Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (37 page)

“Okay. Hey, have a good weekend,
big hitter
.” She put heavy sarcasm into the moniker.

“Thanks, babe. Oh, and merry fucking Christmas.”

Nobody even looked up as he headed for the door.

The cold air was invigorating, and he headed toward Battery Park. It dawned on him that Kerry, whom he liked an awful lot, had probably earned more than twice what he had been paid. And, to be honest, he was already a much better salesman than she. He caught himself up short. These were miserable thoughts. The things he was saying and doing were completely absurd. He’d been paid a fortune for making phone calls and going out to dinner. Where did he get off venting steam at Kerry, or resenting what she made? She had been helpful to him at every chance and had never done anything to undermine him. He felt guilty for the nasty thought—he blamed it on the nature of their business.

What was the nature of this business? Wall Street was a label for the most avaricious and just plain vicious aspects of American, or even human, commerce. Yet, it thrived on a self-imposed image of respectability and honesty. Then, every couple of years, someone would get caught stealing millions or maybe billions in some trading scandal, and everyone would act outraged. Every seven years there’d be some huge financial crisis born out of some Wall Street scam. But wasn’t it the same in every business? Car manufacturers would be found to scrimp on some safety detail to save a few bucks, and a thousand people would die. Cigarette makers would purposefully lie about their own health research or even target their advertising at kids. How old was the saw about the butcher with his thumb on the scale? Everyone cheated. Everyone tried to take advantage. If you weren’t caught, you were called an aggressive genius. If you were, you went to jail. Unless you were in senior management, in which case the firm paid some puny fine and nobody got punished at all.

“Yeah,” Warren said out loud to no one as he strolled the sidewalks that hugged the windowed walls of the valley of the money spinners, smoking a cigar, with a piece of paper in his pocket that said he was going to earn almost $900,000 this year, “this sucks.”

forty-four

It was hard to get much sympathy from Sam. She listened to his story, then shook her head in disbelief. “Hey, only a complete asshole could be unhappy making nine hundred thousand dollars in one year. That’s a fortune. God, my best year, I made four fifty, and I had to work like a dog and travel nonstop. And I was never allowed to eat! You’re being ridiculous.” They were facing each other across the living room. She was nestled in a big, velvet armchair.

“I know. But it’s not just the amount. It’s relative. I mean, that extra money went somewhere. It went into the pockets of senior management. They know I should have gotten it. They just took it because they could. It’s not fair. Those guys are a bunch of jokers and bozos too. It’s not like they do much of anything. That’s the problem with a company like this—too much useless management.” Warren was whining a little, and Sam cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear any more about it. Fine, they stole your money. In the meantime, they left you with plenty. I can’t even believe you’re sitting here complaining about some guy who’s dead. He may have been an asshole, but he’s a dead asshole. If he was running around on his wife, so what? He’s dead and she’s loaded now. Screw him, he got what he deserved, right? Forget about him.”

“I can’t. This guy was up to something, and I can’t figure out what it was.” Warren had taken the small computer from Anson’s office off a shelf in the armoire and was plugging it in behind the end table by the couch.

“What do you mean?” Sam was confused.

“After he got killed, his secretary gave me his computer. He was working on all these deals, buying mortgages from banks, and reselling them. Only they were supposed to be bad loans—made to people who weren’t able to pay anymore, or on office buildings that didn’t have enough rental income to pay the mortgage off. But, when I checked through his files, it looked like most of the loans were actually in good shape. That’s why we were able to resell them at such a big profit. We’d buy a hundred million dollars’ worth of loans for eighty, to allow for the problems, then resell them for ninety-six or -seven, because there really weren’t that many problems. He did a lot of this stuff.” Warren had found it hard to believe Anson had been so clever, especially with smart and tough accounts such as Golden State and Warner. Whenever he’d done business with them, they would fight over every one thirty-second of 1 percent on the price of a bond, let alone 10 or 20 percent!

“So? What’s the problem? He outsmarted the banks and made you guys a lot of money. Everybody’s happy, right? Who cares?”

“I guess so. I mean, the banks got a lot of supposedly ‘problem loans’ off their books, and they’d already reserved for the losses. Weldon makes a ton of dough, and so do our partners on the deals. The guys who buy the loans from us are happy, ’cause they’re getting some good assets at a cheap price. I just don’t see why the banks thought all those loans were so terrible and were willing to write them off so quickly. There were some losers, but they threw the baby out with the bathwater.”

“Maybe they’re not as smart as you think.” Sam stood up and stretched.

Warren was on the sofa, with the computer on the coffee table. “Maybe not. But they also sold some really bad loans in other deals. Well, now it’s up to me to pick up where Anson let off. I just don’t get what it was that Annlois expected me to find in this computer that made her so nervous. Unless she just wanted me to see how shrewd Anson was with these deals.” He reached for the switch to turn the machine off.

“Maybe he had secret letters to his girlfriends on there. Hot, romantic letters. The kind you’ll be writing me when I go home.” She sat down next to him and wrapped her arms around him.

“Maybe. Actually he did have a few, but not very hot, to my ex! No, he just had some phone numbers that didn’t make any sense. No interesting letters, except one to bitch about the service he’d gotten on his BMW.”

“Oooh, phone numbers. Maybe you could call up and get a date?” She was trying to get his attention away from the machine by licking his earlobes. It was beginning to work.

“I tried. They didn’t work. Some of the area codes weren’t even real.” He started flipping through the files, quickly locating the numbers, and calling them up to the screen.

He was interrupted for a kiss. He pulled away slightly. “See?”

Sam pouted for a moment, then looked at the screen. She studied it for a second, then leaned closer, squinting. “Those aren’t phone numbers, Mr. Intelligent Banker, or Invasive Banker, or whatever.” She was using the keyboard to move the cursor down the page. “No. Definitely not phone numbers at all.”

“Well, if they’re not phone numbers, and those aren’t people’s initials next to them, exactly what do you think they might be?” Warren’s tone was condescending.

“Those, my sophisticated friend, are bank-account numbers. Private, Liechtenstein, numbered accounts. And their pass codes. And the name of the Liechtenstein trust that owns them, Klaust, AG.”

“What? Says who?” Warren squinted and leaned forward too.

“Says me. I know what these fucking numbers are. Artie had twenty of the little bastards. And these aren’t initials. See, each one has ten numbers, then three letters and more numbers. That’s the pattern. They’re at Wilhelms Landesbank—that’s WB over here. Nice building. Total pricks, though.”

“How do you know this? What are you talking about?”

“Look, when Artie stole my money, I hired a private investigator and forensic accountant to look for it and him. The Justice Department was after him too. There were about ten people trying to find him and get their money back. We managed to trace the money through these bogus ‘investment’ companies, to places like Panama and the Channel Islands. Most of it eventually wound up in Liechtenstein banks, because they have total secrecy and don’t give a damn who wants to know or why. I saw Artie’s little notebook, and it had all these numbers in it, just like those.” She pointed at the screen. “But I didn’t remember them. We couldn’t get anywhere without the numbers or the pass codes. One Swiss bank let the government in, but the money was already gone. We got nowhere. Yeah, I know what these numbers are. They’re how that slime took my life savings.”

“Wait a minute. He stole your money, then sent it to Liechtenstein, and nobody, not even the US government could find it?” Warren found this hard to believe.

“Yup. He had all this cash bouncing all over the world. And now, nobody knows where he is, but we know what he’s spending. Our money. Man, I’d like to kill him.” She slammed her fist into her palm.

“Jeezus. Liechtenstein banks. What the fuck was Anson doing with accounts in Liechtenstein banks?” Now Warren was beginning to understand what Annlois had wanted him to find.

“Hey, I don’t even know who Anson was, but it’s a pretty safe bet he wasn’t doing anything good. Didn’t you say someone killed him?” Sam poked Warren in the arm.

“Yeah. But it was a robbery. If they were going to kill him to get the dough, why would they kill him while he was screwing Bonnie in her apartment? It doesn’t make sense. Unless they had the numbers too.” He was confused. Who were “they” anyway? What money?

“Bonnie? You say that like you knew her well. Maybe you and Anson had something in common after all.” She smiled at him and grabbed at his shorts.

He pulled away. “Yeah, maybe we did. Maybe we did have something more than just Bonnie and Larisa in common.” His mind was far away. Maybe.

forty-five

By February, Sam had settled in, and Carlos had shipped her most of her clothes and cosmetics. Warren was stunned that her makeup and various potions took up two large duffel bags, while her clothes fit in one. His bathroom couldn’t come close to holding it all, and she’d commandeered the entire linen closet just for cosmetics.

“Hey, it’s always summer in LA. All my stuff is light.” It was true. She had bought several sweaters and two coats, but was always cold. The first time Warren had offered to pay for a coat, she pretended she didn’t even hear him. The second time, she told him to stop, that she had her own money, and it was bad enough he was paying all the rent. She’d acquiesced when he’d pointed out she still had to pay the rent on her place in LA. “And a woman needs to take care of her skin.”

Warren was convinced all the fancy creams were exactly the same, whether they cost $5 or $75. Sam started a long explanation about the various ingredients and how they were processed, which he interrupted by asking her what she thought the chances were the Giants would sign a new cornerback. To his utter amazement, she replied, “Their secondary is totally solid. Why would they do that? Their defense is like a rock. The real question is if Morris can stay healthy next year and bring home another Super Bowl.”

“Who are you,” he asked, “and what have you done with my girlfriend?”

“I’ve always loved football. But, I have to be honest with you. I’m a Forty-Niner fan. I know that hurts. We can talk about it, but—”

“You never fail to amaze me,” he said, smiling broadly. “You can root for whatever team you want. And I’ll learn about face creams, if we can go to a few games next season.”

“If? Are you kidding?” She stepped across the small kitchen and gave him a big hug.

“Well, that’s assuming we’re still at liberty after our little master plan spins out,” he whispered in her ear.

“You call the signals, Coach. I’ll run the plays.”

*   *   *

Malcolm Conover wasn’t too pissed when Warren told him he was going to take another week off. He’d only had a few vacation days the previous year, to visit his dad. Warren had also done a great job following through all the trades before Anson’s death, and the firm had made so much money that it could afford the temporary drop in business that might result from his backup’s taking over. Kerry was more than competent, even only paying half attention to his accounts, and Malcolm also made sure he’d know where to reach Warren. It wasn’t as if there weren’t any phones in the Black Forest.

Warren had accumulated enough frequent-flier miles to upgrade to two first-class seats on Lufthansa, which Sam insisted had the best little cosmetic kits of any airline. He also splurged and bought a bottle of Grands Échézeaux along in his carry-on bag, which added a touch of extra civility to the perfectly acceptable in-flight dinner, not to mention deepening the sleep afterward.

In Munich they picked up a sleek, black Porsche from a rental agency, and Warren rechecked the route. It would only take about three hours to make it to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein, and they would be there not long after its bankers unlocked their forbidding office doors.

The drive was beautiful, the snow cover fresh and clean, the roads clear and dry. They made such good time that they lingered over strong
Kaffee
in a charming Bavarian inn, and Sam sampled a few of the rich breakfast pastries for the extra energy. They went over the details they had rehearsed again and again before leaving and on the plane. Sam knew a lot about the banks from her expensive forensic accounting lesson at Artie’s hands, but Warren took her through the intricacies of how they calculated and talked about interest rates on big, important accounts. It was hardly eleven o’clock when they pulled into Vaduz’s tidy central square and parked, just about twenty yards from the august entrance to the Wilhelmsbanken. Sam levered herself out of the low-slung car, looking elegant in a fur-lined, leather duffel coat, and tight stirrup pants tucked neatly into a pair of Hermès snow boots. Warren simply wore gray flannels and a white dress shirt under the shearling coat he’d bought at Barneys for the occasion. They looked healthy, wealthy, and very much in their element, their black sunglasses glinting in the clear mountain air.

A portly doorman in a black cutaway allowed them to pass, and Sam led the way to the inner sanctum. At the reception desk she did not remove her glasses, but in an imperious voice and perfect German, fine-tuned with a half dozen classes at Berlitz, addressed the older woman who looked up from her seat inquisitively.