Steven Gore - Final Target

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Robert. I don’t want you freezing up on me. There are things I need to understand about SatTek and you’re the only one who can explain them.”

Milsberg took in a long breath and exhaled. “Like what?”

“Warrants. That’s the reason I called you. In searching through the backup tapes we found a list of people and companies that received warrants to buy stock.”

“That was another of Matson’s slick little maneuvers. He used to hand out stock options and warrants like candy, but the warrants were the real prize. They gave a select few the right to buy shares at the issue price anytime they wanted, regardless of how high the stock went. That’s how insiders were still able to get it at two bucks a share from SatTek long after it hit five on the public market.”

“Did you get any?”

“Unfortunately.”

“How many?”

“Ten thousand.”

“Did you ever exercise them?”

“Yes. And that’s what I’m most worried about now. Sure as hell makes me look guilty.”

“You are guilty.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s that, too.”

The waitress delivered a plate of pot stickers. Gage slid a couple onto Milsberg’s plate and onto his own.

“Thanks,” Milsberg said. “And thanks for hooking me up with that lawyer. She’s tough.”

Milsberg reached over to a neighboring table and grabbed a small bottle of hot chili oil. He poured a tablespoon on each pot sticker, followed by an equal amount of rice vinegar.

“Cheap thrill?” Gage asked.

“You got that right.”

Gage poured a lesser amount of each on his.

“You told me that Matson claimed he lost a million dollars when the stock collapsed,” Gage said. “But the shareholder list on the backup tape doesn’t show him owning that much stock.”

“I never checked. He must’ve owned and sold a lot over time. He was living way beyond his salary. I assumed it was from selling stock. And his wife was worse than him. She could put anybody into the poorhouse.”

Milsberg popped a pot sticker into his mouth. His eyes teared as he chewed. “Poor guy.”

“You crying for Matson?” Gage asked, smiling.

“No way,” Milsberg gasped, then sipped his tea and wiped his eyes. “Whew! That was a killer.”

Milsberg paused, then took another sip.

“Interesting thing,” Milsberg said, setting down his cup. “I was in Matson’s office one day and I noticed a deed of trust on his house from a foreign lender. Cobalt Partners. But it was never recorded. A million dollars on what I’ve heard is a two-million-dollar house.”

“It’s a money laundering gimmick. He used Cobalt to sell stock offshore and needed to get the profits back into the U.S. He just loaned money to himself.”

Milsberg shook his head. “Man, I sure underestimated that guy.”

“I think everybody did.”

Gage got through a pot sticker without tearing up.

“Can you think of any domestic lenders Matson had dealings with?” Gage asked.

“Just one. He was looking for somebody to buy the SatTek facility and lease it back. It was a short-term gimmick to pump a lot of money into the company. In the end, Goldstake Bank in San Francisco bought it.” Milsberg laughed and set down his chopsticks. “It was crazy. Goldstake Bank had a partner company, Goldstake Securities, that traded a lot of SatTek stock. A whole lot. The difference between the two was a fiction. No…it was a joke. The address was the same, the officers were the same. One day we’d get a call from a guy saying he was with Goldstake Bank and the next day from the same guy calling from Goldstake Securities.”

“But selling the building would require board of directors’ approval. How did Matson get them to go along?”

“Easy.” Milsberg smiled as if he was about to take a bow. “Warrants. He’d been feeding them warrants. They did anything Matson and Granger told them to do because they were making hundreds of thousands of dollars for doing nothing but calling their brokers and saying, ‘Sell.’”

Gage called Courtney as he was driving away.

“How’s Jack doing?”

“Wonderful. Being home made all the difference. His color is good and his cough is almost gone.”

“Would you ask him if he knows anything about Goldstake Bank?”

“Sure. Hold on.”

Gage heard a thunk as Courtney set the phone down, then her receding steps. She picked up the phone a minute later.

“Jack thinks it would be better if you came by.”

Burch was napping in a recliner in the slate-floored sun-room of his house when Gage walked in. He opened his eyes at the sound of Gage introducing himself to the bodyguard sitting by the stone fireplace in the living room, then raised his hand in a low wave.

Gage walked over, pulled an armchair to face him, then sat down. “How’s it feel to be home?”

Burch spread his hands as if to encompass the house. “It’s either a prison…” He cleared his throat while pressing his hands against his chest. “Or a fortress. I’m not sure yet.”

On the drive over, Gage had considered asking a few questions, then leaving and thereby postponing Burch’s confrontation with the case Peterson and Braunegg were building around him. But Burch took the decision out of his hands.

“I heard Courtney arguing with someone outside of my door at the hospital,” Burch said. “I finally convinced her to tell me why.” He reached over and picked up a glass of water from a low table, then took a sip. “How’d you get them to withdraw the subpoena?”

Gage shrugged. “Let’s say I appealed to their good consciences.”

Burch offered a weak smile. “Assumes facts not in evidence.” He coughed lightly, then continued. “But it’s time I learned what the facts are.”

Burch’s earnest expression told Gage he was ready to do more than simply answer questions. He wanted to know where he stood.

Gage watched Burch’s mood rise and fall, his eyes widen and narrow, as he listened to Gage describe what he’d done and what he’d learned since the shooting. He told Burch everything except what happened to Mickey. That was something for him to feel responsible for, not Burch.

Burch didn’t interrupt. Thirty years of listening to clients try to explain complex issues had taught him discipline and patience, but he appeared so drawn and drained at the end that Gage feared he’d gone too far and exposed Burch to too much all at once.

But Burch wasn’t thinking about himself. “I had no idea…I didn’t want you to devote your whole life to…”

Gage reached over and patted his forearm. “It’s okay, champ. You’d do the same for me. We both know it.”

“Still…”

Gage stopped him with a wagging forefinger, then changed the subject. “I need to know about Goldstake.”

Burch thought for a moment, as if unwilling to leave something unsaid. Gage pointed at him and smiled. “Goldstake.”

“Okay.” He smiled back, then spoke. “It’s owned by the Moscow Bank of Commerce.” Burch licked his dry lips and swallowed. “Contacted me about five years ago. A referral from the Bank of America, wanting a bank license in the States. It was funded with foreign capital.” Burch glanced toward his bodyguard in the next room, then leaned toward Gage and lowered his voice. “But there was a problem. When I was dealing with the Moscow bank, it was owned by a client who made his money in the natural gas market.” Burch cleared his throat and took another sip of water. “But things changed. When the oligarchs…and that’s what the client was…went to war, the Russian government couldn’t protect the bank so he turned to the maffiya. And I resigned.”

“Who became your client’s roof?”