Brian Haig - PrivateSector

So I was sitting there, weathering a crisis of guilt, conscience, and conflicted loyalties. I could see absolutely no way for this to be resolved to everybody’s satisfaction-even to anybody’s satisfaction. Whichever side I chose was going to cause me great personal angst and loss.

Janet finished mulling and, of course, asked Peterson, “So who murdered my sister?”

“I don’t know.”

“You really don’t?”

“I really don’t.”

“You have suspicions, though, don’t you?”

“Remember where you are, Janet. This building is a vault of suspicions. My day begins with suspicions, my day is filled with suspicions, and the worst of those suspicions keep me awake at night.” He snapped, “Yes-I have suspicions.”

“All right. Help me get my sister’s murderers.”

Sounded like a good solution to me.

But Peterson scowled and said, “The CIA isn’t permitted to engage in operations inside the United States. I’d like to help; I can’t.”

“You mean,” Janet said, “you don’t want to risk having your precious operation compromised.”

“Of course it’s a factor,” he confessed. “The killer is not my concern, however. It’s a domestic matter, not international. My interest is this syndicate, with protecting millions of lives from international terrorism, drugs, and other criminal mayhem.”

And like that-bang, something went off in the back of my head. What?

Janet said, “That’s too bad. My sister is my concern. And if you think…” and so on, and so forth. I hadn’t slept in two nights. I was forgetting something, and I was groggy, and the temperature in the room wasn’t helping. Yet… what?

I sat up. “Wait a minute.”

Janet stopped talking. Peterson stopped talking.

I said, “The cops, Meany-how did they get to my apartment so fast this morning? And what the hell was Meany doing there?”

Peterson shook his head. “Who’s Meany? What are you talking about?”

MacGruder coughed. Phyllis sat and looked ladylike and grandmotherly, like she should have a sewing kit in her lap and should be knitting something; like a handmade garrote, maybe.

“Who’s Meany?” Peterson repeated.

Only after a long pause did MacGruder inform his boss, “I believe he’s referring to Special Agent George Meany, sir. He’s the SAC of the FBI task force hunting the serial killer.”

And like that, another piece fell into place in my head, and I said, “Tell us about the cover-up, Jack.”

He did not respond to that. In fact, aside from some squeaky seats and feet shuffling, the room went completely quiet.

Peterson said, “Drummond, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I nodded in the direction of Phyllis and Jack. “They do.”

So he regarded Phyllis a moment. And then Jack.

After a moment of this, Phyllis suggested, very suavely, “Director, perhaps we should have a word with you… in private?”

Janet was staring at me.

But I broke eye contact with Janet, and I established eye contact with Phyllis. I asked her, “When did you know?”

She was still making eye contact with her boss, who said to her, “Answer him, Phyllis.” He then added-actually, he emphasized-“I’d like to know, too.”

Well, all this asinine eye contact stuff came to an abrupt end, because Phyllis turned back to Jack and said, “You explain it.” Shit really does roll downhill.

Jack stammered, “We weren’t… I mean, when Captain Morrow was murdered, we had no idea… we never put two and two together… she’d left the law firm, weeks before. The police concluded it was a robbery.”

“What about after Cuthburt?” I suggested helpfully.

“No, no… not then either. We made no connection between her and Captain Morrow. Not really until Anne Carrol was… well… she was SEC, and the FBI discovered the link, actually…” He paused, then said, “Only then was it brought to our attention.”

Janet fixed him with a frosty glare and asked, “Why?”

MacGruder’s eyes darted at Peterson, who nodded. He said, “Trojan Horse is a joint operation between us and the FBI. We handle the overseas parts, the FBI handles the domestic pieces. Our FBI counterparts have an operation inside Culper, Hutch, and Westin. A lot of work went into setting it up. It’s critically important and must be protected.”

“What kind of operation?” I asked.

“You’ll recall that I mentioned the syndicate is exploiting distressed companies. In fact, Morris Networks was one of the first”-he shook his head-“actually, it was the first we detected. That discovery made us nervous.”

“About what?”

“How the syndicate knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Understand, corporations experiencing financial turmoil, that are hemorrhaging cash, they are extremely secretive with this information. If word leaks, their competitors know and jump on them, their stock tanks, and bankruptcy becomes virtually unstoppable. Consider Exxon, WorldCom, Global Crossing, or any of the others that have been in the news in recent years. Their CEOs knew… their chief financial officers and legal departments knew. The rest of their people had no clue they were teetering toward bankruptcy. Even Wall Street and their bankers were kept in the dark.” He added, “So, how was our syndicate cherry-picking these companies? How did it know to target them? It had to be acquiring insider information.”

“Go on.”

“We gave that a lot of thought. It’s very sophisticated, really. You see, when corporate officers know a financial train wreck might be unavoidable, what do they do? They face a legal nightmare, lawsuits from bondholders, from stockholders, from banks, possibly SEC investigations, and so on. Many corporate officers and board members confront personal liability. Their risks are enormous. Those risks have to be scrutinized, managed, even minimized, and, hopefully, well in advance.”

I said, “So they consult lawyers with expertise in these matters.”

“Precisely. In advance of a bankruptcy declaration.”

I thought about this a moment. I asked, “You’re saying the firm is

… what? A talent scout for the syndicate?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Troubled companies approach your firm for advice and preparations, and the syndicate is notified.”

“Who’s notifying it? The whole firm? Everybody?”

He chuckled. “Only in a John Grisham novel, Major. No, not everybody.”

I didn’t chuckle. “Who?” I asked.

“We’re not sure.”

“But you said-”

“I said the FBI is running an operation.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning the FBI has a mole inside the firm.”

“A mole?”

“An undercover agent.”

“I know what a mole is. Who?”

“That’s considerably more than you need to know.”

There was a long pause before Phyllis explained, “We have to know what companies this syndicate is getting involved with. Consider your friend Jason Morris. The precise details are cloudy, but we’ve been able to speculate how it happened.”

Jack picked up on her cue and explained, “Several years ago, Morris found himself in dire trouble. His personal fortune, all of it, was invested in company stock. His business was sharply contracting, the entire telecom sector was suffering an overcapacity crisis, and the banks turned merciless. He therefore approached your firm for preparatory bankruptcy advice.”

“Why my firm?”

“We don’t know. But somebody in the firm informed the syndicate of this, Jason Morris was approached, and he made his deal. The money exchange works through capacity swaps. It’s a shell game, of course. Grand Vistas ships him cash, and he ships them stock. Because the transaction occurs under the accounting rubric of a capacity swap, it escapes the scrutiny of an outright loan or sale.”