away from him and looked the other way. Since catching sight of Joe in Bloomfield Weiss's dining room, we had avoided each other, much to my relief. But now he was right here, in the same subway carriage as me. It must be a coincidence, mustn't it? It had to be.

I tried to ease myself down to the other end of the carriage. I was flustered, and I trod on the toe of a mild-looking man in a business suit reading the
Wall Street Journal.
I put all my weight on it.

'What the fuck are you doing, you dumb fucker?' he screamed at me. 'Get the fuck off my fucking toe or I will smash your fucking face in!'

I glanced at the swearing man without really focusing on him. I pushed passed him.

'Jerk,' he muttered to me and to everyone standing round us.

I was glad of the attention. It would be impossible for Joe to do anything to me on a crowded subway train, and when we got to Sixty-Eighth Street, there ought to be plenty of people around.

I was right. A stream of office workers spilled out of the subway entrance on their way home. I latched on to a group of noisy young bankers who were heading in the same direction as my hotel. Looking over my shoulder, I could see Joe following a block behind.

I peeled off from the bankers on Park Avenue and walked the block to the Westbury as fast as I could. I paused by the awning in front of the hotel, and could make out the figure of Joe standing on a street corner, still a block away.

I told the man at reception to make sure I was not disturbed by anyone. He looked at me a little strangely but promised me he would do as he was asked. I went up to my room, turned all the locks and bolts on my door, and flopped on to my bed.

If Joe was following me, it could only be because he wanted to get even with me. Perhaps the police had been round to his house again. Or perhaps, despite my caution, I had stirred something up with my questions about Greg Shoffman and Tremont Capital. But why should that bother him? Maybe he was just brooding over the fact that my little finger was still intact.

I paced up and down the small bedroom, worrying about Joe. After ten minutes or so, I became less agitated. It must have been a coincidence that Joe had got on the same subway train as me. He had probably followed me just because he was curious; perhaps he thought it would be fun to scare me. Well, he had succeeded.

I debated whether to call off my dinner. I decided I should be safe if I took a taxi to and from the restaurant. There was nothing Joe could do in broad daylight right outside the hotel. So at half past seven, having showered and put on a new shirt, I made my way down to the lobby.

There was a group of people clustered round the entrance, waiting for taxis. The doorman was in the middle of the street blowing his whistle full-blast. But there were no empty taxis to be seen. It was still light, although the sun was glowing red, low over Central Park. I looked up and down the street. No sign of Joe. He definitely wasn't in the lobby either.

After ten minutes the doorman had only nabbed one taxi and there were still two people in front of me. Joe wasn't anywhere to be seen. I decided to walk over to Fifth Avenue and try my luck for a taxi there.

I had almost reached the avenue when I heard soft footsteps right behind me. I felt a sharp prick through the fabric of my suit. I shot up straight, arching my back, and turned my head slowly.

It was Joe, dressed like a jogger in a dark track suit. And he was fondling his favourite instrument. A knife.

CHAPTER 13

'We're going for a walk in the park,' Joe said.

I looked up and down Fifth Avenue. A few people sauntered along the street, enjoying the evening, but none of them seemed obvious sources of help. New Yorkers knew the rule. If you see someone in trouble, ignore it, you might get hurt. Besides, it would take Joe less than a second to plunge his knife between my ribs. He knew how to use it.