Game of Greed Read online

  Constantly asking himself about his true motives is almost second nature to him by now, and he finds that it has quite often helped him stay out of trouble. In his experience, trouble occurs when you are driven by ego, as it so rarely produces anything but short-term gain and quite often misses the bigger picture. So, rather than being governed by undisclosed ambitions or fears motives so much stronger for being subconscious he has come to prefer hard-line questioning at the beginning of each case. Which is exactly what he does now.

  What is this case about? Does he want to come across as the hero in shining armor in an effort to save Wharton or to settle an old score? Is he merely bored, or is he looking for an excuse to see Jo again?

  Francis checks off all the ego reasons he can come up with and determines that none is the sole reason. The main reason is that he wants to crush Schwartz Corp., push it into the ground, grind it down, destroy it and he has long been waiting for an opportunity to do so. And not just for egotistical reasons, either. It rather feels like a necessity to rid the world of that vermin. He sips his drink, leaning back in the chair, closing his eyes. An image pops into his head of a distinguished-looking man in his prime. A high brow and prominent nose are set in a face hardly touched by age. A shock of dark hair, speckled with gray. Deep-set gray eyes, bushy eyebrows, and surprisingly full lips. Practically feminine. And quite incongruent with the rest of the face, which is that of a patriarch. A stern patriarch. Francis shudders.

  The image and the fact that it makes him shudder is the deciding factor. His motive is now clear to him. Crystal clear. And that is when he decides to go full blaze. To make this a big case. To put his best people on the job. To spare no expense, even though there’s no client to foot the bill. Schwartz is the kind of company that is the very reason he is doing this work. His raison d’être. What he was born to do. And just as importantly, what his inheritance should be used for.

  Years ago, when he first conceived the idea of establishing and running a covert operation dedicated to ridding the world of businesses that thrive on greed and selfishness, he’d thrown “stupidity” into the organization’s mission for good measure. Not because it was morally reprehensible to act stupidly, but because he just found stupidity particularly appalling. Schwartz Corp. is not stupid in the common sense. But it acts stupidly in the sense that it doesn’t contribute constructively to the good of the world. And that, these days, is precisely the most imprudent thing to do.

  Secretly very secretly Francis prides himself on being one of the few people working actively toward a new world order. It is his most shameful and deepest motive, but it is the very engine with which he runs. And he can only imagine the gasps and incredulity that might follow in the wake of his announcing to the world, “I do what I do for the greater good.” Obviously, he doesn’t advertise the fact, but he believes strongly that the current way of operating, of doing business, of communicating, of interacting, must go. And somebody has to help that happen. Francis has appointed himself to be one of the people to do that. He realizes the irony of his inner logic; his most public front is that of a spoiled, selfish bachelor, whereas the persona with which he operates and the one his organization and a few close friends know is selfless and dedicated to making the world a better place. But at the very core of his being, there is nothing selfless about it; he simply needs to see himself as a hero. He needs to feel that he is worth something; that he is not just another ship in the night.

  Over the years, he has built a small but impressive organization for that very purpose. By now, it has completed a large number of missions to get rid of businesses that operate in a greedy, exploiting fashion. Through various means, Francis’s organization has removed the companies from the playing field or, in some cases, eliminated the management and board and put better people in positions of power.

  He structured his organization in a way that ensures that he alone has the full picture. Very few people know the scope of the operations, and as a rule, people never work with the same team more than once. This obviously lowers efficiency a bit, but he tries to compensate by recruiting and training the best the world has to offer.

  Despite his secrecy, Angela knows quite a bit by now. But then, she’s been with him for a very long time, and she wouldn’t be the immense help that she is if he didn’t let her in on most things. He can trust her, too. If he didn’t, they’d soon know about it. They are both aware of the price for failing his trust.

  He recognizes that, for him, secrecy isn’t about power, but about security. He is responsible for far too many people to risk exposing them just because it might be more politically acceptable to run a more open and democratic gig. Besides, he has never needed the publicity. He’s just fine being the gray eminence, the one with the ear of high-profile businessmen and politicians. He has never wanted to be in front himself; he realized early on that true power is never on display.

  As a young boy, he would devour the stories of Superman and Batman, and basically any story about a hero in disguise. He’s done enough soul-searching to know that this overriding desire to not only save the world but to do so without anybody knowing about it, is a product of his less-than-admirable upbringing. He has learned to accept this fact and make the most of it. Embrace your destiny and all that…

  Since playing out his dreams and aspirations in the parklands and in the basement of the house in which he grew up, he’s perfected his act of dual personality: He is the jaded bachelor to the world and a highly skilled operator to a very few. His cover is perfect, as it allows him to move in all the necessary circles without giving anybody the idea that he might be interested in anything but women, opulence, and a good time.

  The price he has paid for working two very different personalities is that very few people truly know him. Intimacy is too complicated in his position, and he never really had the talent for it anyway. He has become a shadow, a legend, a caricature. No one really knows the true Francis, the complexities that make up his personality. There is someone Francis wants to let in, though someone to whom he wants to reveal what and who he really is. Only it might be too late.

  Angela’s face suddenly appears on one of the monitors, interrupting his reverie. “Jo and Dhammakarati are ready, Francis. Do you want me to put them through?”

  He nods, pulls his feet off the table, and knocks back the rest of his wine as the face of an Asian monk pops up on one screen, and that of a Western woman on the other. Their faces are moving in a static, jerky way as if they are not quite sure of themselves. Otherwise, there’s nothing to suggest he’s in midair over the Atlantic and they are both thousands of miles away in the jungle of Sri Lanka.

  “Are you doing well?” Francis asks. They both nod in a manner suggesting their well-being is not important.

  “Let me tell you a story, then,” Francis starts. “A story that might shed some light on the case we are just about to launch. Unless, of course, you have something you need to discuss?” He pauses briefly to allow them to interrupt. Which, of course, they don’t. They’re both well trained.

  “Once upon a time, several generations ago, two young men met at Harvard University and almost instantaneously became best friends,” Francis says. “They were, if you like, a kind of soul mates. Closer than the world would allow. Both coming from good families and this being in the early twentieth century, fate couldn’t permit them a life spent together. They needed to get married and establish respectability before joining the influential world. As it happened, they each got married into families on opposite sides of a political feud. And as with all small cracks, if it’s at the top, it can tear a world apart. Which is exactly what happened over the next generations: two best friends and for all we know, lovers spurred on by wives and families and a very misdirected sense of honor, not only established their own law firms but fought for world domination in the legal field with an aggression so deep it could only be born out of a love gone wrong. To cut a long story short, these two men founded Smith, Turner
, and Stevenson, and Remington Partners, respectively. And I guess you are familiar with the current positions of both companies?”

  The monk and the woman nod.

  Francis continues, “So, to bring us up to date: for the past twelve years, James Wharton has been managing partner of Smith, Turner, and Stevenson and not only that but predictably married to the great-granddaughter of William Smith, the founder. Now, Wharton has suddenly disappeared. Not surprisingly, everybody is up in arms, not clear on which would be worse: if he’d killed himself or run off with a young boy or girl. But according to the few people who were close to him, he is not likely to have done either. My gut tells me something’s fishy. And judging from an encounter one of my men picked up by chance, Georg Schwartz one of our darlings and the chairman of Remington Partners recently had a meeting. It’s not inconceivable for them to meet, but you can be sure that these two don’t hang out in a lobby in Amsterdam discussing golf. No, my guess is that the meeting was somehow connected to Wharton’s disappearance.”

  He is silent for a while. “Well, I might as well tell you. I know Wharton. We went to school together. He is a decent sort who once bailed me out on a delicate matter, and I want to know what happened to him. And as I happen to have an organization at hand that is exquisitely and specifically tuned to do just this kind of problem-solving, I thought we might as well kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  The woman asks, “What do you want us to do, Francis?”

  “Well, I want you to look into Wharton’s disappearance. This requires a bit of desk research, for which I have a team ready for you in Copenhagen. I also need you out in the field, which I know you’re rather partial to.”

  The woman doesn’t react outwardly, but answers with an impassive expression. “Fine. I’ll try to get on a direct flight out of Colombo tomorrow noon. That will be the earliest unless you want to send a plane for me today.”

  “No. Take another day. I feel bad enough as it is, pulling you out in the middle of a retreat,” he chuckles. He continues in a mocking voice, “No one knows what harm meditation interruptus can do to you. Anyway, I’ll make sure your ticket is ready and have an information folder prepared so you can catch up on the plane.”

  The woman nods.

  “And Dhammakarati, I want you to explore what sort of muscle Schwartz is employing. What I’ve found out is that the company has its own small army of martial arts people, as well as access to ex-special forces and brainless muscle, the latter of which it usually deploys for scares. I want you to map the resources Schwartz has and generally put your ear to the ground in Sri Lanka. There are a few indications that de Lingua is in on the gig, and ever since tourists left Sri Lanka in the wake of the tsunami, he has been operating out of there. Presumably, to lie as low as possible. I am not sure, Dhammakarati, but check it out, will you?”

  “Do you want me to work alone?” the monk asks.

  Francis nods. “Yes, and leave no trail. Until we know the extent of this, we’ll keep things as tight as possible. Well, that’s it. I’ll let you know what means of communication we’ll be using. But until then, wait for my instructions. Don’t try to contact me.”

  He allows a few seconds to pass to indicate that the case talk is over before asking, “Anything unusual happening at your end?”

  The monk answers hesitantly. “We don’t know yet whether this is significant, but Bhante Padman has been missing for two days now.”

  “Couldn’t he just have gone into retreat or taken off with a woman?” Francis asks. “I mean, it’s not as if it’s never happened before.”

  “You’re right. But as you know, he is on a job. And even if he did decide to go on a short retreat, he would have arranged for food to be brought to him. Which he didn’t. So, it’s going to be either a woman or something has happened to him,” the monk says. “Anyway, we’ll monitor the situation, and if he’s not back in the next twenty-four hours, we’ll send someone out looking for him.”

  As the monitors fade to black, Francis leans back in the chair, closing his eyes. If he is wrong about this, if he is getting paranoid, he could be sending some very good people into a very bad situation. He has nothing but his intuition to guide him, and it has served him well in the past. No reason to distrust it now. He has picked up too many small signals lately, bits and pieces of information that form the tentative contour of something huge. He wonders whether this is the case, the golden chalice that will redeem him. Not in the eyes of the world, but in his own. And in hers, possibly.

  The flight attendant serves a light dinner of carpaccio and melon. Francis eats and retires to the bedroom, catching a few hours of sleep before arriving in Copenhagen.

  Chapter 3

  Francis is seated opposite his head of research, Thomas Bach, in the beautiful lounge of Nimb, just across the street from the main rail terminal in the heart of Copenhagen. Thomas has worked for Francis for the past seven years. Before that, he was a senior intelligence analyst at PET, the Danish security and intelligence service. He possesses exceptional analytical skills and an unsurpassed ability to identify and interpret patterns in enormous data sets. But it was his ability to present the essence of complex problems in a simple and effective manner that made him popular at PET, particularly among the more action-oriented officers who had little regard for analysts who insisted on presenting their findings in excruciating detail. Thomas stayed at PET for ten years, unearthing and analyzing evidence that put hundreds of prospective terrorists, industrial spies, extremists, and particularly ambitious criminals behind bars. But too many of them walked for political reasons, or because of the Danish predilection for tolerance.

  Eventually growing impatient with the government’s inability to act and prevent the bastards from ruining his country, Thomas quietly started a small operation on the side. Francis came across him when they were both hot on the trail of the CEO of a large pharmaceutical company who was thought to be secretly employing local thugs in a number of African states to round up kids for clinical trials of anti-inflammatory drugs under development. It was a means of speeding up the process of bringing new drugs to the market. And it usually had fatal consequences for the kids. Francis and Thomas met in an airport in South Africa, where they ended up spending the night after an unusually violent storm canceled all departing flights.

  Neither of them recalled how they had shifted from polite small talk to discussing a case on which they both were working, but by the end of the night, Francis had recruited Thomas. So far, neither has had reason to regret the decision.

  It is late morning too early for the lunch rush and the lounge is almost empty, save for a couple of little old ladies in yesteryear’s minks. The two men are stretching their legs in front of the fireplace, their backs to the room, quite secluded and cozy. The room is magnificent in an understated and slightly cheeky way. Dark, heavy furniture contrasts against white walls decorated with penciled sketches that may or may not be complete. The fire casts a warm glow over the room and is reflected a thousand times in the massive chandeliers and the silver-edged mirrors. But the very sumptuousness is balanced by the forty-foot ceiling and the great expanse of the light, bare wood floor.

  The waiter has brought their tea, and they have been discussing the case for some time now. However, it is clear their data are far from conclusive. There is too much they don’t know. Too many loose ends.

  “Within a few days, Jo will have installed mikes in Schwartz’s office, as well as in his private homes. That may yield something. And we still haven’t talked to Wharton’s wife. I’ll pay her a visit and get in touch with any of our old acquaintances I can dig up once I get back to New York. Mrs. Wharton might give us something we don’t yet know except wives at that corporate level are usually kept in the dark, and only brought in for festive occasions.” Francis pauses. “So, what we should do is search for anything Schwartz Corp. has had its hands on in the past twelve months. Anything. I want to know every job they have completed, ev
ery client they have met with, every pitch they have missed. I want to know whom they hired and fired in the past year, whom their subcontractors are. In short, everything your team can find out without breaking the law.”

  Thomas smiles. “That doesn’t usually concern you.”

  “No. But I always find that starting with the easily available information is not only an obvious first step but quite often provides important insights. So, get your team on it, will you?”

  “I’ll start them up as soon as I leave here,” Thomas says. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, I want you personally to map all the key players in Smith, Turner, and Stevenson. There’s obviously Wharton himself, board members, personal assistants, senior executives I think there may be around twenty or so senior partners. Make me a complete and descriptive list. Biography, family, and most importantly, see if you can find their Achilles’ heels. Their ”

  Thomas interrupts. “I am sorry. Their Achilles’ heels?”

  Francis looks indulgently at him. “You do need to read up on your classics, Thomas. Mere facts don’t cut it. Achilles’ heel is the expression for whatever our individual weakness is. We all have it. For some it’s women, for others, it’s power, money, gambling, drink, or even much darker secrets. It’s what we fear and desire; it’s our deepest driving force. Find that, and you’ll understand a man. Or a woman, for that matter. So, see what you can do to find out what each of the top executives fears and desires.”

  “May I ask why? What can you do with that sort of information?”