ColdScheme (17 page)

I glared at him and then at the FBI agent.

“Just what I’d have suggested,” he murmured, eyes downcast.

“Inspector.” The Chairman’s voice hardened. “How long would it
take to get results that would reassure my colleagues that it’s safe to proceed
with the system definition?”

“Give us a month,” Field replied. I wondered what he had
based his estimate on—other than blind faith and luck.

“Hartill,” the Chairman said, turning to an executive
standing nearby. “Contact Washington, New York, Miami and Los Angeles. Halt all
work. Do not release the staff, merely reassign them to other duties. Make them
understand that it’s temporary but utmost discretion is required.” He looked at
me. I read him correctly.

“For now, that’s satisfactory,” I said and smiled.

Hartill was the one I had shocked in the hotel by asking him
whether he was the hotel security. He was already on the phone, connecting to
another banking stronghold.

“I understand that you were going to appoint a liaison who
would represent your interests and pass on your instructions,” Field said. He
looked down the length of the table.

“I prefer to stay close to the issue while in Baltimore.”
The Chairman’s mouth twisted in a peculiar smile. “I assumed that the FBI would
enjoy working with me. There’s less chance of misunderstanding,
misinterpretation of directives.”

“The FBI does,” Field nodded solemnly.

I looked at Ken. He hurriedly assured
the Chairman that the Baltimore police were honored to work with him in such
difficult circumstances.

“To have a liaison is still a good idea,” I said. “We need
details that are far removed from the top operating levels.”

“So you think that I don’t know enough about what’s going on
at my own financial institutions?” he said, challenging me. His eyes were no
longer frozen in crystal.

“You certainly didn’t know that one of the experts on that
team was wired with a bomb, sir.”

“Neither did you.”

“He was your employee.”

“He was your citizen,” he shot back quickly.

“Don’t bother saying that I failed to protect, sir.”

“Don’t bother saying that I failed to change, Officer.” He
was in good form tonight.

I laughed.

“One moment.” He raised his hand. Hartill was trying to get
his attention. Our conversation was a quick tattoo, polite and rich in what the
French called “éclair sarcasm”.

“You certainly don’t stand in danger of drowning in
diplomacy,” Field whispered with heavy resignation.

I was trying to come up with a crack when I heard Hartill’s
report. Something caught my attention.

“Blank concurs that we should halt the project but he thinks
the reasons and the intimidation method should be publicized, not kept quiet.
He thinks for now the project members could be reassigned to studies and issues
that deal with tax havens and harmful tax practices.” Hartill shrugged
apologetically, as if to show that he was only a messenger. He was still
holding the phone. He had covered the mouthpiece with his hand, waiting for
instructions.

The Chairman turned to us. “What would we gain from
publicizing what’s been going on?”

“The media has already stirred the public with their
detailed reports of these executions,” Field replied. “The police have been
flooded with calls from anxious citizens who think they may have a bomb planted
in their chests. Hopkins will be empty if such news continues. Other medical
institutions may find themselves under similar scrutiny and beleaguered with
demands from ex-patients, for explanations, medical exams—removal of
life-saving devices.”

“Which means the FBI and the Baltimore Police Department
would come under fire. Their competency would be questioned in terms of what
they’re doing to apprehend these evil masterminds who appear to have such a
powerful weapon that they can execute any citizen, any time, without the
authorities knowing how to stop them.”

“That’s already happening.” Field’s voice hardened. “We’re
following all available leads. The arrow is pointing at the financial
sector—Tavistock.”

“I’ve pledged my cooperation,” the Chairman said and his
face split in a cynical smile. “I’m halting the project. It’s not a mere
face-saving gesture. There’s an upcoming summit meeting in Copenhagen where all
the attendees will have an opportunity to discuss a range of measures to fight
money laundering. I will be expected to defend my decision to halt what
promised to be a very powerful answer—aimed not just for national but global
acceptance and implementation. If I keep it a secret that I have suspended the
project and announce it at the summit, don’t you think it would cause me a
great deal of discomfort and embarrassment?”

“One month is not going to inconvenience or embarrass you
that much, sir.”

“One month, Inspector, is a large setback for a project that
has a tight schedule.”

“You won’t have a schedule to keep if you run out of experts
willing to work on it under these conditions. Publicizing what’s happening is
not the answer. It’s free publicity—for the villains, endorsing their skill and
craftiness. They’re moving their operations. The Baltimore mission is
accomplished. After that, we may have an avalanche, one major banking and
political center after another.”

My father clenched his jaw and turned to Hartill. “Ask Blank
what he thinks that publicizing will get us.”

Hartill obeyed. He listened, with a tightening expression.

I reached over and plucked two sheets of paper from Field’s
notepad. I hurriedly scribbled a few words and passed it to Ken. I waited until
he read it. His eyes widened and he nodded. I scribbled on the other sheet and
swished it down the table to land in front of the Chairman. I motioned for him
to read it. When he did, he leaned back, frowning, then said to Hartill, “Tell
Blank that I’ll call him back with my final decision.” He waited until Hartill
hung up and turned to me.

“Why did I just dismiss my Chief Economist and Financial
Officer in Washington after having roused him from bed at this hour?”

“Probably because you want to start up the project again and
live through it,” I said.

He just stared at me. For once, he seemed to have nothing to
say.

“Who is Blank?” I asked.

“Socially, politically or businesswise?” he responded with a
tight smile.

“Yes. Go on.”

“Socially, R. Bishop Blank may be included in a foursome
when our President wants to play a round of golf. He’s a godfather to his
eldest daughter and an old, valued family friend—mine and his.”

“Do I know him?” I could still recall most of his valued old
friends. I didn’t remember anyone named R. Bishop Blank. Then again, it was
always my brothers who were involved in the financial and political aspects of
Tavistock business. I was kicked out of two posh private schools and escaped
being saddled with a criminal record in Europe and North America only because
Tavistock lawyers knew how to bribe the right officials.

“From 1970 to 1974, he was an Economic Attaché, an advisor,
posted in Caracas, Venezuela, through the Inter-American Development Bank,
though it was called something else back then. From 1975 to 1979, he was a
member of the task force for the Business Council for International
Understanding, training and enhancing trade literacy of the US Foreign Service.
That job placed him in five Latin American countries and made him a lot of
friends in the State Department. From 1980 to 1985, he served as our Ambassador
to Colombia. He’s a distinguished member of the Council of American
Ambassadors. In 1986, he returned to his roots and until 1988, he was with the
State Department, Senior Assistant to the Under Secretary for Economic,
Business and Agricultural Affairs. When the Under Secretary retired, for
medical reasons, he stepped into his position and ran the business until 1990
when he decided to leave the political scene and enter the private sector. He
spent five years on the West Coast in corporate finance then came over to
Tavistock. He has been my Chief Economic and Financial Officer for fourteen
years. If I had to pick my successor tomorrow, he would be my choice. He is
certainly someone you wouldn’t want to annoy without a good reason.”

I looked at Ken.

“Maybe you’re wrong,” he murmured.

“Anything’s possible but I don’t think so,” I said quietly.
I returned to the interrogation. “Sir, does your officer attend the economic
summits?”

“Of course. He’s one of the two Vice-Chairmen of the
Advisory Committee on International Economic Policy. Six months ago, he
presented a paper on Corporate Ethics and Guidelines for Multinational
Enterprises at the Advisory meeting. These are open to the public.”

“Mr. Hartill.” I turned to the executive. “What was Mr.
Blank’s explanation, regarding the publicizing of what’s been happening at
Tavistock?”

Hartill looked at his boss. He received a nod and replied.
“We would project confidence that we have uncovered the root of the threats and
thus will be vigilant from now on. Releasing details would also stave off
embarrassment and explanations that would have to be made later on at the
summit. This way, all the stakeholders would have been alerted to the threat
and prepared with suggestions as to how to prevent similar occurrence in the
future, elsewhere.”

“In other words, Mr. Blank thinks it would be ideal if we
warned those who are behind the murders that we know the motive, where it’s
leading and that we can’t do anything about it. He thinks it’s an advantage to
release details and advertise concerns,” I summarized. I knew that Hartill
would feel that I had taken liberties with what he’d said.

“I don’t believe those would have been his intentions,” he
objected huffily.

“Mr. Hartill, silence can be revealing. However, silence can
also be interpreted or misinterpreted. Either way, there’s no disclosure, only
uncertainty. What Mr. Blank proposed, would eliminate uncertainty. Revealing
details is a message to them. We have surrendered. We have no clue. You’re free
to close the Baltimore episode, stamp it successful and move on to the next
target. That target is almost assured to be equally successful. A precedent has
been set. As a police officer, I would never make it that easy for any
criminal,” I finished crisply.

Hartill looked at his boss who sat rigid, like a statue.

Finally, my father leaned forward. “You would have made a
good lawyer,” he murmured. When I made no comment, he continued, “Should I
abstain from public functions for a while?”

“Your old friends know you well, sir. It would be wise to
keep up appearances.”

“He would certainly have the connections—and the detailed
knowledge it takes…” His voice trailed off. I knew whom he meant.

“You gave us one month, sir,” I reminded him.

“How certain do you feel…”

“I’m not a gambler but it would be a safe bet.”

“It’s hard to believe… I just can’t imagine… Not like this…”

“It’s not hard to believe. The world is made of wheels
within wheels. All such activity runs on money. The stakes must be very high,
that’s all.”

“What are the stakes? It can’t be prestige and power.
There’s plenty of that where he is.”

“Maybe not as much as he would like.”

“I just can’t believe…” He shook his head and clenched his
jaw, as if grinding the words he’d left unsaid.

“Who’s your greatest enemy these days, sir, businesswise?” I
asked. He flinched.

“Congressman Gerold Appleby, the Chairman of the House
Committee on Financial Services has been a real pain lately. He must have a lot
of free time, because he’s embarked on a personal crusade to check our internal
accountability regarding the release of funds available for withdrawal. His
platform is that the banks have been stretching the legal limit and in many
cases, exceeded it, to increase their profits. He’s really eager to expose
financial crime. He’s also charged up about predatory lending.” He shook his
head, to banish what I knew had caused him many sleepless nights.

“It’s comforting to hear that Congressman Appleby strives to
earn his pay,” I remarked. “However, how would you feel, sir, if at the touch
of your fingers, you could send Congressman Appleby the same kind of greeting
card as the one you received in your suite? And how would you feel, if you knew
that the next set of numbers you could tap on your phone pad, would see
Congressman Appleby lying prone, wherever he happened to be, his chest looking
like a lawnmower had run over it?”

“Powerful?” He spoke the word with impact, as if firing a
bullet into his archenemy.

“More than that,” I said in my closing argument tone. “In control.”

* * * * *

It was three o’clock in the morning. Field drove. None of us
felt like talking. Tomorrow, we would have to go visit the Mongrove psychiatric
facility. Field would come too but first he had to understand the connection
between Blank and the psychiatric facility. I didn’t have the energy to brief
him now.

I told Ken to call Brenda.

“It’s late. She’ll be asleep,” he murmured.

“Do you know where she is and where’s she’s taken my kid?” I
asked.

He nodded.

Brenda was a practical woman. She was in my house, waiting
to pick him up. Ken’s Malibu hadn’t been returned yet.

Brenda must have been watching for us from the living room
window.

“She’s asleep,” she said, as she came down the steps to
greet us. “She’s into drawing family trees. I couldn’t even interest her in a
TV show. I’ve never seen a child so keen on homework.” She laughed and went to
hug Ken.

I introduced Field and they shook hands. He’d parked the
Concorde on the street so Brenda could get her car out.

“Thanks,” I told her as she collected her purse and keys.

“Any time I’m free.”

I watched them leave and was about to wish Field good night,
when he cleared his throat. “I’m too tired to talk about work. I need to get
some sleep,” I said.