Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome (7 page)

Griffen regarded Steven, appraising him
carefully.

“Look, everyone on Wall Street
cheerleads for the stocks they’re pushing and bashes those they’re
betting against. The whole street talks its book, and the media
sings along with them. That’s the way things have worked since
shares started trading. You don’t like the game, too bad. It has
nothing to do with the players.” Griffen tapped his ashes on the
railing.

Steven nodded. “That’s probably true.
Still, if you happen to be able to read tomorrow’s headlines today,
that would mean making huge money was as easy as knowing which
reporters to call, right?”

“That’s an oversimplification,” Griffen
said. “Eventually in any market, all facts will be known. That’s
the whole idea of the system. I tend to believe that the system
works pretty well, and that the last thing anyone needs is a bunch
of regulation in a market that’s working just fine.” He held up a
manicured finger. “Everyone whines when they’re on the wrong side
of the trade, and wants government to step in and get them out of
their bad bets. I say, too bad. The market isn’t about coddling
losers.”

Steven considered the logic. “Hmmm.
Perhaps. But in your case, where you hold sway over a lot of media
outlets, I could see where the temptation to pump the prospects of
loser companies you’d gotten into for pennies would be pretty
strong, then once the moron money was following along and believing
your line of BS, taking the opposite side of the trade and crushing
them would be child’s play. Seems to me like that’s a recurring
pattern in companies you’ve discovered – probably just coincidence,
right?” Steven smiled. “Anything for a buck, and all’s fair,
right?”

Griffen’s face flushed with anger.
“Everyone’s got an opinion. One man’s treasure is another man’s
junk. Nobody holds a gun to anyone’s head to invest in anything.”
He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t catch your name,”
Griffen said.

“I didn’t mention it. Just thought I’d
share an idea with you; you’re more vulnerable than you think. I
know what you’re trying to do with Allied, and it’s not going to
work. I wanted to tell you that you’ve overstepped this time.
You’ve bitten off a big piece – bigger than you can imagine.”
Steven stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and turned to walk
away.

Griffen grabbed his arm. “Just who in
the hell do you think you’re–” he started.

Steven pinched Griffen’s wrist at the
nerve meridian, causing him to yelp and release his grip on
Steven’s arm and clutch the spot from where the pain
emanated.

“It’s rude to get grabby with people
you just met.” Steven smiled again. “Consider this fair warning.
You’re nothing but a thug, and you’re not going to get away with it
on Allied.” Steven glared at Griffen, who had a scowl on his face
from the surprise of being accosted – and the discomfort of being
so easily swept physically aside.

Steven looked him up and down. “Have a
nice night. I’m sure the rest of your cockroach buddies are waiting
for your next line of horseshit. You don’t want to disappoint them,
leave them waiting.” With that, Steven turned and walked back into
the banquet hall, made his way to the exit, and then out onto the
street.

Griffen was suitably annoyed by the
incident, and his wrist hurt like a bitch, but he was unfazed by
some idiot’s threats. He’d made a lot of enemies over the years and
was accustomed to his adversaries vowing to bring him to justice.
It never amounted to anything. Talk’s cheap.

This was undoubtedly some disgruntled
investor who’d taken the wrong side of the Allied bet and was
losing his ass. Boo hoo.

As the pain diminished, he rationalized
that if you weren’t pissing people off and making enemies, then you
probably weren’t doing anything worth talking about.

The Police Commissioner came out onto
the balcony with a cigar and greeted Griffen like his long-lost
brother. They toasted with hundred-dollar-a-glass cognac, and the
incident was forgotten.

For the most part.

* * * *

Sunday morning, still at the hotel in
NY, Steven checked in with the Group and was delighted to find a
picture of Griffen walking out to pick up his morning paper. That
was hysterical, especially since he’d been standing across from him
in a business suit just twelve hours earlier. The photographer
explained he’d tracked down Griffen’s home address in Connecticut.
His buddy had snapped some shots that very morning using a
telephoto lens. Nice to know the great man went to the bathroom the
same as everyone else.

Somehow the sight of his adversary in a
robe, with his hair matted to one side, clutching his paper, made
the battle seem winnable. He uploaded it to the site, and linked it
to the message boards, under the heading, ‘Wall Street Wizard Plots
Next Master Move’.

Funny, funny stuff. Maybe Griffen would
feel a little more vulnerable after seeing the photo.

Steven checked out of his room and made
it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. He was scheduled to
arrive back in California by two o’clock, leaving much of the
afternoon available for relaxation. He considered an early evening
cruise on his sailboat with Jennifer to watch the sunset, and
calculated that he had plenty of time; the trip hadn’t been such a
big disruption after all.

The flight was smooth – the traffic
from the airport home predictably terrible.

In the late afternoon, Peter called
from Florida, catching Steven on the way out the door to the boat.
His news on Allied was largely negative – the management team was
sketchy; there had been virtually no external audits of the
technology or their financials. It had all the earmarks of a
company with something big to hide. His news on Griffen was not as
encouraging.

���Steve, these are bad guys. Even by
Wall Street standards, they stink. There’s rumors of them being
mobbed up, and they seem to have unusual connections in a lot of
regulatory areas. My contacts at the SEC went dark when Griffen’s
name surfaced, other than to disclose he’d developed a reputation
as a very savvy player. The NY attorney general won’t comment
except to point out that securities regulation is the province of
the SEC. There’s nothing in the FBI computers on him, although they
had a jacket on his former partner. That was closed, but they’re
digging it out for me.”

“I didn’t even know he had a partner.
Why was it closed?” Steven asked.

“That’s standard operating procedure
when the subject is deceased.”

“Deceased? When did he die?”

“About three years ago. It was in the
organized crime file section. It’ll take a few days to pull it out
of the archives.”

“I really appreciate the input,
Peter.”

“I don’t know the full scope of what
these jokers are up to, but I can tell you that in my day at the
Bureau this would have been more than enough to get a full-scale
investigation going. But it doesn’t look like anyone wants to know
anything about it, which is just strange, is all I can say.” Peter
paused. “Be careful, Steve. I don’t like the way this is shaping
up, and if my gut’s right this may be something you should walk
away from. I hope you aren’t doing anything to piss them
off.”

“It’s a little late for
that.”

“Watch your back. I’ll check in when I
have something more solid.”

Steven picked up Jennifer at her condo
and they made their way down the coast to the boat; a 34 foot
Catalina berthed in Dana Point. It was his one foolish indulgence,
which he’d acquired the second year his company had been
profitable.

Once past the breakwater a moderate
offshore breeze kept the summer doldrums from requiring the little
engine be run, which made for a quiet and peaceful afternoon on the
water. They both enjoyed the sensation of being pushed through the
waves by the usually mellow wind and tried to get out as often as
possible, which wasn’t easy given their schedules. They tacked out
a few miles, then up towards Newport before pointing the bow back
south and heading for home.

After the cruise they enjoyed a
wonderful dinner at Jennifer’s favorite place in Laguna Beach, and
rounded off the day by weaving tipsily back to Steven’s house,
replete and at peace with the world.

“Un-fucking-believable.” Griffen was
lost for any other words. That didn’t happen often.

“I figured you’d want to see it
firsthand,” Glen said.

“I want this prick. I don’t care what
it takes. He’s totally fucking with the wrong guy. Who does he
think he is?”

“I didn’t hear that. Any of
it.”

Griffen was sitting in the study of his
expansive home, staring at the flat screen monitor on his ornately
crafted desktop. There was his picture, from that very morning,
hair askew, face puffy, windblown, disheveled. It wasn’t the most
flattering shot. Glen stood next to him as they considered the
image, arms folded over his chest, the golfing hat and sunglasses
on his sepulcher-like features creating the impression of an
animatronic vision of death on holiday.

“This is way over the line. Fucking
unbelievable. I spent half of yesterday, a Saturday for chrissakes,
fielding calls from investors wanting to know if I’m in trouble on
Allied. And now I have my fucking privacy blown apart by some
anonymous shit-rat? How did he find out where I live? Is he trying
to threaten me? Is he trying to say I can find you but you can’t
find me? I want this asshole.” Griffen trembled with rage at this
invasion into his life.

“Germany should have some feedback
soon.” Glen paused, reading the caption underneath the photo. He
carefully considered his next words. “I think he’s trying to be
funny.”

“I’m laughing inside. I want
him.”

“I’ll show myself out,” Glen said.
“Enjoy your weekend.”

Griffen listened to Glen’s footsteps
retreating and the sound of the front door closing.

He leaned back in his chair. From the
doorway of the study the smell of jasmine floated into his space. A
strikingly beautiful Eurasian girl, half French, half Thai, about
twenty years old, entered. She was slim and looked much taller than
her five foot three frame suggested. She wore a red silk
gentleman’s smoking jacket and five-inch heels, and nothing else.
He quickly closed the offending web window, pulled out a vial from
his center drawer, dumping a little powder onto an antique mirror
he kept in the same drawer. He drew it into his nostril in one
powerful pull, using a jade tube with an elaborately carved dragon
motif on its side. Viagra and cocaine cocktail.

“What’s wrong, don’t you want to spend
any more time with me today? Isn’t there something I can do to make
you feel better? Let me help you relax…” She came around the desk,
and lowered herself to her knees in front of him.

He slapped her. Hard. It was so sudden,
so brutal, it took her completely by surprise. She looked up at him
and winced through forming tears.

“I told you not to talk unless I tell
you to. Now shut up and suck.”

Late that night Griffen’s phone rang.
Groggily, he fumbled through the dark to reach it.

“Hello?” he croaked into the
receiver.

“Mr. Griffen? This is Gunther Peck, an
associate of Mr. Vesper’s in Germany. I hope I’m not calling too
late, but Mr. Vesper indicated I was to call as soon as I had any
information available. Do you have a pen? I have the name from the
credit card used in the registration. There is no address
information but a post office box, yes?”

“Just a second. Let me turn on the
light and get this.”

In the hour after dawn, the grey Town
Car made its way through the Washington suburb of Georgetown to a
small coffee house that opened at 5 a.m.. It double-parked outside
until a young man in a sweater vest and skater shorts exited the
building and jumped in. Upon closer inspection the young man was in
his thirties and looked less like a student than a yuppie who
watched too much MTV.

He handed the driver a key-sized flash
drive. “Here’s the data we have so far. It would be most helpful if
site creator was kept occupied – his interest shifted to other
areas. We have reason to believe the site’s an impediment, and he’s
beginning to have a negative impact with his activities. We’d
appreciate if he was kept busy for the duration.” The speaker was
nondescript, calm, but with a note of steel to his
voice.

“I’ll see what we can do. This becomes
complicated if it goes much further. We have to be careful of
domestic operations. We can hassle him, but not much more. But I’m
thinking if we do it right, we can tie him up for months.” The
driver never looked over at the passenger.

“Any help will be welcomed,” said Emil.
He shouldered the door open, stepped out onto the curb and was gone
in seconds.

* * * *

Griffen sat in a small deli on the
upper West Side, deep in discussion with a giant of a man squeezed
into the booth across from him as Manhattan’s Monday morning rush
hour crawled past outside. The big man spoke in a hearty voice as
he sipped his espresso from a cup that resembled a shot glass in
his massive hand.