Need You Now

24

M anu Robledo unlocked the soundproof door to the church basement.

The workers had left for the day. Eventually, they might get around to restoring the two-hundred-year-old sanctuary to its former splendor. For the past month, however, the priority had been the basement. It was just days away from a complete rewiring, everything top of the line.

Robledo started down the stairs and switched on the handheld video camera. His tech team leader had assured him that encryption capabilities were in place to stream video safely across the Internet. Timely progress reports kept Robledo’s investors happy, and there was nothing like narrated video. He went to a section of the basement where the floorboards had yet to be laid, where the wires between joists were still exposed.

“We’ve run literally miles and miles of cable,” he said for the recording, “just like you see here. Think of it as a personal information pipeline that sucks in names, Social Security numbers, passport numbers, driver’s license numbers, addresses, phone numbers, and IP addresses. For basic searches we link one or more of those core identifiers to records on age, marital status, race, ethnicity, employment, home values, estimated income. But we can take it much further than that. We can break people down by the medicine they take, the books they read, the cologne they wear, the flights they’ve booked, the music they download-virtually any piece of personal information that is out there in cyberspace.”

Robledo could have gone on to explain the significance of that function, but his investors were smart people. They understood that purchase behavior and lifestyle data were invaluable in the perpetual quest to identify new recruits.

The camera continued to roll as he opened another door and entered a separate room of stacked computers.

“This is our grid,” said Robledo, “a state-of-the-art network of supercomputers. Lightning fast, and they hold more information than you can fathom. In just a few weeks’ time, we’ll be operating twenty-four/seven to analyze and match the information we gather, which will allow us to create a detailed portrait of hundreds of millions of adults-and, more important, young adults.”

He switched off the camera. Enough video. Tonight he would have his tech guy-an expert in steganography-embed it into a presentation on cookware or some other benign subject matter that would mask its true content. Then Robledo could transmit the file securely to the investors.

If I still have investors.

Robledo was all too aware that their patience was thinning. Three years was a long time to wait. Periodic reminders that most of Cushman’s victims had given up hope of recovering all of their losses had done absolutely nothing to reduce their expectations. That was his fault, really. He had promised them too much, raised their hopes too high. It wasn’t that he’d misled them. There had been good reason for Robledo to believe that his investors would get their money back, even if others lost every penny.

Gerry Collins had given him that assurance.

Robledo put the video camera away and pulled up a chair. Long days and too little sleep had left him drained and exhausted, but that didn’t stop the anger from rising. Years of networking and hard work were at stake. A loss of funding now would be disastrous. He was so close to becoming operational-would have been entering his third year of operation, if not for Gerry Collins. It was bad enough that Collins had steered him toward Cushman in the first place. Robledo had actually trusted him a second time.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

The worst part was that Robledo was still paying for that second mistake, unable to get it out of his mind. It was especially bad at times like these-when the investors demanded to know when they were going to see the money they’d lost and why the recovery was taking so long.

He closed his eyes to suppress his anger. It wasn’t working. The ghost of Gerry Collins came back to haunt him-taunt him-as that last meeting in Miami replayed in his mind’s eye. It had gone down on the last day of November, just weeks before Cushman confessed his massive fraud, jumped off his balcony, and left feeders like Gerry Collins to fend for themselves.

R obledo reached the Coconut Grove Marina just after nightfall. A cool breeze blew in from the bay, making it cold enough for a cotton turtleneck and a peacoat. Each puff of wind brought the ping and twang of taut halyards slapping against the tall, barren masts of countless sailboats. Hundreds of yachts slept silently in their slips, side by side. Somewhere in the distance, a diesel engine rumbled toward home, a lonely growl in the darkness. Robledo walked alone to the very end of the long, floating pier, where he boarded a forty-six-foot Hatteras Convertible.

Technically a fishing boat, Easy Money was more like a floating lap of luxury. The salon had been entirely redesigned for parties and entertainment, complete with club chairs, a wet bar, hand-crafted teak cabinetry, and even a flat-screen television. Eight months earlier, on this very yacht, Robledo had first met Gerry Collins, introduced by the owner Niklas Konig, a wealthy German businessman. Tonight’s reconvening had been at Robledo’s request, and Konig had graciously offered his boat.

“Bienvenido, mi amigo ,” said Konig. His Spanish wasn’t terrible, but it bugged Robledo that the man who had introduced him to Gerry Collins would call him a “friend.” Konig led him into the salon.

“Something to drink?” asked Collins, standing at the bar. He made the offer with a smile, but it seemed strained. The bags beneath his eyes were new, and they made him look much older than he was. His skin, too, had taken on an unhealthy ashen hue since that first meeting, before the entire financial world had turned upside down. Clearly, this was a man under enormous pressure.

“Nothing for me,” said Robledo.

Collins took another stab at congeniality and small talk, but Robledo wasn’t biting. “I’m here to talk money.”

Money was what most of Cushman’s investors wanted to talk about. Since the collapse of Lehman Brothers and Saxton Silvers, Cushman’s clients had requested $7 billion in redemptions. Cushman had stopped honoring them.

“My favorite subject,” said Collins, taking a seat on the couch. “Let’s talk.”

Konig joined him, seating himself in the club chair. Robledo remained standing.

“Take your coat off,” said Collins, “have a seat.”

Robledo did neither. He reached inside his peacoat, removed a thick envelope, and tossed it onto the cocktail table before his hosts.

“What’s this?” asked Collins.

“An analysis,” said Robledo.

“Of what?”

Robledo’s eyes narrowed. “The biggest fraud in the history of Wall Street.”

Collins’ phony smile evaporated. “Surely you don’t mean Mr. Cushman.”

Robledo jerked his arm forward, and the.22-caliber pistol that was strapped to his forearm beneath his coat slid into his hand. His next move was like lightning, giving his victim no time to react. The silenced projectile slammed into Konig’s chest, dropping him to the floor.

“Don’t!” shouted Collins.

Robledo took aim at his forehead.

“Please, I can fix this!”

Robledo hesitated, his finger poised to pull the trigger. He hadn’t come to listen, but there was poetry in watching a scumbag beg for his life.

“I can get the money back for you,” said Collins. “And more.”

“How stupid do you think I am?”

“Your funds never went to Cushman.”

“What?”

“You’re right,” said Collins. “Cushman is a Ponzi scheme. I figured that out eight, maybe ten months ago. But that’s good news for you.”

Robledo took sharper aim.

“No, please! Listen to me. I was one of Cushman’s biggest feeders for three years. After a while, it was obvious to me that he was a fraud, but here’s the thing,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “My clients didn’t want to hear it. I think half of them even knew it was smoke and mirrors, but nobody wanted the bubble to burst. So I kept taking their money, and I kept telling them that I was investing it with Cushman. But I lied. I haven’t sent money to Cushman in over six months.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s the truth, Manu. The last three quarterly statements I sent out showing investments with Cushman were all fakes. And here’s the best part. When Cushman blows up-which is right around the corner-all my clients will think they lost their money. They have no idea I’ve been stashing it away.”

“You’re lying.”

“It’s absolutely true! Not a single penny of what I funneled through BOS/Singapore ever reached Cushman. It’s all safe in offshore accounts. It won’t go down when he goes down. Get it? When Cushman blows up, the big winner is me .”

The scheme made too much sense to have been made up on the spot by a coward staring down the barrel of a gun. Robledo asked, “How much are we talking about?”

“Ten figures. Almost a third of that is yours.”

“A third?” he said, scoffing. “Wrong, my friend. All of it is mine.”

Collins stared back at the gun, which was still aimed at his face. “Let’s talk,” he said. “All I have to do is get my banker to unwind everything, and then everybody will take his fair share.”

“What banker?”

“Put the gun down so we can talk.”

“What banker? ”

“Please, I’m begging you. Don’t throw this opportunity away. Don’t pull that trigger.”

R obledo’s encrypted telephone line rang. It was the weekly call he dreaded. The one that made him wish he had ignored Collins’ pleas and pulled the trigger. It was from Ciudad del Este-from his investors. Robledo swallowed his anger and answered with the respect that was due his chief funder.

“I’m very sorry, Doctor ,” he said, using the Spanish pronunciation. The “doctor” wasn’t a medical doctor. He claimed to hold a doctor en derecho , though Robledo had never verified his law degree.

“Sorry for what, Manu?”

“I need a little more time.”

“Time has run out.”

“Please. I have upped the pressure. I should see results soon.”

“Upped the pressure how?”

Robledo paused, not sure if he should even mention Patrick Lloyd. True, he had threatened the boyfriend with the intent of doubling up the pressure on Lilly, but somehow Patrick had found the church, and Robledo wasn’t convinced that his overly affected accent had kept Patrick from realizing that the Reverend Robledo and the gunman in the back of the SUV were one and the same. He confined his remarks to Lilly.

“I made it clear to her today: no more stalling, or I put a bullet in her head.”

There was silence, then a chilling reply: “Don’t make me call you again, Manu.”

“No, of course not, Doctor .”

More silence, and then a final warning. “If I have to make just one more phone call, then take my advice, Manu. Put that bullet in your own head. It will be much more pleasant for you that way.”

The call ended, but Robledo continued to hold the phone to his ear, absorbing the threat, even after his funder had disconnected.

“Don’t worry,” he said, thinking aloud, “I have plenty of bullets.”