The Prometheus Deception (64 page)

One of his immense bets, on Eurodollar futures, went bad. Overnight, Lanchester had lost the bank three
billion
dollars. This exceeded the bank's assets many times over.

Meredith Waterman was insolvent. It had survived a century and a half of financial crises, even the Great Depression; and then Richard Lanchester lost a bet, and America's oldest private bank was broke.

“My
God,
” Elena breathed as she looked through the auditors' reports. “But … none of this was ever made known to the public!”

Bryson, as astonished as she, shook his head slowly. “Nothing. Never. Not an article, not a mention in the press—
nothing
.”

“How can this be?”

Bryson glanced at his watch. They had been down here for almost two hours; they were pressing their luck.

Suddenly he looked at her, eyes wide. “I think I understand now why we couldn't find any partners' income records after 1985.”

“Why?”

“Because they found a benefactor. Someone to bail them out.”

“What do you mean?”

He got up, found the gray file box that was marked, blandly,
PARTNERSHIP INTEREST ASSIGNMENTS.
He had seen it but hadn't bothered to open it; there was far too much to look through and that seemed unlikely to yield anything interesting. He opened the box and found only one thin manila file folder inside. The folder contained fourteen thin, stapled legal documents of no more than three pages each.

Each was headed
PARTNERSHIP INTEREST ASSIGNMENT.
He read the first one with a racing heart. Although he knew what it would say, it was nevertheless stunning, even terrifying, to see on the page.

“Nicholas,
what?
What is it?”

He read phrases aloud as he skimmed. “The undersigned agrees to sell all rights, title, and interest in my interest as a partner in the partnership … In consideration thereof … succeed to all rights and liabilities associated with that interest.”

“What are you reading? Nicholas, what
are
these documents?”

“In November of 1985, each of the fourteen general partners in Meredith Waterman signed a legal document selling their stake in the partnership,” Bryson said. His mouth was dry. “Each of the partners was directly and personally responsible for the more than three billion dollars of debt that Lanchester had run up. Obviously they had no choice; they were all backed into a corner. They had to sell out.”

“But … I don't understand—what was there left to sell?”

“Just the name. An empty shell of a bank.”

“And the buyer got—what?”

“The buyer paid fourteen million dollars—one million to each partner. And they were extraordinarily lucky to get that. Because the buyer was now saddled with billions of dollars of debt. Fortunately for him, he could afford it. Part of the condition of the sale was that each partner was required to sign a side confidentiality agreement—a nondisclosure agreement. A vow of secrecy. Enforceable by the threat of having their payment—the money disbursed over five years—revoked.”

“This is … it's so
bizarre,
” she said, shaking her head. “Am I understanding this right? Are you saying that in 1985 Meredith Waterman was
secretly
sold to one person? And no one knew it?”

“Exactly.”

“But who was the buyer? Who'd be crazy enough to make such a deal?”

“Someone who wanted to become the secret owner of a prestigious, highly regarded investment bank—which he could then use as a vehicle. A front for illicit payments around the world.”

“But who?”

Bryson gave a small, wan smile, and he too shook his head in puzzlement. “A billionaire named Gregson Manning.”

“Gregson Manning—Systematix…?”

Bryson paused. “The man behind the Prometheus conspiracy.”

There was a quiet scuffing noise, which jolted Bryson—the sound of a leather shoe scraping against the concrete floor. He looked up from the files, which were spread out on a small table before them, and saw the tall, stout man in a blue security-officer's uniform. The man was staring at them with undisguised hostility. “You—hey, what the goddamned hell…? You're—you're supposed to be from the computer company.
What the hell are you doing here?
”

THIRTY

They were nowhere near the main bank of computers, the server on the other side of the large room. A file box, clearly labeled, stood in front of them; the fourteen legal documents spread out like a fan on the table.

“What the hell took you so long?” said Bryson in disgust. “I've been calling up to security for the last half hour!”

Gimlet-eyed, the security man regarded them with suspicion. His two-way radio crackled. “What the hell you talking about? I didn't get any calls.”

Elena got up, waving her clipboard. “Look, without the service contract, we're just wasting our time! It's supposed to be left for us in the same place each time! We're not supposed to dig around for it—do you have any
idea
how much data's going to be lost?” She gesticulated wildly, thrusting an index finger toward his chest.

Bryson watched her, impressed; he followed her lead. “Security must have shut down the system,” he said with a petulant shake of the head, getting up slowly.

“Hey lady,” the guard protested, facing her, “I don't know what the hell you're talking—”

Bryson's hands shot out like the strike of a cobra, grabbing the security man's throat from behind with his left hand, and striking, with the hard edge of his rigid right hand, the brachial plexus nerve bundle at the base of the neck. The man went suddenly limp, slumping into Bryson's arms. He set the unconscious guard down on the floor gently, dragging him the short distance to the warehouse shelving, propping him up in the aisle between two rows of shelves. He would be out for at least an hour, possibly more.

*   *   *

As soon as they exited the bank through the freight entrance, they ran to the rented car, parked down the block and across the street. Not until they were several blocks away did either of them say anything. They were each in a state of shock. Exhaustion would be tolerated; there was nothing to do about that now except to grab sleep when they could; otherwise, they were surviving on caffeine and adrenaline.

It was three-twenty in the morning, the streets dark and deserted. Bryson drove through the empty streets of lower Manhattan, and when he reached the area of the South Street Seaport he found a narrow side street and pulled over to the curb.

“It's amazing,” Bryson said quietly. “One of the richest men in the country—in the
world
—and America's most respected political figure. ‘The last honest man in Washington,' or whatever the hell they call him. A partnership sealed years ago, in conditions of absolute secrecy. Manning and Lanchester never appear in public together, they're never mentioned in the same sentence; they seem to have no connection.”

“Appearances are important.”

“Crucial. For all kinds of reasons. I'm sure Manning wanted to preserve Meredith Waterman's impeccable reputation—it was far more valuable to him that way, as a paragon of old-line Wall Street that he could secretly use to control political leaders the world over. Now he had the perfect cover, the camouflage of unimpeachable respectability, concealing his conduit for bribes and other illegal funds channeled to Parliament and Congress, probably to the Russian Duma and Parliament, the French General Assembly—you name it. And he had a front that could in turn buy stakes in other banks, other companies, without his name ever being associated. Like the Washington bank where most Congressmen do their banking. It's all there—bribery, the potential for blackmail by using the most sensitive personal information…”

“And of course the White House,” she put in. “Through Lanchester.”

“Certainly Manning has major influence on U.S. foreign policy through him. That's why it was equally important to both men that not a word of how Manning bailed out Meredith Waterman ever leak. Richard Lanchester's reputation had to remain intact. If the word got out that he had single-handedly brought down America's oldest private bank with reckless speculation, he'd have been ruined. Instead, he was able to preserve the mystique of his financial genius. The brilliant but ethical man who made a fortune on Wall Street, who became so rich he was incorruptible, was willing to give it all up to work on behalf of his country. In ‘public service.' How could America
not
be honored to have such a man in the White House assisting the president?”

A moment of silence passed. “I wonder whether Gregson Manning actually
sent
Lanchester to the White House? That maybe was one of the conditions of his saving Meredith Waterman.”

“Interesting. But don't forget, Lanchester already knew Malcolm Davis before Davis announced his run for the presidency.”

“Lanchester was one of his key supporters on the street, right? In politics, money buys friendship rather easily. And then he volunteered to run Davis's campaign.”

“No doubt Manning secretly helped out there too—shoving a lot of money Davis's way, from Systematix, from his employees and friends and associates, and who knows how else. Thereby making Lanchester look good, look damned
invaluable,
in fact. So Richard Lanchester, who stared ruin in the face, who saw his illustrious career crash and burn, was suddenly a major player on the world stage. His career went supernova.”

“And he owed it all to Manning. We have no way in to Manning, do we?”

Bryson shook his head.

“But you know Lanchester—you met in Geneva. He'll see you.”

“Not now, he won't. By now he knows everything he needs to know about me—enough to know that I'm a threat to him. He'll never agree to see me.”

“Unless you make that threat explicit. And demand a meeting.”

“For what? Meet with him for what, to accomplish
what?
No, a direct, unmediated approach to him is just too blunt an instrument. As I see it, the best way in is Harry Dunne.”

“Dunne?”

“I know the guy's temperament. He won't be able to resist an approach from me; he knows what I know. He'll
have
to see me.”

“Well, I don't know about that, Nicholas. He may not be in any shape to meet with anyone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That telephone number we got at the nursing home—it's a town called Franklin, Pennsylvania. The phone number is listed as belonging to a small, private, very exclusive medical facility. A hospice. Harry Dunne may be in hiding—but he's also dying.”

*   *   *

There were no direct flights to Franklin, Pennsylvania; the fastest way was to drive. But they desperately needed rest, even if only for a few hours. It was vital that they remained alert: there was still much to do, Bryson was sure of it.

Three or four hours of sleep, however, turned out to be worse than none at all. Bryson awoke groggy—they had found a motel about half an hour outside of Manhattan that looked suitably anonymous—to the sound of the tapping of computer keys.

Elena looked rested, apparently having showered, and she sat in front of her notebook computer, which was plugged into the phone jack in the wall.

She spoke without turning around, obviously having heard him stir. “Systematix,” she said, “is either the most impressive evidence of unrestrained global capitalism, or the most frightening corporation that ever existed. It depends on how you look at it.”

Bryson sat up. “I need coffee before I can look at it.”

Elena pointed to a carry-out cardboard cup next to his side of the bed. “I went out about an hour ago. It might be cold by now; I'm sorry.”

“Thank you. Cold is just fine. Did you sleep at all?”

She shook her head. “I got up after half an hour or so. Too much on my mind.”

“Tell me what you found.”

She turned around to face him. “Well, if knowledge is power, then Systematix is the most powerful corporate entity on the face of the earth. Their corporate motto is ‘The Knowledge Business,' and that seems to be the only organizing principle—the only element that unites its immense holdings.”

Bryson took a sip of coffee. It was indeed cold. “But I thought Systematix was a software company—one of Microsoft's chief rivals.”

“Software and computers—that turns out to be a fraction of its real business. But it's extraordinarily diversified. We already know it owns Meredith Waterman, and through them the First Washington Mutual Bancorp. I can't
prove
it controls the banks in Great Britain where most members of Parliament have their accounts, but I strongly suspect it.”

“Based on what? Given the elaborate precautions Manning took to conceal his ownership of Meredith, it can't be any easier to connect him to British banks.”

“It's the
law
firms—the foreign law firms it has on retainer—that tell the story. And those firms, whether in London or Buenos Aires or Rome, are known to have close relationships to certain banks. That's how I can connect the dots.”

“That's an impressive line of reasoning.”

“Now, through Systematix, Manning has major stakes in the military-industrial giants. And recently it's launched a fleet of low-earth-orbit satellites. But listen to this: Systematix also owns two of America's three major credit-reporting agencies.”

“Credit…?”

“Think of how much information a credit company has on you. It's staggering. An incredible amount of highly personal information. And there's more. Systematix owns several of the largest health-insurance firms—and it also owns data-management firms that maintain the
records
for those insurance companies. It owns the medical data companies that manage the medical records for virtually all of the country's HMOs.”