The son of poor farming parents, he was born in 1955 in Pasto, a village in southern Columbia. His birth name was Santiago Mengalista. He had three sisters and one brother, all older than him. A tall man, about six foot three, he was still almost as strong and muscular as in his youth, just a little slower. His thick black wavy hair was combed straight back, its tips touching his shoulders behind his neck. Only a hint of grey showed on his sideburns. His eyes were like black marbles, sheltered by deep sockets and thick black eyebrows. The skin covering his face looked like creased leather, the result of years in the hot Columbian sun. A four inch scar, the legacy of a knife wound, extended from his left cheek bone to the left corner of his large mouth.
From the moment he was old enough to understand, he hated the fact that his family was poor, compelled to struggle to survive, never certain where their next meal was coming from. He learned quickly that in his country, one was either very rich or very poor, almost everyone in the latter category. Only a privileged few enjoyed the former. A middle class was virtually non-existent. With the exception of Sundays, he worked and sweated all of his long hot days on his parent’s ten acre farm, scratching food from the rocky and infertile soil. He spent his evenings dreaming of a better life. He ran away from his family, Pasto, and poverty at the tender age of seventeen.
He had learned from acquired friends and connections that wealth was to be had in Medellin. He had no way of knowing that his destination would one day become the drug capital of the world, and that he would play a part in that history. In his first year of stealing and petty street scams he made more money than he ever dreamed he would make in a lifetime. He quickly acquired a reputation as a ruthless killer, slashing the throat of anyone who cheated, crossed, or ratted on him. His audacious exploits eventually led him to a meeting with Pablo Escobar, the man who was destined to become the boss of the Medellin drug cartel, smuggling over a half a billion dollars worth of cocaine into the United States. Escobar, not yet into cocaine trafficking when he met Mengalista, liked him, the way he operated. He recognized Mengalista as a valuable member of his team. Escobar needed an enforcer and Mengalista was the best, able to kill in spectacular and creative ways, yet never leaving a trace of evidence.
Mengalista’s wealth, experience and reputation grew in proportion to the spectacular growth of the Medellin drug cartel. By the early eighties, he had become legendary, one of the most feared men in Columbia. Opponents of Pablo Escobar knew that if he gave Mengalista a contract on their lives, their days were numbered. In early 1982, with the financial assistance of the Medellin drug cartel, Muerte a Secustatores, (Death to Kidnappers), was formed by Columbian politicians, U.S. corporations, and wealthy landowners. The organization’s objective was to fight guerrillas who opposed them. Assassination was its primary weapon, and Mengalista was the tip of its spear. Statistics were vague at the time, but it was alleged that he was personally responsible for over a hundred of the 240 registered assassinations prior to 1983. His work was so professional, so thorough that no one could prove his involvement.
As the drug wars intensified, the wretched calendar had begun to take its toll on Mengalista’s energy. He had concluded that it was only a matter of time before the bell tolled for him. He had already formulated his exit plan and was prepared to disappear into exile in rural Argentina when he received a call from Ken Layton, a wealthy American businessman who owned a quarter million acres of ranch land near Bogota. Layton had heard of Mengalista’s expertise and needed him. He explained to Mengalista that Jose Luis Esteban, a Bogota politician was intent on breaking up his land holding and re-distributing it to local farmers. Layton wanted Esteban to disappear and told Mengalista that he was prepared to pay him $250,000 for the service.
Mengalista, initially disinclined to accept the contract, reconsidered. A quarter of a million would be useful, but exile in the United States, priceless. “I’ll do what you ask for no money,” he replied to a shocked Layton. “My price is that I come to work for you in America, for one dollar per year, plus bonuses for services rendered.”
Layton accepted without hesitation, confident that he could easily accommodate Mengalista’s request by calling in some political markers. “We have a deal. You give me Esteban’s death certificate, and I’ll fly you to Houston. We’ll give you a new identification, and set you up in business here.”
“No. New York City,” Mengalista countered. New York was the one American city he had read and dreamed about as a youth. He had frequently fantasized about one day experiencing the American dream in that beautiful and exciting city.
“No problem. Anywhere you want. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“I’ll do as you ask, Mister Layton, but I suggest you do as you have promised. If you don’t, I will see to it that you never again own so much as a square inch of Columbian land.”
Jose Luis Esteban was assassinated and Layton was true to his word. Mengalista was flown, first class to New York at Layton’s expense. He used a passport identifying him as Lorenzo Mengalli. His credentials identified him as the president of Xylox Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Enerco. Layton threw in the apartment as an expression of his gratitude. As Mengalista had requested, his salary was one U.S. dollar per year, plus generous bonuses for the numerous services he provided to Enerco Inc.
CHAPTER 71
Toronto. Tuesday, April 31.
Jeffrey Wheeler, dressed in his dark blue Fitzgerald Pinstripe Golden Fleece suit, marched into the magnificent lobby of the King Edward Hotel. He stopped several feet inside the revolving door and scanned the elegant three story atrium, surrounded by statues and doric columns, Canadian flags strategically hung beside Union Jacks. He saw numerous people, but no Kerri King. He lifted his left wrist and glanced at his Rolex. It was exactly noon. He looked up and saw what appeared to be a woman approaching. She was dressed in a grey track suit, white running shoes, and a Toronto Blue Jays baseball cap. Her eyes were hidden by huge dark round sunglasses. Her hair was hidden underneath the turned up collar of a dark brown leather jacket.
She smiled and extended her right hand. “Nice of you to join me, Jeffrey. Welcome to Toronto.”
Wheeler frowned but accepted Kerri’s hand. “I would never have recognized The Iacardi Santa Claus. Maybe I should just tell everyone here who you are.”
“You do that and this meeting is over.” She pointed to the door. “I’ll leave and start making calls to people you don’t want me to talk to.” She paused and smirked as Wheeler gestured a surrender with his hands. “Okay, then let’s have lunch and talk.” She led her guest to The Victorian Restaurant, the hotel’s five star restaurant. They were seated at a table for two by the maître d’.
A waiter materialized and took their drink orders: Wheeler a Molsons Export, and Kerri a glass of pinot grigio.
“What have you got?” Wheeler asked, his expression showing anger and more than a touch of concern. “I’ve wasted a lot of time and expense to be here, so get to the point. I need to know how to behave.”
Kerri, her sunglasses and Blue Jays cap still on, leaned forward and glared at the man she hated with a consuming passion. “You’ve been a bad boy, Jeffrey,” she said, taking a measure of delight in reversing his opening comment to her at The Plaza the previous December. “Your company has been breaking a lot of rules.”
Wheeler shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearly annoyed. “Cut the bullshit! Just tell me what you’ve got,” he demanded.
“Okay. First I’m going to tell you what I know about Enerco’s special purpose entities. There are hundreds of them as you know. I’ll just talk about the five largest and most active. They are SP53, SP530, SP5303, SP53033, And SP530333. I have a ton of data on these entities, all of which adds up to irrefutable evidence that Enerco has been using them to hide losses from its shareholders. I believe you call them off balance sheet transactions. The material I have is very detailed, very accurate, and
very incriminating. I’ll prove it if you want.”
Wheeler shook his head, expressionless, his mind processing a blizzard of implications.
“Next I’m going to tell you about mark to market accounting. Same story. Enerco, with the obvious and fraudulent complicity of Benjamin, Alexander & Gabriel, LLP, its esteemed accountants, has been gaming the system. It’s been using this accounting mechanism to book and report profits it hasn’t even realized. That’s against the law, and you know it.” She paused and glared at Wheeler, searching for a response.
Wheeler compressed his lips but remained silent for at least thirty seconds. “Where did you get your information?” he asked.
“You’ve already asked me that, and I told you it’s none of your business.”
“Does anyone, other than your source, know about this?”
“Not yet,” she lied.
“Then what do you want? I’m authorized to offer you anything you want, within reason. I can make you a very wealthy woman.”
Kerri closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t want money, particularly not from you or Enerco. I do, however, want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“Make a voluntary and public confession to the I.R.S., the F.B.I., and the S.E.C.”
Wheeler’s face turned white, as if deprived of its blood supply. “You can’t be serious… Why would I want to do that?”
“You probably wouldn’t, but if you don’t, I’m going to do it for you. You have one week, starting right now.” She smiled. “You still want lunch?”
Wheeler declined by shaking his head. He stood and left the building without a word. He took several paces outside the revolving door, then opened his cell phone and called Ken Layton. “We have a job for Mengalli. I’ll give you the details later. I’ll be in your office before five.”
Houston. Same day.
Wheeler, still fuming, barged into Layton’s office without knocking. He refused his boss’s offer of a chair and paced, first to the windows, then back to Layton’s desk. He steepled his fingers and fixed his reddened eyes on Layton. “It’s like I told you, Ken, only worse. We’re in big trouble,” he said, watching Layton’s rage building as he spoke. He proceeded to describe, chapter and verse, his Toronto meeting with Kerri King. “She’s given us one week to make a voluntary and public confession to the F.B.I, the I.R.S., and the S.E.C. If we don’t, she’s going to blow the whistle.”
Layton remained silent for what seemed like an eternity. His face was beet red, his eyes broadcasting a grim resolve. “That fucking woman!” he spat. “I thought we had her on ice. Now she’s got us by the balls… We need to change that, and fast. The alternative is unthinkable. We’re talking about Armageddon here. If that broad goes public with that information, this company unravels, and you and I get poor in a hurry. Probably worse. I don’t know about you, Jeffrey, but I’m not prepared to let that happen. This is my life. I’m not going to let that tree-hugging pussy take it away from me.”
“If it was my decision, I’d get Mengalli to whack her, immediately. Then she’s out of our way, forever.”
Layton raised his hands and pointed his palms at Wheeler. “That’s an option, but it’s a last resort. Killing The Iacardi Santa Claus is a very dangerous thing to do. Instead we to need to find and apply some equal and opposite leverage. We need to identify her vulnerabilities and squeeze them. We have a week to do it… Where did she get her information? Did you ask her?”
“Twice. She refused to tell me both times.”
“Obviously we have a mole, likely in the company. It could be in Benjamin, Alexander & Gabriel, but I doubt it. Too few of their people know what we’re doing, and I trust all of them. So ask yourself who, inside Enerco, has access to the detailed information Kerri King has. That should narrow your search parameters. I think you know it’s in this building, and exactly what section of this building.” He paused and pointed in the direction of Clarence Soloman’s office. “I don’t care what you have to do, Jeffrey, find it and kill it.”
“I’ll do it, but it strikes me as an exercise in futility, like shutting the barn door after the horses are gone.”
“By itself, yes, but it’s only part of the plan. As soon as I got your call from Toronto, I spent some serious money. I hired the best private investigator in Toronto to put a full court press on Kerri King. I asked him to give me the complete book on her, what she does, where she lives, even the color of her panties. I told him I wanted it fast, and paid the price for speed. His information, together with what you’re about to do, is not an exercise in futility. I expect the combination to give us the leverage we need.”
Wheeler’s expression transformed from desperation to evil. “I’m already on it,” he said, then hurried to his office. He passed his secretary on the way. “Call Soloman and get his ass in here,” he ordered without stopping. He closed his door and paced impatiently.
Soloman arrived to find his boss still pacing. “You wanted to see me,” he said, expecting nothing more than a normal high pressure question and answer session.
Wheeler, omitting any formalities, pointed an accusing finger at Soloman. “We have a serious leak of sensitive financial information, Clarence. It’s somewhere inside your group, and I need you to identify it, fast.”
Soloman’s heart rate quickened. He knew immediately that Wheeler was referring to Sandra Schafer. He struggled to avoid showing any hint of worry or concern, aware that he was complicit in Schafer’s leak to Kerri King. If he identified Schafer, it was quite likely that Wheeler could discover his connection. He could lose his job and the full pension for which he had dedicated his entire career. “How do you know?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“Have you ever heard of Kerri King?”
“Sure. She’s The Iacardi Santa Claus, the former president of Iacardi & Sons. Isn’t she supposed to come to Houston and work for you?”
Wheeler nodded. “I had a meeting with her in Toronto earlier today. In that meeting, she told me a lot about the confidential financial machinations of this company, enough to make me believe she was already working for me.” He paused and glared suspiciously at Soloman. “She had too much information, Clarence. I’ve concluded that there can be only one source: your group.”
Wheeler’s conclusion struck like a knife through Soloman’s heart. His boss was closing in and it was obvious that he was not going to stop until he found the perpetrator. Wheeler’s reputation in Enerco was legendary. Wholesale firings were all too frequently his answers to disappointment. To him, employees were necessary, but totally expendable. He spit them out like unwanted bones. Soloman had to find a way out, a way to deflect suspicion, a way to save his job and pension. He could continue to profess ignorance, or he could identify Schafer. He could be a hero if he did the latter. If she tried to implicate him, he could simply deny. It would be her word against his. It would be no contest. “I think it’s Schafer,” he said.
“Sandra Schafer?”
“Yes. She approached me some time ago and told me her conscience was bothering her. She told me a number of things the company’s doing that, in her opinion, were breaking the law… Her list was very long… Anyway, she told me she wanted to blow the whistle, but was afraid she’d lose her job if she did. She wanted me to get involved.”
“How did you respond?”
“I refused. I told her that irrespective of how the company conducts its business, my loyalties are, and will remain with it. I also instructed her to behave in the same fashion.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this when it happened?”
“I never thought she’d go through with it. I just put it out of my mind… I suppose I should have told you.”
“You’re damn right you should have! I should fire your ass right now!” Wheeler exploded.
Soloman was terrified. He had never confronted his boss on a
ny subject. Even when he disagreed, which was often, he had always chosen to acquiesce, to save his precious job. This situation was different. He had no choice. “You shouldn’t do that… If you did fire me, I would be forced to dispense with my loyalties.”
Wheeler displayed a conciliatory smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t. Thanks for your time.” He gave Soloman a dismissive wave, then stopped him before he reached the door. “You said you ‘think’ it’s Schafer. I’ll expect you to confirm that, real soon.” The smile was replaced by a threatening scowl. “If Schafer or Kerri King manage to get one word of this information into the wrong hands, you will be terminated, with extreme prejudice.”
CHAPTER 72
Houston. Thursday, May 2.
Ken Layton had a problem, perhaps the largest he had ever confronted in his long and successful business career. This one was life threatening. Solving it was not only essential, it was everything. Ever since Wheeler had disclosed the problem to him, he had spent hours agonizing over all of its moving parts, and the implications of each option available to him. The stakes were high. Failure to solve it would result in certain death for Enerco, his considerable wealth, and very likely, his freedom. The same fate would accrue to the three invitees at his high level meeting. It was time for him to demonstrate his leadership, his God given talent to think outside the box, his ability to prevail, even when the cards were stacked against him. He had devised a game plan, one he considered to be the most viable option in his fight to save Enerco, himself, and his trusted lieutenants: Jeffrey Wheeler, Andrew Speers, and Peter Tavaris. He had thought long and hard about including Tavaris, his friend but an untested rookie. In the end it was Tavaris’ hatred for Kerri King and his killer instinct that had gained him the nod.