Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome (4 page)

The rest of the day’s trading wore on,
slow, plodding, predictable. Once Griffen’s related accounts
stopped trading back and forth to create artificial volume, the
stock action was stagnant. The close was a non-event, down a few
pennies. The polar opposite of the chaotic frenzy of the earlier
part of the day, and further evidence to Steven of the omnipotence
the manipulators wielded.

* * * *

“Wonder how they’re going to enjoy
having their bullshit exposed?” Steven muttered.

Avalon looked up from the floor,
evaluating whether there was a promise of a treat in the statement.
Finding none, he resumed his well practiced canine repose,
uninterested in whatever drama was unfolding with his
master.

Trading had concluded hours earlier.
After wolfing down lunch, Steven had returned to his workstation
and spent the rest of the afternoon typing furiously on his
keyboard, putting the final touches on the website he’d been
working on for the last month.

Satisfied with the way the fields lined
up, he clicked ‘save’ and decided to call it a day. He looked at
his watch, then reached his arms over his head and stretched,
finally finished with the huge project he’d taken on.

Steven padded over to an overstuffed
chair in the corner of his den and sat down, assuming a familiar
position – hands clasped in his lap, eyes closed, head slightly
bowed. His breathing subsided to a few intakes per minute, shallow
breaths, hardly discernible. His blood pressure dropped, heart rate
slowed.

Meditation had been an important part
of his martial arts discipline for eighteen years. The experience
inevitably left him feeling cleansed and focused, and he found it
helped every aspect of his performance. Synapses were better
aligned, reflexes improved, responses more immediate.

He stayed in a meditative state for
twenty minutes, until some distant part of him signaled a return to
awareness. His vital signs increased, breathing became deeper, and
he opened his eyes, revitalized and refreshed.

The first few moments were always
dreamlike, almost the same as walking out of a quiet museum or a
church after mass; the senses re-calibrating to motions and sounds
and near- constant stimuli.

Rising from his tranquil spot in the
corner, he ambled over to the sliding glass doors and considered
the view. It was dusk, and the sun was beginning its spectacular
descent into the glittering sea.

Avalon lollopped over to greet him,
hopeful for an outing. They walked onto the patio, taking in the
non-stop passage of tourists and locals skating and rolling and
pedaling past his vantage point. He noticed Gilbert, the resident
homeless guy who invariably shuffled along this very route every
evening, engrossed in discourse with invisible companions who
assisted him with his inspection of the garbage cans lining the
path.

Steven went inside and rummaged through
the refrigerator for last night’s leftovers and searched in his
pockets for a few small bills. He knew Gilbert would never beat
whatever afflicted him, but to Steven’s way of thinking, it didn’t
matter. Sometimes you win...

He hopped over the gate and greeted
Gilbert by the little bench on the strand, as was his custom. They
talked a while, and Steven handed him what he had to offer, which
was always gratefully accepted. Avalon, adept at following Steven
over the gate, looked up at him hopefully, tongue lolling happily
out of his mouth.

“Don’t worry, boy. There’s still some
chicken left for you.”

They returned to their little patio to
watch the show. Catalina Island shimmered in the distance and
remote oil platforms jockeyed with tankers in the shipping lanes
for preeminent position for the evening’s sunset
performance.

He registered the garage door opening
and closing, and soon felt hands on his shoulders.

“You’re a lucky bastard, my friend.”
Jennifer had already changed out of her work outfit – khakis and
black blouse – and into sweat pants and a tank top.

“Rather be lucky than smart.” They’d
been dating for a couple of years, a comfortable relationship that
had developed a rhythm that satisfied their needs.

Jennifer considered his profile before
looking over to the desk with the pile of research and notepads
inside the house. She knew about his web project. “Aren’t you
worried about waving a cape in front of the bull?”

“These dirt-bags are selling junk to
widows and orphans, wiping out life savings, and ruining the
market,” he said as he leaned back and closed his eyes. “I’m just
leveling the playing field. No big deal.”

“When are you planning to put it
online?” she asked.

“Why not tonight?”

“I don’t know, Steven. I’ve had a bad
feeling about this since you started with it.” She pulled away and
was quiet for a moment. “Where do you want to go to dinner?” she
finally asked, moving the dialog to neutral ground.

Steven pulled at his chin. “Hmm…let’s
go down the strand and do Italian. A little chicken Marsala never
hurt. Yum yum yum. A little wine, a little song...”

“Sure. I’ll throw on some shoes and
grab a sweater.” She stared at the top of his head for a minute,
the ocean breeze tickling her face as she thought about saying
something more, then she sighed, and turned to go back into the
house.

The website had been structured as an
expose of the junk science and questionable nature of the
technology Allied was touting and the suspicious trading patterns
the stock routinely enjoyed. Steven had conceived the site after
finding sites targeting the shady dealings of large Wall Street
banks, like GoldmanSachs666.com. If a site like that could expose
the underhanded actions of Wall Street’s icons, he figured he could
create one on a smaller scale and illuminate the crookery in play
with Allied and the Griffen gang.

His new website detailed the
questionable nature of the science the company claimed to be
developing and pointed out that many of the company’s proponents
were a network of physicians, scientists and stock promoters who’d
been active in other, ultimately worthless shams that had cost
investors everything. It also pored over public filings and exposed
the ownership of the company’s stock, highlighting the massive role
Griffen played.

All in all, it presented a compelling
argument that trading in Allied was anything but fair and honest,
and went into significant detail to link the players in the
nefarious pump and dump scam.

Damaging stuff to be sure, but a hair
shy of proof. Oh well, nothing was perfect. The time had come to
put the site up and fire a salvo across the opposition’s
bow.

When they got back from dinner he
uploaded the site to an internet service provider in Texas. He’d
deliberately chosen a service in a different state so anyone
interested in silencing the site would be looking in the wrong
places. He’d registered the domain name using the address of a
now-defunct Irish pub in New Orleans, and created a blind account
for e-mail contact. It all added up to making the site’s creator
invisible and impossible to trace.

www.AlliedExposed.com
went live at 12:04
a.m..

Before going to bed, Steven typed a
post on one of the most popular internet message boards, inviting
readers to the website. With any luck some exposure would get the
regulators and the mainstream public interested in the doubtful
technology and trading chicanery, resulting in some badly needed
enforcement of the anti-manipulation rules. Steven just hoped it
would go viral after his fellow message board denizens spread the
word around. He’d done all he could at this point by collecting the
data and highlighting all the abuses; it was in the public domain
now, and would take on a life of its own – or die – based on forces
outside of his control.

* * * *

Griffen was thoroughly livid. He wasn’t
accustomed to being challenged, and certainly wasn’t used to being
publicly mocked and put on display. His livelihood and success
depended on obscurity, on being able to operate in the shadows
without prying eyes disturbing his plans. He knew how to play the
media game. He understood exactly how effective propaganda could
be, and didn’t like it directed at him.

The last thing he needed was some
website documenting the blow by blow of his promotion of Allied,
and exposing his network. He, more than anyone, grasped the power
of information control; and he realized there was a potential
disaster in the making the second he heard about the site. There
was way more at stake than just the one company’s fortunes. His
funds enjoyed invisibility from regulators by virtue of the unseen
hand of one of his investors, and publicity and exposure invited
the kind of attention he didn’t need. This had to get stopped cold,
or he’d be incurring significant risks he couldn’t afford. And with
those risks could come ugly consequences.

His staff knew from harsh experience he
was best avoided at times like this, opting to give his desk a wide
berth as he screamed down the phone.

“Goddamn mother fucker!” Griffen
hollered. “Can’t you sue this shithead, get an injunction or
something? He’s calling me a fucking criminal and saying the
company’s voodoo. You’re my attorney. Do something!”

“It’s not that straightforward,” Vesper
told him. “He’s clever. He never actually says you’re breaking the
law or acting criminally; he just documents your holdings, shows
your connection to the media outlets who’ve been supportive, lists
other companies the positive analysts hyped in the past, and then
hypothesizes that your massive stake in the company makes you
extremely interested in the stock skyrocketing, at all costs. It’s
all opinion.” Glen Vesper knew the law cold. “He’s suggesting that
if you were engaging in a scheme to pump and then dump Allied’s
value, that would be criminal, but he doesn’t come out and say
you’re breaking the law. That’s a critical legal
distinction.”

“So what’s your suggestion?”

“Just don’t say anything at all,”
Vesper advised. “Ignore it. The flip side of the site is that it
doesn’t prove anything. It’s all conjecture. I’d regard it as a
conspiracy kook’s hobby and pretend it doesn’t exist. If you go
after him with an injunction you’ll only increase the exposure and
publicity; if we could even
get
an injunction in the first
place.”

“So I let the cocksucker call me a liar
and a thief in front of the whole planet and just smile and ask him
if he’d like to fuck me in the ass when he’s done?” Griffen asked.
“That’s the best you can do?”

“Nicholas, we don’t even know who’s
behind this – it could be anybody. At this stage we know nothing
about them…or their motives.” He paused, collected his thoughts,
sighed. “I pulled the registration info on the site and it places
it in New Orleans, owned by a guy named Stanley Jorgenson with a
Hotmail account; probably a dead end. That’s all we have. I’m
looking into the address and the ID, but it smells fake. For now,
just let it go. That’s my advice.”

“Thanks for absolutely fucking
nothing,” Griffen hissed, frothing with seething indignation. He
slammed down the handset. Lawyers. Blood-sucking
parasites.

Still, Glen had a point.

Steven spent the whole morning at the
computer, the stock not doing much. Following lunch, he switched to
polishing his new site, trying to make it more presentable. Why did
everything usually take longer than it should, with nothing ever as
easy as it initially looked? Websites were apparently no
different.

After a full day of staring at screens
he decided he needed to depart cyber-reality and work the tension
out of his system. He drove to the dojo where he practiced his
skills, and donned his white gee. Steven was an eighth degree black
belt in Karate, a gold sash adept in Wing Chun Kung Fu, and at
master level in Jeet Kune Do.

He began with Karate, always, starting
with the
Geri Waza
and
Uchi Waza
form, then through
the
Tsuki
,
Uke
and
Hiji
. Switching
disciplines, he practiced the various nerve strikes and hand forms
for Kung Fu, and finally wound down with stretching and isometric
exercises.

His fascination with the disciplines
stemmed from watching Bruce Lee films when he was ten years old,
and from the first days when he began learning the initial stances
and kicks he’d been mesmerized by the sense of self-possession they
instilled. His interest had continued unabated throughout his adult
life and he’d now evolved to the point where the requirement to
practice the forms was more out of homage to the skills than from
necessity.

That lifelong involvement in martial
arts, along with four years in the military, had instilled a quiet
confidence and self-reliance in him, even if it had also made him a
loner. Perhaps that solitary streak explained why he’d never gotten
married and settled down – had a family – it always seemed like
stuff of the future, but right now he wasn’t in a big hurry to get
to that future. He was comfortable with things as they
stood.