“You could sign the Enerco offer, leave your money in Switzerland, and sail off into blissful obscurity. I strongly advise you to do that.”
“Sure, and spend the rest of my life hating myself for taking the easy way out, for not doing what I knew I could do for so many people.”
“Then you need to take some time to think about this. Whatever you decide to do is going to have a big impact on your life. There’s no way I can predict the outcome of this lawsuit. Too many moving parts. If you win, you get to keep your job. If you lose, you’ll likely be bankrupt… With respect to the blackmail, worst case scenario, you could be assessed for back taxes, hit with some fairly hefty fines, and end up in prison. Other than those items, you don’t have a thing to worry about.”
Kerri left Marsha’s office and took a cab to her apartment. Questions swirled in her mind for the entire trip. She entered her building, keyed her mailbox, and removed the only piece of mail: a small white envelope with fancy printed script. The sender was Mr. Jamie Stewart. A box number in Toronto was the return address. Her first guess was that the envelope contained an invitation of some kind, but she wondered why Christine’s father would send her an invitation of any kind.
She opened the envelope and removed what was indeed an invitation, one that horrified her when she read that she had been invited to witness the marriage of Christine Ann Stewart to Stephen William Monteith. The ceremony was scheduled to take place at Jamie Stewart’s Port Royal beach front home in Naples, Florida, at four P.M., on Tuesday, December thirty-first. The reception was scheduled to be at The Ritz-Carlton Hotel, 280 Vanderbilt Beach Road, Naples.
A tidal wave of disappointment washed over her. She could not understand why she was disappointed. She had known for some time that Steve was engaged to Christine. It should not have surprised her that the two were going to be married. She admitted to herself that Steve had penetrated her heart, and that her disappointment was triggered by a sense of loss, the loss of a man she had allowed herself to consider more than a friend.
“Why didn’t he call?” she whispered to herself, tears flowing, brutally reminded that she had, for the third time in her life, been hurt because she cared for the wrong man. She admonished herself for thinking her relationship with Steve could have been more than a friendship. The invitation in her hand was proof that she had been wrong. She felt an overwhelming sense of rejection while simultaneously taking stock of her situation. By New Year’s Day, Steve Monteith would be enjoying a honeymoon in some exotic place, while she would be involved in a lawsuit that could bankrupt her. Even worse, she would be answering to an Internal Revenue Service inquiry that could put her in prison.
She removed her cell phone from her coat pocket and called Louise Markel-Townes. “I’m going for a long walk, Louise. Call me if you need me,” she said.
“Rough afternoon?”
“Worse. Don’t get me started.”
“You go for it, girl. I’ll just file your unimportant two hundred and fifty phone messages for future reference.”
Louise’s sarcasm caused Kerri to smile. For the first time in her corporate life she didn’t care about phone messages. She just wanted to play hooky. She left the building and walked south, inhaling the cold December air through her nostrils and desperately trying to process the squall of bad news that had invaded her near perfect world since September eleventh. Passing pedestrians appeared only as a blur as she traversed the seven blocks to the massive clean-up site at Ground Zero. Visions of the United Airlines 767 hitting the South Tower in a gigantic orange fireball flashed through her mind as she approached the site of the devastation.
Her thoughts turned to Miles Dennis, the man who had changed her life, given her a job when she needed one, taken her into his home when she couldn’t afford one, taught her the commodities business, and always gave her a shoulder to cry on. She owed her success to that man, missed him desperately, and hated herself for not thanking him enough. Now he was gone, buried somewhere in the rubble on the other side of the barricades surrounding the site. He had given his life for the company that she now ran. If it had not been for his trading prowess, her father would still be in prison, and there would be no Swiss bank account.
“Yes!” she shouted as loud as she could, attracting the attention of hundreds of people around her. She had made her decision.
She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Marsha Cooper’s private number.
“You again.” Marsha said. “I thought I told you to go home and think about what I just told you.”
“I’ve already done that… I want you to go to war with me.”
“You’re sure about this? You didn’t think about it for very long.”
“I’ve never been more certain in my entire life.”
“You’re a tough lady, Kerri King. It’ll be my pleasure to represent you.”
“Thanks. It’ll be a pleasure to have you in my corner.”
Kerri returned to her apartment and dialed the private number of Julien Geisinger, president of Liechtensteinische Comco, in Geneva, unaware that it was nearly two A.M. in Geneva.
“Geisinger,” he answered hoarsely, awakened from a deep sleep.
“Julien, it’s Kerri King, I’m calling from New York. Please forgive me for calling at this hour. I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t important. I need you to do something for me, and it has to be done quickly.”
“I’m at your service,” Geisinger said, the consummate professional. “Please tell me what it is.”
“I want you to distribute every cent of the money in my account, and I want it done quickly. It has to be done before the end of this month. I’m prepared to fly to Geneva, but I would prefer not to. Can you do this?”
“Did I hear you correctly? You want to distribute all of it?”
“You heard correctly. I want the account closed as soon as it is emptied.”
“Very well. I can assure you that the distribution of your funds can be done according to your wishes, but first I will need a direction, prepared by your attorney, and detailing the time and manner in which you would like funds distributed. The direction must be signed by you and witnessed by your attorney. When the direction is completed, please have your attorney fax it to me. Once it is in my possession, I will act on it immediately.”
“Thank you, Julien. My attorney will be in touch with you. Her name is Marsha Cooper. Please telephone me the minute you have made the distribution… Have you heard anything about Wilhelm Lentz?”
“Sadly, the police have found nothing. It is as if he has vanished from the face of the earth.”
CHAPTER 33
Christmas Eve, 2001.
Kerri’s progress in the restoration of the New York headquarters of Iacardi & Sons to its former glory exceeded her most optimistic expectations, both in terms of the time it had taken and the quality of employees hired to replace those who had perished. The cost, both in money and in effort had been high, but very successful. Thanks to the efforts and connections of Tavaris, Deaks, and Dukes, some of the best commodity traders in the game had been enticed to defect from their former employers. While she had taken the time to thank the three amigos, she knew their primary motivation had been to revive Iacardi for Enerco, their future owner.
Armed with a freshly hired back office and research staff, the new traders had stepped into the breach and been responsible for bringing the New York division back to profitability. Kerri was amazed at what good employees could accomplish when allowed to work autonomously and without supervision. The rapid progress was a vindication of her decision to rebuild the company. Now she was confident that by the end of the following year, the company’s profitability would approach or exceed its previous record. In spite of the spectacular corporate progress she had made, she struggled with the tsunami of personal problems plaguing her mind.
Before boarding Air Canada 767, Flight
802, Toronto to Vancouver, she noticed people staring at her, some even pointing to her. She realized that the moment she appeared on national television, she gave up her anonymity. No longer a private citizen, she was now Kerri King, the president of Iacardi & Sons, the company that was devastated in the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center.
Her plane touched down on the rain soaked tarmac at Vancouver International Airport at 2:30 P.M, Pacific Time and discharged its passengers. Having cleared customs in Toronto, she picked up her luggage and hurried outside the terminal to be greeted by a cold driving rain. Wearing faded jeans, white sneakers, a brown leather jacket, and her beloved Yankees hat, she blew on her hands while waiting for a taxi. Minutes later, she climbed into a Yellow Cab and asked the driver to take her to the Ferry Terminal on False Creek.
After a lengthy, rough and rain splattered voyage, Kerri disembarked at the Salt Spring Island Ferry Dock, where she was met by her very happy mother and David Harmon, her second husband. Kerri’s mother, Barbara, a tall, lithe blue eyed blond beauty when she met Kerri’s father in 1963, had aged gracefully. “I missed you so much,” she said, clinging tightly to her daughter.
“I missed you too, mom,” Kerri replied, then gave David a hug. “Good to see you again, David, and thanks for looking after my mother.
“The pleasure has been all mine,” David said with a warm smile, then pointed to his black Jaguar. “Let’s get in the car. We’re getting soaked.”
The three hurried to David’s car and he drove them to Kerriglen, a beautiful new home he and Barbara had built on Sunset Drive on the north west shore of the island. A modern three bedroom back split, architecturally designed and constructed of native wood, concrete, glass and steel, it had a spectacular view of The Straight of Georgia and tiny Trent Island, two kilometers to the west.
Christmas Eve featured a turkey dinner, lovingly prepared by Barbara, and enjoyed by all. The conversation centered around Kerri’s experiences related to the terrorist attacks on The World Trade Center and her struggle to rebuild a devastated Iacardi. Kerri avoided any mention of the Iacardi shareholders‘ lawsuit and the Enerco blackmail. She wanted to spare her mother the anxiety she knew that knowledge would cause.
The skies had cleared by the time dinner was finished, revealing, in spectacular fashion, why so many people chose to live on the west coast.
“Let’s take a walk to the beach,” David suggested. He smiled at Kerri. “I promise you’ll enjoy it,” he said.
The three left the house and walked down a gentle but rock strewn slope to a sandy beach. They were treated to a sensational sunset, one that reminded Kerri of her youth in Vancouver. It was a simpler time, she thought, uncomplicated by the insane pursuit of happiness, so often attributed the life in The Big Apple. A tiny part of her, present, but buried deep in her soul, longed for a simpler life, one so obviously enjoyed by her mother and David. She was delighted that her mother had at last found happiness, for so long missing in her marriage to her father.
While David paused to light his cigar du jour, Barbara grasped Kerri’s hand and led her toward the water. “I have something exciting to tell you, something that’s made me one of the happiest women alive.”
“Wow!” Kerri said. “I can’t wait.”
“I’ve been reunited with my other daughter,” Barbara said with a smile that radiated pride and incalculable joy.
Momentarily stunned, Kerri paused to gather herself. “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you. How did you find her?”
“I didn’t. She found me. It was the craziest thing. She phoned here about a month ago. David answered and she asked if she could speak to me. She told me her name and apologized for calling, then she asked me if I used to live in Toronto. I told her I did, then she asked me if I knew a man named Scott Merritt. That’s when my heart started to pound. Scott was the father of the girl I gave up for adoption. I don’t know why I did this, but I asked her why she wanted to know… She said she asked because she had checked her birth records and discovered that Scott and I were listed as her parents… I was speechless. My heart was beating so fast and I didn’t know what to say. I knew I was talking to my daughter, but I was afraid to tell her.”
“Why?” Kerri asked.
“Because I’ve been hiding it for so long,” Barbara said, tears flowing. “It was like someone had discovered my dirty little secret. I fought it for the longest time, but then I just let it all go. I told her that I’m her mother.”
Kerri hugged her mother. “Have you seen her?” she asked.
Barbara nodded, wiping her tears. “Her name is Cathy Towers. She’s a dental hygienist living in Ottawa. I flew there last week and she met me at the airport.” Barbara reached into her jacket pocket and removed a photograph. “This is Cathy and her family,” she said, handing it to Kerri.
Kerri stared at the photograph, one of her daughter, a tall dark haired man in his late thirties, and two very good looking boys. She guessed the boys ages at eight and ten. She focused on Cathy, a tall and attractive blonde, recognizing only a faint resemblance to her mother. “Nice looking family. Did you meet them?”
“I did. I had dinner with them at their house in Rockcliffe. Cathy’s husband is a radiologist,” Barbara replied, then proceeded to prattle on and on about her long lost daughter, her husband, her children, and her history with her adoptive parents.
While Kerri was interested and fascinated by her mother’s story, and happy that she had at last rid herself of the guilt and torment of giving up a child for adoption, she privately scolded herself for feeling a sense of jealousy. For so long she had enjoyed being the only child of a doting mother. Petty jealousy seemed infantile and microscopic compared to the problems she faced: the Iacardi shareholders’ lawsuit, Jeffery Wheeler’s threatened blackmail, and the continued rebuilding of Iacardi.
David and Barbara drove Kerri to Sea-Tac Airport in Seattle the following morning, and after tear filled hugs and kisses, she boarded a United 767 for a direct flight to LaGuardia. Again she noticed people staring and pointing at her. She took her seat in first class, fastened her seat belt, then closed her eyes and relaxed.
“Excuse me. Are you Kerri King?” asked an attractive grey haired man in the seat beside her.
Kerri opened her eyes, turned and smiled at the man. She nodded.
The man returned her smile and extended his hand. “I’m Jimmy Herman. I’m honored to meet you. I just want you to know that I saw you on television in September. You inspired me like nobody has ever done. What you’re doing makes me proud to be an American.”
“Thank you,” Kerri said, the compliment igniting in her a welcome surge of pride.
CHAPTER 34
Thursday, December 27, 2001. 9:00 A.M.
“It’s Julien Geisinger calling, Miss King. Can we talk?”
“You can say anything you want, Julien. Secrecy is no longer important to me.”
“I’m not sure I understand that, but be that as it may, I called to inform you that we have completed the distribution of the funds in your account, all in accordance with your signed direction. After deducting our expenses, the balance was zero, and the account was closed. Would you like me to tell you the amount each estate received?”
“No thank you. I’ve already done the math.”
“Splendid. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, but thank you for your prompt attention to my request… Have you heard from Wilhelm Lentz?”
“Unfortunately, nothing.”
“I’m very sorry,” Kerri said.
New York. Thursday, December 27, 2001. 2:00 P.M.
Kerri opened a heavy glass door and entered the lobby of the Internal Revenue Service building on Broadway. She marched to the counter and announced to a young female receptionist that her name was Kerri King, and that she had an appointment with Agent Niel Johnstone. The receptionist call
ed Johnstone’s office, and within thirty seconds she was greeted by a short plump balding man in his late forties. He wore a dark blue suit that appeared to be government issue, an ugly green tie, and way out of style black tasseled loafers. Flakes of dandruff decorated his shoulders.
“Hello, Miss King. I’m Niel Johnstone. It’s an honor to meet someone as famous as you,” he said with a practiced smile. “Please follow me,” he said, then led Kerri to his large but austere office at the end of a long corridor on the ground floor. He pointed to a silvered canister on a small table beside his desk. “Please help yourself to a coffee, then we can chat.”
Kerri poured coffee into a white styrene cup, then sat on one of the two hardwood chairs in front of Johnstone’s desk.
Johnstone lowered himself into his comfortable black leather upholstered chair, then again smiled at his visitor. “You mentioned in our telephone conversation that you wished to make a declaration. Am I correct?”
Kerri nodded. “I’m about to do something that I should have done a very long time ago. Before I do that, I should ask you how much time you’re prepared to give me.”
“My time is yours. Take as much time as you need.”
“The reason I asked is because I’m going to tell you about a fairly large amount of money. There is a lengthy story attached to that money.” Kerri took a deep breath, then stared into Johnstone’s grey eyes. She prodded herself to continue, no matter what the consequences were. “Until this week, I had four hundred and eighty-seven million dollars in a private account in a Swiss bank. The name of the bank is Liechtensteinische Comco. It’s in Geneva.”
Johnstone frowned as he wrote feverishly on his pad of legal sized paper. “You said you had money in a Swiss account until this week. What did you do with it?”
Kerri took another deep breath. “I gave it all away.”
Johnstone stopped writing an raised his eyebrows. “You did what?”
“I arranged, with the help of my lawyer and Julien Geisinger, the bank’s president, to distribute all of the funds to the estates of the three hundred and thirty-eight Iacardi employees who were killed in the World Trade Center on September eleventh. I did it because I wanted to help the survivors. I knew they needed the money, and I was fortunate enough to be in a position to provide it.”