Need You Now

that the $2 billion Robledo had lost in the Cushman Ponzi scheme-the pipeline from Gerry Collins in Miami, through Lilly Scanlon at BOS/Singapore, to Cushman Investment in New York-was the financial equivalent of flushing months of profit down the toilet.

“I reviewed your latest videotape from the church,” said Fahid. “Very impressive operation you are building.”

“Thank you. Our computers should be targeting potential recruits by the end of the month.”

“Not much good if there’s no money to train them.”

“I hear you.”

“No. You’re still hearing the message I delivered six months ago-that our patience is coming to an end. The message is different now: our patience has ended.”

“You’re putting me in an impossible situation.”

“You put yourself there.”

“No. This was not my fault.”

“Are you suggesting it was my fault?”

“Not at all.”

“Don’t blame this on Abe Cushman and Gerry Collins. You were the one who put our money with them.”

“I accept that,” said Robledo. “But, please, listen to me. I have scoured the earth for our money. I have applied force at every conceivable pressure point. After three years, I am convinced that there is more at work here than Cushman’s Ponzi scheme. There is a much bigger reason for our losses. I beg you to make the consortium understand that this was not within my control.”

Fahid looked at him like a judge about to pronounce sentence. Finally, he gave another tap to the rim of his shot glass. The bartender poured refills, which Robledo took to mean that he had another minute or two of Fahid’s time.

“This may sound crazy,” said Robledo, “but it is my firm conclusion that we lost our money because the U.S. government wanted us to lose it.”

Fahid stared at him for a moment. Then he burst out in laughter. Laughed so hard that he nearly fell off his stool.

“I’m serious,” said Robledo. He removed Evan Hunt’s report from the inside pocket of his blazer and laid it on the bar, which brought Fahid’s laughter under control.

“What’s this?” asked Fahid.

“An analysis of thirty-eight reasons why Abe Cushman was a fraud. A friend of Tony Mandretti prepared it years before Cushman blew up. Mandretti gave it to me before I met with Collins.”

“Does Mandretti’s friend work for the government?”

“No. But if some quant in Chinatown was able to come up with this, can anyone seriously believe that the federal regulators were unaware?”

Fahid took a moment to absorb what was said. “So they knew.”

“Yes, they knew,” said Robledo. “It’s my belief that they took that knowledge and cut a deal with Gerry Collins. They could have promised him anything from a reduced sentence to better food in the federal penitentiary he was headed for. I don’t know what he got. But it’s clear to me what Collins gave them: us . Collins and his friend with the boat in Miami-Mr. Konig, whom I took care of personally-lured me into the scheme just in time for us to lose two billion dollars.”

Fahid belted back another Paraguayan firewater. “Mandretti gave you this three years ago. Why am I hearing this government conspiracy theory just now?”

Robledo reached into his pocket and removed another document. “Do you remember the Treasury Department memo I told you about?”

“Of course.”

Robledo laid the memo on the bar, then read the key language: “ ‘Treasury’s most promising lead as to concealment of proceeds from the Cushman fraud remains Gerry Collins’ banking activities at BOS/Singapore, and the key person of interest at BOS has been identified as Lilly Scanlon.’ ”

“Yes, I remember. This memo is what put that girl Scanlon and her boyfriend in the crosshairs.”

“I think this memo is part of the government’s plan,” Robledo said.

“How?”

“It came to me so out of the blue, like a gift from Allah. Now I know it was no gift. It was leaked to me to keep me chasing after the money.”

“Why would the U.S. government want you to keep looking?”

“Because it was one thing to lose my clients’ money in the Ponzi scheme. It is quite another for the U.S. government to actually find out the names of my clients.”

Fahid studied the Treasury memo, took another look at Evan Hunt’s analysis, and then shook his head. “This troubles me,” he said.

“It should.”

“My concern is that if the U.S. government wanted us to lose our money, then they must have known the true identity of your investors.”

Robledo paused. He knew the consequences of any breach of client confidentiality. “No, you are jumping ahead. It has to be the case that the Americans simply had suspicions about my investors. That’s why they are using this girl Scanlon. She’s the bait they want me to chase. The longer I chase, the more chances they have to find out who I represent.”

“That may be. But I’m sure you will agree with me that if that information did get out, neither Gerry Collins nor the U.S. government is to blame.”

Robledo swallowed hard, but he knew there was only one correct response. “I wouldn’t blame anyone but myself for that.”

“Nor would I,” Fahid said, his stare cutting right through him. He took Robledo’s shot glass, tipped it back, and slammed the empty glass on the bar. Then he left a hundred-dollar bill and said good night.

Robledo was alone at the bar, watching through the Fugaki’s plate glass window as Fahid made his way out, crossed the street, and passed another busload of Brazilians checking in at the Hotel Hamburg.

49

“W ho ate the leftover pizza?” asked Connie.

I had no idea that the city that never sleeps extended all the way to New Jersey. Her kitchen was like an active crime scene, more like two o’clock in the afternoon than two in the morning. Before we’d gone to bed, Scully’s tech expert had called to confirm that there was indeed spyware on my BlackBerry, which would have allowed someone to overhear my conversation with Evan before he died. Scully called him in again after the computer crash, so there were five of us in a cramped kitchen trying to figure out what had happened to Connie’s outdated PC, though Connie’s immediate concern was the case of the missing slice.

“I ate it an hour ago,” I said.

Connie grumbled as she closed the refrigerator door, then pulled up a barstool next to Lilly. I stole a quick glance, and all that kept Lilly from doing a face-plant on the floor was her elbow on the Formica counter and her chin resting in her hand. All of us were exhausted, but Lilly especially was struggling to focus on what Scully’s friend was telling me.

“The attempted download completely fried the motherboard and the hard drive along with it,” he said.

Zach Epstein was the same former FBI tech expert whom Scully had called upon to find the spyware on my BlackBerry. Zach was definitely not “retired.” A good techie with as little as two years of “FBI” experience on his resume could easily land a job in private security that paid ten times his former government salary.

“Exactly what does that mean?” I asked.

Zach said, “Ever see that old public service announcement on TV with the egg in the frying pan: This is your