Mark Gilleo - Sweat

“I didn’t know that,” Jake said treading water while trying to avoid the riptide he had created. “On the topic of world trade, I have been working with the International Group on getting the night vision goggles for Hasad. I had a few questions that I didn’t feel comfortable asking them and wanted to ask you directly.”

“Sure,” Peter said, finding the corner of the desk with his butt.

“Isn’t the exportation of night vision goggles illegal?”

“Didn’t you hear me tell Hasad that Winthrop Enterprises wouldn’t be involved in illegal exporting?”

“Come on, Dad. I mean, Hasad lives in Turkey, everyone knows that is where they were going.”

“Son, I make it a habit not to acknowledge that I know where they are going. I’m simply buying them and selling them to an interested third party. What they do with them is their decision.”

Peter didn’t bother enlightening his son on the best way around export control—transportation on military cargo planes paid for by Uncle Sam himself.

“Couldn’t that be trouble?”

“Okay. Let’s say these night vision goggles do go to Turkey. Then what? Let’s say Hasad uses them to hunt Kurds along the border with Iraq. Jake, these guys have been killing each other for thousands of years, and short of a nuclear war, they will be killing each other for a thousand more. The goggles will not change that.”

“But it is illegal. You could go to jail.”

“First and foremost, I don’t export illegal goods. But hypothetically speaking, if I did, let’s look at the risks. There are one hundred sixty federal agents assigned to the entire U.S. in the Bureau’s Office of Export Controls. Do you have any idea how many companies export goods in a given year? Thousands. Do you know how many more people have exporting licenses? Thousands more. If these federal agents investigate ten percent of all suspicious exports, they are having a banner year.”

“It’s still the government. They are still federal agents.”

“Son. One hundred sixty agents. That tells you the government is not serious about it.”

A long pause followed.

“Do you know how much money the Bureau of Export Controls levied in fines last year?”

“No idea, but I am guessing you know.”

“Thousands of companies exporting hundreds of thousands of goods… and the amount of all federal fines levied totaled $1.4 million. Peanuts. Son, I could afford to pay that with cash laying around in my money market. That is $1.4 million for the entire country. All illegal export fines. For one year. If someone wanted to export illegal goods, the cost of doing business is low.”

“The cost of doing business?”

“Like the tobacco industry. They pay hundreds of millions in tobacco-related class-action lawsuit settlements. But they make billions. Subtract a few hundred million from a few billion and you still end up with one big number, son. The cost of doing business.”

“How about going to jail?”

“Jail? Wouldn’t happen. You know how many people these one hundred sixty export control agents put behind bars last year? One, Jake. One. One poor guy in Florida who was stupid enough to try and export shoulder-fired missiles. And they wouldn’t have caught this guy if he hadn’t initially applied for a license to export them and been denied. Then they were watching him. He was stupid and careless, and that is why he was caught. Your odds of hitting the nightly pick-three lottery drawing are better than getting arrested by the federal agents of the Office of Export Controls.”

“The cost of doing business,” Jake imitated.

“A payoff-risk analysis,” Peter answered.

“How can you be so confident, Dad?”

“Because I have been buying and selling everything from air conditioners to underwear for over twenty-five years.”

“What about the FBI?”

“The FBI? The FBI couldn’t catch a cold in a Siberian hospital. The FBI only gets involved with the Office of Export Controls in cases of Terrorism and Espionage. And since 9/11, this country is overwhelmingly concerned with what is coming in to this country, not in what is leaving it.”

“So you cover your bases…”

“Jake, let me walk you through the deal with Hasad. It’ll be a good hands-on experience. I will show you the ropes myself.”

“Sure, Dad. First thing tomorrow.”

“Can’t do it tomorrow, son. I have a golf tournament. The day after tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Jake said, not sure if his Dad was playing the same game he was, or if his father knew his son was playing at all.

“Any chance I can borrow a car?” Jake asked, pushing the envelope. “I need to put mine in the shop for a few days.”

“You feeling responsible?”

“Always,” Jake answered. What he didn’t want to be called was irresponsible by a man who was the definition of the word. He deserved more than that. Eighteen months of dragging his mother to the hospital. A year of making every meal, doing all the cleaning, all the shopping. Six months of carrying his mother to the bathtub, bathing her, giving her medication. Responsibility was something he understood more deeply than his father ever would.

“Stop by the house and Camille will have the keys to the Porsche ready.”

“Your new car?” Jake asked, feeling a fleeting twinge of guilt. “Dad I can’t.”

“Sure you can, Jake. Just remember it has about three hundred fifty more horsepower than your Subaru.”

“Okay. I’ll be careful.”

“Atta boy.”

As Jake walked out, his father smiled. He could control anyone, but his son was easy. His son was just like him. As the elevator doors began to shut and Jake turned to press the button, the unmistakable sound of a particular bell attached to a particular key ring still in Jake’s pocket let out a “ding.” For a split second that lasted entirely too long, Jake’s eyes met his father’s.

Chapter 27

Camille answered the door with a smile, and Jake fell back into immediate infatuation. There was just something about his father’s domestic help. A spiritual connection that transcended current circumstances. Before Jake could ask, Camille reached into the pocket of her blue apron and produced the keys to the one hundred thirty-one thousand dollar automobile.

“I believe you have come for these?”

“Thank you,” Jake said as Camille placed the keys in his hand. “How have you been?”

“I’m good, Jake. How about you? How’s work with your father?”

“Work with my father?” Jake asked pensively. “Something tells me you already know the answer to that question.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Jake.”

“In that case, I guess there is no reason to tell Reina thank you.”

“Like I said, Jake, I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Camille repeated.

Both knew the conversation Jake wanted to have wasn’t going to take place. He smiled. Camille smiled. And with a silent understanding, Jake stepped off the porch. “I’ll open the garage door for you,” Camille said, as Jake walked down the stone path in front of the house.

Jake sat in the car, still safely parked in the garage. He rubbed his hand across the top arc of the wheel, depressed the clutch, and ran through the gears of his father’s candy-apple-red Porsche 911 Turbo convertible. He turned the key in the ignition with a mix of excitement and trepidation, and the four hundred forty-four horsepower engine came to life. Jake felt the vibrations rumbling through the seat and immediately understood German automotive engineering. With wheels still frozen to the pavement, one thing was already clear—the beast was built for business.

He eased the car into reverse and down the driveway. The large ceramic brakes were powerful, and the sudden grip of the brake pads on the rotor pushed his skull into the headrest at the end of the driveway. Definitely not the Subaru, he thought. Jake chugged out of his father’s neighborhood in first gear, the engine purring, begging for more.