Chapter 10: Jeremy

On Monday morning, Vanessa was engrossed in her regular work when Jeremy walked in to her office. “Hey, Vanessa, want to come to a meeting with me?”

“What are you doing here, you have been booked off for a week, and I have got all your clients covered, and you look terrible! Those amber sunglasses don't hide the bruises around your eyes, they just make them look gangrenous.” Vanessa wouldn’t have been that hard on him if she hadn’t been relieved to see that he was positively much recovered. “What meeting and when?”

“I was watching MSNBC this morning, and they reported that Microline have a press conference scheduled for four thirty today. It is to be downtown at the Palmer House Hotel. Seemed to me that being there we may just find out something. The firm is actually a very small shareholder, I bought some stock for one of our clients last year, but he couldn't pay, so we held the stock.”

“ OK, we can take the train, they will be empty on the way in, and the worst of the crowds will be over on our way back.” Vanessa was demonstrating her hatred of the Chicago highway system, total gridlock unless you were traveling at three AM.

“Sure and I’ll even buy you dinner.” The offer from Jeremy seemed to seal the deal, and they agreed to meet at three for the short drive to the Vila Park station in Jeremy's BMW.

As the email promised, the CFO of Microline occupied the rostrum most of the press conference, explaining that their new software had been delayed due to problems of compatibility with Microsoft Windows 98, hence revenue would be down, and expenses up, a disaster enough to tank a stock in normal times, but in these heady days of zero earnings and infinite P/E ratios, probably only to knock a few dollars off the price. Jeremy and Vanessa had sat near the back of the room, but they were on an elevated row which gave them a pretty good view of the proceedings. Nothing seemed to jump out at them, a few of the directors and other officers sat behind Fred Mathis, ostensibly to show their support, and pick up any questions he could not answer. However, young as he was, Mathis was quite experienced, this being the second software startup he had been involved with, and he handled most of the questions admirably, in fact better than the CEO handled the one question Mathis deferred to him.

It wasn’t until the conference actually ended, and the people on the stage turned away to file off that Vanessa grabbed Jeremy by the arm, “that guy just leaving the stage on the left, he was the one in the Trader the night you were mugged. Now that he has turned away, I recognize the back of his neck. Strange that he should be here.”

Jeremy knew that Vanessa would not be wrong, “let’s go find out who he is.” He led the way down to the front of the room, but a melee of reporters had formed a barrier. “Out the side door,” said Vanessa, and they ran together just in time to see the man exiting the hotel onto Wabash Street. Vanessa was out the door first, and saw the man again this time just opening the driver’s side door of a gray Cadillac. She stood transfixed, because as she watched a red ford Bronco pulled away from the curb with a great squeal of rubber, and struck the man a sharp blow with its fender, driving him into the sharp edge of his car door. The Bronco took off, and before anyone could absorb any details of the truck, it disappeared around the first corner. All Vanessa did notice was that the driver was a short man, so short she could hardly see his face over the dash.

The victim didn't bleed much, but the horrendous dent in his forehead made it clear that he was dead.

Jeremy had wanted to take off, but Vanessa insisted that she should give a statement to the police, she had seen the whole thing, and she knew it was not an accident. As she explained while they rode the train back to Lombard Station, “It was our best chance of finding out who he is.”

“No longer necessary,” said Jeremy, “I checked the identity of the attendees at the press conference, and who do you think is, or was an outside director of Microline, Bill Fernstine. Apparently Merkel, through their venture capital subsidiary initially funded Microline, and then promoted their IPO. I’ll bet any money that that was Bill of the email, and also my attacker. With him now dead, it may be impossible to find out what was going on, and who else is involved.”

It was just before eleven the next day when the receptionist at Frasers called Vanessa. “Three men here to see you, and they would like to see Jeremy as well. I think one is the detective who was here the other day.” “OK I’ll see them in reception 1, and I will alert Jeremy.” She was referring to the small meeting rooms that the firm had leading off the reception area. This way visitors never got to walk around inside their offices. The receptionist was quite right. One of the men was the scruffily dressed detective who had been present the morning of Jeremy's attack, but now he was sort of clean shaven. The other two men she had never seen before, but both wore smart, almost identical gray suits. They could have been twins were it not for the fact that one was black, the other white.

The room was not really large enough for the five occupants, but Jeremy and Vanessa had squeezed in along the wall, while the three detectives sat facing them. The shabby one spoke first, “You will remember me, Miss, Detective Turner from the County Police. “This gentleman” pointing to the white man, “is Agent Hargrove of the FBI, while this is Mr. Phelps with the SEC. Just following up on that little incident last week. Are you recovered Mr. Baird?”

Before Jeremy could respond, Hargrove said, “It’s very strange, but we were checking the identity of the man killed in the hit and run last evening, fed his fingerprints into the computer, not really expecting anything, and presto, out came a perfect match with a crime scene from only a week ago. Your office. The attendance register at the press conference shows you were at the hotel last night, and who was a witness to the accident. Miss Swift here.”

Vanessa was on the brink of a reply when Jeremy nudged her with his knee, obviously he wanted her to remain quiet. “We were at the press conference because this firm is a shareholder in Microline, the company giving the statement, and we had no idea who it was who was killed in that accident until we saw his name in the papers this morning. We certainly did not know that the victim had been at my office before, as you can see visitors do not get invited into our work place.” Jeremy had spoken clearly and firmly, without the usual hesitancy in face to face encounters.

“We received an anonymous tip this morning that Mr. Fernstine, that is the victim, had been feeding you insider information. Do you have a comment?” This question came from Phelps. “That's outrageous. I knew of Finestern, it’s not a big industry, but the only contact I had with him was indirect. One of his associates had asked me for pricing on doing some trades for them, I had responded, but nothing ever materialized.” Knowing how good Jeremy was with names, Vanessa knew immediately that his mispronunciation of Fernstine’s name was deliberate, and that he did not want anyone to suspect how much he, and she, knew about what really happened. Only then did she realize, what Jeremy had obviously done several minutes before, that they were suspects in the death of Bill Fernstine, and perhaps they, or at least he, was suspected of other things as well.

“If you knew so little about him, and he about you, how would the tipster have known your name, your little “accident” the other night was not reported by any press?” The questioner this time was Hargrove, the FBI man. The lack of sympathy in the question was not reflected in the mans voice, which was soft and almost gentle, the accent eastern, with an ivy league overlay.

Vanessa who was trained to pick up on these nuances jumped in to answer the question before Jeremy had a chance to open his mouth, “Well he is quite well known in his own right in the trade, and it wasn’t an accident, he was brutally attacked, and you three should be out there trying to find out who did it - not in here harassing us!” She had chosen her words carefully because there had been several articles in the Tribune over the last few days berating the Chicago police for harassing the black community. The implied joke was not lost on Hargrove who very nearly smiled.

Hargrove stood up, “Well you two, now don’t you leave town.” The drawl was clearly a peace offering, the underlying statement notwithstanding.

After the detectives had left, Jeremy and Vanessa sat and looked at each other for a few seconds. “This is a pretty mess.” Vanessa was the first to break the silence.

“Hang in there Vanessa, while they obviously suspect us of some wrongdoing, equally obviously they have no evidence otherwise we would have been arrested, or at least dragged down to the station for questioning. It‘s funny, as I drove to work this morning, I was just concluding that it was time to bring in the SEC. Telling them anything now will just make us seem more guilty!” Jeremy’s pragmatic comment did little to settle Vanessa’s rising fury.

“Let’s get out of here. We are going to have to sort this out ourselves, and the place to start is Brad, whoever he is. There is only one person that we know of who knew that Fernstine was coming to your office that night, and that was the other man in the conversation I overheard at the Trader. If Brad is that man, we will know who, if not why or what for! So, the only Brad you know is at Merkel Capital, and I’m the only one who saw the man, so Merkel Capital here I come.” From watching Vanessa on the ice, Jeremy knew that when she was this fired up, it was a good idea not to get in her way, and he also knew that she got the most fired up when the umpire called a penalty that was unfair. Accusing the two of them of murder, or worse of stock fraud, now that was unfair.

It took them nearly an hour to get down town even though mid day traffic should not have been heavy, so it was just after one o clock when they stood in the foyer of the Sears Tower. Jeremy found a vacant seat where he could observe the comings and goings to the elevators, and Vanessa took the first car up to the 56th floor. At reception she was greeted by the usual would be model who explained that Mr. Layton did not normally see people without an appointment, and anyway was out to lunch. Vanessa said she would wait, and take her chances. She had been sitting in the chair closest to the girl for only a few minutes when a man came out from the door which led into the inner offices. The man was vaguely familiar, but Vanessa could not pin it down until he leant over the receptionist’s desk and whispered, “I'm getting out of here, cover for me.” The menace in his tone on the previous occasion was missing, but there was no doubt this was the man who had met with Fernstine in the Trader. The receptionist let Vanessa wait a few more minutes before she pretended to speak on the phone, and then turned to her and said, “Sorry Mr. Layton will not be back this afternoon.” So the man in the trader was Brad Layton, almost certainly the Brad in the email.

Vanessa mumbled something like, “Some other time,” and quickly left the office. She wanted to get back to Jeremy as soon as possible, perhaps they could catch up with Brad and follow him. It took forever for the elevator to arrive, and it was almost too full for her to squeeze in. All the other occupants packed a little closer, and she just avoided being crushed as the doors closed. The elevator stopped several other times before reaching the foyer, and on the second floor, everyone had to step aside to allow a short stocky man get out. As he did, Vanessa, having been one of the last to get into the elevator, had to step out of the car and stand outside the door to let him pass. He passed so close she could smell his aftershave, and get a really good look at him.

When the car finally reached the foyer, the reason for the crowd and the delay in the arrival of the car became clear. The adjacent car was halted at the foyer, and paramedics were furiously working on a man spread-eagled on the floor of the car. Through the crowd Vanessa just caught a glimpse of his face. He was the man she had seen leave the offices of Merkel Capital just a few minutes before. He was Brad Layton.

This time, Vanessa agreed with Jeremy that they should get out of there pronto.

They were silent for most of the trip back to Oakbrook Terrace, then Vanessa spoke “You know Brad is now also dead. I know because I saw his killer.” The words kept coming in a stream, “A short stocky man got off the elevator on the second floor, I I knew I had seen him before, but couldn’t remember when. Now I do, he was the driver of the car that killed Fernstine. If this is all about the email and the insider trading it represents, and if anyone else knows the email went to you, your life is in danger too.” As she said this, she realized that this worried her, it worried her a lot. “Maybe we should not go back to the office, you are still booked off sick, and I have plenty of vacation time.”

It did not then occur to Vanessa that she had also seen the email, so her life was in jeopardy also!

They drove in silence for a while, then, “I agree” said Jeremy and called the office on his cell phone. He got no further than “Hello, this is Jeremy” when the receptionist started to whisper urgently, “The cops are here, they have warrants to search both yours and Vanessa's office, and, Jeremy, I also had to give them your home addresses.” With that she rang off. “Maybe we can’t go home either! I’ve got a cottage on the lake in Michigan, it’s only a few hours from here, and that will give us a chance to regroup, and decide what to do next.

The cottage was a good idea, isolated and quiet. It had been inherited by Jeremy when his father died in Canada, so probably no one else knew about it. It would make a good base to work from. At dinner time, as they slurped a rather sloppy pasta Jeremy had concocted, Vanessa said, “I will cook next time, so we had better get in some provisions.” She continued as if it was the same subject “We’ve got to get into Brad’s office. Something tells me we will find out there what we are into.”

Later, as they lay in separate beds in separate rooms, Vanessa was pleased that she was this close to Jeremy. Maybe she could keep him alive. As she fell asleep, she was sure she felt him touch her arm. Or was that just a dream?

By morning the papers were full of the untimely death of a heart attack of Brad Layton. Such a young man, so fit, so healthy. For Merkel, a great loss, and so soon after Bill Fernstine’s tragic accident. Fifty six other mutual fund managers wondered what he had done and who would be next.

Alex was on a plane back to Miami. He mused that the developed world was so gullible. Anyone from South America would immediately recognize a case of curare poisoning!

Back in New York, Jeff was concerned. The favor he had asked for was in connection with Bill Fernstine. Brad Layton was not on the note he had given Jose. Was this a mistake, a coincidence, or a message for him? If it was the third option, he had a problem!

Chapter 9: Bill

No one else ever came up to this room. In fact virtually no one other than the landlord was even aware of it's existence. It was an office on the 57th floor of the Sears tower in Chicago. Well, it was really much bigger than an office, but contained only one desk, a separate computer console and several phones. What really made the room different was the fact that there were no windows or doors, and every scrap of wall surface was occupied by giant white planning boards with plug in slots. Normally such boards are used to plan large projects or military activities where the planner would insert letters or banners to make up a list of activities, but these contained banners with the names of hundreds of stocks arranged in columns under various headings. If one looked closely one could not help but notice that the columns were each headed by the name of one of the fifteen funds in the Merkel group portfolio, each subdivided into “sell” and “buy“. The only entrance to or exit from the room was via a stairway which led down to the 56th floor to a door leading into the rear of a shower room. From the shower room the door for all the world looked like a full length mirror indistinguishable from other mirrors just like it in the room. The shower room was part of the private toilet facilities attached to the office of the manager of the aggressive funds division of the Merkel Group - Brad Layton.

It was well after midnight and Brad was in the room above his office and he was annoyed. He had remained annoyed since the time two nights earlier when he found out about Bill’s stupid mistake. “I just asked him to OK that new account with Fraser.” He muttered. “We needed another broker, as some of the other guys were getting suspicious. He really blew it!” He really was an incompetent, that Bill, but it was that fact that allowed Brad to get away with all that he did.

Bill was nominally Brad’s boss, the former being the vice president in charge of Merkel’s Mutual Fund Management Division, while Brad headed up the five aggressive funds that made up roughly a third of the total in the group. Brad had joined Merkel in the early nineties, as a result of a merger, and had never resolved his disdain of the amateur approach of the Merkel staff, particularly the family members, in which company he included Bill, even though he was only a member of the family by marriage. On the other hand, Bill put up with Brad’s attitude mainly because he had the Midas touch, with the funds he managed regularly beating the indexes by a hefty margin. As Bill’s bonus depended upon the performance of the entire group’s portfolio, Brad was making Bill rich in his own right, which was just as well because his mother in law gave him little access to the vast fortune she had inherited from her father.

Brad would be in the private room for several hours every week moving around the columns, removing a banner from this fund and moving it over to another. After each move he would stop at the computer or the desk, scribble or type a few short notes and proceed to the next board. When he was done he would have moved perhaps ten percent of the banners from one position to another, and perhaps another one percent would be moved to the column headed “other.” This evening, as he did every time he came here, he finished off his activities by dialing out on his computer and sending a series of emails.

Having finished for the night, Brad took a quick shower, picked up an overnight bag that he had packed that morning before he left home, and headed straight to the airport to catch an early flight to Miami, where he was scheduled to pick up a BWI flight to Nassau, in the Bahamas. He was pleased it was so early, or late whichever way you wanted to look at it, so the highways were almost deserted, making the trip to O'Hare a mere twenty five minutes.

Brad liked the early morning flights, they were usually on time, at least at departure, and airline delays were one of the things that sent his blood pressure soaring, hence his route, American to Atlanta, then BWI to Nassau was as painless as it could be. He traveled as little as he could, but this junket was a sales rewards program for agents of the Merkel funds around the country, and everyone there would want to touch the hand of the guru. The conference was actually organized by one of the “professional” organizations that provided training for sales agents, and Merkel and other fund groups paid for agents to attend the conference as a reward for selling a target amount of their fund units. Brad smiled as the limo pulled up at the terminal, amused at the thought that investors bought his funds because agents who were rewarded by the fund manager advised them to. True his funds were doing very well, but that was because his personal bonus depended on their performance, and he made sure that he was well remunerated! Well he would go and press flesh with the dupes, no big deal, and in any rate he had another more important reason for attending the conference.

Jose was also en route to the Bahamas, but he was not going to fly BWI. The private jet he was in had left Marathon airport in the Florida Keys with a flight plan for Boston. As expected the flight controllers at Miami had pushed the plane way out over the Atlantic ocean to avoid any congestion over the busy hubs of Miami, Ft Lauderdale, and West Palm Beach. No one would notice as the plane disappeared off the edge of the radar screen for a few minutes as it landed at a remote strip on the islands. Here Jose disembarked and continued his trip to Nassau in a luxury go-fast boat, a sixty five foot Scarab, while the plane loaded a couple of unmarked crates and continued its flight to Boston. The plane arrived only 20 minutes behind schedule, surely no cause for comment. Being a nominally local flight there was no need to clear customs, and the jet simply taxied up to a freight terminal, where the crates were re-consigned to New York, no questions asked. The occupants of the plane were not surprised at how easy the deception had been. They did this trip or one like it several times a month, and only rarely were they given a routing by air traffic control that did not permit them to deviate just a little from their declared route.

Back at the Hotel Atlantis, on Paradise Island in Nassau the conference was in full swing. Lectures and presentations were going on in three separate halls, and in each there were a smattering of delegates. Attendance at the training parts of the program was always thin, as the competition from sponsored social and sporting activities was fierce. Offered a choice between playing golf in a pro-am tournament with thousands of dollars in prizes and a lecture on the linkage between the Dow industrial index and weather in the mid west, most delegates had little trouble deciding that the exercise would be good for them.

There was one room however that was having a lot of traffic. It was not listed as a public room for delegates, but invitations to attend the meeting there this afternoon had been circulated several weeks earlier. The room was actually part of the suite occupied by Jeff Rosenberg, the managing guru of Franklin Capital, a mutual funds group based in New York. Jeff had hosted these gatherings twice a year since 1992, with the number of invitations increasing each time till now there were nearly fifty. The meetings were always short, partly so that the attendees would not be missed for too long, and partly because, once they had accepted the purpose of the meeting, there was not that much more to talk about. No one was ever invited here until they had been carefully, assessed, and pre-approved.

Jeff called the group to order exactly at 3 o-clock, “OK everybody appears to be here. We have two new members, and we have lost one. The new stocks selected by your votes are given in the papers on your desk. In the drum as usual are forty nine cards with a fair division of the names of the new stocks, and the amount we expect you to hold. Remember, everyone has agreed to actively work the allocation he has been given.” Nothing more need be said, the news of Fred Alyston’s skiing accident was still fresh in everyone's mind.

Brad was one of the longest standing members of the group, and he wanted a word with Jeff, so he held back as each of the others filed up, collected a random yellow card from the drum, and left the room. When they had all left, Brad said, “The system has worked well, but it irks me that so many non members are benefiting from our endeavors. We take all the risk, why should we not get more of the benefit?”

“Don’t be too greedy,” replied Jeff, “it’s all part of the equation. We manipulate some stocks up, the market climate improves, all stocks benefit, and we get a double whammy, the rest of the players get only one.”

“I take your point. But that's not really what I wanted to talk to you about. I got trouble with Bill Fernstine, our executive VP. He keeps asking too many questions, obviously suspects something, and then, only this week, he got an insider tip on a stock and let it slip out. He’s a loose cannon. If they start to investigate him, who knows how deep they will go, and who may be next.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Jeff turned to pick up his phone as he answered, a clear message to Brad that he was dismissed. Fuming just a little at the curt termination of the visit, he left the room mollified by the thought that Jeff’s probable solution to the Bill problem would not be bad for his own career.

An hour later, Jeff carefully checked the corridor leading to the penthouse suite. Access to this part of the hotel was restricted for security reasons, one needed a key for the elevator before one could even get to this corridor. Even so, Jeff did not want to be seen entering the suite occupied by Jose Ramirez. When he was certain that the coast was clear, he walked quickly to the door, which opened before he could knock. Obviously whoever opened the door had been watching. This did not surprise Jeff, because he had known Jose for several years now, and knew that he was extremely careful. As Jose often joked, he was allergic to surprises; in his business, surprises were often fatal.

Jose greeted Jeff warmly, clasping his outstretched hand at he elbow and giving him a quick hug in the Hispanic way. This served to give Jose the opportunity to quickly check that Jeff was not carrying a concealed weapon, and to signal to the hidden observers that all was well. “So Jeff, what gives? When can we move things up a notch?”

“Come on, Jose, we already move forty mill a month, and we‘ve only been operating for eighteen months. We don't want to blow it all by being to aggressive.”

“OK, but understand we need that sort of volume in a week.” They moved on to small talk while having a cocktail, and then prepared to part.

“Before I go Jose, I need another favor, just like the last time. The details are all here. As soon as possible.” Jeff handed Jose an envelope.

“No Problem! All the more reason for us to increase the volume.” Jose made it sound like a suggestion, Jeff knew it was an order, and he knew it was an order he would not refuse, frankly because as risky as it was, the arrangement was altogether too lucrative. Jeff also knew that getting the kind of favor he needed every now and then was not that easy, one needed a special sort of friend, one like Jose.

When he returned to his suite Jeff began to prepare a general circulation email:

To: Mutual Funds Retail Outlets List

cc: JR

From: Jeff Rosenberg

Subject: Increased Volume from Special Accounts.

Our special accounts clients are eager to increase their investments with us. Each branch can expect weekly investment to increase from $20,000 per week to $50,000. We can thank the exceptional performance of our product for this increase.

Prepare to adjust your banking schedule to daily deposits of $10,000.

Although Jeff had carefully managed the program building his cash deposits from a couple of grand a week per branch, up to the current twenty, he was always cognizant of the banking practice of reporting all large cash transactions to the authorities. Not to attract suspicion, he ensured that individual branches held each deposit below the critical $10,000 mark. Already the operation required him to operate five hundred branches scattered around the major cities on the east coast. However his branch managers were easy to recruit, their ten percent commission paid in cash was ample reward for meeting one client a few times a week, and making a trip to the bank twice. Any sales of mutual fund units they did make to other walk in clients was pure gravy. The managers may have had more reservations if they were to compare notes with each other and discover that every branch’s client was making a unit purchase credited to one of only two or three account numbers.

Already, at the end of each month, Jeff would personally process a unit repurchase order for another commission of ten percent, and issue a draft to a Cayman islands bank of the proceeds. JR, Jose Ramirez, got thirty two million dollars free and clear, while Jeff Rosenberg, kept a cool four million, and his agents split another four. With the proposed increase in activity, Jeff’s take would grow to fifteen.

Figures like this were enough to make a normal persons head spin, but for Jeff, there was no longer such an effect. For him, making more money was now an obsession, a dull aching pain deep in the gut. Every million more, simply created a desire for another two, the need could never be satisfied. Long ago he had accepted that his drive had pushed him over the line between ethical and non-ethical, from which it was a short step to the line between legal and illegal. Exactly when he eventually reached the point of not being able to even recognize that what he was doing was quite candidly criminal, he was not sure. When he had had the first man killed in his quest for more, he had known there was no return. He had chosen his course, and he would continue on that road until he was stopped. Stopped by someone else whose thirst for money and power was more strident than his, and to stop him they would have to kill him.

Jose didn't use email, and he didn't need to. As Jeff had left the suite, two hidden forms emerged, both clearly having just pocketed their weapons. One could never be too ready. Jose turned to one of them, a short stocky man, “Sort this out by Monday night, you’ll need to go to Chicago.” He handed him the envelope Jeff had brought. He turned to the other, “Get the word out that we will soon move more product through the Frankie organization.” Done, a life and death decision, and a fifty million dollar a month organization change all in one minute. No wonder the business world could not compete.

Finished with his business in Nassau, Jose announced, “I’m going fishing,” and made his way to re-board his Scarab. The ostentatious boat was clearly a rich mans toy, three massive noisy outboards each packing three hundred horsepower mounted on the rear of sixty five feet of shiny red white and chrome. Every pair of eyes watched as the sleek vessel moved slowly out of the protected harbor, waiting till it reached open water before opening the throttles. As the engines opened up, the throaty purr changed to a menacing roar, and the boat seemed to climb out of the water, only the rear quarter of the hull remaining in contact with the sea. Heading first west then south, the craft soon disappeared from view as it merged with the approaching darkness.

By just before dawn the Scarab was trolling for the big ones just to the south of the gulf stream, perhaps fifty miles off the Florida keys. In the darkness no one would notice an inflatable dinghy with two men on board, drop into the water and watch the Scarab troll off into the night. The spot had been chosen with care, just on the fringe of the favorite fishing zones for boats out of Marathon and Islamorada. Seemingly only minutes after releasing themselves from the Scarab, the occupants of the dinghy waited as a second boat, a thirty two foot Parker, emerged from the darkness and carefully approached the dinghy. In less than a minute the dinghy and the men were safely on board, and the boat resumed trolling speed. The dinghy and its contents of plastic wrapped bricks were carefully stowed out of sight, but sufficiently accessible to be dumped overboard in a hurry, should the need arise.

Speaking in Spanish, Jose greeted the captain of the Parker, “How goes it Juan, any problems?” “Looks all clear, heard some traffic earlier about a boat load of Cuban refugees down near Big Pine. That will keep the coast guard busy.” The traffic he referred to was radio traffic which they monitored continuously, and the boat had a small radar upon which only the disappearing Scarab was visible. They relaxed a little, but knew they could not let down their guard completely because this area of the ocean was constantly monitored for suspicious craft. Juan was not really worried; he did this trip six days a week, most days not picking up stray dinghies, and was well known as a respectable dolphin fisherman. Dolphin, or Mahi Mahi as it is known in most parts of the world, is a major commercial fishing industry in the keys. He moved his troll route closer to the islands and ten miles from the hump, which is south of Marathon, and they soon picked up a school of the fish. Three of the four troll lines had fish on after the first hit, two of which were quickly brought on board. The third was left in the water being played backward and forward to create the impression of a feeding frenzy, while other baits were thrown out. In just thirty minutes the five men on board had boated fifty-seven fish ranging in size from twenty to eighty pounds. Lucky they had the two extra hands on board that day, it made it possible to get the best out of a great school of fish! A good days work, a lot of fun, and now they could move on to the real purpose of the trip.

Juan moved his troll lines closer to the commercial shipping lanes where the water depths were around four hundred feet, at the same time watching his GPS. He also activated a sonar listening device. As the boat approached a preset position on the GPS, faint clicks were heard on the sonar, sounding very much like a passing porpoise or dolphin (one of the mammal variety). Juan switched on a little radio transmitter, just like the ones used for controlling radio controlled cars, pressed a button and waited. In perhaps thirty seconds, amid a flurry of bubbles, an inflated rubber ball emerged from the depths just fifty yards away. The prize had been waiting on the sea floor for a few days with the balloon float deflated. The radio signal had caused it to fill from a small cylinder of compressed air, and bingo, it floated to the surface. It was quickly snagged and brought aboard, as was the trunk sized package hanging from a short line underneath. “I love working with Jesus,” said Juan, “his drops are always spot on the money. Now some of the others, takes days to locate their packets. Those sonar transmitters only have a range of a few miles, so it‘s real easy for us to miss, but it also means the snoopers will have a hard job also”

“I’ll tell him next time I see him, I should be in Haiti next week.” Jose had actually been quite impressed at the efficiency of the operation. He hadn’t been on one of these import trips in a while, and enjoyed the improvement technology had made to the business. When he was actively doing this kind of thing himself it had been an art, carefully plotting your position by the stars, then dragging the bottom, admittedly in shallower water, with grappling hooks. But back then, the technology the coast guard had used was much inferior also, so maybe the balance was still status quo. Then they never found some thirty percent of the packets, today retrieval was closer to ninety percent, and what was lost was usually lost to casual fishermen who inadvertently hooked in to an unexpected load, a so-called square grouper.

They unloaded their fish cargo at the fish house on Boot key harbor, then tied up alongside a trailer sitting on the banks of a canal. The second cargo was stashed in the trailer, then Jose called Greta to pick him up. “Had a good day,” she asked as they drove the short distance to their beautiful but relatively modest home in Sombrero Beach. This was their official home, but they spent little time here. Their working home, where they resided during most of the time they spent in the area was further down the keys on Summerland Key. Here, on a side road rarely used by anyone they had a fifteen acre compound completely shielded by dense mangrove hammocks, accessible only through a locked gate. When living here in Marathon they were known as Gus and Lourdes Delatorres, who had come to the US from Nicaragua during that countries war. It had been easy to get residency documents as a refugee, and his frequent humanitarian visits back home did not arouse any suspicion. For the outside world, he had, of course, made his money in bananas, losing his estates to the Sandanistas.

In the morning before daybreak, Jose and Greta drove the twenty miles down the keys to the Summerland key estate. They were dressed as fishermen preparing to spend the day bonefishing. Completing the illusion was an eighteen foot Hewes flats boat on a trailer behind the Land Rover SUV he drove.

Once inside the compound all need for discretion fell away. One look at the fortifications hidden in the mangroves made it clear that no one was going to be inside that enclosure that was not wanted there. In the center of the estate a long shed lined a weathered dock, and piles of lobster traps were scattered around. Isolated on the left was a luxurious hexagonal shaped building carefully surrounded by taller trees to ensure it would not stand out to a casual observer, while on the right was a line of small cottages which would be reminiscent of any Caribbean resort. Tied up at the dock were a number of chunky looking boats, indistinguishable from the hundreds of other lobster boats that plied these local waters. Also there were several boats similar to the Parker which Jose had been on the day before. Obviously this was a successful fishing operation.

Jose pulled into a lean to adjacent to the shed, and went inside. One half of the area inside was exactly what one would expect, there were ice machines, fish cleaning and packing equipment, and lots of fish and lobsters. However, at the other end of the building was a glass partition, and inside the people wore surgical face masks and white laboratory overalls. Here nothing was scattered. On one side was a neat pile of bricks wrapped in plastic, to which pile Jose could see Juan adding yesterdays haul. In the middle were laboratory mixers and other equipment , and on the far side was packing equipment and materials. The raw 100% cocaine that arrived in the blocks was too concentrated, and it was adulterated by mixing with glucose. The mixture was then packed in smaller plastic packets, wrapped in waterproofing plastic, then stashed in fish crates and covered with ice. After fresh filets of grouper or mahi mahi were added the crates were ready for shipping in refrigerated fourteen wheelers all up and down the east coast.

A final detail in the shed were two sleek go fast boats, these not of the luxury type, but plainly working vessels. Moored out of sight, fueled up and ready, in the case of an emergency, they could be in Cuba in forty five minutes.

Chapter 8 Adeline

In his personal life, Jeff Rosenberg had seemed to have it all sorted out. At forty five he was married with a thirteen year old daughter, an eleven year old son, a wife he adored, and an already a substantial fortune. Then he met Adeline. Twenty years his junior, she had come to work as his temporary secretary for a few days. At the end of the week’s assignment he had taken her to lunch just to say a simple thank you, but it didn't turn out that way. They spent the afternoon together at a nearby hotel and within a month had established a secret love nest in Greenwich Village. As happens, the secret only remained secret from his wife for about a year, and her discovery of the facts was followed by the inevitable ugly divorce, and substantial financial settlement.

He knew he had never loved Adeline, but he became addicted to the sensual pleasures it seemed only she could provide. His new lifestyle among the liberated younger crowd that made up Adeline's, and now his, circle of friends, never quite fulfilled him, and he seemed to be more driven than ever to not only replace the fortune he had to give over to his former wife, but to double it, then triple it. Making money become the ultimate aphrodisiac.

After Adeline took off with some younger buck some two years later, Jeff found himself marooned. He took solace in a series of sexual explorations which mostly only lasted as long as he was prepared to continue to supply the resources for the lavish life style demanded. He also explored other means of salving his mental anguish and soon was a frequent user of cocaine, then the yuppie drug of choice. He frequented all the stylish clubs in and around the Village, using them as a source for both the next girl and the next fix.

One such club was JoJo’s, situated just west of the village on 39th street. The club was named for its owner, whose real name was Jose Garcia, but had long been called JoJo to differentiate him from the Jose after whom he was named, that Jose being a longtime friend and business associate of JoJo’s father, Frankie.

JoJo, was a big handsome man, and said to be not to bright. The club, on the other hand, thanks to an endless supply of beautiful girls (most it seems unable to speak English), and the financial support of the owners father, was definitely among the in places to be. The proprietor took care to get to know his customers, and would frequently join them at their tables to engage in conversation and small talk. The customers found this attention pleasing, and did not suspect that this personal attention was JoJo’s way of checking them out before all the services of the club were made known to them. As a regular, and approved customer, Jeff had no trouble sourcing any and all of the salves he needed to calm his recurring urges.

It was during one such visit to the club a few years ago that Jeff had been introduced to Frankie. After the usual pleasantries had been passed, Frankie asked, “I hear you sell stocks. I been feeling the need to invest. Could you take say five grand a week and invest it for me.” The request was quite normal, as was the suggestion that the deal be kept very confidential, “Don't need to let the family find out where I stash my money, do I.”

For Jeff the arrangements brought added benefits at the club, and he did not mind the weekly trip to pick up the investment in cash, and also did not object when the amounts grew to ten thousand, twice a week. However, when Frankie casually mentioned that he had some friends who had heard about the investments he was making, and wondered if they could also participate, Jeff knew that he would have to make some modifications to the process. It was also at about this time that he began to realize that perhaps what he was doing was more than it appeared. However, any reservations he may have had were calmed by the facts that nobody seemed to be getting hurt and he was making money, lots of it.

As his qualms faded so his need to make more money grew. His business was largely wholesale, selling his funds through agents and banks. This new process offered him an opportunity to go direct to the customer, and in so doing enhance his investor spread. Growing larger was very attractive business decision, so the retail division of Franklin Capital was born.

The business flourished, and a year or so later Jeff first met Jose. The meeting, seemingly casual, took place at JoJo’s and the two men were soon very comfortable in each other’s company. By this time Jeff had no illusions about the men that he was dealing with but he also knew that his activities had become an essential part of their “business”. He could see no harm in helping such men make investments, after all how could he know how anybody made the money they invested in his funds.

After all, wasn’t a criminal just a businessman who had crossed a man-made line called the law, or was it that a businessman was just a criminal who had not yet been caught.

Bill Fernstine was only thirty five when his father in law Kobus Merkel died. The death really shook up his life in many ways, beginning with the fact that his mother in law, as sole heir to the considerable Merkel estate, took over as head of the firm, and became his boss. He was an obvious candidate to become President of the Services division, and to reward him for his diligence in the Cleveland matter he was also given a Vice Presidents role in the parent company. This V.P. title did not appear to carry much in the way of direct responsibility, so Bill gave all of his attention to he Services Division.

This actually suited Bill very well. The operation did not need much managing and the staff were all aware of the swift action he had taken in Cleveland. In addition there were many rumors that Bill himself might have been responsible for more than just the dismissal of the miscreants, their sudden demise being often discussed during breaks. As a result, the fear of him amongst all the employees was absolute, and the business ran like clockwork and made lots of money as well.

With lots of time on his hands, Bill concentrated on making himself wealthy. Having picked up the reigns from the late Pat O’Reily he had been forced to understand the full implications of the source of much of the cash that moved through the organization. The knowledge at first scared him, but when it seemed that no one else knew or for that matter cared, he gradually lost his fear, and even occasionally risked some contacts with the shadowy figures who picked up the checks, and relayed messages about amounts and pick up points, referred to only as “the agents”.

Generally the contacts were most congenial, as it would be between any two business partners. Only first names were used, and paperwork was limited to hand written chits detailing the amount of each denomination of currency. Deliveries of the cash, always called “merchandise” was always accurate and on time. The only friction between the company and the “agency” was on volume. “Agency” always pressed for more, and Bill always resisted, pointing out that it would be too risky to change ratios.

In about the second year after his promotion, one of the junior V.P.’s at Merkel’s had talked about a new share issue that was being launched through a new venture capital division. Merkel was looking for outside investors for a few hundred thousand dollars to share the risk with them. The plan was that this mezzanine round would tide the client company over till they went public in about a year, at which time this rounds investors could cash out. A light went on in Bill’s brain. Here was another outlet for “agency” funds, and it could work well for him personally.

Chapter 7: Kobus

Jacobus Merkel had arrived in America with his father just after the First World War. Johannes Jacobus Merkel, or J.J. as he was known, had left the devastation of post war Europe to join other family members in a dairy farm in Wisconsin. He had good reason to go, as during the fighting, he had found himself on the wrong side of the somewhat fluid Danish German border, and had been drafted into the German forces in 1916. During the agonizing trench warfare in Alsace he had been caught, as had many others many other times, in a change of wind that had carried the mustard gas back over German lines. The several months of recuperation from the poison gas kept him out of further harm till after the armistice, but he like many others did not believe that the Germans would take this defeat lying down.

The farm in Wisconsin prospered, but J.J.s health did not. The residual lung damage from the gas and the awful winters in Wisconsin combined to cause him to be very sickly, and only ten years after arriving in America, he succumbed to another bout of lung congestion and died. It happened during one of the severest Wisconsin winters in memory, and that plus the grief arising from his loss, drove Jacobus now known to all simply as Kobus, to leave the farm. The rest of the family purchased what was now his share of the undertaking for a generous price and he headed for the city, a moderately wealthy young man.

Shunning Milwaukee, he settled in the small industrial town of Naperville in Illinois. Using his money wisely, he soon was the proprietor of a local bank to which he gave his family name, Merkel. The bank grew rapidly, and it was not long before Kobus had several of the surrounding factories as his clients. One of these, the rapidly expanding farm implement company McPherson’s, became the first of several firms to ask him to prepare their weekly payroll. With over two thousand workers, all paid in cash, this weekly task was mammoth.

Every Wednesday, a van would pick up the cash at the downtown Chicago Branch of the Federal Reserve, and on Thursday two dozen women would be sequestered in a small building to sort and count out two thousand plus pay packets each down to the last cent. Come Friday the van would load up the cash and by two thirty would have distributed it to the pay offices at each factory location. Having completed their delivery, the truck would swing round to each corporate office and pick up a check equal to the amount of the cash plus a nice service fee.

Everything went well until one Wednesday the van was hijacked on its run back from the reserve bank, and the driver was killed. Although insurance covered the bulk of the loss, Kobus was incensed that someone had got hold of his money. As a precaution, he added armed guards to his vehicle and separated the payroll service from the bank as a separate operation. This had two benefits, the guards, a novel innovation for that time, definitely cut down the danger of being hijacked, and the separation freed the company from the regulations applicable to banks, and allowed him to expand all across the Midwest. Soon his armored trucks became a familiar sight from Cleveland to St Louis.

By now Kobus was approaching fifty, still a bachelor, and well satisfied with his life when at a city function he met a lady nearly thirty years his junior. All of a sudden his work was no longer enough, this Laurie Patterson became an obsession, and he wooed her with all his means. At first, the young lady rejected his approaches, after all she was less than half his age, but over time, lured by the wealth and the fact that with his tall blonde Germanic frame, he was rather handsome for a fifty year old man, eventually consented to be courted.

It may have been just coincidence, but as his attentions were focused on winning his girl, the number of attempts on his trucks increased, and correspondingly the amount of his losses to these robberies increased also. The problem became distracting to the extent that Kobus was ready to sell the whole show, despite it’s extensive profits.

Then, just the week before he was to announce his engagement to his beloved Laurie, Kobus received a package in the mail. There was a photo of Laurie outside her apartment, to which a note had been attached by a simple paper clip, “We really don’t need to steal your money, nor hurt anyone!” There was no signature, no identification of any kind. On the back of the photo were the words “Clancy’s restaurant, tonight, alone.”

The implication of the cryptic words were obvious and serious; this was an invitation he must accept. “Hemel,” he thought, under the stress of the moment, reverting briefly to the native tongue, “let us hope the US mail is not a day late.”

Kobus had heard of Clancy’s, it was an upscale restaurant situated in the no-mans land between Cicero and the city of Chicago. It was owned by two guys about whom there were several rumors regarding their sexuality, but the food was good, the service excellent and for these reasons it was frequented by many of the business and union leaders around the town.

Kobus walked up to the Concierge, “I am ….”

He was not given a chance to finish, “Yes Mr. Merkel, They have been expecting you, come this way.” The concierge led the way to the far end of the restaurant and held aside a curtain to allow Kobus to pass into an immaculately furnished lounge with a blazing fire on the far wall. Four men stood with their backs to the fire drinking from crystal goblets.

The lighting in the room was subdued so Kobus could not make out any of the men’s features, all he could notice was that the man second from the right was shorter than the others, and a little stocky. It was this man who spoke, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Merkel. Cognac, Scotch?”

Kobus refused both, and when the concierge had left them alone, the same man continued, ”There is no need for you to know who we are at this time, but we have a proposition for you.” The voice was soft with just a hint of a foreign accent. “We know you have had some trouble with losses from you trucks. How would you like this to stop?”

“Ok, here it comes, the old protection pitch. How much is this going to cost me,” thought Kobus but he was totally unprepared for what came next.

“We have a weekly surplus of a considerable amount of cash money, we know you use a lot. You take our cash, you give us commercial checks for it, you keep five percent, and the trucks are unmolested, as are you and your lovely fiancé.” This was the man on the far right, and his voice was not soft, and his accent was markedly foreign.

Kobus shuddered. “So this was being between a rock and a hard place, protection but with a twist,” he thought. Out loud he said, “it will need a few weeks to change over or someone will suspect something, and I suppose you don’t want anyone to investigate what is going on.”

“You are right,” again the short man, “Don’t worry we are patient with our friends. Incidentally, you will have no reason to see us again, Pat O’Reily here will be your contact. Perhaps you and he can sit over there and work out the details.” He motioned to a group of comfortable chairs on the far side of the room, away from the fire, but closer to one of the dim lights.

As they sat down Pat remarked casually, “Don’t worry, I’ve been working with them for years now, and they are men of honor. Your honor mainly, I suppose, but if you do what they want, they are pleasant and generous. On that subject, my fee is a low two percent.” Pat’s voice was distinctly Irish, and the fact that he lowered his voice as he spoke the last sentence alerted Kobus to the fact that Pat’s fee did not have the approval of the other men whoever they were. In every other respect Pat was professional and courteous. “We package the cash like any good bank, have all denominations, clean, good condition. We need just twenty four hours notice, and the pick up is here in Cicero, no need to make that long haul down town.”

After several months of the new arrangement, Kobus was happy to pretend that everything was the same as before, with no need to worry about hijackings. These had stopped completely. The new supply of cash worked well, and as his business grew, he was able to keep a reasonable demand for cash on the Federal Reserve, so he was sure that no one suspected anything. Once a month Pat called round for the commercial checks for ninety five percent of the cash supplied, and always checked carefully for the separate check for two percent, made out to bearer.

Kobus began to prepare in earnest for his wedding, now just a few months away. Laurie had said she would prefer to live in North Chicago where they were developing some beautiful homes on the Lakefront. He decided to sell the bank in Naperville to a downtown firm looking to expand. Free of the tight regulations of the banking commissioner he decided to exploit his deep interest in stocks and bond, and opened a brokerage cum merchant bank called of course, Merkel Capital.

With the departure of the bank to new owners, the services division became more and more independent, and, over time, Kobus became less and less interested in it. The division still generated a considerable profit which helped Merkel Ca[ital weather many a financial storm, but it lacked the glamour of the brokerage business. So when Pat O’Reily, who had become a sort of de facto CEO, recommended employment of some of his associates, the suggestion was accepted with little examination.

Later when Pat wanted to add other friends to the ranks, he didn’t even ask, and for that matter Kobus didn’t really care.

When Jan Versteen left Ellis Island that day in 1937 he was confused. He had arrived on a cargo vessel with several hundred other immigrants from Holland. The agents processing his papers had been distracted or downright careless, or perhaps they just didn’t care. Whatever the cause, his arrival papers listed him as Yon Ferstine. Certainly this was a more or less phonetic spelling of his name, but was that really an excuse. Perhaps the fact that neither he nor his young wife could speak any English accounted for the mix up.

Their papers had directed them to residence in the mid west, so they headed for Chicago. After weeks of searching for employment the now John Ferstine had come to a small bank in Naperville. Luckily for him the banks owner heard him trying to make himself understood to the receptionist and intervened. “Goeder Dagt”. The salutation took John by surprise, “Sorry my Dutch was never very good,” said Kobus Merkel. “You are looking for work. How are you with counting money.”

Not needing to lie, John described how he had helped his father run their shop in Rotterdam, and had no trouble working with the multitude of currencies that passed through their hands in that the busiest international port in Europe. He had not exaggerated his talents because within weeks of joining the counters in the payroll service group he was put in charge of a shift, and within a year was appointed manager of the important Dearborn office just west of Detroit.

By the time their son was born in 1945, the Ferstines had added an “n” to the spelling of their name, and spoke English without a trace of accent. Their son William attended the best schools and even had a shot at an Ivy League university, but chose instead to attend Illinois State University at Urbana. Here he met a strikingly beautiful girl called Candice, Candice Merkel. He fell hopelessly in love, and when, after their graduation, her father realized this was a serious match he offered the young man a position in internal audit at Merkel Services, the payroll services division of Merkel Capital.

The young Fernstine had the brains he inherited from his father, but not the application, and he became expert at finding shortcuts, and evading responsibility. He also became expert at negotiating the corridors of power, and of finding ways to enhance his own bank account without arousing suspicion or concern. He had already risen to an effective vice presidents position when he became aware of some serious accounting anomalies at the Cleveland Branch. When he realized that this was a problem he definitely could not cover up, and one he could find no way to turn to his advantage, he had no option but to report it to the audit committee of the board, of which the now aging Kobus was still a member.

Bill was dispatched to Cleveland to investigate, with authority to sort things out. He was cognizant however of the advice the old man gave him before he left, “Whatever you find, don’t be persuaded to call in the police.” It did not take long for Bill to realize that the management at Cleveland were supplementing their already overgenerous salaries with unauthorized drawings of company funds, excessive expense accounts and general malfeasance. He had no other recourse. He terminated all senior management there with immediate effect, promising them direr results if they did not go quietly.

He had not intended to leave Cleveland before new management was installed but was just heading for dinner at the hotel when he was called to the phone. It was Candice telling him that her father had died in an awful motor accident on his way home from work that day. It was too late for him to return to Chicago that evening, but he prepared to do so early the next day. As he checked out the porter informed him there was a car waiting to take him to the airport. In the car were two men both dressed in dark suits, both with identical dilby hats. Bill sat in the back seat and was joined by one of the men. As soon as the car began to move, the man sitting next to him turned to Bill, “We are very sorry for your loss. Kobus Merkel was our friend, and we look after our friends. We failed him, but he will be avenged. We consider you to be our friend too, and we hope you will remember us.”

Bill sat back stunned. The import of the simple condolences could not be misinterpreted. In one blinding flash he understood the whole picture. He had never thought of himself as a criminal, or working for a criminal organization. He just thought he was lucky to be in an immensely profitable business. He believed that most of the employees of the business felt the same way. Now however he knew. Yesterday, his father in law who was a good man had been killed, probably by one of the people Bill had terminated that same day, or by someone sympathetic to those people, and that death was going to be avenged by these men or their friends. Today, he had been offered the protection of these same men and he knew that that protection came with a price. As onerous as he knew that price would be, he also knew that he would accept it, just as his father in law had those many years before him.

Had one been Chicago or Cleveland over the next few weeks one may have noticed some two paragraph reports detailing the discovery of the body of Pat O’Riely in Lake Michigan near Chicago, and a fire in Cleveland which killed three former executives of the Merkel’s Payroll services. Although no cause could ascribed to either occurrence, foul play was suspected.