Man in the Middle (25 page)

“I understand,” Peter lied.

“Then please, explain this to me . . . to us.” Sarah waved the flopping photograph like a fan.

As Peter looked down at the outstretched hand—the faces on the photo damnably visible—his heart froze.

“This man spends his life attempting to ruin us. He works without agency sanction. Perhaps,” Sarah said, “you could help us understand what he thinks he is after.”

Peter attempted to respond, but first needed another sip of whiskey. While his brain unscrambled the implications, he stared at the man in the photo, standing over his table.

You filthy SOB
, he silently swore.

Carlos Nuñoz, in room 203, watched Peter’s expressions on the closed circuit television and listened, not so much to his words, as to the way he said them. When Peter left, a half-hour’s explanation later, Carlos entered the room where the two women waited.

“
Nada.
He knows nothing,” Carlos said. “At least not yet. Dawson’s visit was a fishing expedition—no contact between the two since.”

Stenman nodded.

“I also agree,” Sarah said. “But if he ever learns anything, this could become a serious matter. Two of your operatives had to be dealt with because of what Hannah Neil provided the SEC.”

“Fortunately not a material loss,” Stenman said.

Carlos traced the scar lining his face, fingering the thickened skin as if it were a prize instead of a hideous wound. He remained silent, not yet contributing additional analysis.

“But Dawson,” Sarah Guzman said, simultaneously looking at both Stenman and Carlos, “is kicking around because he believes more information exists and that Peter Neil might be a source.”

Stenman exhaled a stream of smoke.

Sarah took a seat and crossed her legs. “It is possible Hannah Neil had more documents to implicate a wider network of your contacts. That would translate into serious disruptions. She might even have had documents implicating us directly. It is the unknowns I find troubling.”

“What have you discovered about Agent Dawson’s visit?” Stenman asked.

“He acted on his own,” Sarah said. “Took time off, paid his own way. But it is clear he has identified Hannah Neil as the one who sent him those papers. Once we realized Dawson had requested and received his copies from the lab, we anticipated this development.”

“Have you given any thought to taking care of this agent?” asked Stenman. It was clearly Carlos’ question to answer.

Carlos glanced at Sarah without moving his head or blinking his eyes. She nodded, and Carlos redirected his attention to Stenman.

“
Sí
,
señora
,” Carlos said, measuring his words, “but it would be a mistake. We cannot simply eliminate a man in his position, for the same reasons we did not make an example of
Señora
Neil.
Atención
. We do not crave unwarranted
atención
.”

“
Atención
?” Stenman asked.

Carlos looked to Sarah. “Carlos is saying that people like Dawson cannot be dealt with in the same manner as others because of his visibility. He is now contained, and we do not wish to put a spotlight on him by eliminating him. It is best to give him a little more rope and let him hang himself.”

“Continue,” Stenman instructed.

“The Director of Enforcement will be made aware of the man’s numerous departmental violations,” Carlos said. “That should put him in a most uncomfortable position. It is
Señor
Neil we need to concentrate on now. If they prove necessary, we have backup plans. I give the credit to my uncle’s wife.” Carlos bowed to Sarah.

“Let’s just say that if need be, we will turn sympathy away from Peter Neil,” Sarah said.

“The details are not my concern,” Stenman said, sipping her beverage. “Let’s see how Peter reacts over the coming days. He will be made to decide if he is in, or if he is out.”

“And don’t forget Freeman Ranson,” Sarah added. “He swears Dawson is at a dead end. When the director learns of his renegade activities, according to Ranson, he will be suspended or dismissed.”

“Maybe,” Carlos said.

“You are skeptical,” Stenman said.

“It is my nature,” Carlos replied. “I do believe
Señor
Neil has nothing now, but that may change one day.”

“Let’s see what happens,” Stenman again suggested. “In the meantime, he seems close to Jason Ayers. I will encourage Jason to monitor the boy.”

Carlos rose, went to stand behind Sarah, and put a hand on the back of her chair. “Now,” he said, “I wish to discuss another important matter:
Señor
Muller. I believe your CIO is a risk.”

Sarah nodded in Stenman’s direction, an indication that she agreed with Carlos. She then stood, withdrew to the bar, poured a second glass of wine, sipped, and watched.

“You have a concern?” Stenman asked, showing no hint of surprise.

“
Sí, señora
. He is unstable. Did you know he has a wife? A Japanese woman. He keeps her a prisoner in his house. She is
esclava
.”

Stenman looked to Sarah.

“
Esclava
: slave. His wife is a slave—he treats her savagely. I have no sympathy for abuse of physically weaker beings.”

“I understand.” A slight frown worked its way onto Stenman’s face. Sarah’s father, Stenman recalled, had been an original investor, and Stenman had known Sarah since she was a young girl. How her father could have done those things to Sarah was beyond comprehension, and for his despicable acts, Stenman hated the very memory of David Brigston. That Sarah had usually directed her brutality towards powerful men, including her eradicated father, and her vanquished husband, came as no surprise, Stenman thought.

As Stenman’s attention refocused on their conversation, Carlos continued, “Not only that, but Muller gives too many interviews. He is drawing attention to himself. I understand he has reached a deal to have a ghost-writer author his autobiography.”

“He has crossed that fine line,” Sarah agreed with Carlos, “between positive publicity—humanitarian aid, testimony to Congress on matters of national significance, even the occasional interview—and dangerous self-promotion. He touts his investment performance, never suggesting that he may have taken a significant loss on a position.”

At the head of the long dining room table, Stenman faced the other two and nodded. “We must not appear omniscient. But, Carlos, I know your personal animosity towards Howard. This remains strictly business, I trust.”

“What we do—in our business—must have a rationale that puts our business first. His actions do not. That is why he is a risk.”

“I agree we need to maintain discipline,” Morgan said.

“And to directly answer your question,
Señora
Stenman, business is
always
business. I hold that first and foremost. If he becomes a larger liability, I may come to you one day and . . .” Carlos shrugged, his arms and hands bent out and up.

“That is our relationship,” Stenman said. “We discuss problems and solutions. Hopefully, all these matters will get resolved in an unspectacular manner. If not, then not. Now, are we settled on this?”

“Yes.” Sarah spoke for both herself and Carlos.

“We have another matter to take up this evening. After we have had our dinner, Mr. Ayers will join us to explain more fully. I have initiated a new system of fund transfer that will require us to open new banking accounts.”

“New accounts?” Sarah asked, taking her seat. “Our system—your system—has proven effective. When regulators have sought to understand our activities, they have become lost. Why the change?”

“This process will allow us to move money instantly, by phone.”

Sarah shook her head. “With maximum security?”

Stenman nodded.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Stenman looked at the screen to her right. A waiter stood with a room service tray stacked with aluminum domes, waiting to begin serving dinner. She activated the door. After setting out smoked salmon and fresh sliced vegetables, the waiter disappeared.

Once the door clicked and locked shut, Sarah picked up where they left off. “How is this transfer possible?”

“Mr. Ayers will explain in detail, but it involves biometrics—speech recognition.”

“This is reliable?” Carlos asked, holding a fork with a slice of pink fish.

“Yes,” Stenman said. “I am satisfied. We provide specific voice instructions to our banks. They include a statement of transfer, and the account numbers. When we phone in, and after we key in account information, we provide precise verbal instructions. An unauthorized voice will freeze the account. The machinery recognizes our voice patterns, intonations . . . it is as good as fingerprinting.”

“If what you say is correct,” Sarah continued, “this means that in the event of an investigation, you could empty all accounts in minutes. Move every penny to other locations.”

Stenman again nodded. “If you agree, we will set up these accounts over the next days and weeks.”

“I like the concept,” Sarah said. “Let’s eat. After, I look forward to learning more.”

“On another matter,” Stenman began, her tone light, her accent nonexistent. “I believe Mr. Neil was captivated by you.” Her mouth widened. “But then, what man isn’t?”

“Only my nephew—” Sarah winked at Carlos and couldn’t resist a rare smile “—and, of course, my husband’s brother, Fernando. He does not much care for me, does he, Carlos?”

Stenman didn’t understand why, but Carlos began an unholy laugh. She had never seen the ugly boy express even a molecule of happiness before this. The cackle was joy, laced with evil. For several seconds, Carlos remained lost in whatever hilarity possessed him.

 
J
ASON
A
YERS STUFFED HIS BRIEFCASE WITH MATERIALS EXPLAINING HOW
speech recognition worked. This was to be a $20 million investment in equipment so expensive and state-of-the-art as to be out of the reach of practically anyone in the world—Stenman excepted. With billions passing through the hedge fund’s doors, and a ten- to twenty-percent performance fee regularly siphoned off, an investment that hurtled funds to the correct offshore accounts at electronic speed was worth ten times the price. Not to mention the additional attractiveness to those wishing to export assets. Ayers finished his scotch and poured himself another. He looked out the library window at the half-moon and stars.

“So many mistakes,” he said to himself. “Too late.”

How had he arrived at this sorry state? Thirty years with Morgan Stenman, that’s how. In the beginning, he set up tax havens for her. In the mid-eighties, things changed. The markets came alive and everybody seemed anxious to sell information, to get their piece of the pie. With Stenman’s international connections, the world was hers for the plucking, and she plucked away with unbridled enthusiasm and success. It proved so damn easy. She started in a big way with her Eastern European connections, many of whom had relocated to Australia, where they owned and ran companies—and seemed eager to share their insights with her.

Then came the development of unregulated third-world markets— Latin America, Russia, the other countries of the former Soviet Union, and Asia. Stenman’s hundred million dollars in humanitarian contributions made for good public relations, but were much more valuable as down-payments on political influence and information. She owned a piece of important people in every corner of the world.