Lee Vance: The Garden of Betrayal

“Relax,” Shimon said, smiling, as he patted my knee a final time. “We’re good at dealing with problems.”

We drove from the Lower West Side, where we were parked, to Times Square. Ari left the truck to shop while Shimon connected me to Claire on an untraceable line. There were advantages to hanging out with spies.

“It’s Mark,” I said, when she answered. “Everything’s fine. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch.”

“Thank God,” she replied, sounding shaken. “I’ve been so worried. Where are you?”

“Not on this line.” Shimon had made clear that untraceable didn’t mean untappable. Anyone could be listening at Claire’s end. “I’m sorry.”

“The police were just here,” she said, lowering her voice. “Some senior officer named Wayland pushed his way in. He saw the note cards taped to the wall and took pictures. I couldn’t stop him.”

I was too far down the road to worry about the police.

“He ask you any questions?”

“A bunch. I refused to answer and told him to get the hell out.”

“Good for you. And?”

“And he was rude, but he got out. He left some men in the hall with Ken and Dan.”

Ken and Dan were Joe’s nephew and his partner. Extra men in the hall were good, because they provided Claire and Kate with additional security.

“Understood. I’m sorry about the change of plan, but I think it’s better if you and Kate stay put for the time being. My best guess is that I’ll be home late. I’ve got another errand to run, and then I have to stop by One Police Plaza to answer questions.”

“An errand?”

I knew how curious she must be, but I couldn’t take any chances.

“I’m making progress, Claire. That’s all I can tell you.”

“And you’re sure you’re okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s all I need to know,” she said, her voice strong. “I love you. Be careful.”

“I will. I love you, too.”

I heard the truck pull away behind me as I climbed Walter’s front stoop. Shimon had wanted me to wear a listening device, nominally for security in case of a mishap, but more probably so he could stay posted on what I learned in real time. I refused, in part because I wasn’t worried, and in part because I still thought he might ditch me. It seemed like a better idea to retain cards he didn’t have. The compromise was that Ari would keep watch from the pavement opposite.

Walter’s home comprised a pair of identical hundred-year-old brownstones, reconfigured as one internally while leaving the land-marked facades unchanged. I’d been inside just once before, nearly ten years ago. The decor was Ralph Lauren throughout, the effect that of an English men’s club without the ill-patched parquet floors or the smell of boiled cabbage. I pressed the bell. His street was quiet by New York standards, tree-lined and low-rise, but I still couldn’t hear the ring from outside. I pressed it again, a chill wind making my ears ache with cold. The temperature had dropped.

The housekeeper who answered recognized my name but seemed reluctant to let me in. I couldn’t blame her. The tracksuit bottom and collarless knit shirt Ari had bought me made me look like an aging rapper. She relented only when I offered to show her my driver’s license. Taking my coat, she led me to a ground-floor study. I followed, wondering why Walter had called and how he was going to receive me. I didn’t give a damn about his opinions at this point, but I needed him to help me.

The study was empty, and the housekeeper lit a pre-laid wood fire before leaving me to wait alone. The room was paneled in chestnut and furnished with an overstuffed leather sofa and matching end chairs. I warmed myself in front of the burgeoning fire, studying the painting over the mantel. It was of a hunting dog with a dead bird in its mouth. I was willing to bet it was worth a fair bit more than the fifty bucks I would have given for it at a yard sale. I turned when I heard a hand on the door.

“Mark,” Walter said, entering the room. He was dressed in a gray suit and a navy tie, and he looked tired. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” The courtesy was encouraging. I gestured to my own clothing. “Wardrobe malfunction. Sorry to bring the tone down.”

He pursed his lips, refraining from comment.

“Drink?”

I started to refuse and then realized how badly I needed something-my nerves were ragged.

“Scotch, if you have it.”

A panel in the wall folded down silently, revealing an illuminated bar beyond.

“Johnnie Blue? On the rocks?”

“Fine.”

He poured for both of us. I settled on the leather couch, and he took the end chair next to me.

“Cheers.”

We touched glasses and drank. The ritual felt forced, and I had the sense he was delaying. Delay was unlike him. Walter believed in frontal assaults.

“I want to begin by apologizing,” he said. “I was wrong to fly off the handle at you last week. I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any distress, personally or professionally.”

“You were upset,” I said, concealing my surprise. I’d never heard Walter apologize before. “It’s perfectly understandable.”

“You’re kind to say so, but it wasn’t. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, now or later, just say the word.”

Curiosity about his change of heart took a backseat to heaven-sent opportunity.

“I appreciate it. Truth be told, one of the reasons I came here tonight was to ask for a favor.”

“What favor?” he asked, a touch of the usual wariness returning to his eyes.

“There’s a guy named Karl Mohler who worked at Dean Witter sometime in the mid-nineties. The SEC investigated him for churning but let him off the hook. I want to know who his lawyer was.”

Walter seemed fully alert.

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you. That’s another part of the favor. And the last is that I need the answer right now. Please.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Just when I felt confident he was going to balk, he picked up the phone on the end table to his right and dialed a number. Something strange was definitely going on, but as long as it kept working in my favor, I wasn’t inclined to ask questions.

“Susan,” he said into the phone. “Get hold of Pete Ricken for me.” He glanced at his watch, and I checked mine as well. It was six-thirty. “No idea. Try him at the office first. If he doesn’t answer, try his home and then his cell. I’ll hold.”

We sipped scotch in silence for sixty seconds. Pete Ricken was the chairman of the SEC.

“Pete,” Walter said curtly. “Thanks for taking my call. I’m hoping you can do something for me… Right. Your people investigated a man named Karl Mohler for churning a few years back. He worked at Dean Witter at the time. I’d like to know who represented him… No. Your guys gave him a pass… If the information were publicly available, I wouldn’t be calling you, would I?” There was a longer pause, and when Walter finally replied, each syllable sounded like a rock bounced off a metal pole. “Let me make sure we understand each other, Pete. You help me and I help you. If not, my entire community reverses its position on your merger with the Fed. You understand?”

It was vintage Walter hardball, made potent by the fact that Ricken and his agency were so vulnerable. Everyone in the industry had known for years that the SEC was woefully incompetent, a fact Congress and the general public had become aware of only in the wake of the recent market collapse. Ricken and the career bureaucrats who worked for him were engaged in a frantic backroom struggle to avoid becoming an unloved ward of the vastly more capable Federal Reserve. The hedge-fund community had supported Ricken thus far, happier to be under-regulated. Their reversal might tip the scales. I was more than a little surprised that Walter would push so hard on my behalf. Whatever mojo I had was running strong.