Layton stood with his back to the windowed wall of his palatial office, silently making eye contact with each of his guests. The tension was palpable. Each of the four men knew that what was to be discussed in that room, that day, would determine the fate of Enerco and themselves. Although Tavaris and Speers were aware of the gravity of the situation, they had not yet been fully briefed on its details.
“Gentlemen, let me begin by saying that we have a problem, a serious one. In fact, it’s so serious that if we don’t solve it, and fast, it will ruin Enerco and all of us,” he announced, then paused to allow his statement to sink in. “For the benefit of Andrew and Peter, I’m going to describe the series of recent events which led to the problem… Two days ago, Jeffrey had a meeting in Toronto with Kerri King, the woman from hell. The meeting was called by her to inform Jeffrey that she had acquired a lot of Enerco’s most sensitive financial information, more than enough to prove that someone on the inside was feeding her. Needless to say, Jeffrey was shocked and disappointed. He was also skeptical, so he asked her to be more specific… She was very specific, gentlemen, specific enough to get his full and undivided attention. I won’t go into detail now, but I will tell you that she had threatened to take her information to the F.B.I., the I.R.S., and the S.E.C. She told Jeffrey that if we don’t step up and make a voluntary, and public confession, she’ll do it for us. She’s given us one week.”
Tavaris stared in horror at his new boss, shocked by his revelation. Once again, Kerri King was in his way, threatening his dream of wealth and power. He suppressed an urge to shout obscenities, then conducted a visual poll of his colleagues. The expressions of all three could best be described as morose, as if each had been advised of the death of a family member.
“I invited the three of you here today because, like me, you don’t want her to do this.”
“Where did she get the information,” Speers asked.
“Sandra Schafer. Soloman confirmed it,” Wheeler replied.
“Am I correct in assuming that she gave Kerri King information on our special purpose entities and mark to market accounting?”
Wheeler nodded. “She named all of the major Cayman Island SPE’s. I hate to tell you that she also has proof that Benjamin, Alexander, and Gabriel is playing the game with us.”
“That’s a fucking atrocity!” Speers shouted. “We’ve got to take her out!”
“You’re correct on both counts, Andy, but taking her out isn’t nearly enough, not even close,” Layton said. “This is the big casino. Do or die. We need to do more, far more, and we have five days to do it… Schafer needs to disappear, permanently. She’s stepped off the grid, and we need to make an example of her, to send a strong message to anyone who might want to follow her. Meanwhile, we’ll tell Kerri King that Schafer’s still alive, and will remain so, as long as she remains silent. This will buy us the time to do some shredding and amend our internal records. It’ll also give Mengalli the time he’ll need to get to silence that bitch, forever.”
CHAPTER 73
Houston. Friday. May 3.
As usual, Sandra Schafer was at her desk. She had been there since seven A.M. She had spent her first hour scrupulously reviewing the data required to complete Enerco’s financial report for the first quarter of 2002. She reached for the receiver of her desk phone when she heard its familiar warble. “Schafer,” she said.
“Sandra, it’s Jeffrey Wheeler. Could you come to my office? There’s something I need you to do for me.”
Schafer’s heart pounded. She immediately assumed Wheeler had somehow discovered her transgression, her betrayal of the company’s secrecy. It was abnormal for Wheeler to communicate directly with her on any subject. “Sure. I’ll be right there,” she said, then replaced the receiver and hurried to Wheeler’s office. His secretary gave her a smile and a wave. “Go right in. He’s expecting you,” she said.
Schafer entered Wheeler’s office with her fingers crossed and her heart in her mouth, now convinced the only reason he would invite her to his office was to terminate her employment. Her guilt had convinced her that Wheeler knew she had turned over Enerco’s most sensitive financial information to Kerri King.
Wheeler greeted her with a warm smile and a handshake. “Thanks for coming, Sandra. I want you to take a trip over to Benjamin, Alexander & Gabriel, right now. Mark Jacobs is expecting you. He wanted to see me, but I told him I don’t have the time. I’m too damn busy. He’s having trouble accepting our treatment of the 530333 series of SPE’s. He thinks were being far too aggressive and doesn’t think the Feds will give us their blessings. I told him I don’t agree with him, and I’m sure you don’t as well. In any event, I want you to listen to what he has to say, and then set him straight. On the other hand, if he can identify any improprieties, I want you to get them in writing and bring them back to me. The last thing Enerco needs is a financial scandal.”
Relieved, Schafer exhaled. She was also excited to know that Wheeler trusted her enough to deal with Enerco’s controversial accounting practices. Her natural curiosity refused to allow her to go without first asking a question. “Why would Mark be worried about this now? He’s been aware of what we’ve been doing for years.”
“I’m not sure, but I think his conscience is getting to him. In the past he’s always been willing to countenance small transgressions, but not this year. He thinks we’ve gone over the top, way beyond the chicken level. He says we’re using off balance sheet transactions to hide big losses from our shareholders.” Wheeler shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms skyward. “If he’s right, so be it. We’ll make the necessary changes.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I’m due in a meeting in one minute. You should go too. I’ve arranged for my driver to take you. He’ll be at the front door when you get there.”
Schafer returned to her office, picked up her briefcase and laptop, then hurried to the Enerco lobby. As she approached the massive plate-glass front doors, she saw a tall man standing alone just inside the doors. His black hair was shoulder length, his eyebrows thick and dark. A four inch scar decorated his left cheek. He wore black trousers, a white shirt, and a black windbreaker. He smiled and waved to Schafer. “Hello. I’m Mister Wheeler’s driver. My name is Lorenzo,” he said, then pointed to a black Lincoln Navigator, parked outside in the building’s roundabout. “He’s asked me to take you to Benjamin, Alexander & Gabriel.”
“Then let’s go. I’m ready,” Schafer replied, unaware that she would never make it to her expected destination.
Mengalli opened the rear right door of the Navigator and allowed Schafer to enter. He closed the door and hurried to the driver’s seat. Schafer powered up her laptop while Mengalli drove in silence. Before two minutes had elapsed, he turned into the expansive parking area of a Texaco gas bar and convenience store. Schafer thought it was odd that he would do that, and that he chose to park in a secluded and empty area of the lot, as far as possible from the store. “I need cigarettes. I’ll only be a minute,” he said, then reached under the green blanket on the seat beside him and clutched his Glock G28 with suppressor. He turned quickly and fired three shots into Schafer’s chest, killing her instantly. He scanned the lot to ensure that no one was watching, then gathered the blanket and used it to cover the body. He removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket and speed dialed Jeffrey Wheeler’s number. His message was short. “Done,” he said.
He stuffed the Glock under his seat, then drove west on Highway 10 to San Antonio, then south on Highway 35 to Laredo. It was nearly three P.M. when he parked behind an abandoned concrete block building, less than a mile from the border station at the Laredo-Columbia Solidarity International Bridge. He took the time to stuff Schafer’s body, briefcase, and laptop into a black body bag. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder, carried it into the building, then lowered it to the dust and debris littered floor, several feet away from a rusted steel door. An unlocked Master padloc
k hung from its latch. He opened the door, causing its hinges to squeal in protest, then dragged the bag through the opening and into a dark and windowless room. He lit a cigarette and smiled, satisfied that his contract had gone well.
After closing and locking the steel door, he returned to the Navigator and drove it to a reasonably well maintained adobe hacienda at the end of a mile long dirt road, and more than six miles north east of Laredo. The hacienda’s walls were covered with white stucco, its roof with rust colored tiles. It was surrounded by mature live oak trees. The building was isolated and owned by Alejandro Salazar, a fellow Columbian and a lifelong friend of Mengalli. Both were retired veterans of the Medellin drug cartel.
Mengalli stepped from his car and was greeted by Salazar’s guard dog, a giant black American Mastiff, growling with its teeth bared. Mengalli reached under his car seat and removed his Glock. He fired a shot, deliberately missing the Mastiff’s head by inches, and causing the dog to hide his teeth and sit.
“Buenos dias, amigo!” Salazar shouted. Mengalli looked up to see his friend, sitting on a rocking chair under the hacienda’s overhang. Salazar, a large muscular man, was dressed in jeans, snake skin cowboy boots, and a blood red shirt. His straw stetson was tipped forward, the front edge of its brim grazing his nose. His handle-bar mustache had turned snow white. He sipped a Corona. He stood to accept a lasting hug from Mengalli.
“Good to see you again, my friend,” Mengalli said, then removed a white envelope from his jacket and handed it to Salazar. “Five large, as you requested.” His dark eyes locked on Salazar’s. “The body must disappear, without a trace, like old times. No mistakes.” He shook Salazar’s hand, gave him the Glock, then returned to the Navigator and drove away, confident that his friend would do his job well. Sandra Schafer’s body would be taken across the Rio Grand into Mexico, then transported to a remote desert area west of Salinas Hidalgo. There it would be buried, never to be found.
Mengalli drove south to the Laredo International Airport. He left the Navigator in the care and control of Domingo Mendoza, another fellow Columbian and a fugitive from the Cali drug cartel. He had fled to Texas in 1998 and was now an itinerant and unsuccessful professional gambler. Down and out on his luck, he had signed on to be one of Salazar’s associates. “I want it to disappear. Not a single atom of residue,” Mengalli ordered, then gave Mendoza a threatening stare. “I don’t have to remind you that your life depends on it.” He turned and walked to the waiting Enerco G-5. His destination: Toronto.
CHAPTER 74
North York. Friday, May 3.
Kerri awoke at 6:00 A.M. She reached for her Blackberry and scanned her calls and emails. The shear volume was a clear indication that the media had retained an intense interest in her story. One email, from an anonymous sender, caught her attention immediately. The subject was Sandra Schafer. Her blood ran cold as she read, “Sandra Schafer has disappeared. She will remain alive for so long as you remain silent.” The sole purpose of the email was to preserve her silence long enough for Mengalli to make it permanent.
“That son of a bitch!” she groaned to her heedless cell phone. “This is war!” she declared, then sprang from her bed, showered, and dressed in jeans, white T-shirt and red sweater. She hurried to the kitchen and found her father and Karen, still in their pajamas, and enjoying coffee in their beloved nook. They loved the nook because it faced east, exposed to the morning sun. “I have a big problem,” she said as she descended to a white wrought iron chair beside her father.
“I can tell by the color of your face it must be serious,” Karen said.
Kerri held her Blackberry at eye level. “I just got an email from an anonymous sender,” she said, then opened the phone and read its text. She placed the phone on the surface of the glass topped table, then stared at Karen and her father. The anger in her eyes spoke volumes. “Every ounce of my existence is screaming at me to do something about this, but I don’t know what,” she said.
“Who do you think send the email?” Mike asked.
“Someone in Enerco. Most likely Jeffrey Wheeler. I just wish there was some way I could prove it… Even if there was, there’s nothing I could do about it. If I did anything even remotely aggressive, I’m sure he’d have Schafer killed. We know he had Wilhelm Lentz killed, and I’m sure he’ll do the same to her.”
Mike gave Karen a worried glance, then faced Kerri. “Schafer might not be the only person in Wheeler’s crosshairs. I’m worried that you’re there too,” he said.
Her father’s comment succeeded in changing Kerri’s anger to sheer terror. Her horrible conclusion was that her father was right. It would be in the best interest of Enerco to have both her and Schafer killed. “Oh my God!” she cried, then covered her face with both hands.
“The information you have is enough to destroy Enerco, the lives, wealth and freedom of its executives. You’ve put their backs to the wall. It’s either you or them, and I know what choice they’re going to make. You’re dealing with desperate and dangerous people, Kerri,” Mike said, then stood and hugged his daughter. “I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to give this whole thing up.”
Kerri glared at her father with a look of determination he had never seen. “Never! I’d rather die than give this up. I don’t care what happens to me, and I don’t care how difficult it is. I’m going to do whatever it takes. I’m going to fight them. Those sons of bitches decided to go to war with the wrong person.”
Mike smiled and winked at Karen. “Sound familiar? She reminds me of me in Caracas.”
Karen frowned, reminded of Mike’s life and death confrontation with Jim Servito, her former husband. “She inherited your pride, the same pride that almost got you killed.”
Mike smirked and shook his head. “Not pride, sweetheart. The love of a woman. You.”
Karen blew Mike a kiss, acknowledging that whatever it was that motivated him to confront Jim Servito in Caracas, it saved both of their lives. She focused on Kerri, her expression displaying deep consternation. “If you’re going to fight these people, your going to need a plan of some kind. I’m racking my brain trying to think of something you can do, but unfortunately, everything leads to the same result: Sandra Schafer dies.”
Mike too was very worried about Kerri’s safety. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. His first wife had caused him to miss all of Kerri’s teen years, and he had no intention of missing more. “It doesn’t matter what you decide to do, you need protection. You need a bodyguard. I know it’ll be a pain in the ass, but I don’t want to preside over your death knowing that I could have prevented it.
“I hope you’re not talking about you,” Kerri said.
“No. I have a friend who owns a personal security company in Toronto. I’ll give him a call and set it up.” He paused and smiled at Kerri. “I don’t want to lose you. You’re the only daughter I’ll ever have.”
Fiercely independent, Kerri was initially inclined to reject her father’s offer. She had always been able to fight her battles on her own, without protection. She was reminded, however, of her confrontation with Louis Visconti at the Hotel de Paris in Monaco. Had it not been for the fortuitous and timely arrival of Alfred Schnieder, Visconti would have finished raping her and then killed her, just as he had promised. Luck had saved her in that case, but she knew she could not rely on it in her present dilemma. Thank you. I really appreciate the offer. I’ll agree to a bodyguard, but just don’t force me to travel with him.”
“I won’t. Just go about living your life, but know that he’ll be there, following and watching you, everywhere you go. He’ll be wearing an earpiece, so you’ll be able to communicate with him in a heartbeat… One more thing. He’ll be my treat.”
“Dad, you don’t have to…”
“Yes I do,” Mike interrupted. “I love you.”
CHAPTER 75
Mengalli’s next assignment deeply troubled him thro
ughout his three hour flight from Laredo to Toronto. In sharp contrast to any other he had accepted, this one was very different. He would be functioning in a country with which he had no experience. He had never been there. Its gun control laws were brutally strict, so much so that owning or possessing one, without going through exhaustive registration, constituted an enormous risk. Killing Kerri King would be relatively easy, but making her disappear without a trace of evidence would challenge his considerable talents. Completing the assignment, then escaping the country undetected, seemed impossible. Compounding the degree of difficulty was the fact that Kerri King was the Iacardi Santa Claus, one of the most sought after individuals on the planet. He had always had the help of confederates in his Columbian killing rampage. Even in the United States there was always someone he knew who would, for a price, help him. He knew no one in Canada. He would be compelled to finesse the most difficult assignment of his career, unassisted. For the first time in his life, he experienced doubt, even a fear of failure.
His fear evoked a chilling memory. It happened in October of 1989. Pablo Escobar, the boss of the Medellin drug cartel, had ordered Mengalista to kill Diego Garcia, the leader of a group of Columbians which was encroaching on the cartel’s territory. Garcia was to be his final victim. “One more and done,” he had told himself, now more interested in his exit plan than the Garcia contract. That distraction was his first mistake. Like any of his numerous killings, he assumed this would be easy. That assumption was his second mistake.
Mengalista ambushed Garcia at the South Terminal of the Metro de Medellin, an inter-city public transportation hub with connections to the south of the country and the cities of Armenia, Menizales, Pereira, Cali, and Pasto. It was three A.M. The station was nearly void of humanity. Mengalista, knife in hand, approached Garcia swiftly from the rear. Instead of slicing his victim’s throat with one quick stroke of his knife, he chose to trip him by kicking his left heel against his right foot. He wanted to confront Garcia, to let him see the great Santiago Mengalista, the man who was about to kill him. Like a domestic cat, taking pleasure in tormenting a mouse before the kill, he wanted to toy with his victim, to postpone the sadistic sensation of ending a man’s life.