Eddy's Current (23 page)

McCann could not have been more satisfied with the way his day ended. The same could not be said for Winston.

Winston was distraught. He had been offered the role of informant by Frankel nearly a year earlier. The FBI had rolled the dice a year before that when they planted Frankel at McCann’s firm. After Frankel had been there for only a month or so, it became clear to him that the firm was committing huge fraud. It was also clear that, at least in the case of Style & Shores, the firm’s fees were little more than bribes paid to have auditors look the other way, and to keep the clean audit reports and neutral management comments and suggestions coming year after year.

“I’ve had enough of this. You’re planning to hang me. Look, I’m an auditor; I’m not a G-man. I know about you guys. You set people up—people who help you. Then, when things go bad, you walk away. Cuba, in the 60's. Iraq. Iran Contra. You’re always screwing up. Guys like me pay the price. I don’t like this at all. You heard everything I said in the meeting. For crying out loud, you recorded it! You know what’s going on. Then, after I leave the room, you tell them that everything at Style & Shores is okay. I’m either a dead man or a man with no future, and it’s your fault.” Winston said, using one–third logic, one–third obvious fact and one–third paranoid reasoning to draw his conclusions.

The dysfunctional thinking and reasoning at McCann’s firm had escalated to the point that Frankel’s bizarre speech about audit rule S.555.47(b)(8)(iv), though little more than senseless rambling to knowledgeable professionals, was actually believed and accepted by McCann’s professionals. They knew better than to listen to rhetoric that was not supported by clear procedures and rules, but they were deafened by the sound of McCann’s money, power and threats pounding against their eardrums and rumbling through their heads.

Frankel had literally made up more than half of his story on the fly during the speech. He even misquoted the actual rule number, and no one thought to simply go and look it up. The actual rule was audit rule S.55.47(c)(8)(iv), and it stated clearly that banks must carry their investment assets at the actual “net realizable value” at the time the period–ending financial statements are produced, unless they could show in good faith that a different value was a more logical choice. The rule was self–serving, meant to protect the client and the auditors rather than investors, but it was not at all as Frankel painted it to be in his speech to the audit management team.

Government wiretaps, hidden microphones, copying of files, a planted undercover agent, all were unprecedented actions against an audit firm. Then again, a major audit firm had never before been investigated for participation in widespread corporate fraud.

The FBI brass had another very serious problem, and Frankel knew it. Winston did not. It quickly became obvious during the investigation that exposure of the FBI’s case against McCann would undoubtedly cause the collapse of Style & Shores, which would then set off a worldwide financial collapse that would make the 2008–2009 financial crisis seem like a harmless blip on a graph.

The FBI brass could not be seen as having allowed the problem to get worse. The fraud at McCann’s firm, and at Style & Shores, was monstrous—so extensive that no one at the FBI would finalize the investigation out of fear of precipitating the worldwide economic collapse. So everyone waited. And now two years had passed.

In a half–hearted and ill–conceived attempt to bring the fraud to an end, the FBI ordered Winston to make his critical statements about Style & Shores at the meeting. When Frankel reported to his bosses during the break that things were not going well, he was ordered to make a positive report about Style & Shores. Now Winston was a sitting duck, a walking dead man.

A financial crisis of epic proportions was imminent regardless of whether or not the FBI continued its investigation of McCann. The FBI shocked even their long–time agent, Frankel, by simply pulling the plug on the investigation, abandoning Winston entirely. Frankel was to disappear from McCann’s firm at once, never to return, and the FBI began the tedious process of erasing the entire investigation from their history.

Winston went to work the day after Frankel’s promotion. He went to Frankel’s office to meet with him to go over their work and schedule. Frankel’s office chair was empty. He was no where to be found.

“I received a letter of resignation from Robert Frankel by courier this morning. His home phone and cell phone are disconnected. I went to his home, and it’s empty. It’s as if he never existed,” McCann announced later that day to the partners and managers.

Winston panicked when he received word. He was now in deep trouble, deeper than he ever imagined possible. He went to see his lawyer. His lawyer chastised him for living in a fantasy world of G-men, FBI plots, conspiracy, coverup, worldwide economic collapse and so on. He seemed to her to be delusional. It crossed her mind more than once that she should consider having him committed.

The advice he received from her was that he should have been more of a team player at his job. He should now resign and get another job at a different firm. She assured him that he was a good person and that things would work out for him. Deep down she was very concerned for his mental condition and his overall well–being.

Winston called the FBI. He didn’t know Robert Frankel’s real name. “I need to speak with Frankel. This is Winston. I need to speak with him now,” Winston said to the agent on the phone—between deep and desperate breaths that his body forced him to take again and again.

“I’m sorry… what was your name again? …Winston? Sir, are you aware that you are calling the offices of the FBI? We have no one here by the name of Frankel. Do you mean Frank? We have two Franks here,” the agent responded, as sincerely as a concerned, confused and innocent child.

“I told him that you would play games with me. I told him I would be hung out. I’m a dead man,” Winston responded, clearly in agony.

“Sir, I want to help you. Are you suicidal? Please, sir, if you’re speaking about the possibility of your own death, I want to help you. Can I get someone on the line to help you?”

Winston knew the game now. And he knew that he had lost. He had lost it all—his compensation package, his career, his reputation, his FBI protection. It was over for him. He didn’t know what to do or where to turn.

Winston contacted River directly. He knew that River was an agent for the USFIA, and he knew that the USFIA was the only real check on the power of the FBI. Still, there was no way to trust anyone completely.

“Mr. Warwick, you have to help me,” Winston pleaded to River on the phone. “I have no options. Here’s what happened…”

Winston was at first reticent to approach and talk in detail with River, or with anyone else. Once their conversation began, though, they talked for hours. And while Winston’s lawyer believed that Winston lived in a fantasy world, River believed his story. Winston felt secure with River.

The USFIA was already on to something. They had been suspicious of Style & Shores for a year, but they knew of the FBI investigation, so they stayed in the background. They shouldn’t have. River understood that now. River realized that this conversation with Winston was USFIA’s best chance to bring the FBI, the audit profession and the banking system back in line. The stakes were high. The story seemed outlandish, and the facts weren’t clear. Winston would have to get a tape recording of his meeting at McCann when he warned of the coming crash of Style and Shores. River could handle getting the FBI records proving collaboration between Winston and Frankel.

There was a huge hurtle in the way. While USFIA possessed broad power to investigate the FBI, that power was severely limited where the undercover FBI agents’ relationships with informants was concerned. In order to make certain that agents and their families were protected, an elaborate, bureaucratic process had been set in place that all but prevented an investigation.

River would have to prove beyond any doubt that Winston was in danger. If he could, the cumbersome process of investigating Frankel’s work with Winston could begin. Without such proof, River couldn’t even begin his investigation.

“Are you in danger?” River asked Winston. “Yes, I am,” Winston replied. “I am in danger and so is my family. I agreed to be used as an informant because the FBI told me that I had allowed Style and Shores to violate accounting principles for years, and that I was guilty of several crimes. They made it clear to me that I had better cooperate. I came to realize how serious my crimes were and how serious Style & Shores’ corporate fraud was. I cooperated fully, and now I’ve been abandoned by the FBI. Eventually I’ll be abandoned by McCann.

“You may not fully understand this, but throughout the world there are some heavy duty people involved with Style & Shores. You may know of the rumors about organized crime units around the world who have huge investments in the bank. Except that they’re not just rumors. I know the rumors to be true. I have a list of the people, of the major investors. Many of them are known to be involved in international organized crime.

“I know what’s going on with these people, too. They are waiting until the very last minute to sell their interests in Style & Shores, just before everything comes crashing down. If it all collapses before that magic moment, they’ll find out why and they’ll take care of that reason. I don’t have to tell you the details of what would happen. You can use your imagination. Would you like to see a list of the major investors?”

River was angry at himself for how little he knew. It was as if his organization had done exactly what it was not supposed to do. He and his fellow agents were to stand watch over the FBI. Instead, the FBI had allowed a criminal enterprise of epic proportions to operate, and even while they were in the process of investigating it! And now, after a simple phone conversation, it was all so matter–of–fact. “Can you get the list?” River asked, not completely sure he wanted to face it, though.

“Yes.”

“Let’s meet, Mr. Winston. We’ll meet today, this afternoon. Go to the Houston airport. Park in short–term parking. Make sure no one follows you. Go to Ticket Terminal Seven. Sit casually at one of the tables there and wait. I’ll meet you.”

“Here, take a look,” Winston said, as he handed River a copy of the list of Style & Shores investors.

The list read like a who’s who of crime bosses. And terrorists, and heads of state, and U.S. Senators, and congressmen—and Tyler Peterson and all his buddies. And many, many others. Some individuals stood to lose billions if Style & Shores collapsed before they sold off their interests. Others had tens of millions at stake. Many had one hundred percent of all their assets tied up in Style & Shores stock.

“Does anyone suspect you?”

“No, not unless Frankel says something. As far as I know he did not expose me. But I do suspect that the brass at the FBI would love to expose me to have someone rid the world of me, to eradicate the possibility that they might be called to account for their inaction.”

“This is big. This is bigger than I imagined,” River said. “I’ll get to work on it. You will have to leave McCann and move into a witness protection program. Do not go into work tomorrow. Do not submit your resignation. You and your kids will simply disappear. We will begin tonight to move your family to a different, but entirely secret, location. No one will know. You will all be safe.” River was certain that he had assured Winston of his family’s safety, even though he had not convinced himself of it.

Albert decided that a junior agent named Richard Ashton would be in charge of protecting Winston’s family. Ashton was new to intelligence work, and still had a great deal to learn. He was smart and capable, and Albert had confidence in him. River objected. “I want to handle the protection of Winston and his family myself. This guy’s in trouble. Those guys could hire the best hit men in the world. Dozens of hit men, if they wanted to. This is serious. Winston’s got kids to worry about.”

“You can’t do it all, River,” Albert replied. “You will have help, and that’s final.”

Winston’s wife, Donna, had died many years ago. Winston never got over it. Cancer slowly killed her during her years of suffering. Winston, his son and two daughters were his entire world. Winston alone had to protect and provide for his kids. He was placing his children in Ashton’s hands. He had no choice. He was tired of having so few choices.

Winston’s son, James, was athletic, bright, focused, sincere and a great deal of fun. Life was good for this eighteen–year–old. He was most content when he was on the baseball field, playing first base, as he did on a regular basis for the new Montana State University baseball team. Montana State formed a baseball team in 2022, the first in school history. It was too cold to play baseball in Montana in February, so Montana State played many of its first series of each season away, mostly in states well to its south.

Other schools, including Florida, USC and Arizona, had overlooked James because he was not well known on the major college circuit. Montana State took a chance. He proved himself and then some. Many college scouts, and even some in the major leagues, were asking themselves how they missed him.

James did not move to the relocation home chosen by Ashton to house Winston and his kids. James was safe, Ashton reasoned, because he was away at college and no one really knew that much about him. He played baseball on a college team that few had heard of, and that few were likely to hear of in the future. Besides that, James was surrounded by people on a regular basis at college. Montana State University was a very public place.

After all, if someone wanted to stop Winston, they would want to find him and get him. Hurting James would backfire, surely, and they would not take that chance, or so Ashton believed. It was a risk, but it seemed to be acceptable. James would have to be on alert, but he would still be allowed to go to Montana State and play baseball there.

The risk wasn’t worth the price paid. The crash was fiery, and its intended goal was accomplished. Nothing was recognizable, including James and his passenger, Montana’s infield coach Martin Orlanzo. The car, an older model SUV, blew out the left front tire on US–20 at seventy–five miles an hour, on the way back to Bozeman, Montana, from Phoenix. James would have been in the passenger seat except that coach Orlanzo was tired and had asked James to drive.