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.”
There was silence for a moment as we all considered what this meant.
As though we were too stupid to figure it out, Phyllis commented, “Really, it’s brilliant. The money gets laundered every time Grand Vistas sells the stock. Very large amounts of money. And if Morris Networks’ stock rises in value, Grand Vistas and its clients make scads more money.”
Well, the realities were ever-shifting inside this room. The floodgates were open, and Janet and I were being deluged with disclosures and information-just, notably, not the specific information I had very clearly asked for.
In short, we had their balls in our hands, just not all their balls.
I said, “Explain why George Meany was at my apartment so fast this morning?”
Phyllis replied, “You’ll have to ask George that question.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I don’t have that answer.”
“I think you do.”
“You think wrong. We’re teamed with the FBI on this matter, but we don’t share everything.” She added, “And neither do they.”
No kidding. The CIA and FBI not talking to each other? Could that be? She was probably lying, but the best lies are always grounded in the best truths.
I looked up at Peterson. A minute before, he had realized that his subordinates were withholding information not only from us, but from him. Phyllis and Jack probably now had a few career issues to sort through with him.
But he had either concluded that we’d already heard enough, or that we really did not need to hear the next big revelation, because that next big revelation was very bad-that it was illegal, and completely indefensible. Or perhaps he didn’t want to hear that next confession because he’d lose his plausible deniability. Nobody survives six years in his job who doesn’t know when he’s heard enough.
Changing the conversation, he faced Janet and asked, “Tell me what you think I can do for you. How can we resolve this?”
Janet said, “I want the killer and the people responsible.”
“You’re asking too much.”
“I am not. I want justice for my murdered sister and my father. The murderer and the people who sent him.”
He looked at me. “Can you reason with her?”
Shit -there it was. The Choice; do I screw Lisa’s memory and my friendship, or whatever my exact relationship was with Janet; or trample on my oath of service and my sworn duty to safeguard and preserve what was obviously a dire national secret?
I could feel Janet’s eyes looking into my heart, and I could feel Clapper’s eyes boring into my soul.
I said to Peterson, “The hit man has sworn to kill me, Janet, and our families. You understand this, right?”
“I have no problem with getting the killer. He’s a cold-blooded murderer and deserves to be brought to justice.”
“Define justice.”
He had anticipated this question and replied, “Don’t be premature. We’ll define his justice when we find him.”
And at just that moment, Clapper, who’d been silently witnessing this affair, said, “Director Peterson, I think you should answer Sean’s question.”
I glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at me.
“All right,” Peterson said. “I won’t pretend or deny that it wouldn’t be hugely convenient if the killer were to resist apprehension and force the issue. There are alternatives, however. If we take him alive, the Director of the FBI and I can classify him as a terrorist, and a security risk, and seal his trial. Are you satisfied?”
No-I wanted this bastard dead and buried. But I was satisfied the legal technicalities were being met.
Clapper asked, “And if we learn the names of his direct accomplices?”
“I can’t, and I won’t, bend on that,” Peterson replied. “His accomplices need to feel secure and stay in place for the continued success of Trojan Horse.” He added, “At some point, indeterminate at this stage, their day of reckoning will come. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”