Man in the Middle

“You have a concern?” Stenman asked, showing no hint of surprise.

“Si, senora. He is unstable. Did you know he has a wife? A Japanese woman. He keeps her a prisoner in his house. She is esclava.”

Stenman looked to Sarah.

“Esclava: slave. His wife is a slave—he treats her savagely. I have no sympathy for abuse of physically weaker beings.”

“I understand.” A slight frown worked its way onto Stenman’s face. Sarah’s father, Stenman recalled, had been an original investor, and Stenman had known Sarah since she was a young girl. How her father could have done those things to Sarah was beyond comprehension, and for his despicable acts, Stenman hated the very memory of David Brigston. That Sarah had usually directed her brutality towards powerful men, including her eradicated father, and her vanquished husband, came as no surprise, Stenman thought.

As Stenman’s attention refocused on their conversation, Carlos continued, “Not only that, but Muller gives too many interviews. He is drawing attention to himself. I understand he has reached a deal to have a ghost-writer author his autobiography.”

“He has crossed that fine line,” Sarah agreed with Carlos, “between positive publicity—humanitarian aid, testimony to Congress on matters of national significance, even the occasional interview—and dangerous self- promotion. He touts his investment performance, never suggesting that he may have taken a significant loss on a position.”

At the head of the long dining room table, Stenman faced the other two and nodded. “We must not appear omniscient. But, Carlos, I know your personal animosity towards Howard. This remains strictly business, I trust.”

“What we do—in our business—must have a rationale that puts our business first. His actions do not. That is why he is a risk.”

“I agree we need to maintain discipline,” Morgan said.

“And to directly answer your question, Senora Stenman, business is always business. I hold that first and foremost. If he becomes a larger liability, I may come to you one day and . . .” Carlos shrugged, his arms and hands bent out and up.

“That is our relationship,” Stenman said. “We discuss problems and solutions. Hopefully, all these matters will get resolved in an unspectacular manner. If not, then not. Now, are we settled on this?”

“Yes.” Sarah spoke for both herself and Carlos.

“We have another matter to take up this evening. After we have had our dinner, Mr. Ayers will join us to explain more fully. I have initiated a new system of fund transfer that will require us to open new banking accounts.”

“New accounts?” Sarah asked, taking her seat. “Our system—your system—has proven effective. When regulators have sought to understand our activities, they have become lost. Why the change?”

“This process will allow us to move money instantly, by phone.”

Sarah shook her head. “With maximum security?”

Stenman nodded.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Stenman looked at the screen to her right. A waiter stood with a room service tray stacked with aluminum domes, waiting to begin serving dinner. She activated the door. After setting out smoked salmon and fresh sliced vegetables, the waiter disappeared.

Once the door clicked and locked shut, Sarah picked up where they left off. “How is this transfer possible?”

“Mr. Ayers will explain in detail, but it involves biometrics—speech recognition.”

“This is reliable?” Carlos asked, holding a fork with a slice of pink fish.

“Yes,” Stenman said. “I am satisfied. We provide specific voice instructions to our banks. They include a statement of transfer, and the account numbers. When we phone in, and after we key in account information, we provide precise verbal instructions. An unauthorized voice will freeze the account. The machinery recognizes our voice patterns, intonations . . . it is as good as fingerprinting.”

“If what you say is correct,” Sarah continued, “this means that in the event of an investigation, you could empty all accounts in minutes. Move every penny to other locations.”

Stenman again nodded. “If you agree, we will set up these accounts over the next days and weeks.”

“I like the concept,” Sarah said. “Let’s eat. After, I look forward to learning more.”

“On another matter,” Stenman began, her tone light, her accent nonexistent. “I believe Mr. Neil was captivated by you.” Her mouth widened. “But then, what man isn’t?”

“Only my nephew—” Sarah winked at Carlos and couldn’t resist a rare smile “—and, of course, my husband’s brother, Fernando. He does not much care for me, does he, Carlos?”

Stenman didn’t understand why, but Carlos began an unholy laugh. She had never seen the ugly boy express even a molecule of happiness before this. The cackle was joy, laced with evil. For several seconds, Carlos remained lost in whatever hilarity possessed him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 JASON AYERS STUFFED HIS BRIEFCASE WITH MATERIALS EXPLAINING HOW speech recognition worked. This was to be a $20 million investment in equipment so expensive and state-of-the-art as to be out of the reach of practically anyone in the world—Stenman excepted. With billions passing through the hedge fund’s doors, and a ten- to twenty-percent performance fee regularly siphoned off, an investment that hurtled funds to the correct offshore accounts at electronic speed was worth ten times the price. Not to mention the additional attractiveness to those wishing to export assets. Ayers finished his scotch and poured himself another. He looked out the library window at the half-moon and stars.

“So many mistakes,” he said to himself. “Too late.”

How had he arrived at this sorry state? Thirty years with Morgan Stenman, that’s how. In the beginning, he set up tax havens for her. In the mid-eighties, things changed. The markets came alive and everybody seemed anxious to sell information, to get their piece of the pie. With Stenman’s international connections, the world was hers for the plucking, and she plucked away with unbridled enthusiasm and success. It proved so damn easy. She started in a big way with her Eastern European connections, many of whom had relocated to Australia, where they owned and ran companies—and seemed eager to share their insights with her.

Then came the development of unregulated third-world markets— Latin America, Russia, the other countries of the former Soviet Union, and Asia. Stenman’s hundred million dollars in humanitarian contributions made for good public relations, but were much more valuable as down-payments on political influence and information. She owned a piece of important people in every corner of the world.

The seduction of Jason Ayers had been both methodical and incremental. First, he defended Stenman and her funds from prosecution—that was his job. Next, he helped shelter certain activities by setting up offshore havens, thus avoiding future prosecution. Done with civility, these activities amounted to rule-bending rather than law- breaking—at least until the Russian Syndicate—the Mafiya—and the South American cartel monies came in and raised the stakes. With this current crop of client, things had grown beyond dangerous. Amoral operatives dealt in drugs, carbines, submachine guns, missiles, uranium, biological weaponry, and everything else deadly and illegal that brought in big money. With their billion-dollar-a-week cash flows, these criminal financiers needed to launder funds, and thought nothing of eliminating life to protect their interests: Hannah Neil, Erik Cannodine, Stanley Drucker, and hundreds of others. Each elimination sent a message to others: Don’t fuck with us. Ayers knew they owned him, now and forever. They held his family as leverage. Everybody’s family was leverage. Even if he wanted to, he would never find a way out.

He clamped shut his briefcase, stood, put his eyeglasses on, buttoned his coat, smoothed his hair. A legal robot, programmed to do whatever the hell they told him to do. He and his partners were automatons, at the beck and call of Morgan Stenman and, more recently, Sarah Guzman. Soulless machines, they all pretended to be above the fray, but actually operated in a world of legal nihilism.

The phone rang, stabbing his eardrums. Ayers hated evening calls. He had phoned Hannah repeatedly the