Bloodmoney (43 page)

“Don’t get used to it. I am busting you out of here, whether you like it or not. I brought along Mr. Chumley, here, who will be filing motions and petitions.”

“Gormley,” said the solicitor. “My name is Gormley.”

‘I have a question, before we go any further,” said Perkins. “Did you find Anthony Cronin?”

Tarullo shook his head.

“Jesus, Vince! The last time we talked I told you to squeeze everyone you knew until you found the guy. He’s the one who got me into this. He’s the way out.”

Tarullo sighed. He shrugged; he took his cigar out of his breast pocket, put it in his mouth again and then laid it down on the table between himself and his client.

“There is no Anthony Cronin, at least nobody who matches your description. I turned the government upside down trying to find him. Called in every chit I had, with the agency and the bureau, too. I paid consulting fees to two former chiefs of the CIA station in New York. I even paid some dope to look at the membership roster of the Athenian Club. Sorry. No such person.”

“Of course there is. I talked to him, repeatedly. We signed papers. We set up joint accounts at FBS in Geneva. Anthony Cronin was my freaking business partner.”

“It’s a false name, brother. Sorry to break it to you, but they do that. Whoever he is, he’s gone with the wind.”

“Then have the agency find the person who was using that cover.”

“I tried that. They claim there was no such operation. No Cronin, nobody with that work name, no connection with Alphabet Capital. Nothing.”

“But that’s bullshit, Vince. These people are paid to lie.”

“Maybe so, but they’ve been lying to everyone in town, in that case, because nobody knows shit about any of this. I even went to the congressional committees—that’s how much I love you. I got one of my buddies on the House side who is the ranking member, a gentleman who owes me a favor, owes me his fucking seat, to be honest. He has all the clearances. He went up to the vault and asked to see all the covert-action findings and proprietary operations involving U.S. financial companies overseas. They did a special search for him, and he didn’t get diddly squat. It’s not there.”

Perkins pounded the table, causing the cigar to roll toward the edge, where Tarullo caught it.

“Those fuckers! They are squeezing me, Vince. I’m the fall guy. They’re closing out the operation they were running through my firm, and now they are taking me out, too. They’re finished with whatever they were doing. I’m expendable.”

“You got it. That’s their game. The question is, what do you want me and Chumley to do about it?”

“Go to trial. Win the case. Get me off.”

“Not so easy, big boy. The Brits have gathered enough evidence to nail you: fraudulent statements to the regulators; insider trading; numbered Swiss bank accounts not declared to the Inland Revenue. They have a lot of shit, my friend. And I have some bad news for you: Juries don’t like billionaires, even in England. They want to crucify them. You’d have trouble finding a respectable barrister who would argue the case in court.”

Perkins listened to this litany of misdeeds and then shook his head.

“It’s all crap. They used me as long as it suited them, and then they ratted me out to the Brits. This is a setup, first to last.”

“Look, Tom, do you want my professional opinion?”

“No.”

“This case is a loser. If you take it to trial, you’re going down. Now, Mr. Chumley here has been talking to the prosecutors, which I am not allowed to do. And I think you should listen to what he has to say.”

“Can he get me off?”

“Sort of. Hear him out.”

“Fine. And stop calling this man Chumley, for god’s sake. He already told you it’s Gormley.”

The British solicitor looked relieved.

“Thank you. What Mr. Tarullo said is quite accurate. I have been in discussion this morning with Mr. Crane of the Serious Fraud Office, who was accompanied by a rather aggressive gentleman from the Crown Prosecution Service. We discussed the possibility of your entering a guilty plea to reduced charges. That would avoid the risk of going before a jury, which as Mr. Tarullo said would carry risks, given the current public mood toward, um, finance.”

“What would I plead to? Assuming that I was willing to pretend I did anything wrong.”

“That is still under discussion. But I was given to believe this morning that a possible arrangement might involve pleading guilty to a low-level count of banking fraud and a similarly low-level count of revenue fraud.”

“What would the sentence be?”

“That would be at the discretion of the judge. The guidelines suggest there should always be some reduction in sentence for a guilty plea. But there might still be a brief prison sentence.”

“How long is ‘brief’?”

“For the simplest banking fraud conviction, the guidelines recommend twenty-six weeks. For revenue fraud, it is twelve weeks. So let us imagine something well under a year. It could be more or less, of course, or nothing at all.”

“Take it,” said Tarullo. “It’s your best shot.”

“Shut up. Now, suppose I don’t accept this plea deal and I get convicted, what would I be facing?”

“Goodness, hard to say, but it would be quite unpleasant. The judge would not be amused by your subornation of an employee of the Bank of England.”

“How much time?”

“For major banking fraud, the recommendation is five years, plus five more years for major revenue fraud, plus ten years for false representations, plus seven years for false accounting, plus five years for obtaining services dishonestly. So it could add up to, let me see, approximately thirty years. But that would be a very hard-hearted judge.”

“Thirty-two years, to be precise,” said Tarullo. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Okay, suppose I listen to my lawyers and agree to plead guilty, Mr. Gormley, would I be able to work in the investment business again?”

“Probably not, I’m afraid, certainly not in the United Kingdom.”

“And would I be liable for civil suits from investors?”

“Yes, sorry to say, there would be no stopping that. The guilty plea would be dispositive, your plaintiffs would argue, so you would be rather vulnerable.”

He turned back to the burly American counselor.

“And the same would be true in the States, isn’t that right, Vince? We would have to settle with the SEC, and at a minimum they would bar me from being a broker-dealer or an investment adviser. The evidence from the British court could be used as evidence in civil cases in America, and every shyster lawyer who wanted free money could file a strike suit. Am I correct?”

“We would fight the suits, obviously,” said Tarullo. “Maybe we could talk national security with the judges, but I doubt it would work.”

“So basically I’m screwed. That’s what you’re telling me. Either I go to court and run the risk of a ridiculously long prison sentence on multiple fraud charges, or I make a deal for a short sentence, but I still get bankrupted with damages from civil suits that I can’t pay because I can’t work in finance again. Is that it, more or less?”

“Hey, Tom, it is what it is. Not a great situation, I admit. Should you take the deal? Depends on your tolerance for getting ass-fucked for the next thirty-two years at Brixton.”

Perkins put his palms to his head, so that they covered his eyes and most of his face. He murmured to himself as he thought about his options. When he removed his hands, he was smiling. It was uncanny, a big grin, as if he had been released from his cell and sent home.

“No fucking way. That’s what I’ve decided. Let them try to prosecute me. You know what? They won’t dare. They think they can nail me for stuff that happened before they got in deep. But I’m not going to play. This evidence is all tainted by the fact that I was involved in secret intelligence activities the CIA may be claiming don’t exist, but which they will never, ever allow to come out in open court. And the minute they ask the judge to go in camera to discuss secrets, I’ve made my point, I’ve won.”

“So you want to roll the dice?” asked Tarullo.

“Gambling is for suckers, Vince. This is a no-brainer. I’ve made my career knowing when to take risks and, honestly, it’s not even close in this case. These people are bluffing. They will fold. Mr. Gormley, tell the Crown Prosecution Service, ‘Thank you very much for the offer, and we’ll see you in court.’ But I promise you, it will never get there.”

“Bracing words, Mr. Perkins,” said the solicitor. “I will convey your message. I do hope you’re right.”

Perkins said he wanted a few words alone with his American attorney before they left. The prim British solicitor padded off down the hall to wait in the entryway.

Perkins leaned close to Tarullo and spoke as quietly as he could.

“This will work, Vince. You have to believe me.”

“If you say so, Tom. What do I know? I’m just your lawyer.”

Perkins lowered his voice another few decibels.

“I want you to do something for me. I want you to go see the CIA general counsel. Get all the records you can find of my accounts at FBS. Tell them that the CIA, or some spinoff somewhere, has been using these accounts to fund operations and using my firm as cover for its people. And I can prove it, if they make me. Will you do that?”

“Sure. I know the general counsel. He was an associate in my firm a long time ago. He told me I was all wet when I asked about Anthony Cronin a couple of days ago. But he’ll see me.”

“Tell him that what they’re doing is illegal, Vince. There is something called the ‘Anti-Deficiency Act.’ Do you know what that is?”

“Of course I do. I’m a lawyer. It means that government agencies can’t spend money that hasn’t been appropriated by Congress. But how do you know?”

“I’ve been doing my homework. I’ve known I would need to break with these people, eventually. The point is, somebody has been using me and my firm to violate that law. That’s what they were doing, running a fund off the books to provide money for their operations. And I want you to tell the general counsel that if they do not back off, I am going to say this in open court in Britain, and they are going down!”

Perkins’s stage whisper had grown so loud the guard or anyone else listening could surely hear it. But he didn’t care.

Tarullo got up to leave. He gave Perkins a kiss on both cheeks, Italian-style, and the heavy body lumbered out the door.

Perkins leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. He put his feet up on the wooden table for a moment, savoring his act of defiance, but the guard pushed them away and ordered Perkins back to his cell.

LONDON

The Eurostar arrivals hall
at St. Pancras station was thick with well-dressed young men and women, their computer bags slung over their shoulders and rolling their luggage behind them. There was the faint sound of a thousand tiny wheels clicking across the floor as they busily sped off to their London destinations. They were bound for Euro-Britain, a nation of espresso bars and gourmet sandwich shops that seemed barely connected to the old country of dingy corridors and cigarette butts.

Sophie Marx was traveling on a new diplomatic passport, supplied by the embassy in Brussels, so she avoided the queue at Immigration. She took a black taxi to the Dorchester Hotel, where she had left her luggage in storage when she had decamped suddenly for Islamabad a week before. The doorman tipped his black top hat, and the concierge in his morning coat welcomed her “back home,” as if she’d been off sporting on the Côte d’Azur these past few days. Nothing in her appearance gave her away; she wore a pair of well-tailored slacks and her snug leather jacket and she did look, at a glance, like someone who belonged on a yacht rather than in a safe house.

Marx asked the man at the front desk for a simple room that would fit her new budget, but she was family now, and they gave her a big room with a four-poster double bed and windows that overlooked the park.

She rang Thomas Perkins’s numbers again when she got upstairs. She had been calling him for two days without success, at his office, home and cell numbers. It was evident that something bad had happened to him but she didn’t yet know what, and she blamed herself.

She unpacked her things, took a long shower and collapsed on the bed. She wanted to hide for a while, from the people who were pursuing her and from thoughts about the people she had placed in danger. She unhooked the chintz curtains that surrounded the bed and let them fall, so that she was enclosed in a doll’s house of floral print fabric and down pillows. She hugged a pillow tight against her chest, the way she had as a girl in her first weeks at boarding school, fighting the loneliness of separation from her crazy parents. Sleep came quickly; she was awakened ninety minutes later by the insistent ring of her cellular phone.

Marx fumbled for the handset, uncertain where she was in the dark of the bed. It was odd to hear the ring at all; so few people knew how to reach her. She looked at the number of the incoming caller; it was a London mobile phone she didn’t recognize, and she thought at first that it might be Thomas Perkins.

“Hello,” she answered. “Who is this?”

The answer was the clipped, emphatic and all too familiar voice of Jeffrey Gertz.

“It’s your boss. Or should I say, your former boss. I gather you’ve gone over to the parent company.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said. “You’re hazardous to my health.”

“I need to see you. We have to talk.”

“Wrong. We have nothing to talk about. You are a menace. I mean it. Don’t call again. Goodbye.”

She pressed the red button on the phone and ended the call. The phone rang again, twice, from the same number, and she let it roll over to voice mail both times. Ten minutes later, there was a call from a “private number,” not otherwise identified. She ignored that one, too.

Marx put on her jeans and black leather and walked the half dozen blocks across Mayfair to the handsome building that housed Alphabet Capital. It was a Friday afternoon and the pubs along the way were already crowded with merry-makers, spilling onto the sidewalks with their pints of beer and their wine coolers. As she threaded the crowds, several men offered to buy her a round.