Siam Rendezvous
Smashwords edition
Text by
William J. Aronson
eISBN 978-616-222-045-6
Published by www.bangkokbooks.com
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Text Copyright© William J. Aronson
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Thailand is simply the most beautiful, exotic country on the planet, and the only one that I find to be truly livable. If it weren’t for Thailand, life on this planet, with its too, too restrictive cultures would be totally unbearable.
Islam is disturbing and Hinduism is an eye-roller. Christianity has been a two thousand year scourge on Western civilization. Thailand, on the other hand, with its tranquil laissez-faire Buddhism and lazy pace has its mind wide open; the way the rest of the world should be in many, many ways. The prissy politically correct hypocrisy of our western culture is disgusting.
Thailand has near perfect-hot-weather, beaches and beautiful jungle; in addition to the fascinating hill tribes. The culture is based on pleasure; examples being the wonderful inventive cuisine and exotic intimate massages.
“Exotic” never revealed its true meaning until defined through life in Thailand. The Land of Smiles attracts many of the most fascinating, adventurous people in the world-outside of New York City-and somehow many end up washing down drink at its bars. It is a wonderful place for very special people to live out their dreams. *
*paraphrased from unknown publication
CHAPTER 1
It is easier to go forward when you know you can’t go back. The biker reaffirmed this steadfast commitment from this most current perspective. He recalled his earlier exploits which had taken him from the caverns of Wall Street and the staid banks of Switzerland through the somber streets of London; to his ultimate destination: The pastoral countryside of Chiang Mai, Thailand. He confidently zigged and zagged his way along the main road leading him the through mountain passes and steep peaks; maneuvering his bike along the many bends in the road while the lucid blue skies and the clear cool mountain air continually rewarded the biker with a gift of vitality.
Along this well traveled passageway, adorned with clumps of banana trees, palms and rural dishevelment, is a gathering of simple shacks with ubiquitous rusted corrugated metal roofs. These casually fabricated structures, albeit makeshift shacks, are home to fruit vendors, groceries shops, and open air restaurants.
Goo-ay dtee-oh, a delicious and satisfying omnipresent delight is far from humdrum. This chicken, pork, or beef Thai noodle soup is often augmented with an amazing array of condiments. This enriching repast is habitually eaten by locals and famished travelers’ night or day.
In the western cultures omnipresent fast food restaurants speckle the thoroughfares illustrating a broad cultural divide. The biker recalled these vast western roadways with their endless seas of neon, billboards, and golden arches, accommodating a selection of fast food restaurants which endeavor to induce the hungry traveler to indulge in a hurried uninspiring meal.
Poo-chai law, handsome man in Thai, was heard from one of the classic noodle stalls as the biker paused briefly at a crossroads. The source of this flattering comment was a Thai woman no more than twenty-two years old. Without any obvious ulterior motive and with a welcoming smile on her eye-catching guiltless face; she beckoned him to stop. Her shapely slender body was wrapped tightly with a salmon-colored cotton sarong; a white cotton fitted blouse accenting her full breasts; her stunning jet black hair gently falling on her shoulders. He thought about stopping for soup and a smile; but today for some unknown reason, he chose instead to continue without delay.
The biker had made such stops often over the years and was seldom disappointed with the soup, the demeanor, and the hospitality. However, for some curious reason, today was unlike any other day. Without any hesitation, he journeyed on with determination from his momentarily considered hiatus. He had learned to trust his instincts in the past; he would trust them again.
Songkran is a three day holiday which takes place in mid-April to celebrate the traditional Thai New Year. Schools, banks and most businesses are closed while Thailand takes a water break. This holiday is celebrated brilliantly all around the kingdom; however, in the northern city of Chiang Mai and its surroundings, this event creates a stage for total chaos with thousands of children and adults standing by the roadside throwing water on passing cars, bicycles, and pedestrians. The original intent was to sprinkle a bit of water on friends and neighbors wishing them good luck and a healthy New Year; however, this blessing spread from a few drops and a few days of quiet celebration to outlandish pandemonium.
The biker had timed this trip to beat the heat, aware that he would be riding through a deluge of water which inundated the city dweller as well as the countryside inhabitants. No traveler is immune to the torrents of Thailand’s New Year festival merriments.
His casual debonair exterior and dauntless self-confidence, sort of an anomaly in this part of the world, took precedence over his soggy less than dapper appearance as he arrived at the luxurious hotel. Lifting his full face Simpson helmet revealed his thinning salt and pepper hair. He released the bungee cord which secured his olive green canvas pack, and slung it over his shoulder. The biker sauntered up to the concierge located at the lobby entrance on this watery, sunny, balmy Songkran day. He displayed only slight signs of fatigue from the challenges of his aquatic adventure.
After gesturing a familiar greeting to the concierge, the farang, or foreigner in the Thai lingo, strolled into the lobby. “Is Basil in today?” In respectable English, the Thai doorman replied, “Sure thing, he’s attending to the bar in the saloon. He’ll be pleased to see you, Sir. Sawasdee Pee Mai,” placing his hands together below his nose, while bending slightly offering the traditional wai and New Year’s greeting.
The biker reflected on his many fortunes as he attempted to dry himself from this high-spirited outing. The staff was well aware of the customs of the Songkran holiday and would not be taken aback by this water drenched biker.
This elder representative of the Thai motorcycle riding social order inspected his appearance in the hotel lobby’s antique mirror. He had weathered the water cascades well. Any other time other than this Songkran holiday festival, he would probably been viewed in quite a different light. He ambled toward the saloon while the hotel staff smiled and observed. He was more than a bit thirsty from his ninety minute exhilarating motorcycle ride and in quest of a long cool drink, or more accurately on this Thai New Year’s Day, a cold double dry martini.
His khaki safari vest clung to his black cotton t-shirt; his multi-pocketed khaki trousers, sheltered somewhat from the full onslaught by his safari shirt, were better off but far from dry. His boots, similar to those known as desert boots in the 60’s, were water logged and had now discolored from light tan to deep chocolate brown. The biker was a fitting candidate for the role of the confident self-effacing adventurer. His imprint was accentuated by a red and white cotton floral designed bandana slung loosely around his neck.
Located in a lush green valley sixty-five kilometers from the center of town, this Four Seasons managed hotel is well revered. The expansive décor of this luxurious and impressive lobby is imposing. Wood and stone carved figures border the entryway along with an array of orchids and uncommonly shaped rock ponds. The clear water pools, filled with large multicolor carp, gently flowed through a colorful cornucopia of water lilies and exotic plantings.
The bouquet emanating from the array of flowers is as hospitable as the décor itself. Buddha images and brilliant Nepalese wall hangings adorn the teak carved walls. The floor consists of geometrically designed teak planks secured by polished wooden pegs and covered with Tibetan carpets.
The entry through the huge corridor is defended by a massive bronze, copper, and silver rosewood carved door. The ambiance created is reminiscent of the Oyster Bar at the Plaza Hotel in NYC, a previously frequently visited watering hole favored by the biker in a different life a couple of decades ago.
Basil, a handsome solicitous lok kreung; half-Thai half-Jamaican, has been in the employ of the hotel since it opened. Advancing from waiter, bartender and more recently to head barman, Basil has taken his place as one of the saloon’s irrefutable fixtures. Guests from around the globe look for Basil when returning each year.
“Sawasdee Krup, Khun Basil,” said the biker with a traditional wai. The proficient bartender returned the greeting and in flawless English replied, “Good day, Sir, Nice to see you.”
This unusual patron requested his usual. “Very cold, please,” he reminded Basil. “Certainly, Sir,” exclaimed the accomplished barman. “And how are you today, Sir?” “A bit waterlogged,” he jested as he looked down at his clothing. It’s a jungle out there Basil, it’s a jungle out there!” They both laughed in the knowledge that the mountainous road winding its way to this Mae Sa Valley hotel, was, in fact, carved from dense Southeast Asian jungle.
Moments later, the drink he required was fashioned. “Happy New Year, Basil.” He lifted the large double martini and sipped his cocktail; the ideal blend of Stolichnaya vodka, dry vermouth and a couple of pimento stuffed green olives.
The effect of the martini shortly became evident as the celebrated biker collected himself after his exhilarating bike ride; a slight inebriation explained his stare across the room. The figure of a gentleman drinking a glass of wine emerged from behind a Chinese ivory adorned screen; a deep bronze tanned silver haired man who appeared to be in his sixties. Under ordinary circumstances the biker would have paid little attention to this foreigner; yet, something suggested a second look. He recreated images from his past; it had been many years. Could it possibly be? On further reflection, his query was answered. He now had no doubt.
It had been more than a decade since they had last met. Life exposed measurable wear on both; yet, they appeared to have weathered well. Bill’s judicious exit from his life in stressful, bustling New York City, to the unhurried countryside of a Thailand had indeed shaped his future, and to a limited degree, altered his profile.
The elder man, at first annoyed that he was being scrutinized, suddenly beamed and with a broad smile and gleeful eyes rose from his chair and gaited to his godson. Bill was initially taken back by this chance encounter and hesitated for a moment, then without delay hastened to embrace the man. It had been far too many years since Bill had seen his beloved godfather, Joseph Stefano.
CHAPTER 2
William Francis Flower had stayed in contact with Papa Joe Stefano for the first years following his untimely Manhattan departure. Yet, Flower’s had resolved to live in secrecy; safekeeping his privacy, his unidentifiable persona, and the vague circumstances of his earlier life.
Leonard David Mason, the given name of his childhood de facto brother, a disabled young boy who, while living with William and his father, died without elucidation. The eleven year old boy who suffered from headaches, dizziness and occasional blackouts stumbled while playing by the river, hitting his head on a piling and falling into the fast moving undercurrent of the East River. Bill, thirteen years old at the time, searched for the boy for over an hour. At last, he hauled Leon’s lifeless body was from the banks of the river. It was the middle of the night and Bill had no one to help; he called his godfather, Joseph Stefano.
No police report regarding the boy’s demise was filed. All questions regarding the boy’s whereabouts from neighbors, school, or his schoolmates were simply dismissed. Interested parties were told the disabled boy had gone to live with his aunt in San Diego. In actuality; the boy had no one; no relatives to care for him, in San Diego or anywhere else.
The birth certificate of Leonard David Mason was on file in the Bronx Hall of Records. Bill’s father had been receiving a monthly disability benefits check from the US Social Security system. The disability was based on caring for two dependent minor children, Leon and William. If the accidental death were reported, Bill’s father’s monthly check would have been halved. Social services department investigators would uncover the fact that there was only one legal dependent in the home. The monthly check which Bill’s father was receiving would be subject to investigation with possible fraud charges filed. Therefore, Joe thought it best not to report the deadly mishap. Opening this Pandora’s Box would reveal the less than legitimate circumstances surrounding the accidental drowning. With his regularly inebriated father at his side, young Bill and Papa Joe arranged a quiet burial upstate. The matter was calmly and tastefully handled by Joe. The quiet disturbed young boy was soon forgotten by school mates and his teachers; too soon. Time passed and the deceased boy now had reached the age of eighteen. Leon’s birth certificate and a social security card were all that were needed to open a bank account. Other easily obtainable identification was compiled by Bill to assure Leon’s identity; so when an ambitious social security case investigator contacted Bill’s father to investigate the status of the disabled boy, Bill was ready.
With Leon’s identification displayed on the table for the benefit of the investigator, Bill and his father sat waiting for the appointment at the metal dining table in the fourth floor of the west side of Manhattan walk up. Soon, the over weight young case worker arrived; impatient and sweating profusely from the unwelcomed fourth floor walk up.
The interview began. Suddenly Bill feigned a dizzy spell and was led to a couch by his anxious father. A cold towel was placed on Bill’s forehead and a plastic bowl placed by his side. Bill discreetly shoved his fingers down his throat and gagged; vomiting in the bowl while shaking his head and mumbling apologies. The investigator glanced again at the identification, made some final notes, and quickly exited the now rancid apartment.
This charade, enacted to perfection by Bill, secured the continued flow of monthly Social Security checks, thus allowing Bill’s father to maintain his modest lifestyle without financial concerns. They were not challenged by this social services investigator again.
Bill, not yet eighteen, was a major contributor to the household; saving his money for a new television, couch, and dining set. However, Bill’s aspirations were much higher than simply buying new household furnishings for his father; in fact, far beyond his father’s wildest imagination.
A Wall Street trader was the profession Bill chose to pursue. Upon graduation from Manhattan’s P.S.121, William was offered a job as a runner on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange with Greenwich Partners, a New York Stock Exchange specialist firm. He was fingerprinted and photographed, a routinely required procedure for employment with all Wall Street firms. His flawless criminal and driving record was researched and he was hired. He was now officially employed as a runner on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange; the first step on his road to riches.
He was electrified by the energy on the floor. He often walked the two miles from the Exchange to Joe’s Tribeca restaurant. He shared with Joe many of the daily events which took place. He was now in the show, the big show; albeit only a minor player, but now part of the biggest money game in the world.
CHAPTER 3
After a couple years on the floor with Greenwich Partner, one of Joe’s customers and friends, acknowledged Bill as a talented, insightful, bright, young man. He mentioned to Joe that the New York Stock Exchange member firm McDermott & Co. was looking for young trainees. He arranged an interview for Bill. In spite of initial concern regarding Bill’s lack of a university degree; he impressed the partners of McDermott & Co. and was asked to join the training program along with several young Ivy League graduates and well connected young men. He excelled in the security training school and it was suggested that he enroll in night investment classes at New York University. McDermott & Co. agreed to pay for the night courses.
Bill very soon realized that McDermott & Co. was more than an old established company. McDermott & Co. was a slowly dying company. The principle reason McDermott & Co. hired him and paid for his further education was easily explained. The firm was desperately in need of new blood; new talent. Bill was a fast learner, had superb recall, a great memory, and possessed a natural sense of the markets. Over the next few years, Bill progressed from being an assistant on the corporate bond trading desk to an arbitrage trader. He became a licensed stock broker and portfolio manager.
Bill’s courses at New York University night school had paid off. He absorbed everything in the area of finance, banking, investments, and related areas of economics like a sponge. Young ambitious Bill was on the road to wealth and financial independence with successes following more swiftly than he could ever have imagined. Bill’s prudent management of investment accounts was soon recognized. He was recruited to manage funds of some of Manhattan’s most prominent physicians, lawyers, athletes, sports commentators, and celebrities.
Attending an uptown charity gala with Joe one evening, Joe introduced Bill to a Manhattan attorney named Avery Richardson. Bill, Joe, and Richardson were soon engaged in a heated political conversation. Joe, realizing the discussion would not lead to any justifiable resolution; left them alone to continue their discussion. Bill and Avery were getting along quite well in spite of their vast philosophical and political differences. Avery listened to the naïve bright young portfolio manager while all the time making his own assessment of the young man.
The following Monday morning, a modest sum was deposited to a new account at McDermott & Co. Bill was asked to manage the funds. Avery Richardson specified that the trading and investment choices were to be made by none other than William Francis Flower. The first impression Bill made on Avery Richardson at the fund raiser was obviously a good one. Bill wrote a memo to Richardson stating his investment strategy clearly while thanking him for his support. A steady inflow of deposits followed reinforcing his confidence.
The compliance director of the firm noted that the names of the new investors were not disclosed as required by SEC law. Bill called Richardson. He was told the names would not be disclosed under any circumstances and the company knowingly accepted this non-disclosure compliance risk. Obviously, influenced by this steady flow of large deposits to the account, McDermott & Co., a desperate firm in need of accounts to manage, accepting this condition.
Street smart Bill was soon to realize the group’s activities were not one hundred percent on the up and up; yet, he had little choice but to continue. He discussed this situation with his Papa Joe, who suggested that for the interim, he stay with McDermott& Co.; but remain cautious. “The investors are probably well-known athletes or celebrities who want to remain anonymous,” Joe said. Although Bill didn’t believe a word of it; but he continued to manage the accounts.
Bill’s market performance was only mediocre for this group. His conservative performance in the accounts he managed drew very little attention, however, Bill recognized negative telltale signs in the market which made him wary of a continuation of the strong upward market bias. He elected to err on the side of caution. Bill’s view was that the markets were overdue for a correction. A significant downward move was in the wind; when, he did not know; yet, it became more and more apparent it was coming and when it did it would be severe.
Corrections usually tended to be more vicious than most money managers anticipated. Bill suspected a major decline would occur based partially on his knowledge of technical market analysis; exacerbated by a highly overbought condition, complacency, and over valued stock prices.
The unsophisticated investor, confident and enjoying highly profitable, highly margined speculative accounts, would inevitably be forced into panic selling when the markets started to decline. In layman’s terms, the selling would feed on itself; inspired by the panic. Bill had not personally experienced a significant market decline before; however, he had diligently studied previous declines and recognized this time it would not be all that dissimilar.
He prepared his accounts for the downturn; planning not merely to get out early, sit on the sidelines, or to ride out the storm. No, he and his accounts would profit hugely from the decline.
He received criticism almost daily from several of the partners for his ultra-conservative management and his overly cautious outlook. He was privately reprimanded for being too timid. It was implied that Bill may lose some of the managed accounts to one of the more ambitious account managers if he did not soon change his style. Bill realized the time was getting near for the markets to get hit.
Within two weeks, the opportunity he had been waiting for was upon him. He started liquidating his accounts; selling into what he deemed was a weak last gasp bull rally and began shorting heavily, i.e., selling borrowed shares. This was the final bull spike preceding a near record market decline. His confidence grew as the markets toped out and he increased his short position to 80% and bought put options with the other 20%. He was betting the market would continue down, and close that day down big.
Bill’s prediction of the giant downturn of the markets in October 1987, known as Black Monday, was uncanny. Timing for his managed investment accounts, to include his personal account, could not have been better. Typically an account managed by Bill more than tripled in value in the following weeks. Bill waited and then started to cover, or buy in, the majority of his short positions, logging in the gains while panic selling was driving prices down.
News on the street is seldom kept silent for long. Talk about the exceptional timing of this portfolio manager at McDermott spread and, as expected, he soon had several serious career enhancing offers. A special partner’s meeting was held and Bill, whom the firm was fearful of loosing, was hurriedly promoted to a full partnership at McDermott & Co. By the age of 39, William Francis Flower was on the road to fulfilling his lifelong dream.
The identity of the investors making up his largest account was never disclosed. After several requests from the compliance department, the tenacious compliance officer of the firm was hastily dismissed by the partners after twenty years of service. Compliance was not the primary responsibility of a portfolio manager. If McDermott & Co. had knowingly elected to take this risk; so be it. The group’s motive for secrecy was not celebrity, but was in fact due to their nefarious illegal activities; the source of their funds.
Welcoming the profits attained from the market decline, this group of faceless investors became exceedingly confident and increased their financial commitment. They had profited immensely from the 1987 crash while most others had lost big. They recognized that this laundry, their original intent, could be more lucrative than previously expected; particularly, if funds were managed by William Francis Flower.
The deposits to the account were generally in the form of cashier’s checks arriving on regular intervals from banks around the globe. The group was now responsible for the lion’s share of the monies Bill managed and the majority of the monies under management at McDermott & Co.
The market value of most investment accounts of McDermott & Co. was greatly diminished by the market’s severe drop. McDermott’s aggressive portfolio account managers had buried their accounts as well as their heads in the sand as a result of the steep market decline. Many of the greatly reduced managed accounts were transferred to other firms as rapidly as rats leave a sinking ship; McDermott & Co. was destined to become that sinking ship. The group was ready to pounce on this wounded firm like a lion on a disabled zebra.
Bill attended a meeting at a downtown Manhattan restaurant. It was arranged by none other than Avery Richardson. Bill and Richardson were seated with two of the partners of McDermott & Co. Two heavy set men entered the room adorned in shiny black pinstriped suits, silver silk shirts and silver ties. Slick black hair and gaudy gold jewelry gave them the appearance of Damon Runyon characters in a mobster movie. Bill was awestruck and speechless.
Richardson briefly introduced the men and outlined the purpose of the meeting. A plan had been devised for these men and their bosses to take control of the firm, forcing retirement of all but indispensable partners. The firm was to become a full time financial laundry; an illegal yet somewhat legal vehicle to wash their dubiously obtained funds. Bill was one of the partners invited to stay with the firm. Bill needed out, but this was not the time. He obviously wanted no part of this dreaded scenario.
The direction which Bill and the few essential remaining partners would be required to go, regarding management of the firm, would no doubt, be subject to the demands of these thugs; probably leading to phony underwritings and illegal stock manipulations.
A discreet inquiry was surreptitiously made by one of Bill’s sources. As suspected, the group was involved in drugs, prostitution, children peddling from Asia and Mexico, and a variety of other unsavory illegal activities. Bill was laundering and managing their dirty money and they were profiting immensely; he could no longer live with himself. At the moment, Bill had no choice but to go along with their plan. Bill was certain without the input of their monies McDermott & Co. would be forced into liquidation and with their monies he would be eventually apprehended and sent to prison. Bill and the two remaining partners of McDermott & Co. would eventually be charged as co-conspirators. Bill needed out and now.
On Wall Street, the game is played by the Street’s strict rules. Leaving a Wall Street firm is not an unusual occurrence; the routine consequences generally involving tax payments on cash distributions of partnership payouts, profit sharing plans evaluated and funded, exercising of stock options, etc. These guys played by a very different set of rules. There was out, no retirement without their approval; the only exit a final one without reprieve. It became patently obvious to Bill that he must devise his own exit plan.
The time for Leon’s previously established identity to surface was now. William Francis Flower, senior portfolio manager of McDermott & Co., would very soon be no longer. That following Monday morning, a new account was opened at McDermott & Co. The name on the account was Leonard David Mason, 111 Banhofstrasse, Zurich, Switzerland. Trading authorization giving authorization of all assets in the account was directed to William Francis Flower. Documents were signed. Confirmation of trades, monthly statements, and all records of account activity mailed to: Mr. Jerome Switzer, CPA, 454 Madison Avenue, New York New York 10020. A messenger delivered a packet with a Citicorp cashier’s check for $500,000 made out to McDermott & Co with instructions to deposit to the account of Leon David Mason. The $500,000 was derived from funds Bill had successfully accumulated through his personal investing.
Mr. Jerome Switzer CPA, was the name and address of a fictitiously created accountant. Bill rented a small office on the seventh floor of the 454 Madison Avenue building with a mail slot through the door below the name Mr. Jerome Switzer CPA. Daily confirmation of trades and written confirmation of all other account activity McDermott & Co. would fall through this slot. Four Swiss bank accounts were established in the name of Leonard Mason with wires instructions included.
The previous year Bill had traveled to Switzerland and then on to London and had opened these banks accounts in the name of Leon Mason. Bill was actively trading and sought to legally shelter as much of the gains from U. S. taxes. With this investment account open and all the necessary papers signed and filed, Bill would soon begin his final exit process.
Short term high quality U. S. Treasury bonds maturing in two to four years made up ninety percent of the investment account’s assets. He demonstrated his usual pattern of safety and income, drawing little to this account.
Methodically he starting making matching buy and sell trades on the same securities in his newly opened account and in the managed group account. He chose highly volatile, actively traded, listed stocks. The volatile securities traded had patterns of 2 to 4 percentage points movements in a day. He crossed, or as some may call it, traded 50,000 to 150,000 shares of listed stocks in these accounts every day. He sold short in one account; in the other account, he bought the same security long. After the close of the trading day, he would use his partner’s key, enter the Purchase & Sales Department, the ‘cage’ as it is called, and alter the designated account numbers of the trades showing the losses in the ‘mob’s account’ and the profits in the account number with the name Leon Mason.
The revision of these account numbers worked without creating any immediate problem. However, in short order, the forensic accounts would be alerted to this obvious pattern of convoluted trading. A partner’s signature on a trade confirmation was necessary to make any and all changes, even including a change of address. Bill, a partner of the firm, initialed these changes, allowing the revisions to go undetected for the moment.
Bill calculated that with six to eight trades a day, over a period the three weeks; he’d complete the transfer. $5,000,000 was taken from the group account and appeared in the account of Leon Mason. If invested wisely, the five million should last him a lifetime.
This pattern of convoluted trades would eventually be brought to the attention of the auditors. Bill wisely chose a time of year when many of the firm’s senior partners were either beaching it on Barbados or lounging about at their ski chalets, or staying at home with their families. December 10th through Jan 2nd was the traditional time for portfolio adjustments on Wall Street for tax and other considerations; only, a cursory view of a fellow partner’s trading would be taken.
On the surface, the trades appeared to be routine tax trades; merely year end portfolio adjustments. Accounts managed by Bill, a trusted senior partner, and overseen by Bill, the senior partner heading up the influential year end bonus compensation committee, were seldom scrutinized and furthermore, an in-depth examination was unlikely on this Christmas/New Year holiday week. Soon the cash balance in the Leon Mason account exceeded $5,500,000, including Bill’s, or rather Leon’s initial deposit.
The wiring of the funds was set to commence on Thursday, December 22nd. Bill chose that day wisely. Monday the banks and the markets were closed; thus allowing him an extra day should something not go according to his carefully orchestrated plan. The funds were sent late on the afternoon on the 22nd from U.S. Trust in NYC. The wiring instructions designated that $1,375,000 was to be sent to each of the four Swiss banks.
On the morning of the 23rd, the confirmation of the wire transfers to Switzerland was received. It was now time for Bill’s untimely demise. He could not simply disappear. The group had contacts around the world and would track him globally. He’d always be looking over his shoulder. He thought of altering his appearance through plastic surgery; however, after much consideration he concluded his best choice was to be gone and gone forever.
Fortunately for Bill, yet unfortunate for so many, Christmas weekend in the New York City drew many corpses. One such corpse must be found to fit his approximate physique and age. Bill needed assistance in this matter. He devised a plan and had no choice but to involve his Papa Joe. Joe. Joe felt a responsibility for introducing Bill to Richardson, thereby creating this whole mess. Joe now had his chance to rectify his mistake.
Papa Joe arranged for Bill to meet with a fingerprinting expert. The expert lifted Bill’s prints on to nearly invisible tape. The plan was to transpose the tape onto the fingertips of an appropriate anonymous death victim, thereby claiming Bill as the demised. This charade was to be orchestrated by Bill and his and godfather, Joseph Stefano. On Monday, December 26th, Joe received a call from a confidant, a cooperating New York City policeman. Joe went directly to the city morgue to identify the corpse of the yet unidentified unfortunate as William Francis Flower of New York City.
This unidentified man with a similar body type and age was killed by a drunken driver as he emerged from a restaurant off of Eighth Avenue. The body was taken directly to the morgue. The cooperating New York City cop had exchanged Bill’s ID and Joe’s business card for the information of the deceased, an out-of-towner whose body would be claimed at a much later date, and would probably only appear as an obituary in a Kansas City newspaper.
Bill and Joe both realized this third party involvement was a risk. The $10,000 paid to this man in blue, along with an audio tape of the acceptance of the payoff, should secure the silence and continued cooperation of this member of New York’s finest.
Prior to the formal identification, the assistant coroner allowed Joe a few private minutes with the boy to say his final farewell. Joe took this opportunity to secure the nearly invisible tape to the fingertips of the deceased man. Joe tearfully identified the body as that of William Francis Flower. The coroner attested his visual identification. The fingerprints were soon taken by his assistant confirming, for the moment anyway, the identity of the corpse as that of William Francis Flower.
Bill impatiently waited at a small Brooklyn hotel while a short, unceremonious funeral followed the cremation. The funeral was attended by McDermott & Co. remaining partners, two dispassionate group members, Avery Richardson, Miss Susan Rangel, some Wall Street friends, his ailing father, and, of course, Joseph Stefano. The obituary, which appeared in the New York Times, was brief:
PORTFOLIO MANAGER VICTIM OF IN HIT AND RUN
The body of William Francis Flower, partner of NYSE member firm McDermott & Co., was found on Eighth Avenue Saturday night. Apparently, Mr. Flower was crossing the avenue when struck by a passing car. Witness says the car was traveling at a very rapid pace…etc., etc.
Bill left very little in the way of life insurance. A $250,000 life policy, one of the perks given to partners of McDermott & Co; this went to his father, Mr. George H. Flower of Manhattan. Bill’s apartment furnishing and other personal items were left to Miss Susan Rangel. Miss Rangel, also of Manhattan, lived with Bill on occasional weekends and was Bill’s favorite traveling companion. They had spent many restful weekends in the ‘hamptions, the Caribbean, and the Florida Keys. Both were avid fisher people and enjoy seeking out hot spots noted for spectacular fishing.
Susan was seeking partnership at one of the top law firms on Wall Street. As an aggressive attorney with Stevens, Stranders and Craig, she often spent a good deal of her time, to include many evenings and often weekends in the office. When time permitted, they enjoyed each other’s company; however, as is the case in so many New York City relationships between dynamic busy people, the subject of marriage never came up. It just wasn’t in the cards for either of them, at least not now, and now obviously, never.
CHAPTER 4
Am I a bad man or a simply a good man tripped up by fate? Leon momentarily considered his untimely departure from the stressful life of a Wall Street portfolio manager. As he boarded the flight, his thoughts wandered from leaving the U.S. forever to his new life without direction, responsibility or financial obstacles. The decision was obviously irreversible. It is easier to go forward when you know you can’t go back. Forward he would go. He had done what he had to do to survive; an instinct he acquired through his difficult, problematic youth.
He was shown to his first class seat on the Swiss Air flight to Zurich. This was the second time Leon had flown Swiss Air. The first being a year before when the identity of Leon Mason was used to open the Swiss bank accounts that now held his future, his monies, and his freedom. The next six uninterrupted hours in the air would allow him the opportunity to further collect his thoughts.
“A cocktail, Sir? Or perhaps you would you prefer to see the wine list?” “Please bring me a cocktail and the wine list,” he said to the flight attendant, gazing up from the comfort of his leather First Class lounger. “A cold Stolichnaya martini straight up with two olives, and the wine list, please,” replied the fortunate first class patron.
The wine bottle of 1982 Chateau Ducru-Beaucaillou Saint-Julien was opened by another conspicuously striking woman. An additional perk of flying first class, the array of beautiful women, thought Leon. Some say first class isn’t what it used to be. Expensive perhaps; yet this would no longer concern him, not now, or ever again. “Sir. Your dinner selection.” Leon was handed a menu displaying several choices. “I’ll order now, please. Filet mignon rare, steamed vegetables and baked potato. I’d like a small slice of lemon cheese cake with Swiss dark chocolate topping for dessert,” politely directed Leon, “and an anisette and double espresso.” “Very well, sir. Dinner will be served shortly soon after we are in the air.”
Leon poured the wine into his glass and was brought the New York Times. He took a sip of the impressive red and opened the paper to the obituary page. He was taken back by the headline.
PORTFOLIO MANAGER FOUND DEAD. HIT AND RUN DRIVER SOUGHT.
The text which followed was almost boiler plate with a brief summary of his stunted scholastic background, his career, and his insignificant family background. Is that all his life was worth: a brief boiler plate obit?
He considered his circumstance. Be ever so careful; don’t be too sure of yourself, take every possible precaution. His plan was far from completed. There was so much more to be done. Bill’s face had become familiar on Wall Street since the news of his demise; especially in light of his recently publicized financial success. In spite of his relaxed manner; inside he was uneasy. If he were seen by a fellow Wall Streeter or a friend from his old neighborhood, this would certainly be, at the very least, disconcerting.
Bill, by nature, was not a gambler. He was unnerved yet had no choice but to take this chance. With the exception of tomorrow’s necessary trip to the banks and subsequent trips to and from the airport, he would remain in his hotel suite. The call on the Swiss banks to arrange further wiring instructions must be done in person. This he pledged to manage as discreetly as possible.
“This is your pilot speaking. We are preparing to land at Zurich International Airport. We will be on the ground in ten minutes. The weather is clear with ninety-five percent visibility. The ground temperature is nine degrees centigrade. Flight attendants, please prepare for landing. Thank you for flying Swiss Air,” the baritone Swiss pilot confidently announced in near perfect English French, and again in Swiss German
Reservations had been made at the Park Hyatt Zurich, a five star hotel located a short distance from the banks. He traveled directly from the airport to the hotel via taxi and did not appear out of place on this cold winter night. The streets were filled with an array of Christmas season tourists and skiers from all over the world. Many pass through Zurich on route to and from their favorite resorts in the Alps.
He produced his passport and credit card when registering at the hotel. Reservations had been made in the name of Mr. Leon Mason. Improprieties in the Wall Street accounts were yet to be discovered; therefore, disclosure of the name Leon Mason would not yet be problematic. The odds of being identified were very long; yet, he chose to err on the side of caution and stay out of sight as much as possible.
The luxury suite was tastefully furnished around a large oriental rug which was prominently placed in the center of the sitting room. A large inviting couch and an ornate coffee table, a Queen Ann arm chair, two antique side tables and two Chinese vases made into lamps were placed about the room. In the adjoining bedroom, a beautiful silk bedspread was spread over the king sized four poster bed.
The suite was equipped for the active business traveler. A large rosewood writing desk with a multi-line telephone and a fax machine was provided. A high backed soft leather desk chair accompanied the leather toped desk with drawers adequately filled with stationery, pens, pencils, and other necessary office paraphernalia. A Sony television and VCR player/recorder was neatly fitted into a carved walnut cabinet which was suitably placed in the far corner of the room. In addition, a dining table and chairs and a full assortment of spirits and mixers and a freshly packed ice bucket appeared on a sidebar.
Leon settled in and anticipated an uneventful evening accompanied by only a variety of newspapers, magazines, and a bit of television. Newspapers and magazines from around the world were displayed on the ornate Egyptian designed coffee table.
Leon made himself a well chilled Stolichnaya vodka martini, dropped in a couple olives, as the phone rang. He was, at first, vexed by the call. Who could this be? No one knows I’m here? He answered the call that would change the direction of his life.
“Good evening, Mr. Mason. My name is Felix, the hotel’s concierge. I wish to welcome you to the hotel and to Zurich. If there is anything I can do for you, contact me at extension #106. In the event I am not available, please leave a message and I will return your call,” emphasized the concierge with the pleasant attitude of assuredness and confidence. Leon noted his English was nearly perfect.
Leon thought about the call for a moment, but was not concerned. This was predictable; simply one of the many services offered by a five star hotel and his brief bout with paranoia passed. Could Felix arrange for a masseuse to come up to his suite? A massage would surely relax him and allow him to focus on his most important business tomorrow.
“Extension #106, please.” “Mr. Mason, may I be of service?” “Felix, I would like a masseuse this evening? Do you suppose you can arrange for one?” “But of course, Mr. Mason,” he continued, “I know a wonderful masseuse who lives a very short distance from the hotel. She is quite good. I will try to contact her and will let you know very soon.” “Very well, let me know.”
The phone rang again. “Sir, Miss Wattana will be arriving within the hour. You may put her fee on your hotel bill if you are so inclined.” “Thank you, Felix. I prefer to settle in cash.” He made a mental note to extend a gratuity to Felix before he left the hotel.
He showered and slipped into his worn jeans, loose silk shirt, and barefooted fiddled with the remote control. The high-tech satellite dish was capable of reaching 130 different channels.
Leon hastened through a few of the American television channels when the telephone rang again. “Mr. Mason, Miss Wattana is here.” “Fine, thank you. Please have someone escort her to my room.”
A few minutes later the door bell rang. He glanced in the doorway mirror as he hurriedly ran his fingers through his unkempt damp hair. He opened the door. By God, he thought, what had Felix done?
CHAPTER 5
Casually dressed in baggy white cotton pants, a pastel colored turtleneck cashmere sweater and brown soft leather high boots, Leon’s eyes were transfixed on her. What was this beauty doing working as a hotel masseur, or was she more than a masseur? Was she single, married or engaged? Was there a Swiss man in her life? Maybe a Swiss banker? Then why, he asked himself, would she be working, going on out this cold Zurich night? Never mind, he thought, not the time for complications. Too much to do; a simple massage will do. He regained his composure as he reached for her knee length sky blue ski parka. “Miss Wattana,” he said, “Please, your coat?” His eyes never left her for a moment. He willed himself to look elsewhere; yet, was mesmerized by her beauty. Magnetically attracted by some unearthly force; he could not stop starring at her. She, no doubt, was aware of his keen interest.
Was this incredibly beautiful woman standing in his hotel suite a fantasy? Was this going to be an evening of sexual adventure or an uncomplicated massage? He allowed himself these harmless thoughts? He had no plans for the future beyond tomorrow’s banking appointments. Perhaps, when that chore was completed, he would get to know her better? What was he going to do with the rest of his life, anyway? If truth be told, he wasn’t at all sure what he wanted to do with the rest of the week! He re-considered his new freedom. He was becoming more and more pleased with this imminent sojourn and content with the choices he had made so far.
He took the large carry case containing a portable massage table from her and leaned it against the wall. “Before we start, may I offer you a soft drink, soda, water, or fruit juice?” “Water, if you would be so kind,” she replied in her slightly accented English. “Please, may we sit for a while? Where are you from? I cannot tell from your name. What is your nationality?”
“I am Thai, from northern Thailand, outside of the city of Chiang Mai. Have you ever been to Thailand?” “No, I have never lived in the Orient. I have lived in the U.S. all of my life and seldom traveled further than the Caribbean, the Bahamas, and Europe. I do look forward to visiting Asia one day.” “How long do you intend to be in Zurich? “I will be here only a short while. This is a business trip.” She continued questioning Leon. “Are you returning to the U. S. from Zurich or do you have further business in Europe?” He tensed up and became suspicious. She was asking innocent questions; yet, he elected to err on the side of caution and answered briefly, “My plans are not definite at this time,” deflecting her question in an effort to divert the conversation. “Perhaps we could get on with the massage.” “Oh, certainly!” she answered. “Where do you wish me set up my table?” Leon pointed to the bedroom.
Skillfully the stunning woman set up the massage table. He had seen tables like this before, but never had experienced one. Leon jumped up on the table, took off his silk shirt and casually tossed it on the bed. His soft worn jeans would be suitable. If not, she’d say something. He turned over on the table; his head fitting comfortably through the opening in the cushioned table.
“I studied massage in Thailand when I was a young. My father was a master masseur known throughout the Kingdom. He was often called upon to massage the King of Thailand and others in the Royal family. He taught me Thai massage when I was a very young girl,” she said as she continued working on Leon’s tense neck and shoulders. “My father started a massage school training students from all over the world the art of Thai massage. That is where I met my fiancé, Simon,” she said somberly. “Simon is from Zurich. He is a partner in an import-export company.” Leon felt disappointment as he turned his head up from the opening in the massage table and gazed into her somber gloomy eyes.
There was dead silence. She felt the tenseness in his back increase. He was saddened and bewildered. She felt the reaction to her words through her sensitive hands. His quixotic emotional craving for her was out of character. He had just met her. Had he lost his mind? He knew almost nothing about her; only that she is Thai, trained in a massage school in Thailand, and is engaged to a Swiss guy named Simon. As the massage continued his thoughts wandered he relaxed. His tension abated as he reviewed the past couple hectic months; yet, he could not stop focusing on her and her last words, ‘That is where I met my fiancé,’ Simon. He is a partner in an import-export company.’
He sought to learn more about her, her life, her fiancé, and the reason for her gloomy eyes. Why did she speak of Simon with such sadness? She expertly massaged, turned, and twisted him painlessly. He was impatient to know more. He elected to wait for her to complete the massage before delving deeper.
She distributed herself effortlessly on his tense body with the skill of an accomplished dancer; her sensitively trained hands, elbows, knees never creating any discomfort or distress. When the two hour massage was finished, he was more relaxed than he had been in months. She quietly asked, “Where may I wash up?” “The bath is the first door on the right,” pointing to the hallway. “A glass of wine: Red or white?” Leon suggested. “I would prefer red, please.” Expertly, he uncorked a bottle of 1980 Chateau Lascombes Margaux.
“Have you announced a wedding date?” He asked as she re-entered the room anxiously awaiting her response. “Actually, we have not. There is a problem, quite a considerable problem. I am not certain of Simon’s whereabouts. He was last heard from December 12th while at small hotel in Luang Plabang, Laos. He telephoned me from there and told me he was leaving on a trip the following morning with his partner and two Laotian guides. They had hired a four wheel drive jeep to take them to the Laos-Vietnam border in search of ancient Buddhist relics. I have not heard from him since that evening, that was December 12th. Simon definitely would have called. He said he’d be gone for only a few days, a week at most. At first, I thought he could not get to a telephone, but now, now I feel something terrible has happened.” About to weep, she continued, “I am so sorry to burden you with my personal problems. I am here to relax you and not to cry on your shoulders. I am truly sorry.”
It was Tuesday the 28th of December and she had not heard a word. “The phone system in Laos must be very unreliable,” consoled Leon. “Laos is a very under developed remote place.” “Yes, I know, but, Simon has been to Laos many times. He has managed to call me from remote places in Southeast Asia and New Guinea, and even Nepal in the past. He is an experienced traveler and has been to remote areas many times searching for old relics with his partner Paul. They search for Buddha images, old ceramics, and other Asian antiques. They export them to Europe. I have a friend who heard from her son only three days ago. Her son has known Simon for years and now lives in Luang Plabang. The three of them had dinner together a day before Simon and Paul left on their trip.” Near tears, she painfully continued.
“There was news of a recent explosion. A jeep hit a landmine or unexploded bomb and was destroyed. The driver, guide, and passengers in the jeep were apparently killed. It was reported that there two Laotians, a driver and a guide, along with two foreigners when it left Luang Plabang. I cannot be sure if it was Simon’s jeep. He would have contacted me; no matter what. Something is very wrong.” An awkward silence permeated the room.
Leon poured another glass of wine for her and one for himself. He moved over on to the couch and reached for the remote control. He pushed a few buttons, and soon the room was filled with soft music. “Bach, the Brandenburg Concerto.” “Exactly, he added, conducted by the great Herbert von Karajan some years ago at the Berlin Philharmonic,” adding, “he’s a master” She simply nodded. They both sat in silence; drinking wine and somberly listening to this magnificent piece.
“Another glass of wine,” he asked, “Sure, why not?” she answered. “Miss Wattana, what’s your first name? Leon inquired. “My formal name is Ponsetawan Wattana. But, no one calls me by that name. I am known as Pon.” “Okay Pon, wonderful to know you,” he smiled. “And you, Mr. Mason, your first name? He almost answered William, caught himself and defiantly said, “I am known as Leon, Leon Mason.” “So now we are on first name basis?” ”I would certainly hope so, especially since you know my body so well.”
They sat quietly for sometime listening to the concert. J. S. Bach had never sounded better. He was, up to now, not really a fan of classical music. He had been to Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center several times at the insistence of Miss Rangel and had had a difficult time staying awake, often after a stressful day on Wall Street. This time was quite different. He didn’t want the concert to end as she probably would leave; he had a strong desire to see her again. “Have dinner with me dinner tomorrow night?” Pon thought for a moment before she replied. “Sure, that sounds like fun. Would you like me to recommend a restaurant?” “Yes, please. I’ll leave it up to you.”
Pon moved to the desk and wrote the name and address of a restaurant. “Give this to your driver, it is not far from the hotel; it is well known, he’ll have no problem finding it.” “So, we meet at eight. Will we need a reservation?” “It is best I call. I am known there.” They smiled as she walked to the massage table and expertly folded it up into the carrying case. Leon gently placed her parka over her shoulders. “May I walk you out,” “No, no, I’ll find my way. I want to stop and thank Felix anyway.” He recalled he had over looked paying her.
“Just a moment,” he exclaimed, reaching in his pocket and pulled out a one hundred dollar bill. “Is U.S. currency a problem for you?” “Of course not, thank you,” she responded. As he opened the door, he said, “Until tomorrow then.” She cheerfully blew him a kiss and said, “I am looking forward to it, Mr. Leon Mason.” As she disappeared through the elevator door, Leon recognized that something very special had happened. He emptied the wine balance of bottle into his goblet. The last taste was as spectacular as the first, except he noted, for the companionship.
CHAPTER 6
Sleep is a weapon. A clear mind, a good night’s sleep, was his best possible weapon. He must continue on without hesitation or interruption. Without adequate rest, mistakes could be made. He cannot afford a mistake, not now. He had trained himself over the years on Wall Street to handle unexpected daily rigors; the vagaries of the financial markets trained him well to be a vigilant professional, proficient and prepared for the unknown. Punishment for a lack of concentration and poor judgment often had dire financial consequences.
Wednesday morning, the 29th of December, he woke at seven without an alarm or wake-up call. He contacted room service and ordered an American breakfast. His breakfast, consisting of a large pot of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, wheat toast, jam and butter was wheeled into his suite within twenty minutes of the call along with a couple newspapers. Leon sat bare-chested wearing only jeans perusing the headlines of the morning papers. He dropped the paper on the coffee table, clicked the remote, pushed a few buttons and the U.S. news reports broadcasted directly from the U. S. appeared. The latest debacle in the financial markets was headlined on every news channel. He clicked the remote again and soon found a sports channel. He relaxed and watched the game while finishing his second cup of coffee. No longer would his life be put on hold by the events on Wall Street; there was more to life, he now realized, than monitoring the prices of stocks and bonds.
By the time he drained the second cup of coffee, his plans for the day were formulated. He jotted down the local telephone numbers and names of his banking contacts from the folders in his briefcase. Promptly at eight, he would begin calling and setting up appointments. Adler Bank was first on his list, to be followed by Bank Lev AG, Rahn & Bodmer AG, and the last bank, UBS AG. The appointments were to start at nine and continue throughout the day, with the last appointment at two-thirty. These Swiss banks, all located within twenty minutes of each other, were noted for their efficiency and confidentiality. Leon estimated that, allowing for wait and travel time, an hour between meetings would suffice. He showered, dressed and was prepared for the day.
He considered purchasing an overcoat, however, reconsidered. It would not be out of the ordinary for a business man jumping in and out of taxis in the middle of the day not to wear an overcoat, even in the cold Zurich winter. The weather was cold, yet clear. He left his sunglasses in the room and carried only his black alligator briefcase. He must remain in character, i.e., an American businessman in Zurich on a business trip; every effort was made to maintain a low profile.