One Child (26 page)

Chapter

46

Midtown Manhattan, New York

Benediem bottomed at 2:15 EDT on Thursday, August 19
th
. The company's CEO faced the television cameras in Chicago for the second time in four days and broke the bad news. They were preparing to file for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. All operations for the parent and subsidiary companies had ceased, effective immediately.

Carson
watched the death of a giant corporation from the quiet luxury of his office. He had orchestrated the collapse and was struggling with both remorse and loathing. The loathing was for William
Fleming
- for Wall Street - and for himself. They not only chased the American dream on Wall Street, they manufactured it. When the markets weren't aligning, they adjusted them. When people were scared, they assured them the new derivatives were sound. When they needed growth, they stimulated financial investments based on smoke and mirrors, not value.

But while the loathing was distressing, the remorse was much more difficult. He didn't know who to feel sorry for. They were all out there. Families who had saved their hard-earned money and entrusted their portfolio to the investment brokers. The institutional investors who had picked Benediem as a solid performer and were now watching their mutual funds plummet. He didn't even want to think about the people who relied on Benediem for services.

He switched off the television and went back to the pile of work on his desk. Chui had the new algorithm ready for a test run. They were still at least three weeks from implementing it even if the tests went well. No more pushing the envelope. That decision had come from his desk and he didn't care if
Fleming
liked it or not.

Six o'clock rolled around and he packed up and headed home.
Nicki
had supper ready and they ate as she talked about her friend in North Carolina who was getting married in September. Exciting times. The message was sparklingly clear. She would like to be suffering the same excitement as her friend. And soon.

Carson
cracked a beer and retired to the living room after supper. He poked around on the Internet while
Nicki
watched television. The thing with
Fleming
and Trey Miller was driving him nuts. The two men were connected and up to something. He Googled new strings of keywords but nothing was working. He went back to the final words he had tried on Tuesday night, but dropped St. Petersburg.

Lindstrom Moscow

He touched the enter key and worked his way through the Moscow listings for major attractions. The first good hit he got was for
Julie
Lindstrom and the U2 concert in Moscow. He went to the website for her security company,
Details Matter
. She provided an all-inclusive service to bands and celebrities while they were on the road. The site was short on exactly how she did that. In fact, the site was short on most things. It was a slick place that catered to the rich and famous and couldn't care about impressing anyone else. Like him. He killed the link and went to U2's site. The band was an icon - everything they did was somewhere in the stratosphere. Massive concerts that sold out the moment tickets went on sale. Multi-million selling CDs and DVDs. Huge philanthropic gestures. They were the real thing. He Googled the Moscow concert and added the stadium name and date so he would pick up related articles. A few came up in Russian, but one had been translated. He read through it.

The concert was the brainchild of a prominent Russian, Dimitri
Volstov
. He had enticed the band to visit Moscow and the copywriter was gushing about him like he was the second coming of John Lennon. He entered the Russian's name and scanned through the first few pages of information.
Volstov
was a player in Russia. He was the majority shareholder of international energy giant,
Murmansk-Technika
. He also owned steel mines and mills, oil pipelines and coveted real estate in Moscow, St. Petersburg and Paris. His yacht was four hundred and seventy-one feet - eighty-nine feet shorter than Roman Abramovich's, and eighteen feet longer than Larry Ellison and David Geffen's.
Volstov
was a regular on the Forbes top 100 richest people list.

Impressive.

Carson
set the cursor back on the Google box and added William
Fleming
behind Dimitri
Volstov
. That would give him the Forbes list and their rankings. Interesting to see who was richer. He hit enter and froze.

The first article that featured both men was not the Forbes list. It was a newspaper story from March, 2002. He read every word of the article. Then he read it again. When he was finished, he sat back in the chair, his hands shaking so hard he could barely hold his beer.

Volstov
and
Fleming
knew each other. And there was nothing friendly about their relationship. They had both invested in a pipeline to move oil from Russia across the rugged terrain of Turkmenistan to Russia, via Kazakhstan. Midway through the project the Kazakhstan government had decided they didn't want American interests in their oil shipping industry and had cut
Fleming
out of the deal.
Fleming
publicly blamed
Volstov
for inciting the anti-American sentiment in the country and causing the deal to fall apart.
Fleming
sued
Volstov
for $2.3 billion. He netted nothing for his trouble, except forty-two million in legal fees.

The pieces were falling into place. Knowing
Fleming
, his resentment was probably still festering. It was a stretch, but
Carson
instinctively felt there was a connection between Lindstrom, Miller and the concert.

Carson
spent another hour on the computer, then followed
Nicki
to bed. Sleep was more than elusive, it was impossible. He lay in bed until a few minutes after three, then got up and made some tea. He paced the small apartment like an animal operating on instincts, but not sure quite what to do. Finally, he powered up the computer and returned to the
Details Matter
website. There was an 800 number and he dialed it, not sure what he was going to say. To his surprise, a live voice answered.

"
Details Matter
. Can I help you?" It was a man's voice, with a cultured English accent.

"Um, sorry, I thought I'd get voicemail at this time of night."

"The Baltimore office has the phone forwarded to our crew. We're in Europe. It's morning here. What can I help you with?"

"Um, you provide security for bands while they're on tour. Is that correct?"

"Yes. If you want to book us for your tour, call back when the US office is open. They do all the booking. We're on location with a band right now."

"Weird that you actually answer the phone,"
Carson
said. He was floored that he had a real person on the other end of the line.

"Our CEO is a people person. She insists we answer calls whenever we can. I am busy though, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"I just happened to notice that your firm is supplying the security for U2."

"Yes." Even one word was enough to catch the change in the man's voice. Suddenly cautious.

"I was wondering...if there were...any problems."

"Not that we're aware of, sir. Are there any problems that
you
are aware of?" There was no mistaking the difference in the tone and cadence of his words. He was on the offensive, looking for information.

"No. I don't think so."

"Who is calling, please?" the voice asked. More pleasant now. Not challenging.

"Um, I'd rather not say."
Carson
walked over to the window and stared out into the vacant street. The city was always so calm at this time of night. So deceptive. "With all the problems Bono has been having with his back, I was wondering if the Moscow concert is still on."

"Yes. You can find the information on our website. I would really like to know your name, sir."

"Thanks for your time. Sorry to have bothered you."

Carson
hit the end button and dropped the phone onto the window ledge. Why the hell did he phone them? That was dumb. There was absolutely no upside to making that call. The only saving grace was that he had a permanent block on his number so the other party couldn't see where the call had originated. He was glad of that now.

A wave of exhaustion swept over him and he tiptoed into their room and slid into bed next to
Nicki
. She stirred but didn't wake. He pressed his body against hers and even in her sleep she snuggled into him. He closed his eyes as his mind shut down and he was asleep in seconds.

Chapter

47

Helsinki, Finland

The man dialed
Julie
Lindstrom's number and waited.

His name was Evan Lucas and he took care of business when
Julie
was elsewhere. Which was often. Right now, she was in Miami signing a new band and wouldn't be back in Europe until Monday. That was far too long to let something like this sit unattended.

Every call that came into
Details Matter
was saved to a hard drive at their main office, and he had retrieved the digital recording of the conversation with the man asking about the U2 concert in Moscow. He replayed it twenty times, listening to the intonations and the pauses between the man's words. He knew something. Evan was sure of that. Once Evan deemed the call to have value, he had traced it. The phone line had a block on the number, but it was rudimentary and easy to bypass. It took less than five minutes to pull the caller's name.

Carson
Grant.

Another half hour and he had Grant's life printed and sitting on the desk in front of him. He lived in New York - Soho. He was engaged to
Nicki
Parkins, who suffered from cystic fibrosis and no longer worked. He had recently been promoted to the head of High Frequency Trading at
Platinus Investments
. The information ran on for three pages of single-spaced, eleven-point font. His bank accounts, his credit cards, his purchasing habits over the past five years. The amount of data available if you had the means was incredible. And Lindstrom's company certainly had the means.

"Hello."
Julie
's voice was tired.

"It's Evan."

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Things are fine here. We're set for the Helsinki show and Horsens went off without a hitch. Bono is holding up well. His back isn't causing him much pain. That's not why I called. There's something else going on that I think you should know about."

"What?" She was awake now and her voice all business.

"I sent you a link to a call I received about two hours ago. It's on your mobile. You should listen to it and call me back."

There was a brief pause while she checked her Blackberry, then she said, "It came through. Give me a few minutes."

Julie
touched the power button on the coffee machine and it instantly began brewing a fresh pot. She was not a morning person and had learned a long time ago to prep the machine the night before. Especially in hotel rooms where the machines were always different. She had a quick shower and doctored her coffee as she liked it, then sat down and listened to the audio file Evan had sent. She replayed it a few times, made some notes, and called Evan's cell number.

"He knows something,"
Julie
said.

"Definitely. And whatever it is, it involves the Moscow concert."

"Agreed." Her computer beeped as an e-mail arrived. It was from Evan. She clicked on it and
Carson
Grant's profile popped up on her screen. The picture was from the DMV and hardly complimentary. A link to his Facebook site was on the lower left portion of the screen and she clicked the cursor on it. A much better picture appeared. She studied his face, his eyes, the innuendo on his home page, then returned to the data file. "Why would a Wall Street MBA be interested in the security at a rock concert in Moscow?" she asked.

It was a rhetorical question and Evan countered back with more data, not an answer. "He has a very sick fiancee. Maybe he needs money and he's looking at extortion."

"Maybe..."
Julie
was scanning Grant's file. "This isn't adding up."

"No, it's not. He doesn't fit any sort of criminal profile I've ever seen."

"There's a tone in his voice,"
Julie
said. "He's onto some little morsel, but he doesn't know what to do with it. He could be an innocent who stumbled onto something that's completely outside his comfort zone. It has to do with the concert, so he called us because he didn't know who else to call."

"Makes sense."

"Did he call from New York?"

"Yes. From his home number. It was blocked but it didn't take much to get around that."

"I think I'll change my flight, take a detour to New York and pay
Carson
Grant a visit."

"Do you need anyone for backup?" Evan asked.

"He's a Wall Street geek. I should be okay,"
Julie
said. Her tone was easy-going, but she had learned better than to assume people were exactly who they appeared to be, no matter how harmless they looked. "I'll send you my new itinerary. Would you mind reserving a room at the Dylan?"

"Done. You want the suite?"

"Always."

"When should they expect you?" Evan asked.

She mentally calculated the times, allowing for the flight, checking into the hotel, then waiting for
Carson
to get home from work, which could be late. Wall Street execs often worked long after quitting hours. "I'll call by nine o'clock New York time. If I don't, send the posse."

"You got it."

"Thanks, Evan. Good work."

"Sure. Let's hope it's nothing," he said.

Julie
hung up and dropped the phone on the bed. She stared at
Carson
Grant's Facebook photo. Clean cut, with well-groomed sandy-brown hair and a disarming smile. His eyes were different. Blue, but with a touch of grey. He looked to be younger than the thirty-six years on his computer profile. Probably from living the good life - cashing his bonus checks and heading for the local Ferrari dealership. She wasn't a Wall Street fan. Like many, she had been hit hard by the 2008 crash.

"So what are you up to, trader boy?"
Julie
asked, tapping the screen on her laptop.

She went online and booked a flight to New York departing Miami in three hours and was out the door exactly sixty-three minutes after Evan had called. Her schedule for Friday, August 20
th
had changed substantially. It was now an evening meeting with
Carson
Grant.

It occurred to her as she took the elevator to the main floor of the hotel that she lived a very strange life.