COPYRIGHT
THE TAINTED TRUST
Volume Two of the King Trilogy
Stephen Douglass
This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, companies, or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2013 [STEPHEN DOUGLASS]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-62660-018-8
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THE TAINTED TRUST
VOLUME TWO
OF THE
KING TRILOGY
STEPHEN DOUGLASS
To Ann. A love that a man experiences only once in a lifetime.
CHAPTER 1
New York. April 23, 1980.
Louis Visconti was a happy man. Alone at his massive glass topped desk on the fifty-sixth floor of the south tower of The World Trade Center, he stared pensively in the direction of the windows, refusing to allow his steely grey eyes to focus on anything. He reflected on his considerable achievements. Thirty-three years of age, ten years out of Harvard Business School, and already a multimillionaire, he figured his income for the year would be between two and three million, his lofty projection based on annualizing outstanding results of the first half of the year.
His personal spending had increased in proportion to his considerable investment successes. With every reason to believe the cash flow would continue forever, there was no need to save. The cost of most anything he wanted was irrelevant. Image and profile were everything. When he threw a party, his only concern was how lavish he could make it. No expense was spared to make certain it was more ostentatious than any he had attended. There were women in his life, but only one of his relationships had ever reached critical mass, the price of love and commitment refusing to allow that threshold to be breached. Money was his real lover, possessions and power his consuming passions.
Finally realizing his dream of becoming one of the most important figures in New York’s financial community, his picture had not only appeared in the Wall Street Journal and Barron’s, but also in the financial sections of most important newspapers in the industrialized world. His brilliant and phenomenal investment record had become legendary. He was the man, in demand. Movers and shakers stumbled over one another to be and seen in his company. His schedule had become so tight that he was compelled to turn down numerous invitations to speak at luncheons, dinners and conventions in North America, Europe and Asia.
His brief experience with marriage was an unmitigated disaster, fortunately ending before wealth and children. He was strikingly handsome and extremely eligible, the only child of near penniless Italian immigrants who had fled to the United States in late 1946. He frequently boasted about the source of his survival instincts by claiming that both he and his mother had narrowly escaped death when she gave birth to him within minutes of her arrival at Ellis Island.
Blessed with a brilliant mind and fanatical ambition, he had scratched and clawed his way through public and high schools in Queens. Hustling, working and studying hard eventually earned him a near full ticket scholarship at Harvard Business School. His lucky break was to have been offered a full partnership with his two friends and former classmates, Jerry Mara and Allen Griesdorf. Seven years earlier, the three had taken an enormous gamble when they quit the relative security of their jobs as account executives with Green, Waltrum, a large and extremely prestigious Wall Street investment banking firm. With the horsepower of youthful courage and a boatload of borrowed money, they boldly formed their own company.
Mara, Griesdorf and Visconti grew quickly. The partners took a pass on ordinary money. They romanced and managed only wealthy money in a single investment fund. From the very beginning they had set an unrelenting minimum per account of five hundred thousand dollars. By investing the bulk of the fat portfolios in tangible assets during the highly inflationary seventies, they had enriched their clients and achieved personal success beyond their wildest dreams.
As word of the company’s brilliant investment techniques and incredible track record spread, more clients came, anxious to receive the twenty-plus percent annual return others had enjoyed for five consecutive years. Now that the partners were managing over a billion dollars, the fund had become unwieldy. Closing it and refusing further entry was now well within the partners’ contemplation.
Visconti displayed a lecherous smirk as he watched Susan, his secretary, a shapely twenty-eight year old brunette, enter his office.
“I have a call for you on line eight,” she announced with a fetching smile, then placed a black coffee mug on Visconti’s desk.
“Who is it?” Visconti asked, refusing to shift his grey eyes from Susan’s tantalizing breasts.
“Alfred Schnieder. He’s calling again from Caracas… You know him?”
Visconti nodded. “One of the old-time banking farts. Been around since Methuselah was a teen-ager.”
“Want me to tell him you’re busy?”
Visconti took a micro sip of his coffee, then shook his head. “Nope. I’ll take it. Thanks for the coffee.” He lifted his receiver, then forced a smile. “Alfred, thanks for calling. What’s shaking?”
“I have clients for you.”
Visconti tightened his lips and rolled his eyes skyward. “Don’t do me any favors. I need more clients like I need another wife.”
“But these are not ordinary clients.”
“What makes them different?”
“Over three hundred million reasons.”
Visconti bolted upright and immediately began to salivate. “How much?” he shouted.
“I believe you heard me the first time.”
“Who are they? You said clients.”
“I had the distinct impression you had no interest.”
“Well suddenly I do. Who are they?”
“The ownership is quite complex. I’m compelled to tell you it’s hot money.”
“If it’s In God We Trust, I don’t give a shit what the temperature is.”
Schnieder chuckled. “Am I to assume you’re interested?”
“That’s a gigantic understatement! Jesus, Alfred, who the hell are these people?”
“Shortly, you will receive a telephone call from a man named Mike King. He will arrange a meeting with you to determine your qualifications to manage that vast sum of money.”
“Is he one of the clients?”
“Yes. His wife was married to the man who accumulated the money. Currently, it’s under my care and control, but the wretched calendar never lies. Soon I will be too old to continue the responsibility. That is the primary reason I have referred you to Mike King. If he approves of you, I will make the necessary arrangements to transfer the responsibility to you.”
“What’s your fee?”
“One percent on the cap
ital, and ten percent of real annual gains in excess of ten percent.”
“Visconti completed a quick mental calculation and salivated more. He wondered however, why Schnieder had chosen him. “Why me, Alfred?” he asked.
“Elementary, my friend. You are the most qualified,” Schnieder conceded, well aware of Visconti’s larcenous tendencies.
“Cut the bullshit! What’s in it for you? I know you’re not doing this for the good of your health.”
“As perceptive as ever, Louis… I want my retirement to be as comfortable as possible. If King gives you the job, I plan to give you the number of my bank account in Geneva. Then before we complete the transfer of responsibility, I will expect to see the balance increased by five million.”
“I’m sure you will. Maybe you can tell me where the hell I’m going to get five big ones.”
“From the trust, my friend. Your first assignment will be to arrange five million of transitional slippage. Of course it will have to be replaced with first proceeds… Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Exquisite,” Visconti declared, chuckling at the irony of Schnieder’s proposition. Five million dollars would be removed from the trust during the transfer, wired to Schnieder’s Swiss account, then replaced with future income in the trust. Subsequently, the accounting would be cooked to hide the removal. “You need me to help you to steal five million dollars of stolen money.”
“Precisely, my friend. I prefer to think of it as an interest free loan, to be used for the balance of my useful life… I expect King will call you very soon. When he does, you must be prepared to romance him.”
“I’ll be ready. You can bank on it.”
“Good pun… One final word of advice. Beware of interest rates. They are heading north.”
“When and how far north?”
“Soon. Bankers are living in fear of Paul Volcker’s intentions. They’re convinced he’s serious about killing inflation. They think he’ll raise Prime to twenty percent, perhaps higher. With twelve percent inflation in the United States, you can draw your own conclusions. Real rates must climb well above historic norms to break inflationary psychology. You know that.”
“Thanks again, Alfred. I’m gonna start liquidating. I’ll talk to you soon.”
CHAPTER 2
Washington, D.C. April 24, 1980. Nine A.M.
John Hill, head of the Criminal Investigation Division of the I.R.S., relaxed uncomfortably in his Washington, D.C. office on Constitution Avenue, his mind struggling with a multitude of trivial problems. The silence was rudely shattered by the shrill sound of his telephone. He lifted the receiver. “Hill,” he barked.
The call was from Alex McDowell, Head of Canada’s Security Intelligence Services in Ottawa. He and Hill had met as students at Dartmouth College in the early fifties, Hill at the outset of his career and McDowell, a retired R.A.F. pilot, as a mature student.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Hill asked.
“Would you believe Jim Servito is dead?”
“You’re kidding!”
“I kid you not. I just received a call from one of our External Affairs people. She told me he was killed in Venezuela. Evidently he kidnapped his son in Toronto and flew him to Caracas. King and Servito’s wife followed them there to try to get the boy back. There was a messy confrontation and Servito ended up with the short stick.”
“King killed him?”
“Nope. Servito’s wife did. She messed up his face with a tire-iron and then pushed him over a railing into a three hundred foot canyon.”
“Wow! Sounds like she really wanted him dead. How the hell did she and King get out of the country? I thought you had them locked up.”
“They shocked us by posting a million dollar bail, then they disappeared. Both have refused to disclose how they did it, but we’re amazed they were able to pull it off.”
“Where are they now? You got someone on them?”
“Nope. We had to drop the charges. The Toronto Police got a full confession out of Jerrold Allison, one of Servito’s slaves. He was involved in a nasty automobile accident in Toronto about two weeks ago. He told the police everything they wanted to know before he died in the hospital. His statement cleared our friends and implicated Servito in everything we thought we had on them.”
“That’s just fucking wonderful!” Hill bristled. “Everybody lives happily ever after and we get the shaft. Dammit, Alex! Servito stiffed us for hundreds of millions. Now tell me how the hell we’re going to get it back.”
“I can’t, but we have a pretty good idea where it is.”
“Where?”
“The Cayman Island branch of The Banco International Venezolano.”
“Why am I not surprised? Have any of your people talked to anyone there?”
“Exercise in futility. Short of torture there’s no way we can get tax haven bankers to tell us anything about client activities.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“Several options. One is to put pressure on the Venezuelan government, and the other is to talk to King and Servito’s wife. We think they know where Servito hid our money.”
“You must be joking. They won’t give you the time of day. In fact, I’ll be shocked if they don’t sue our asses.”
“I wouldn’t blame them if they did, but the Minister of Finance is breathing fire. He’s ordered me to put a full-court press on this thing, and not to stop until we get every dime of that money back.”
CHAPTER 3
Toronto. April 24, 1980. Ten A.M.
Mike King lifted a silver canister from the shiny surface of the large oval mahogany table in front of him. “Coffee?” he asked.
“Please,” Karen Servito replied with muted disinterest, pushing her gold rimmed cup and saucer in Mike’s direction.
The heavy oak twin doors to the ornate boardroom burst open and Dan Turner, nattily dressed in his usual grey pin striped legal uniform, appeared. “Welcome back,” he bellowed with a warm smile, then hurried to kiss Karen’s cheek and shake Mike’s hand. He moved to the opposite side of the table, placed his black briefcase on the surface and took a seat. “Sorry I’m late. It’s the telephone. It’s become an appendage of my ear.”
He leaned backward and clasped both hands behind his head. “I’m so happy for both of you. I had pretty well written you off when you left the country. I had recurring nightmares of your horrible demise in Venezuela.”
“It nearly happened, Dan. If it hadn’t been for a hell of a lot of luck, we wouldn’t be here,” Karen confirmed, then took her first sip of coffee.
“How does it feel to be free?” Turner asked.
“Wonderful,” Mike replied with an enormous smile, “You start, Dan. My curiosity’s killing me.”
“I’ll give you the highlights, then I want your story. I can’t wait.”
Mike nodded.
“Two days after you and Karen left for Venezuela, I received a call from a man named Alex McDowell, the head of Security Intelligence Services for the Feds. He advised that they’ve dropped all of the charges against you. After I climbed back onto my chair, I asked him for an explanation. He told me Jerry Allison lived long enough to confess everything. He confirmed everything you were trying to tell me.”
“Incredible!” Mike exclaimed. “I was convinced he was dead when I left him in Servito’s limousine.”
“The police managed to pull him out and transport him to the hospital in one piece. His neck was broken and both of his legs were crushed. Miraculously he kept breathing long enough to give them a pretty good statement.”
“Did McDowell ever apologize?” Karen asked.
Turner nodded. “He asked me to convey a sincere apology to both of you, and to express his deep regret any inconvenience the Fed’s actions may have caused.”
Mike gritted his teeth and pounded his fist on the table, his deep blue eyes exuding outrage and contempt. “Inconvenience!” he shouted. “Those actions nearly cost us our g
oddamned lives, Dan!”
“When an elephant walks, he’s totally unaware of the insects he tramples.”
“Do the insects have remedies?” Karen asked.
Turner spread his hands and turned his palms skyward. “You could sue, but I would strongly advise against it. You’d be locked into a protracted and expensive pissing contest. The Feds would defend themselves vigorously. They would insist that they acted entirely within the law, that they had probable cause, and that Jim Servito was entirely responsible for the damages you sustained. At best, you’d get a settlement, but it would be a Pyrrhic victory.”
Mike turned to Karen and winked. Turner’s assessment of the situation had vindicated his decision. He waited for her nod, then turned again to face Turner. “We’ve already settled with the Feds.”
Turner glared at Mike. “You’ve done what! How?”
“I want it clearly understood that Karen and I continue to enjoy lawyer-client privilege,” Mike insisted. “If there’s any question about that…”
“Understood.”
“Phillip led us to his father’s money after I was released from the hospital in Caracas. Before he died, his father introduced him to Alfred Schnieder, a bank manager in Caracas, and instructed Schnieder to make Phillip his beneficiary. Phillip had Schnieder’s business card in his wallet.”
Turner leaned as far forward as he could, his deep set grey eyes fixed on Mike. “How much is it?” he asked.
“Somewhere north of three hundred million,” Mike replied.
“Incredible!” Turner declared, his eyes bulging. “Does anyone else know this?”
“Alfred Schnieder, Karen, me… and now you. We told Phillip that we’re returning it to the Feds. We don’t want the money to corrupt him.”
Turner squinted. “Surely you’re not planning to keep it.”
Mike nodded, his tightened lips displaying deep resolve. “An eye for an eye.”