I KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG THE MINUTE I SMELLED TODAY’S assortment of executive-suite flowers. A pair of Saxton Silvers security guards met me as soon as I stepped out of the elevator, and their expressions could have taken the bloom right off the Sexy Rexy Floribunda roses.
“I can take it from here, guys,” I said. “I know my way to Mr. Volke’s office.”
“Sorry, Mr. Cantella. We have our orders.”
“Oooh-kay.”
Security knocked on the closed door and Eric let me inside. He was not alone. I recognized Sonya, of course, but not the two men standing beside her. Eric made the introductions, but I noted that he didn’t look me in the eye as he spoke.
“This is FBI Agent Malcolm Spear and Agent Carl O’Neil,” said Eric. “Mr. Spear is a supervisory special agent, and Mr. O’Neil works in the Computer Fraud Division of the bureau’s Manhattan field office.”
These were not the same agents who’d come by my building that morning to check out the fire in the elevator. O’Neil was by far the younger man, but Spear had the look of an ex-Marine, and as we shook hands I decided I would rather face O’Neil in a bar fight.
“I assume this is about my identity theft.”
“Have a seat, Michael,” said Eric.
“Is the news not good?”
“Please. Have a seat.”
I took the leather armchair facing the agents, who seated themselves on the couch. Eric went behind his desk, and I found Sonya’s positioning very interesting. She took the chair that was on the opposite side of the coffee table from me, closer to the FBI.
“At the outset,” said Sonya, “let me make it clear that I’m here strictly as general counsel to Saxton Silvers. I don’t represent anyone in his individual capacity.”
“You mean me?” I said, trying not to sound too facetious.
She nodded.
I glanced at the FBI. “I’m guessing you don’t represent me either.”
“That’s correct,” said Agent Spear.
It wasn’t intentional, but a nervous chuckle escaped as my gaze shifted in Eric’s direction. “Should I have a lawyer?”
“That’s certainly your right,” said Agent Spear.
“Am I being accused of something?”
“No,” said the agent.
Sonya started to speak but hesitated. Then, without words, Eric seemed to give her the green light.
“I would suggest that you merely listen,” she said. “Eric and I wanted you to know what the FBI investigation has uncovered, but we thought it would be best for you to hear it straight from Agent Spear.”
My throat tightened, which was probably a good thing. I was getting the distinct impression that I shouldn’t even try to talk.
“Okay, I’m all ears.”
Spear spoke in a patented FBI monotone that made things sound even more serious. “There has been a major development in our tracking of the funds from your Saxton Silvers personal investment accounts to the Cayman Islands and beyond.”
“Congratulations. I guess it’s true that the post-nine-eleven world of bank secrecy is not as secret as it once was.”
Eric caught my eye. I was talking too much.
Spear continued. “This is what the FBI knows. Your investments were liquidated and the cash in your accounts was then immediately transferred into a custodial account in the name of your late wife, Ivy Layton. Your funds were commingled with hers, and the entire amount-about thirteen million-was wire-transferred from the custodial account to a numbered account in the Cayman Islands.”
He paused, and I sure hoped there was more. “No offense,” I said, “but my tech guy told me everything you just said about ten minutes after I discovered my account balances were at zero.”
“Understood,” said Spear. “Here’s where it gets interesting. The minute your thirteen million hit the Cayman account, it was used as collateral for twenty-six million in short positions on Saxton Silvers stock obtained through various sources.”
It was as if someone had kicked the chair out from under me. “Excuse me?”
“With the dramatic decline in Saxton Silvers stock this morning, you can in essence pay back your twenty-six-million dollar loan with thirteen million dollars’ worth of stock. If the rumors continue and force Saxton Silvers into bankruptcy-reducing its stock value to zero-you borrowed twenty-six million and can pay it off for nothing. That’s a pretty hefty profit in a couple of days.”
I couldn’t even speak.
“So,” he said, “the question is this: Who controls the Cayman account?”
“You’re asking me?”
“There are several layers of transactions involved, a number of different special-purpose vehicles,” he said. That was Wall Street-speak for offshore shell corporations.
“Then you need to find out who’s behind the shell game,” I said.
Glances were exchanged around the room, but no one was making eye contact with me.
“Eric?” I said. “You don’t think I control it, do you?”
Eric was again massaging that sore spot between his eyes, migraine central.
“Well, it sure as hell isn’t me,” I said.
Spear cleared his throat, and I braced myself. “Your general counsel tells us that you went on FNN today.”
“At Eric’s request.”
“How do you think that went?” asked Spear.
Part of me wanted to tell him to call the treasurer at Papa’s condo association and ask him. “Not so well,” I said.
“That depends on your perspective, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Meaning what?” I asked.
“I would imagine that the short sellers in control of your money in that secret Cayman Islands account were quite pleased with the way your interview went with Mr. Bell. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I had to take a breath, control my anger. “I didn’t bet against my own firm and then go on television to fan the flames, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Spear copped a laserlike stare. “Would you be willing to take a polygraph exam on that?”
I should have taken a moment to consider the question. Instead, I looked right at Eric and said, “If that’s what it takes to get the people in this room to believe me, then yes, I would.”
Spear was about to say something, but Eric interrupted.
“Michael, you should talk to a lawyer.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Eric leaned forward, his hands atop his desk. “It’s like Sonya said. She doesn’t represent you. Her only client is this institution. Go talk to a lawyer.”
I didn’t know what to say, but soon enough I realized that I had best not say anything.
“All right,” I said, rising. “I will talk to my lawyer.”
And then I walked out-and realized I didn’t have one.
The security guards escorted me back to the elevator, rode down with me, and walked me out to the street. This was getting annoying. I spotted a taxi and speared my hand into the night air. My iPhone chirped, and of course I immediately stopped in my tracks to check it. They should have called this thing “iPavlov.” Was there anything more powerful?
It was a text message. I didn’t recognize the sender, but the words cut to my core: It’s a crime to burn money.
I collected myself and texted back in rapid fire: Who are you?
He’d sent the next text before getting my reply: That makes you Wall Street fucks serial offenders.
I knew it was the guy from Sal’s Place last fall, but I needed more. Who are you, and what do you want?
The cab I’d hailed pulled away. The driver was ticked, but I wasn’t about to risk losing this connection in a moving vehicle.
His reply read, You promised not to turn me in.
I had to think for a moment, then I recalled the strange conversation with this guy at Sal’s Place. I had indeed made that promise after watching him burn the hundred-dollar bill. I kept my reply short: So?
His reply came so quickly I could almost feel the anger: Stay away from the FBI. STAY AWAY!!!
I would have bet serious money that the conversation was over, but to my surprise, one last message popped up.
That’s the thing about revenge, the text read, you never know when they’re going to call it even.
An ambulance flew by me on Seventh Avenue, siren blaring. I was oblivious to it, numbed by the words I was reading.
I pulled myself together and speed-dialed Eric Volke.