Steven Gore - Final Target

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world,” Gage continued. “Anybody with a brain will grab a little money for themselves. It’s called business.”

“Yeah…I guess.”

“I’ve heard you’re a smart guy. A smooth operator. Somebody who knows how to seize an opportunity.”

Matson brightened. “Yeah, I’ve done that a few times.”

“Us, too. And this one will make us a lot of money.” Gage smiled. “Let’s celebrate. On me. You pick the wine.”

Matson reached under his menu and pulled out the wine list. He turned the pages back and forth, working his finger up and down the lists, until he finally settled on a Cavallotto Barolo Boschis ’98. Gage signaled the wine steward, who remained expressionless as Matson mispronounced his selection. He slipped away, returning a minute later, bottle in hand. He and Matson did the label-cork-taste dance, which ended with filled glasses.

Gage picked his up first. “To business.”

Then Blanchard, “To business.”

Finally and unenthusiastically, Matson said, “To business.”

It wasn’t until their salads arrived that Matson was ready to pop the money question.

“I think we can go as high as two-point-five,” Gage said. “Three is just way too much.”

“Does that include the ten percent?”

“No, that’ll drop it to two-point-two-five.”

“How about we split the difference?”

Gage shook his head. “No can do. I trust Mr. Black. He told me what we can sell it for and I believe him.”

“What if I didn’t take it in cash?”

“Then you keep the ten percent. But you’ll need to tell me how you want it.”

“I don’t know yet.” Matson glanced down at his glass and swirled the wine. “Well, I guess I really want it in cash. The FBI can trace wire transfers anywhere.”

“They sure can.”

“But I’ll need some help.”

Gage leaned forward, resting his forearms on the cloth-covered table. “What do you want to happen with it? You want to pay taxes on it and make it legit?”

Matson nodded.

“I’ll give you an example of something you could do yourself,” Gage said. “Thousand-dollar slots.”

Matson jerked back. “No way I’m doing that. I could lose everything.”

Gage shook his head. “Hear me out. You ever play slot machines in Las Vegas?”

“Sure. I put in a little money now and then, but I never really win anything.”

“But you’ve seen the billboards, right? They promise you’ll win ninety-four percent of the time. And they have to be telling the truth because they’ve got the Nevada Gaming Commission watching everything they do.”

Matson nodded. “I guess so.”

“That means that if you put in a million, you get back nine hundred and forty thousand dollars. You just got to have somebody set things up for you.”

“But that would take weeks.”

“Nope. You’d get it done in a day. A slot machine cycle is five seconds. Two thousand times. Ten thousand seconds. Two-point-eight hours, max. You feed in cash, they pay you in checks. Spread it out over a couple of days, even a couple of weeks. Give the IRS its cut and the money’s clean.”

“That’s fucking amazing.”

“Let me know if you want to do it. I’ve got a guy in Vegas who has a special machine in one of the small casinos. No big wins and no big losses. It just eats six percent of your money and gives you back the rest.”

“Man, I wish I’d met you last year.”

“Why’s that?”

“Nothing.” Matson’s voice fell. “Just another business thing. I’ve got money stashed somewhere.”

“If you’ve got to move it, let me know. I can take care of it. Move it anywhere.”

Matson’s eyes widened. “Where’s anywhere?”

“All the way around.”

“All the way around where?”

Gage leaned back in his chair. “The way I figure it, halfway around is about Abu Dhabi. So all the way around is right where we’re sitting.”

“What the devil happened in the bathroom?” Blanchard asked, after turning off the transmitter as they drove from the parking lot onto a long commercial boulevard toward the highway north.

Gage smiled. “It turns out that Mr. Green has a real mean streak.”

“What about Mr. Gage?”

“He’s a sweetheart who’s very convincing in the role of Mr. Green.”

“And Matson?”

“A lonely guy. A greedy, lonely guy.”

Gage looked into his mirror to check for surveillance and then reached for his cell phone. “Anybody follow us?” he asked Viz.

“You’re clean.” Viz laughed. “The guy I’ve got behind Matson says it looks like the idiot is driving side streets all the way from the restaurant to his house. It’ll take him two hours to get home.”

“Go ahead and break off from us, but stay on Matson, just in case.”

Gage disconnected and looked over at Blanchard. “You ever go to Cal basketball games?”

“Season tickets.”

“Ever see a kid play above his head?”

“Sure. The stars in the heavens are aligned and he scores a career-high twenty points, fifteen above his average. For the first time in his life he can keep up with the big boys.”

“What does he think right after the game is over?”

“That he can do it anytime. The coach just needs to give him enough minutes on the floor.”

“And what does he realize the next time he steps on the court?”

“That he was playing above his head.”

“Exactly. And that’s what Matson’s been doing. And now he’s all alone. Granger and Fitzhugh, the guys he relied on, are dead. Gravilov scares him. And the season’s not over.”

“I think you scared him.”

“Sure, I scared him. He’s the ideal hostage. He’s the kind of guy who’d volunteer to make tea for his kidnappers.”

“And he’s double-crossing the government.”

“Right. So who can he trust now? Nobody.”

“You said he had a girlfriend in London, Alla something.”

“That’s a rowboat he’s paddling through rough waters. He’s cheating on his wife, just like he’s cheating on the government. His relationship with Alla is filled with uncertainty. He’ll always be on the edge with her. Suppose she starts to see through him? What if his wife finds out? What if Alla bails on him? Even worse, blackmails him?”

“Maybe that’s why he’s worried about the money he’s got stashed.”

“I think it’s more than that. My guess is that he’s told the government where some of his overseas money is, but the rest is hidden. Stuck somewhere. Fitzhugh was Matson’s offshore link to banks and money managers. Now those folks are terrified. They don’t want anything to do with Fitzhugh’s old clients. Cutting a deal is a whole lot different than cutting up the dealmaker. They want to wash their hands of Matson and his money as soon as possible.”

Blanchard pointed at an HSBC branch as they passed by. “Then he should transfer the money to some other bank.”

“Without the insulation that Fitzhugh provided, he’d have to put his own name on the account opening form. The bank would perform its standard due diligence, the class action suit would pop up, and they’d show him the door. And he’s probably got a more pressing problem. He’s adjusted his lifestyle to his income and the inflow of money is drying up. Notice that matching Mercedes and sports jacket? All that takes cash.”

Gage pulled to a curb just before the on-ramp to the bridge heading to the East Bay so he could confirm that Viz was correct about the absence of surveillance.

“What’s next?” Blanchard asked.

“Now that I’ve scared him…” Gage watched cars pass them by, then smiled. “I need to make him love me.”

“How do you go about doing that?”