Zero Sum Page 10

  Seemed like a prudent plan. God he’d been sloppy; of course, an IP mask was ideal, he should have been using one all the time. Dumb. Wouldn’t happen again.

  He smiled at the irony that a cyber-contact thousands of miles away could help him remain anonymous five miles from home. No wonder governments hated the web.

  When he advised them he was signing off, Pogo popped in and recommended he use the WiFi areas in Starbucks whenever possible; it was convenient and anonymous. And Pogo owned Starbucks stock. Ha-ha.

  Steven purchased a calling card, then went over to the mall cell phone store and bought a prepaid cell phone with 250 minutes of time; forty bucks for the phone, and twenty cents a minute for the airtime card. The kid behind the counter activated the phone in the name of John Smith. No one seemed at all interested in having him sign anything.

  He went outside and called Stan, who answered on the first ring.

  “Steven. I tried calling earlier and your number just rings. What’s the problem?”

  “Cell phone’s on the blink. Just bought a temporary one. Convenient… Stan, we need to talk.” That was the understatement of the year.

  “I see. Yes, they are convenient, aren’t they...?” Stan answered cautiously

  “I had some folks stop in from Homeland Security while we were meeting this morning. They left a card. Wanted to talk to me in the worst way. I haven’t called yet. Been occupied,” Steven explained.

  “In light of this morning’s problem with your bank, I think perhaps I should field that call for you, or rather an associate of mine who’s also an attorney specializing in criminal matters should field it.” Stan was quick on his feet. Attorney client privilege twice removed, creating an honest ability for the attorney in question to say he had no idea where Steven was, or even what he looked like. “I’ll sign a retainer agreement with him on your behalf. I still have one of your powers of attorney around here somewhere.”

  “Any movement on the bank issue?” Steven asked.

  “The Justice department froze it, most likely at the request of Homeland Security. It can be unfrozen in time, I’m sure, given you aren’t guilty of anything and aren’t involved with anything Homeland Security has purview over. But for now we have a problem with that.”

  “I’ll touch base with you tomorrow with the Homeland Security phone number. I want to take care of a few things today.”

  “It’s your call, Steven. The sooner the better, in my opinion. We need to get this cleared up.”

  His next call was to Peter Valentine.

  “Peter, it’s Steven. What’s the word?”

  “Some funky stuff down in the islands. Did you know Griffen’s partner died in the Caribbean?”

  “Let me guess. Anguilla?” Steven asked.

  “What, are you psychic? Do you already know all this?”

  “No.” Steven went on to explain about the Barbados fund actually originating in Anguilla. “It was an educated guess, is all.”

  “Well, it’s pretty weird. I can’t get much out of the locals. It was billed as an accident. I called down there and talked to the folks running the paper, and they vaguely remembered some kind of boating thing, but couldn’t do much for me. There’s no microfiche, and the file has been misplaced, so nothing to reference.” Peter sounded annoyed at the Island inefficiency. “And when I called the police there to ask about it, no one had anything to say; it felt like I was getting stonewalled. I’ll keep digging, though. Something’s definitely up.”

  “I gotta say this, even though you already know it. Be careful,” Steven warned.

  “I’m not completely defenseless, Steven. Appreciate the concern, but you’d do well to follow your own advice. I’m not the one giving them the middle finger with a Fuck Allied website. And I do have experience with bad guys...”

  “Sorry, Dad. Hey, I have to run, but I’ll call in a day or two. E-mail if anything comes up. My cell’s broken.”

  “Sure. I’ll do that. You be careful too. I mean it,” Peter said.

  Steven went to the nearest Starbucks to give the wireless network a try. He’s never used it, as he typically did all his online work from home.

  He sat in a corner in a surprisingly comfortable overstuffed chair and updated his website real-time, creating a page devoted to the information he’d uncovered. He started with the fact that the Barbados fund was Barbados in PO box form only, with the trading likely going through Canada in order to circumvent U.S. rules. He closed the page with the tidbit that Griffen’s ex-partner had died in Anguilla several years earlier under a shroud of mystery, which was also the true home of the fund. He saved the page and uploaded it, even as his mind returned to his present, real-world problems.

  It had been a long day. Now he needed to contend with the open question of where it was safe to stay while he waited for Stan to deal with the Government wonks. The boat made the most sense. It was in a gated, locked marina, and he could move it at will. There was a lot to be said for a home that could be in international waters in a few hours’ time.

  He ate in Mission Viejo, and considered his situation. He’d been relieved of most of his worldly attachments in little more than thirty-six hours. Avalon, gone. Jennifer also gone, barring a miracle.

  That got him thinking.

  Did he really dislike the idea of them parting ways that much? It wasn’t as though he’d clung to her, begging her not to go, swearing it was all going to be different. In fact, he was strangely ambivalent about the end of the almost-two-year relationship.

  Perhaps it had been more convenient than impassioned lately. She’d seemed almost too ready to call things quits, as if it had been on her mind for a while. He couldn’t say he blamed her. He was a lousy pick for a nesting partner at present, and circumstances hadn’t improved his odds for papa of the year.

  In the end, whatever was meant to be would be. That had been his philosophy for years, strengthened by his meditation and his martial arts involvement. There was a definite pattern to the way energy flowed, and events were simply singularities of energy; snapshots, if you will, of a greater energy.

  The same awareness that enabled him to catch a rod thrown his way while blindfolded or block an unseen but intuited strike from behind was nothing more than a harnessing of that same energy. The Chinese called it Chi, and other philosophies called it many other names: Holy Spirit, cosmic consciousness, super string theory; all explanations for the same inter-connected fabric of underlying energy.

  Still, it helped if you were not just aware but also proactive, so Steven solidified tomorrow’s plan of action in his mind, paid the bill, and drove down to Dana Point Marina, where ‘Serendipity’ floated in peaceful solitude.

  Chapter 15

  The next morning Steven awoke to the gentle rocking of the incoming tide. He slipped his running gear on and went above-board to survey the marina, which was silent except for the faint creaking of dock lines and the low drone of a small dinghy approaching the bait dock at the mouth of the harbor. After carefully closing the main hatch, he hopped onto the dock and made his way up to terra firma to begin his daily run.

  Dana Point Marina was surrounded by a verdant, park-like setting, deserted in the early morning except for the odd gull nosing around for scraps of edible litter and the ubiquitous, strutting pigeons congregating for their daily social. Steven’s footfalls marked time and distance through the park and up the hill to the main drag, where he noted the French bakery was open for business, as usual.

  For fifteen minutes, his run took him south along the streets paralleling Pacific Coast Highway, then he circled back around to finish the route with a morning cup of coffee. He realized this was the first weekday morning in months he hadn’t been watching the market open, and that realization produced both a sense of anxiety at having missed the open, tempered by a feeling of calm acceptance at not being agitated with concern over the daily price movements. Conflicting forces at work.

  He returned to the dock area and climbed b
ack onto the boat. The decks were slick with beady condensation so he had to be cautious as he balanced on the sideboard, admiring the other vessels bobbing in the water. Some of the larger boats sold for over three million bucks and cost fifteen percent of their purchase price to maintain and operate every year. The boating thing wasn’t a poor man’s game, that was for sure, and other than a heroin habit or a jet, or both, he couldn’t think of a more impractical way to burn money. Still, mornings like this on the water made it almost worth it.

  Steven went below and rinsed off in the onboard shower, which was an intimate-sized affair, to put it charitably. Finished, he called Stan, who was also an early riser.

  “Stan. How’s it going? You up for breakfast?” Steven inquired.

  “Have you ever known an attorney to turn down a free meal?” Stan joked.

  “I figured I knew how to get your attention. Let’s hook up in your neck of the woods, maybe Carlsbad – someplace by the water. How about that place we met last year?” Steven asked.

  “Perfect. Give me an hour.”

  It was a date.

  He tidied up the interior of the boat and packed his duffel. After making the bed, he began packing his laptop, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the dock – and approaching the boat. He froze at the unmistakable sounds of someone climbing aboard and moving about on deck. Steven scanned the cabin for anything he could use as a weapon. There was nothing obvious.

  Shit.

  Although he was adept at close quarter combat, if the intruder carried a gun the odds of his walking away from this diminished if absent a weapon.

  Footsteps creaked overhead. He slowed his breathing, reduced his heart rate, and felt his focus narrow to just the immediate area around him, time slowing as he prepared to engage. Strange, he didn’t sense danger or any kind of tension, which he always had when he’d been in combat, and in competitive fighting. Still, the adrenaline heightened his awareness and he moved soundlessly to the rear side of the small companionway immediately aft of the entryway stairs.

  Someone fumbled with the latch. He readied himself to deliver a rapid series of brutal strikes.

  The hatch opened. Light flooded in.

  “Mr. Archer? You onboard? Anyone here?” It was Todd, his boat washer.

  Steven felt like a complete idiot. Time resumed its normal flow and he drew a series of slow, deep breaths and relaxed his upper body, which had tensed in anticipation of conflict.

  “Yeah, Todd, it’s me. I thought I’d spend a night aboard, get some sea salt in my hair. I didn’t realize you’d be down here today.”

  “Well, it was such a nice morning I figured I’d get her out of the way, then maybe see if I can hook one of those big yellowtail running out by the jetty. Hope you don’t mind… I can always come back if it’s a problem,” Todd said.

  “No, I was just getting out of here. But you might want to try the fishing now, and rinse her off afterwards. She’ll still be here later today,” Steven suggested.

  Todd was a great maintenance worker, conscientious and skilled. Didn’t charge an arm and a leg, either. He lived on a boat on the other side of the marina and did odd jobs and cleaning to supplement his lifestyle. Not a bad existence for a bachelor. Simple. Easy.

  “Give me a second, and she’s all yours.” Still burning off adrenaline, Steven hastily grabbed the duffel, mounted the stairs and disembarked.

  “Have a good one, Todd.” Steven waved goodbye.

  “Okay, then. Later.”

  Traffic going south crawled agonizingly slowly. The I-5 freeway had fallen victim to the perennial California budget crisis and the surface was as bad as any he’d ever driven on in Baja. All that was missing was a burro and the odd roadside shrine.

  Carlsbad was a sleepy little bedroom community by the sea roughly half an hour north of San Diego, and Stan had lived there for years, apparently enjoying the slow pace and relaxed lifestyle.

  Stan was waiting for him on the patio of the restaurant when he pulled up. They exchanged pleasantries while considering the menu, and both ordered coffee and waffles. Once the waitress had left, Steven described the events of the last eighteen hours in more detail. Stan considered the situation.

  “I haven’t made any progress with the bank – they referred me to Justice, who in turn referred me to Homeland Security, who said they can’t discuss ongoing investigations.” Stan looked disgusted.

  “The runaround.”

  “Yes, that would be the technical term. Ever since 9/11 there’s been a stretching of governmental power; all, of course, in the interest of keeping us safe. A few years ago no one could have unilaterally frozen your bank account. Not so today. I’ll get through it, but I hope you don’t need that money anytime soon. Where’s their card?” Stan was not the type to forget details, and wanted the Homeland Security agent’s card.

  “Here you go,” Steven said. “See if you can find out what they want.”

  “I’ll have my friend call them today.” Stan looked at him over his spectacles. “Now, I have to ask: have you been involved in anything that would have our terrorist hunters after you?”

  Steven shook his head. “Stan, honest to God, I don’t have the faintest idea what any of this is about. The only thing I’m involved in is the Allied website, which has nothing to do with anything but a Wall Street lizard and a loser biotech company. I told you all about it.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense that a financial guy would be able to wag the dog and get the full might of the Federal Government to come down on you; things just don’t work that way. So that’s unlikely. Let’s suspend any speculation until we know more.”

  Steven nodded. “I agree. Now I have a request for you. I need an ATM card that can also work as a credit card, drawn on some neutral corporation’s account, so I have access to cash,” he explained.

  Stan considered the request. “Such a thing can be done. It’ll probably take a week, maybe less. In the old days, it would have been twenty-four hours.”

  “I appreciate your flexibility, Stan. That’ll help me out a lot. I don’t want to be on the radar. And one more request. I need a new blackberry.” Being able to log on from the boat would be invaluable if he was forced to be mobile for a while.

  “Easy enough.”

  They sipped their coffee and munched their waffles. He told Stan he and Jennifer had decided to take a break. Stan said he understood, sometimes that was best, it would all work out if it was meant to be. Blah blah, platitude, blah.

  Stan paid the check, and they made their way back to the car park.

  Stan wound down his window before driving off. “I’ll let you know what happens with the call and the card and the PDA. Consider the latter two done.” Stan looked hard at him again. “You call me. I don’t want to have any way of getting in touch with you, so I can respond to any questions about knowledge of your whereabouts honestly,” Stan told him. “I don’t foresee a problem, but better safe...”

  Steven’s next stop was a nearby hotel to use the business center. He paid $10 for fifteen minutes, doing a double take at the price. He asked what the fee would have been if he was checked in as a guest.

  “Let me look it up. Hmm. Hmmm. Oh, here it is: $10.”

  They really said fuck you with style in Carlsbad.

  “Things are kind of expensive in Carlsbad,” Steven remarked with a blank expression.

  “Try La Costa. It’s $20.”

  He moved to an available computer and logged on. The stock was up thirty cents from the open. He checked his S_Jordan e-mails, to discover dozens of complaint e-mails from the boards advising that the site was down.

  Huh. He tried the site. Nothing. Just a screen that said cannot locate site.

  Dammit. Another hacking attack? Maybe the server was down? The first e-mail was at 4 a.m. California time. He tried the Lone Star homepage. That was down too. So it was probably a server or connection issue, not a site-specific takedown.

  The only message in his no
rmal e-mail was from Jennifer. Short and to the point.

  [Hi. Will drop off the bags and keys today. Hope you got some rest. J]

  No response necessary that he could think of.

  He checked in with the Group, and asked if they could figure out why his site was down. They pinged it, got nothing. Probably a power outage or a truck plowed into a pole.

  Steven signed off, his $10 about up, and asked the young lady at the guest desk if there was an Internet café or computer superstore anywhere close by. She gave him directions up the street.

  With the valet charge the whole episode cost him $16 for fifteen minutes. He wasn’t sure he could afford much more Carlsbad.

  Steven drove to the office supply chain store and got back online. He spent the rest of the afternoon researching the SEC’s regulations for offshore investment funds, and surfing the boards to catch up on any news. There was a lot of commentary on the sections Steven had uploaded before the site went dark. He’d really stirred up a hornet’s nest.

  Checking his inbox, he saw Spyder had sent him an article. Steven’s arm hair stood on end as he read. The author was a name he didn’t recognize, but the content was alarming. One part of his psyche told him it sounded like conspiracy junk, while another part of him got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  The article centered around the stock action in the airlines and insurance companies immediately preceding the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center, and documented the brokerage firm that placed most of the winning trades that went through the roof when the value of the stocks fell off a cliff after the terrorist strike – a firm run by a fellow who later became the head of the CIA.

  The implications of the article were staggering. Were the connections between Washington and Wall Street such that there could be collusion at that level? It seemed impossible, but then again, so did much he’d seen lately. He’d always wondered why the government turned a blind eye to Wall Street's obvious malfeasance, and in fact actively aided it in robbing the country. He considered the 2008 financial crisis, and the massive bailouts so many had received. And still, to the present day, taxpayer dollars were being siphoned from the real world economy and funneled into Wall Street's coffers. This connection made the inexplicable suddenly make sense. On the one hand, the government prattled on about how banks needed to increase lending to stimulate a recovery, and then on the other the Federal Reserve began paying interest on overnight deposits from banks, for the first time in history. What bank in its right mind would risk lending money if it could get a return risk free? Sure enough, the amount banks were hoarding at the Fed went through the roof once that policy was in place. Who benefited there?