The Insider (9 page)

CHAPTER 6

“Hello, Savoy.”

“Hello, Karim.” Savoy checked up and down the darkened street several times, then glanced back at the dark-skinned, acne-scarred face in front of him. Karim was a chameleon, able to operate in dangerous worlds without being recognized as a traitor. He had begun his life of violence in the Khad—the Afghan arm of the KGB—then smoothly shifted his allegiance to the mujahideen freedom fighters just before the Soviets invaded Afghanistan in December 1979. Now he was in bed with the Taliban. Karim had a knack for picking the winning side. And for surviving. “Will I be satisfied?” Savoy asked.

“Absolutely.” Karim nodded. “Come this way.” He gestured with a quick jerk of his thumb. “I like your ponytail,” he called over his shoulder softly to Savoy. “It almost looks real.”

Savoy’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing as he followed Karim through the streets of Konduz—a small city of seventy thousand located 250 kilometers north of Kabul across the Hindu Kush.

Karim stopped before a small building, produced a set of keys, opened the locks of the front door, beckoned Savoy inside, then relocked the door. He led Savoy down a narrow hallway and through another padlocked door. The second door opened into a small warehouse reeking of oil and mildew.

Savoy smiled, and the gold tooth he had affixed over his real one sparkled in the flashlight’s gleam. “Your office, I presume.”

Karim grunted his affirmation, then walked across the hard dirt floor in his swaying gait to a tarp. He threw it back with a violent motion, revealing wooden boxes stacked against the wall. With a crowbar he pried the top off one. “Here.” He aimed the flashlight on the contents.

Savoy moved to the box, bent down, and removed one of the assault rifles, inspecting it carefully.

“Avtomat Kalashnikov, model forty-seven,” Karim muttered. “Mikhail Kalashnikov’s little contribution to world peace. I also have several boxes of the AK-seventy-four. It fires a smaller bullet, five point forty-five millimeters versus the forty-seven’s seven point sixty-two. However, the smaller bullet begins to tumble faster, causing more damage to the target. The seventy-four also has less recoil and doesn’t climb when fired on automatic.”

“The safety mechanism is still difficult to operate.” Savoy recognized that Karim was subtly beginning to negotiate. But they had already agreed on price. “And loud.” He caressed the banana-shaped, thirty-round magazine. The Kalashnikov wasn’t a particularly pretty gun, but it was durable. It could be buried in mud or sand for a long time and remain operational, which was why it was still so popular after all these years. “What else do you have for me?”

“Armalite AR-eighteens.” Karim had a feeling that the mention of this weapon would strike a resonant chord.

Savoy glanced up, unable to hide his satisfaction. “Really?”

“Yes. That should make your client happy.”

“How do you know what should make my client happy?” Savoy placed the AK-47 back in its box and stood up.

“I have my ways.” It had been an educated guess, but now he knew for certain.

“I see,” Savoy said, trying to sound indifferent, realizing that he might have just given something away. “Do you have more?”

“RPG-sevens and SAM-seven Strelas. The exact kind of rocket-powered grenades and surface-to-air missiles you requested.” Karim paused. Savoy’s subtle signs of eagerness when Karim mentioned the AR-18s told the arms broker much, as he knew which group favored that weapon. He couldn’t help taunting Savoy with that knowledge, and he said, “Just don’t put them on a ship named
Claudia
and sail it out of Libya.” He grinned, unable to hold back. Now he knew the ultimate destination of the weapons.

Savoy’s jaw tightened at the mention of that unsuccessful arms-smuggling endeavor from his past. “The trucks will be here tomorrow evening at nightfall,” he said. “Be ready.”

“Headed to Karachi, I assume.”

“Yes.” There was no reason to deny the observation. Karachi was the only logical place the trucks could have been going. “The other half of the money will be in your account at the Bank of Suez in the morning. And don’t think you’re going to get a penny more than what we’ve already agreed to.” He turned to go, then paused. “We’ll be wanting more, Karim. A steady stream of weapons. My clients aren’t small-time, as you might believe. They are very well funded and willing to go to great lengths to disrupt the peace accord. Even you would be surprised at what is being planned.” For a moment he thought about his team training on the remote Virginia farm. “This situation could prove to be very profitable, or it could lead to your undoing. Don’t believe for a moment that my clients wouldn’t kill a traitor. They would. And they’d go to any lengths to find you.”

CHAPTER 7

Refreshed after a shower, Jay emerged from the men’s locker room of the Westchester Yacht Club wearing a sharp navy blue blazer, a freshly pressed light blue oxford shirt, pleated khakis, and a healthy glow—a result of the hot day on the water beneath a cloudless sky. He nodded at several club members as he strode confidently through the great room and out onto the porch. It overlooked the club’s harbor as well as Satan’s Finger, a narrow spit of land extending into the Sound on which were constructed several multimillion-dollar homes. Faint traces of expensive perfume, suntan lotion, and sea air mingled to constitute an intoxicating aroma, and Jay stood in the doorway absorbing the atmosphere. After a few moments he moved down the porch and sat in a large green wicker chair. He ordered a gin and tonic from a waiter wearing a white dinner jacket, and gazed out over the water, considering how far in life he’d come.

Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, Jay’s home, wasn’t far from there—no more than a hundred miles to the west—but the wealth oozing from these grounds would have been inconceivable to his blue-collar parents, who still lived in the small steel town. They had provided Jay and his siblings with a decent upbringing. They had always had a roof over their heads and at least two meals a day, though all too often the roof had been leaky and franks and beans had dominated the weekly lunch and dinner menus.

He and one brother had made it past public high school to college, but Kenny had lasted just two years at East Stroudsburg before dropping out to work as an apprentice crane man in the Bethlehem Steel plant. Only Jay had made the jump to the white-collar world. In their own subtle ways, he suspected his siblings resented him for his success. But that was life, Jay figured, and he felt no animosity toward them.

“Your gin and tonic, sir.” The waiter placed the glass on the table to the side of Jay’s chair.

“Thanks.” Jay fished a lime wedge out of the ice cubes and ran it around the rim. “Put this on Oliver Mason’s account,” he instructed. “His membership number is three-seventeen.” Oliver had his monthly bill sent to McCarthy & Lloyd, and Jay had spotted the account number on an invoice lying open in front of Oliver’s position one day the previous week. He grinned. Oliver wouldn’t be angry at all about his using the membership number without asking. In fact, he’d be impressed. Oliver was always impressed with people who obtained sensitive information. “And give yourself a ten-dollar tip.”

“Thank you.” The waiter hurried off.

Jay relaxed into the comfortable green-and-white striped cushions. He took a long sip of the cool drink and watched dusk settle over the Sound. This was the good life. This was why he was willing to work grueling hours in a hostile environment and endure Carter Bullock’s constant crap.

He admired a particularly large house on Satan’s Finger.
Money, the root of all evil,
he thought.
The road to ruin.
That was just senseless drivel from weak-minded people who couldn’t handle money and would have made a wreck of their lives even without wealth. From snobs who’d never had to go a day wanting anything. Bad advice from well-meaning but pitifully naïve people, like blubbering Oscar winners clutching their statuettes and imploring all the destitute, struggling actors in the world to hold on to their dreams when what they really should have been advising was to wake up and get a real job because the odds of ever really making it were so astronomically stacked against them.

The mansion on Satan’s Finger blurred before Jay’s eyes. He’d seen firsthand what money and power could do. It had turned Oliver Mason into a man who would force himself on a young female subordinate in a storage room and threaten her with loss of her job unless she submitted to his sexual demands. There was no question in Jay’s mind that money, or the psychopathic pursuit of it, was at the core of Oliver’s personality disorder. Jay’s gaze dropped to the lime. And here he was accepting a drink from that man, working for that man, wishing in some ways that he could be like that man. “I wouldn’t let that happen to me,” he whispered.

“Enjoying the conversation?”

Jay’s eyes flashed up. Sally stood before him wearing a sundress that ended halfway up her thighs. Her long blond hair tumbled down one shoulder, and her skin had a radiant glow, matching his. He glanced around casually. She was turning heads. “I was just going over some figures in my mind,” he explained sheepishly, standing up and pulling out the wicker chair next to his. “About a deal I’m working on.”

“Sure.” She waved at a waiter, pointed at Jay’s glass to indicate that she’d have the same, then sat down. “Crazy people talk to themselves, and I know you’re crazy.”

“What are you talking about?” Jay couldn’t help stealing another glance at her long legs. Now that she was sitting, the dress was riding even higher on her thighs. “I’m not crazy.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “No sane person jumps out of a bosun’s chair from seventy feet.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“And you didn’t even seem nervous.”

“Wanna bet?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I came out of the water I was dripping wet, right?”

“Yes.”

“That was pure perspiration.”

Sally laughed as she took her gin and tonic from the waiter.

“Same account, sir?” the waiter asked.

“Yes,” Jay confirmed. “And another ten-dollar tip.”

“Thank you.” The waiter noticed that Jay’s glass was almost empty. “I’ll bring you another, too.”

“Much appreciated.”

Sally held her drink out, and they touched glasses. “You seem quite at ease,” she observed, taking a sip. “Did you grow up around here?”

“No.” He learned long ago that there was no point in attempting to be someone he wasn’t. “I’m the son of a mechanic who’s only ever been to a private club to fix golf carts and isn’t familiar with Austin Healeys, just Plymouths and Chevys.”

“I see.”

He tried to gauge her reaction to the news that he was the product of a blue-collar home. She didn’t seem put off. “Tell me about you,” he said.

“There’s nothing very interesting in my background. Just standard stuff.”

“Come on,” Jay urged. She seemed hesitant to talk about herself, which he liked. He didn’t appreciate people who spouted off about themselves every few minutes like Old Faithful. “Bullock tells me you’re a Yale undergraduate and Harvard Business.”

“Yes.”

“And after HBS you worked at a financial consulting firm in Los Angeles for a couple of years.”

Sally shook her head. “No, I was in the San Diego office. The firm is headquartered in Los Angeles.”

“What’s the name of it?”

“It’s a small West Coast outfit,” she replied quickly. “You probably wouldn’t recognize it.”

“Try me.”

She kicked his leg gently with her sandal. “Jesus, where’s the bare lightbulb and the polygraph machine?”

Perhaps he was pressing too hard. “Sorry.” He looked away, then back at her. She was staring straight at him over the top of her glass. Suddenly she seemed even prettier than she had the day before.

“Hey, pal!” Oliver shouted from the porch doorway, bringing several conversations at surrounding tables to an abrupt halt as people looked around to see who had shattered the evening’s calm.

Jay waved back.

Oliver grabbed a waiter by the elbow, ordered a drink, then hurried down the porch, pausing to commandeer an empty chair from two elderly ladies at the table next to Jay and Sally.

Jay watched the women reluctantly agree to cede the chair, and noticed them checking out Oliver’s slicked-back hair and fire-engine-red shirt beneath his blue blazer. Oliver walked in stark contrast to most of the members, who were more conservatively groomed and attired. Yet Jay saw that the women were quickly won over by Oliver’s effusive manner and charm. When he left them, they were laughing and clasping him on the arm.

“What did you say to them?” Jay asked as Oliver pulled the chair close to Sally’s and sat down.

“I told them I wanted them,” he answered, leaning forward so the ladies wouldn’t hear. “Both of them.” He grinned, and a dimple appeared in his left cheek. “At the same time.”

Sally put a hand to her mouth, almost spilling her drink.

“I told them to meet me later in one of the upstairs guest rooms,” Oliver continued, putting a hand on Sally’s bare knee. “They agreed. Apparently they’ve heard…” He hesitated, squeezing Sally’s knee and winking at her. “That my nickname in college was Big Dog.”

Sally put her head back and laughed again.

Oliver glanced at Sally and pointed at his prominent Adam’s apple. “They say you can tell by looking at a man’s hands, but this is the only real way to tell without actually seeing it.” He turned to Jay. “Oh, by the way, pal, General Electric announced an eighty-two-dollar offer for Bates,” he said casually.

“That’s gre—”

“But don’t try to take credit for those shares you bought yesterday,” Oliver warned. “In fact, you shouldn’t have paid as much as you did. That guy Kelly at Goldman took advantage of you because he knew I wasn’t around. I could have gotten them for at least a dollar a share less. Maybe two. Kelly would never want to lose my business.” Oliver grabbed some nuts from a bowl in the middle of the table. “At the end of the call he probably had you thinking you’d won. Probably yelled and screamed and hung up on you, didn’t he?”

Jay said nothing.

“Kelly’s a hell of an actor. He roped you in like a treble-hooked tuna.” Oliver tapped the table several times, glancing quickly at Sally, then back at Jay. “I’m surprised I had to tell you about GE’s bid, pal. Didn’t you see that Bloomberg terminal outside the men’s locker room?”

Bloomberg terminals provided up-to-the-minute financial news on markets and companies around the world. There were several positioned around the Westchester Yacht Club so its wealthy members could check their investment portfolios at any time.

Jay nodded hesitantly. “I saw it.”

“Well, you should have used it instead of admiring it,” Oliver snapped. “Jay, you’ve got to be constantly thinking about the transactions we’re working on.” He turned to Sally. “Here’s a good lesson for you. Even on a day like today, when it’s very easy to forget about Wall Street and the arbitrage desk, you’ve got to keep our deals in the back of your mind.” He glanced back at Jay. “Understand, pal?”

“Yes,” Jay answered, noticing Bullock standing in the porch doorway, dressed in a dark suit, obviously having come straight from McCarthy & Lloyd. “Is Bullock a member here, Oliver?” he asked, disappointed to see the strawberry-colored crew cut and the broad, square-jawed face.

“What?” Oliver looked up, then back over his shoulder as he followed Jay’s eyes. “Hello, Badger,” he called, standing up. He glanced back at Jay and Sally. “I asked him to come out for dinner. I knew you two wouldn’t mind.”

Bullock waved and moved quickly down the porch to where they were. “Hello, Sally.” He took her hand and smiled warmly, then shook Oliver’s and finally gave Jay a curt nod. “How are you tonight, Oliver?”

“Great,” Oliver replied. “We had a wonderful day out on the Sound. Too bad you couldn’t join us, but I’m glad you could at least come for dinner. This will be fun.”

“It should be.”

“Everything all right on the desk?” Oliver wanted to know. “I assume there weren’t any major emergencies, because I didn’t hear from you on the cell phone.”

“Everything was fine.”

Oliver nodded. “I owe you one, Badger. I hope you made good use of Abby.” He laughed. “I told you she was your personal slave for the day.”

Bullock blinked slowly, as if he was carefully considering what he was about to say. “Abby didn’t come in today.”

“Huh?”

Jay noticed a flicker of concern cut across Oliver’s face.

“She didn’t come in,” Bullock repeated.

“Why not?” Oliver asked angrily. “Was she sick?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“She never called,” Bullock explained.

Bullock’s face appeared flushed, close to the color of his hair.

For several moments Oliver and Bullock stared at each other, as if they were silently communicating. Then Bill McCarthy appeared at the porch door with Barbara on his arm, and moments later the entire party headed to the Quarterdeck Restaurant for dinner.

The Quarterdeck overlooked the veranda and the water, and as the sun dipped below the horizon, the yellow, green, and red running lights of the sailboats and yachts moored in the harbor lit up, creating a beautiful display. The dining room wasn’t particularly crowded, and when the meal ended and coffee was served, Oliver and McCarthy broke out cigars. Cigars were not typically allowed in the dining room, but the club’s commodore—a senior partner of a Wall Street law firm—had informed Oliver that smoking would be acceptable that evening. The commodore had hopes of making McCarthy & Lloyd a good client.

When he had finished lighting his cigar, McCarthy—at one end of the white-linen-covered table—turned to Jay, seated to his right. “What are you working on these days, Mr. West?” Even though McCarthy demanded that everyone at the firm call him Bill, he almost always addressed others by their last name—everyone except Oliver. It was his way of subtly reminding everyone that he was the top dog.

Jay hesitated.

“It’s all right, Mr. West. You can speak freely. We’re all friends here.”

Jay glanced at McCarthy’s shaggy blond hair. Despite his rigid requirement that everyone else at the firm wear their hair conservatively, he often went months without a haircut himself. And he often wore suit pants that were frayed at the pockets. Jay had come to learn that despite McCarthy’s millions, he was ridiculously cheap. “I was concerned about that table over there,” Jay said, gesturing at a party of four sitting nearby.

“Don’t worry,” McCarthy assured him. “They’re far enough away. They won’t hear you.”

“Okay.” Bullock was seated to Jay’s right, and out of the corner of his eye Jay saw him lean closer. Jay also noticed Oliver disengage from his conversation with Sally and Barbara. “I’m following several situations, but two in particular,” he began in a low voice. “The first is a company called Simons.” This was the company Oliver had suggested he buy shares of the previous morning in the conference room. “It’s headquartered in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and manufactures cleaning products. I’m performing due diligence now, calling people in the industry and crunching numbers. It appears to be a decent takeover candidate. The stock is cheap and there aren’t any major share concentrations.” He hesitated, sensing Oliver’s vexed expression without even looking at him. “But the earnings prospects aren’t great.”