Man in the Middle

KEN MORRIS

To my wife, Amelia, and my four sons Brett, Scott, Tim, and Colby.

I love you with all my being, and thank you for the lessons you teach me each and every day about humility and humanity.

PROLOGUE

BLOOD-RED STRIPES RIBBED THE HORIZON WHILE AN OCEAN BREEZE, WED to the scent of salt and seaweed, rustled past. Later that day—perhaps unaware of the morning’s tragedy—children would splash in the La Jolla Cove, playing Marco-Polo through peeking eyes. It was a setting that made San Diego’s North Coast so unique, validating citizens’ claims that this was “America’s finest city.”

Nicholas Zerets, however, cared nothing for clear skies, May sunshine, or the citizenry as he moved with effortless strides down this gold-plated stretch of real estate. Past a steak restaurant, a valet booth in front of an eight hundred-dollar a night hotel, and a newly built bank building boasting a hundred billion in assets, his heels click-clacked as if a ticking clock. When a San Diego City police car turned a corner and headed in his direction, he leaned back on his heels and slowed to a stop. He withdrew a tin box from a hip pocket, opened it with one hand, and removed a dark papered Djarum. He set the Turkish cigarette on its slow burn and watched.

Once the black and white accelerated and sped past, Zerets dragged deeply on the lit weed and continued his march. At his side, and chained to his wrist, hung a steel reinforced briefcase crammed with stock trade- confirms, notifications of maintenance calls, and final requests for additional funds—a substantial commemorative for those who would later investigate. Back at his apartment, on a computer monitor, was a screen full of stock symbols—each signifying a past trade—and nearly every one a miserable loser. It wouldn’t take a MENSA to understand the why of his actions.

Zerets continued across the street toward Jackson Securities’ branch office. He already knew the brokerage firm filled the ground floor of this six-story, two-year-old building. A half-dozen retail brokers were visible through glass doors. Some chattered on phones, others, like puppets putting on a show, sat face-to-face with clients. Sales assistants took notes at cramped desks outside their boss’s offices. And all of this took place in a tight area of less than two thousand square feet.

Entering, Zerets snatched a brochure, musing over the assertion, in block letters no less, that Jackson was at the forefront of capital formation:

DO YOU WANT TO GET IN ON THE GROUND FLOOR OF THE NEXT MICROSOFT?

Jumping to the brochure’s end, he read:

We are in the business of finding undiscovered investment gems while they are still in their raw, uncut form. That’s good for American business. That’s good for our clients.

He dropped the promotional material to the floor and announced with a slight accent, “I am Zerets, here to see Cannodine.”

The young female receptionist he spoke to sat behind a desk that swept across ten feet of lobby. “Mr. Cannodine is expecting you.”

Zerets looked across the room to the spread-legged security guard. The cop cocked his head at the exit sign. Zerets nodded back. “I am aware of which is his office,” he replied.

He continued across the carpeted floor to a solid-wall office with the nameplate, Erik Cannodine—Branch Manager. Zerets knocked and opened in a single motion.

Cannodine had slicked-back hair and skin stretched across fat cheeks. He looked up, then snatched a dark jacket from behind his chair and whipped it over his shoulders.

“Mr. Zerets,” Cannodine said, “I am sorry about your trading account. Had we known you had access to a million in cash, we’d never have liquidated to satisfy your margin debt.” He rubberbanded a smile and offered his hand.

Zerets ignored the proffer and did a quick inventory of the office. Oak desk, white carpet, built-in bookshelves, a degree hanging from the wall, and branch office records stored in a row of locked floor-to-ceiling cabinets lining a back wall. Along one shelf, and adorning every piece of flat-topped furniture, were family photos of a peppy trophy wife and three kids, all looking like carbon copies of their old man. Cannodine was at least fifty, so Zerets figured this was a second marriage.

“I see you’re admiring my kids.” Cannodine’s delivery was salesman smarmy but laced with a nervous tremor. “You have any tykes, Mr. Zerets?”

“No.” Zerets continued to survey the surroundings.

“Not to worry. You’re young enough. I had my last when I was forty-seven. Poor me, eh?”

“I am not much on chit-chat, Mr. Cannodine, and I feel urgency to complete my mission.”

“Of course, let’s move on.” Cannodine’s tone made it clear he understood they were busy men. “And, well,” he continued, “I just wanted to let you know I feel bad about the way things unraveled for you. Very unfortunate. But with so many day-traders losing so much money, our back-office is forced to liquidate when super-active clients get below twenty-five percent of their equity value. And you didn’t respond to margin calls. It was-n’t until later I discovered you were connected.”

Zerets ignored the administrator’s apology. “You were instructed not to mention this visit. You were discreet?”

“Of course, Mr. Zerets.”

“I assume you have no problem accepting large amounts of cash?”

Cannodine sat and opened a folder. “No, sir. Cash shouldn’t be a problem. We have to make certain disclosures, of course.” He began stacking paperwork. “A few things to sign. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No.” Zerets unfastened the chain from his wrist. The briefcase lay propped open on the far edge of Cannodine’s desk.

“I know you’ve had some misfortune with a few of your trades,” Cannodine said, “but I’m sure your luck will change. We’ve got a guy who dropped a cool half-million, then made it—”

“Come here,” Zerets said, “and I will show you what I have inside my valise.”

“Is it really a million?” Cannodine drew closer. “It’s amazing that so much money can fit into a briefcase. You’d think it’d take a big box.”

“Yes, you would think so.”

Stepping to his left as the manager passed by, Zerets waited, then struck with a hatchet-like palm across Cannodine’s soft neck. The fat man bounced off the desk and crumpled to the floor.

From inside his briefcase, Zerets clutched the first of six M-67s. He pulled one pin, placed the device under Cannodine’s body, yanked a second pin, and rolled the two and a half-inch fragmentation grenade against the file cabinets. He put two additional spheres in each of his jacket pockets. Calmly, he walked through the office door.

Noting with satisfaction the armed guard’s departure, Zerets removed two grenades from his right pocket. He positioned himself with his back to the rear door. Pulling both pins, he tossed one of the two explosives over the reception desk. The girl looked up through a puzzled smile. He lobbed the second to a far corner.

Zerets activated and rolled the final two grenades as the first explosion blew open the office door. Splintered