CHAPTER I

                   Una de Gato, Mexico

 

                     The Mercedes careened off the narrow road in a cloud of rust-coloured dust and skidded into a drainage ditch. It came to a halt with a shudder, tilting between the parched reddish banks of this trench that rarely saw water, the blue glow of the headlights panning the scrubby landscape.

 

If only he had looked to his left instead of dialling a number on the car phone, he might have seen the assassin. But it was too late. His vision dimmed and the tight grip of his fingers loosened till his hands fell limp and lifeless at his side. The life of wealth and privilege Jorge Ruiz had lived came to an abrupt end in the gritty Mexican town of Una de Gato on the road from Matamoros to Monterrey.

 

Some young boys spotted the wrecked Mercedes that warm May evening and bicycled into the pueblo to call the police. When the police arrived, the hood of the car was open and a plume of steam rose from the engine. The car was tipped to one side, the driver slumped over the steering wheel.  The burly of the two officers shinnied down the side of the ditch and trained his flashlight on the driver.

 

"Senor!" he called out.

 

Ruiz' eyes were open; he looked startled.  The officer called to his partner for help opening the driver's door. The two struggled with the jammed door, gravity working against them because of the angle of the car.

 

Steadying himself between the side of the ditch and the automobile, the partner pulled the driver away from the steering wheel. A trickle of blood ran from the victim's nose. 

 

Behind his ear, the hair seemed moist and matted.

 

"Esta muerto," the officer declared. " Must have missed the turn and lost control."

 

"Maybe he fell asleep, or was blinded by an oncoming truck," his partner suggested. Sad things happened all the time on this two lane road.

 

"Listen, I'll radio for the coroner and a tow truck. There's not much else we can do."

 

The burly officer paused to catch his breath after scrambling up the side of the ditch. He reached inside the patrol car for the radio handset while his partner inspected the interior of the Mercedes.

 

He ran his rough hand across the soft butter-yellow leather, shining his flashlight in the lifeless face of the driver. The rich aroma of the upholstery masked the rising stench of the open head wound, momentarily.

 

Then he saw that the body was sitting in a pool of blood.  He focused the light on the left rear of the victim's head and saw the oozing wounds.  

                         

"Hey, he's been shot. Call for back up."

 

He assumed drugs because of the expensive car, coming from Matamoros.

 

But still, he was puzzled. He had seen many murder victims working so close to the border but this one was different.

 

There was no sign of robbery or carjacking, and the victim was elegantly dressed like a businessman, not a drug dealer. He knew how they dressed: tooled western boots, fancy silk shirts and heavy gold jewellery.

 

The absence of the familiar signs of robbery or struggle concerned him. This looked like a professional hit. The drug cartel commandeered Matamoros as the primary entry point for cocaine shipments into the United States, and the barons tolerated the Mexican authorities, but little more, operating with impunity in these parts.

 

A tow truck arrived to pull the car from the ditch, but before the driver fastened the winch to the bumper, the two officers went back to survey the interior.

 

A briefcase was splayed open on the passenger seat, revealing wads of dollar bills, files and an address book that had been clipped open at the letter S; a telephone number blinked on the small car phone screen.

 

The interior of the car was pristine, except for the blood and a couple of business cards that had fallen out of the briefcase.  The officer picked up one.  Jorge Ruiz, Gerente General, Automotores Nortenos, Monterrey, N.L.

 

"He must be Ruiz," the burly officer said to his partner.  "We'll have to contact the family. Let me have the phone number."

 

They both glanced at the illuminated car phone. "Maybe he was calling home."

 

"No, it's not a local number. Look." 

 

They jotted down the telephone number on the screen, in case it would prove useful: 415-657-7496.

 

"Looks like he only got as far as dialling the number."

 

They looked toward the pueblo: in the dusk, they could see the unmistakable square silhouette of the coroner's white truck approaching.

 

When the truck pulled up, the coroner opened the passenger side door and stepped onto the road surveying the scene.

 

The coroner confirmed the officers' suspicions that this was not the typical fatality they encountered on this road. But there was no point in lingering; they had a job to do. The two officers helped the coroner wheel a gurney to the side of the road, then scrambled down the side of the ditch to lift the body of Jorge Ruiz out of the car.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Chris Callen was working late again; it was almost eleven in New York.  He knew when he joined Goldman Sachs five years ago that he would have to put in long hours; all week he'd stayed late, working on an investment proposal for a hospital in Los Angeles, a $100 million pension account and he sensed he was going to win it.

 

Chris had been given the lead by a college buddy from his Berkeley days and for the last three years he'd met with the hospital's investment committee to talk about investing overseas. Now they'd invited him back.

 

The order of nuns who ran the hospital wanted a socially responsible investment portfolio, and Chris had taken special care to craft a portfolio that was "sin-free."

 

It didn't hurt that the sisters saw in Chris so many of the parochial school boys they'd taught. Over six feet tall with an athletic build, thick auburn hair and cool blue eyes -- even a nun might find Chris attractive.  But in this business you lived or died by the numbers. Anyway, the sisters probably read The Wall Street Journal like any savvy investor. 

 

"Don't forget, it's a return driven business" his boss Kenyon Mills used to say, " and your client will walk if you don't produce, even with all your charm, Chris."

 

While there were momentary flashes of self-doubt in his life, they never happened at work and certainly not in the stock market. Chris was driven to be successful and the measure of success for him and his peers was money. Lots of money.

 

In the '90's, everyone seemed to get rich in the stock market and the Dow Jones only seemed to go up.

 

So it was not surprising that a smart kid from San Francisco with some moxie, polish and two first-class sheepskins would do well.

 

But his life had not always been so charmed. His Dad was a foggy memory, staggering up the stairs, reeking of whisky. By Chris' fourth birthday, he'd walked out on the family. His mother's meagre salary as a secretary wasn't enough to pay the mortgage, so they moved into a flat in the Mission.

 

Money was always tight. But as Chris grew older, he managed to earn a few dollars working part-time. The bright kid from the Mission did well at school. His mother had instilled in him the simple belief that making a good living should be his goal.

 

Now that he had "arrived, " though, she wasn't there to cheer him on.  She had died the month before he moved to New York and since then he had been on his own.

 

So, at 30, here he was earning $275,000 a year, which afforded him a place on the Upper East Side, expensive suits, exotic vacations and a house in the Hamptons every summer. 

 

He expected he'd continue to prosper at Goldman Sachs because he was on the fast track - at Goldman, that was a ticket to making partner by 35.  And as a partner, you were set for life. He was sure of himself and yes, he was arrogant: money, power and prestige were the only beacons that guided him, like a ship at sea.

 

He yawned and put on his jacket, then headed for the elevator bank.  The elevator doors slid open.  In the few moments it took to travel the 38 floors to the lobby, he convinced himself that the Account was his to lose.  The lobby was deserted except for the guard at the desk.

 

"Hola, Senor Chris," the guard called out. " Como estas? "

 

"Bien, Bien, hombre, que tal?" Chris replied.

 

"You late again, man?  What your girlfriend gonna say?" the guard asked with a Puerto Rican Bronx accent.

 

"In your dreams, man.  No time for a steady girl.  Just dates now and then." Chris sighed; even his last date had been over a month ago.

 

But Chris was now out of earshot, whirling out the revolving door into the darkness.

 

The guard made Chris laugh and he was one of the few gringos in the building who spoke Spanish with him.  Chris knew enough of the language, so Goldman tapped him to market investments in Latin America. Their choice was a good one: the new accounts just kept rolling in. 

 

The more successful he was, the higher their expectations rose.

 

At the curb, a Lincoln Town Car waited to whisk him uptown.  The firm encouraged staff to use car services when working late, because the subway, alone, late at night, was not a safe place to be, even for a daytime athlete.

 

The driver had placed a card with Chris' name in the window.

 

"Yeah, I'm Callen," Chris sniffed with a New York tough-guy swagger: the only way they'd take him seriously in this town. He heaved his briefcase onto the back seat.

 

It was May and he opened the window to enjoy the balmy air as the driver made his way uptown. Sometimes spring produced a perfect evening that made all Manhattan's noise, crime, pollution and craziness bearable.

"East 76th between Fifth and Madison," Chris told the driver. "Just drop me at the corner, I need to pick up a quart of milk," he lied, as he wanted to enjoy the short walk to his apartment in the warm evening air.

 

Usually he talked sports to the driver: "What about the Yankees?" or "What about the Mets?" But he was just too tired. He sprawled out on the backseat and dozed.

"OK, we're here," the driver called out.

 

Chris roused himself, pulled his briefcase out of the back seat and signed the receipt. He walked along 76th to his high-rise apartment and entered, too tired to enjoy another moment of New York's beautiful springtime weather.

 

*     *     *    *     *     *     *     *     *     *

The cooling breeze off the Pacific Ocean brought him welcome relief from Mazatlan's humid heat. Even at 9pm, it was still hot. His fury had barely subsided since Ruiz called him last night.  No one gave him ultimatums and least of all an ingrate.

 

When he'd first seized control of the cartel, he used tequila to salve the remnants of his conscience.  He would wait up for the phone call to confirm his orders had been carried out - a rival executed, a child kidnapped, a wife maimed. But he was a seasoned drug lord now: there was no conscience left to be soothed by alcohol. 

 

Yet the tequila vigil lived on, as many traditions do in Mexico, and he waited by the phone for the call.

 

The Call.

 

It was taking too long. Perhaps something had gone wrong.  He was worried.

 

Ruiz had been foolish to threaten him, especially after saving the car dealerships. Betrayal was the ultimate crime in his twisted code of justice. He recalled Ruiz' imperious tone less than twenty-four hours ago telling him to stop the wire transfers because the investment manager might get suspicious.

 

Ruiz even threatened to close the account. That was the last straw: the account was more important to his operation than Ruiz, who'd outlived his usefulness.

He longed for the satisfaction of revenge to still his rage. Nor had he ever learned the gentle art of persuasion: Mexico's drug mafia prevailed through brute force. 

 

His handkerchief was damp from the beads of sweat he wiped from his neck. The phone rang and he did not wait for it to ring a second time.

 

"Bueno," he said in his grating, high-pitched tone.

 

"Chacal?  This is Jota, " he waited for recognition of the code name.

 

"Well, is the job done?"

 

"He's been taken care of.  I'm back in Matamoros," Jota was terse.

 

Of course he expected Jota to be successful, but he wanted details, he had to know more.

 

"You're sure?"

 

" I saw his car run off the road, his face pressed against the steering wheel," Jota said matter-of-factly.  "He was looking to the right when I shot him.  He never knew what hit him."

 

Jota's conjecture that Ruiz' death may have been without pain made no difference to him.  The important fact was that Ruiz was dead.  Now all he had to do was contact Ruiz' investment manager or rather, their investment manager.

 

"You will receive the balance in your bank account tomorrow, when you return to Tijuana."

 

He ended the conversation abruptly, stood up and walked to the open window to enjoy the cool ocean breeze. He patted his clammy neck.

 

Mexico's largest drug laundering operation was still intact.

 

*     *     *     *     *       *     *     *      *      *

The clock radio blared to life before the sun came up.  Chris rubbed his eyes. Just ten minutes more, he pleaded with himself.  After all, he'd only had six hours sleep.  But he was a stern taskmaster, even with himself; the extra ten minutes might become twenty and then he'd miss his run. 

 

With a little hesitation, he pushed back the blanket, sat up and looked at the empty king-sized bed.

 

"I've got to do something about my love life," he promised himself.

 

How did the Gilbert O'Sullivan song go - 'Alone again, naturally'.

 

He stretched into an old navy blue UC Berkeley t-shirt, then slipped on a pair of black shorts and laced up his running shoes.

 

Every morning, the same routine: out of bed, 30-minute run, weights, shower, get dressed and off to work. In the elevator, he reached to touch the ceiling, admiring his image in the mirror.

 

When the doors opened he bounded out and pushed the glass doors open to the street. He took off at a good clip down 76th Street towards Central Park. He turned right on Fifth Avenue and jogged down to 96th Street. 

 

The sun was beginning to rise and the air was crisp.  An overweight doorman was out walking a miniature poodle - Only in New York. 

 

Chris had been on the track team in high school and the solitude of running still appealed to him. He ran a seven-minute mile, so on a good day he could finish the four mile route in less than 30 minutes. 

 

Left at 96th, into Central Park.  Everyone had cautioned him about running alone in the Park so early in the morning, but  he figured he could take care of himself. In any case he could out-run a would-be attacker. 

 

The headlights of the oncoming cars blinded him momentarily as he negotiated the narrow sidewalk in the underpass. There was little margin for error.

 

His mind drifted back to the recurring nightmare about being chased by a man with a gun. The scene surged before him: crowded street, glint of a gun barrel, the firecracker-like pop of the shots and all he could do to save himself was to run.

 

The underpass was shadowy, the din of traffic echoed off the dank walls, startling him.  He became distracted.

 

Then suddenly, he lost his footing and his right foot slipped off the curb onto the road.  He was losing his balance and could feel his knee buckling.

 

A car raced towards him.

 

He lunged left, into the stone wall of the underpass to steady himself. The pounding of his heart filled his head, blocking out the magnified blare of the car horn in the tunnel.

 

The impact of his shoulder against the wall caused him to spin around, just long enough to see the irate motorist raise his middle finger in the rear-view mirror.

 

Staggering, he slowed to a halt, resting against a fence at the entrance of the underpass.

 

Asshole, he muttered after the driver who had disappeared.  He tugged the neck of his t-shirt forward to look at his shoulder: it was bruised.  He bent forward to rub his ankle.  He had run this route countless times and knew every inch of it, so why had he drifted into the road? He walked back into the tunnel to survey the inadequate sidewalk - the surface was more uneven than he recalled. 

 

It scared him to think that if he had not lunged into the wall, he would have been hit by the car, and possibly killed.  It happened so fast, he had no way to control it.

 

Most risks Chris had ever taken were calculated, but this encounter was too close for comfort.  But he put down his near-spill to the uneven sidewalk and decided to press on. 

 

Chris had surprised himself: he never screwed up like that but reflecting on the recurring nightmare had made him lose focus. He'd just put it out of his mind as he always did.

 

He started to run again - once the sidewalk widened, it was clear sailing to Columbus Circle on the West Side and then back through the park, around the lake and onto Fifth Avenue. Past the Met and home to 76th, in 30 minutes - his usual time, but he was still troubled.

 

While he always said running was the best way to start the day, that rule did not apply today.  He was frightened by his brush with disaster and it bothered him the whole run.

 

The fact that he may have cut corners selecting this route, had never occurred to him before. But he had to get ready for work.  He peeled off his t-shirt in front of the bathroom mirror to look at his shoulder - the impact with the stone wall had left a baseball-sized dark pink bruise, tender to the touch.

 

At least it's not my face he thought and stepped into the shower.

 

He was careful about his appearance as he took out a dove grey suit and a mauve silk tie. His look was studied, monied and crisply professional - he wanted to stand out - the anonymity of the ant heap was not for him. 

 

When he left his apartment building he savoured the early morning warmth, enjoying the two block walk to the subway.  But once on the platform, the heat became oppressive and he felt a moistness under his arms.

 

How can you cut a dashing figure on the subway, when it's nothing more than an electric sewer. He laughed.

 

But his commute did not last long. Here he was at 7.05 am Tuesday morning entering, number 1 New York Plaza, the world headquarters of the most successful investment bank in the world.

 

The elevator was crowded as it rocketed to the 38th floor.  He had ten minutes to grab a cup of coffee before the morning briefing and look at the Bloomberg.  The Bloomberg business news monitor was Chris' first destination when he arrived at the office.

 

"London's up, Tokyo's flat and Wall Street should open up a tad," Kenyon Mills told Chris as he approached the Bloomberg. " Look at those S&P futures. We'll open 25 points up over yesterday's close."

 

Kenyon was parked in front of the screen, holding court for any of the fresh-faced new associates who cared to listen.

 

At 39, Kenyon had had a respectable run at the firm, but he still had not made partner. Each year he failed to make it his currency dropped "just a tad," as he would have put it.

 

He was pure social register: the dying breed of WASPs who went to the right schools (Exeter and Yale) and lived in the right zip code (Greenwich), but never quite made it big.  Did they make a conscious effort to hold back their ambition just as they restrained their speech?

 

Kenyon had a bad case of Connecticut lockjaw, too!

 

But Chris genuinely liked him and the slightly-frayed-cuff look Kenyon sported -- shabby chic, Chris used to describe it. While he worked hard, he no longer had the barracuda tenacity like Chris and his Gen-X peers. 

 

He was no rival for Chris and it was Harold Weinberg, Kenyon's boss, who held Chris' fate in his podgy accountant-like hands.

            

The morning market briefing was a marvel of late 1990's technological wizardry.  All of the firm paused for this morning ritual with almost military precision. 

 

Goldman's offices in all the major capital markets were piped in to the 38th floor conference room.  The roll call of participants sounded like a flight announcement at JFK: Tokyo, Hong Kong, London, Singapore, Bahrain, Frankfurt, Paris, New York, Chicago and San Francisco. Chris jotted illegible notes about the global bond and equity markets.

 

Axel Reisinger was the firm's ace European equity manager and in-house seer. Chris had met him when he spent six months on the European equities desk in London.

 

Instead of a teutonic sturmfuhrer, Chris found a grey-bearded gnome who was hardly an ubermensch.    

 

"What's the outlook for the DAX?" Chris' asked across the world-wide hook-up to Axel.

 

Axel knew Chris was a rising star at the firm, so he paid him the deference Chris had come to expect.

 

"The German equity market will continue its strong performance, short term ", Axel said confidently.

 

"Yes!" Chris mentally punched his fist above his head in a victory jab: his over-weighting of German stocks was vindicated. But he still had to justify the heavier weighting to Kenyon and Harold.

 

Axel seemed to be giving him permission, but Chris need not have worried; when he bucked the Goldman party line, he usually got it right.

 

And that's all that mattered at the firm: getting it right. The call finished at 8am, an hour before the stock market opened.

 

It was time to meet with Kenyon and Harold.

 

Harold's spacious corner office had a sweeping view of lower Manhattan; the peaked golden party hat-like roof atop the New York Life building looked whimsical against the flat-topped International Style office towers.

 

New York's exuberant skyline used to distract Chris when he was in Harold's office, but today he was a man with a mission.

 

A simple round work-table occupied the corner and Chris positioned two copies of the proposal, bound in Goldman's trademark blue covers, one for Harold the other for Kenyon. He would be in the hot seat for most of the morning.

 

Harold lost no time tearing into the proposal with all the passion of an accountant on amphetamines.  He challenged the assumptions, pulled out a calculator to check the math and laid into Chris over the asset allocation.

 

Chris was prepared.

 

He faced a baptism by fire and any future questions posed by the sisters and their advisers would pale compared to Harold's barbed jabs.

 

One by one he reviewed earnings prospects for Germany's top 20 companies. 

 

As noon approached, the ordeal drew to a close.

 

Chris noted a couple of suggested changes and went back to his office to make them.

 

He printed additional copies, binding them in the blue covers, and gave them to his secretary.

 

"Overnight these to Los Angeles."

 

His secretary had made reservations to Los Angeles for him, leaving JFK Wednesday morning at 10.30am. Kenyon suggested he have dinner with the manager of Goldman's Beverly Hills office Wednesday evening to develop more new prospects.

 

Management's drive to attract new private clients was unrelenting: he had to bring in new business no matter what. But it was still Tuesday and the day was only half over: there were two more meetings uptown. The first with a wealthy Venezuelan family looking for a new investment manager, the other was with a Chilean brewery.

 

It would be a "meet and greet" with a general overview of the firm's capabilities.  Harold had suggested Chris should attend because he seemed to do well with Latin clients. Chris cleared his desk, knowing that he would not be back till Monday morning. He'd been so busy, he hadn't even checked his voice mail.

 

"You must have had a dozen calls while you were in that meeting," his secretary complained, following him as he made his way to the elevator bank.

 

"And some people just can't use voicemail," she declared with a huff, stuffing several pink message slips in his hand.

The first one was from a Bill Stafford at 415-657-7496.

 

CHAPTER II

 

                       San Francisco

                         "Look how that sailboat just glides across the water.  Isn't she a beauty? " quipped Bill Stafford to his secretary Frances, as he gazed from his 25th floor office with a commanding view of San Francisco Bay.

 

"She sure is, Mr. Stafford", Frances nodded her well-coifed blonde head in agreement as they paused to drink in the flawless azure sky that framed the dark blue Bay. "Here's the market update."

 

"Still surging ahead, this market", he noted as he looked over his half moon reading glasses. "You did buy that stock I told you about?" he asked as she headed for the door. He assumed she had and did not expect a reply. It was up 12 points in the last three weeks. 

 

She watched it every day, just as she had watched him for the last 24 years.

 

Frances knew where most of the bodies were buried at Stafford Securities (SS). She was employee number two at the firm. A tall, handsome woman, she exuded executive suite competence, discretion and polish.

 

Never ruffled and always in control, she was Bill Stafford's Praetorian Guard, in sensible mid-rise shoes.

 

Bill had founded SS when he returned to San Francisco in 1972. He was 33, and after five years as a bond trader with Goldman in New York, he felt it was the right time to strike out on his own. 

The Goldman name and New York experience would carry weight in San Francisco's name-conscious market. His instincts proved right, though it was a bumpy ride at first. The mid-1970's were a tough time to be in the stock market, so his partner, a Stanford college buddy, introduced him to a venture capital firm that invested in technology start-ups.  A $50,000 investment had become $2 million in three years.

 

They plowed the profit back into the firm and branched into investment management.

 

But Bill chafed at making joint decisions and especially having to split the profits.  Bill was the deal-maker with street savvy while Chuck Hamilton, his partner, had the contacts that he entertained over three martini lunches.  Chuck's drinking problem became Bill's opportunity. 

 

Bill cultivated Chuck's contacts and they began to call Bill instead of Chuck.  Then Chuck was left out of business decisions.  The 50-50 partnership split they had negotiated rankled and Bill decided he no longer needed his college buddy.  "Business is business," Bill reassured himself.   But Chuck responded with a lawsuit to protect his investment.  Bill's attorney argued that Chuck's alcoholism had cost the partnership lucrative deals reducing the value of the firm.  Chuck tried to settle quietly, to salvage his reputation, but that was not enough for Bill. He insisted on a public humiliation. A broken man, robbed of his name and stake in the firm, Chuck committed suicide. 

 

Bill had learned from his Viet Nam days that you "take no prisoners."  Everyone was expendable, particularly if they posed a threat.

 

By the time the Reagan bull market got under way in 1982, Stafford Securities had carved out a niche for itself among the City's elite as the investment manager of choice.  Billy Stafford seemed to have the golden touch when it came to investing and an account at SS became a "must" for San Francisco's wealthy, an accoutrement of the well-connected, like the home on Broadway, the place in Napa and the right board memberships.

 

Bill and his wife Elaine, blended into the City's social scene seamlessly.  

 

Thus, through his own vision and pluck, as well as an easy going social veneer which charmed San Francisco's rich, he had built SS into a regional investment powerhouse. 

 

By 1997, the firm had $40 billion of client assets under management. Forbes magazine estimated he was worth $600 million and counted him among America's wealthiest entrepreneurs.

 

The firm and its photogenic, middle-aged founder Bill Stafford were often profiled, as a latter-day example of San Francisco ambition and drive, akin to the 19th Century pioneers Ralston, Huntington and Hopkins. 

 

He basked in the adulation and loved the free publicity.

A $5 million account minimum ensured that his clientele numbered among the wealthiest investors in the country, but Stafford was beginning to build a following overseas, too. 

 

The key to superior investment returns was the portfolio manager who consistently picks the winners and quickly dumps the losers. Bill did not hesitate to fire any manager if their performance lagged.

 

His success in building Stafford Securities' investment management business was his ability to identify and hire the best talent in the market. 

 

The firm was known as the best paying house outside Wall Street.

 

The corporate culture was elitist but cut-throat.

 

"I created the culture in my own likeness," Bill sardonically joked before an analysts meeting.  But whether he meant it or not, his sarcastic discretion of how he and the firm operated, had stuck.

 

The highly charged environment ensured no rival could emerge.

 

But as Bill so often commented, when he would see his portfolio managers leaving the office, "There go the assets of the firm".  

 

Every day was a challenge to juggle superior investment performance, keep the clients satisfied and bring in new ones.

 

Bill was indisputably the firm's best salesman. With his active social life and the media's fascination with him, SS was well known in America. But as business became global in the 1990's, he wanted to reach the untapped markets overseas.

 

To power SS to the next level of growth he had to identify a new client base.

 

But where to start?  Certainly a consultant can write a business plan, but this is a people business, a relationship business built around a couple of stars.  His thoughts drifted as he watched a windsurfer scudding across the glassy bay.

 

Bill thought of his 52 foot sailboat, Sinbad. He did some of his best thinking on board.

 

He recalled Winslow Dix, his mentor at Goldman back in the 60's. 

 

Maybe he'd have some ideas.

 

"Frances", he called over the intercom.

 

"Yes Mr. Stafford", she answered primly, fingering a strand of cultured pearls. Bill had grown hoarse over the last 24 years telling her to call him Bill, but she persisted.  Anyway, at 58, and now a captain of industry himself, he enjoyed a touch of formality.

 

" Would you get me Win Dix?  He should be back in Greenwich by now from Palm Beach."

 

Win had retired fifteen years ago but still "kept a hand in," as he used to say. He rode the train into Grand Central Station twice a week, making the reading room at the Harvard Club on 44th Street his base of operations. 

 

He was still close to Goldman and Bill often turned to him for sage advice.

 

"Mr. Dix is on the line," Frances interrupted his thoughts.

 

"Win, how are you? How is Mimi?"

 

"Fine, fine, Bill.  It's been too long.  When will you be in New York again? " he asked with a Boston accent that made New York sound like Noo Yaahk.

 

"Next week. I have to tape " Wall Street Week".  I'll let you know the date. Let's plan to have a drink." He had to get to the point quickly, or else it would become a 40-minute reminiscence.

 

"Win, remember, the business plan your consultant recommended?  He said we should grow internationally with a new offshore client base."

 

"Yes, I recall. That's what all the big firms are doing." Win was a Wall Street elder statesman, having served as an Assistant Secretary of Defence in the Kennedy Administration in '62 and '63.

 

"Well, I've started implementing his recommendations, but I need your help. We've identified two superb international portfolio managers, so that piece of the strategy is unfolding." 

 

"Win, my problem is finding the right guy to market the firm overseas." 

 

"Of course, and you're not going to find him in San Francisco," Win said. He knew Win regarded anywhere West of the Hudson River as terra incognita.

 

He smirked, playing to Win's Yankee parochialism: "Who is the best international salesman at Goldman ?  You know, a comer, someone who clicks with foreigners, but walks the walk and talks the talk."

 

Bill could picture the old Bostonian wincing at his colloquialisms. While Win could talk like one of the boys, at heart he was a Brahmin: It wasn't just English, it was the Queen's English.

 

"You know, I had lunch with Tom Rudin last week and we discussed who would make partner in the next five years, " Win went on, "You recall Tom, don't you?  He keeps his eye on all the associates who are on the "fast track", as I think you call it," he sniffed.

 

"Yes, go on." Bill impatiently twisted the telephone cord around his finger.

 

"Well, he told me about one young associate, I think he's 30.  Been with them five years.  Harvard Business School, Berkeley undergrad.  He thinks he will make partner in three years."

 

Bill knew to make partner in your early 30's was exceptional.

 

"This kid must be Superman," he laughed.

 

"I don't know about that, but Tom says he's articulate, quick witted and self-assured.  No silver spoon, mind you, a real up by the bootstrap story. He's had spectacular results bringing in new private clients in Latin America.  That's an area Goldman has been aggressively building the last couple of years," Win declared.

 

In fact, it was Goldman's successful international growth strategy that had prompted Bill to develop an international strategy for SS.

 

"Any other information on this kid?" Bill asked.

 

"Well, he's originally from California, San Francisco I believe, speaks Spanish and clients love him. Tom says he's very personable and has a great future at Goldman. His name is Chris Callen."  Win always kept a Goldman phone directory on his desk.

 

"Here's his number 212-555-1948.  Now Bill, if you do contact him, of course, don't mention my name.  Tom doesn't want me poaching his best people."

 

With that, Win said goodbye and they agreed to meet when Bill came to town.

    

Bill jotted down the name and phone number.

"Frances," he called. "Get me Chris Callen at Goldman in New York."  He gave her the number.

 

"Oh. Mr. Stafford, your wife called while you were on the phone. She wants to talk to you as soon as possible."

 

"Sure.  Let's see if you can get Callen first and then I'll call her."  He wanted to talk to this kid, to see if he was as good as Win said.

 

"Mr. Stafford?  Mr. Callen's in a meeting.  Do you want me to leave a message? " That was Frances at her discreet best.

 

"Yes, just leave my name and number, no message.  Have him call me," he said, before spinning around in his chair to savour the crystalline waters of the Bay, 25 stories below.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Elaine Stafford was Bill's consigliere in most matters and especially the business.  A finely sharpened cunning gave her an edge in boardroom politics, so Bill always turned to her for counsel.

 

Nine years Bill's junior, she had gone to Stanford and had been raised in comfortable affluence in Hillsborough, a wealthy enclave of canyons and sweeping views of San Francisco, 20 miles South of the City.

 

Her short dark blonde hair was swept up at the sides, which gave her the appearance of being perpetually startled.  At 110lb size 4, she was never concerned about what she ate: she worried off any excess weight. She had a biting wit, which easily mutated into a withering sarcasm that made others wary of her.

 

Elaine was not to be crossed, and the other Pacific Heights matrons left her off their invitation lists at their peril.

 

Her concerns for the several charitable causes on whose boards she sat were as deep as her Lancome makeup. But her one true passion was contemporary art. 

 

Elaine and Bill had been collecting for years and had built an impressive collection.  She sat on the board of trustees of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, the City's most prestigious museum.

 

When the new museum was conceived in the early 1990's, she and Bill had donated $2 million to the capital campaign.

 

"Mrs. Stafford, your husband is calling," said her secretary Fiona in her clipped London home counties accent.

 

Elaine picked up the receiver but paused before speaking.  Bill sensed something was wrong.  

 

"Bill, I don't know how to tell you this.  I had a call from Maria Teresa in Monterrey about thirty minutes ago with the most awful news: Jorge is dead."

 

Bill was stunned by what Elaine had told him.  He had known Jorge for 30 years, since New York days. 

 

They had started at Goldman as associates. Jorge had returned to Mexico after two years, to run the family business when his father became ill.  They had been the closest of friends: his kids used to vacate in San Francisco and Bill and Elaine's kids used to go to Mexico.

 

"Bill, are you still there?  Are you alright?" Elaine asked.

 

" Yes... Yes.... but I just can't believe it.  We spoke last week.  He was fine.  He wasn't ill. He was in his prime.... "

 

Elaine heard a deep, sorrowful sigh. 

 

He sat motionless at his desk. The telephone receiver began to stick to his palm, which had grown moist and clammy.

 

"Bill," she hesitated, "there was an accident last night when he was driving home to Monterrey. He was coming from Brownsville or Matamoros, I'm not sure."

 

Bill knew the road well.  He had driven it with Jorge many times.

 

And Jorge knew every twist and turn of that dusty road.  He used to brag that he could drive it with his eyes closed.  It's a decent road on the high desert, he recalled, narrow but not heavily travelled, except for the semis making the two-hour run to Texas.  He was still trying to absorb the loss when Elaine's voice cracked:

 

"Bill, he was shot.  In the head."

 

A chill of fear surged through him.  To lose your closest friend in middle age is hard.  Heart attack, stroke -- there but for the grace of God...is the reaction after the initial shock. But shot?                             

 

"You mean he was murdered? Like, an attempted kidnap that went wrong?" He was incredulous. Not only was his best friend dead but apparently he was a murder victim.

 

Elaine related the story as best she could. His car had run off the road into a ditch.  Initially, the police thought it was an accident, but then they found the head wound. It was at close range, and whoever did it stole nothing from the car.  There was $50,000 in cash in his briefcase.

 

The police had no suspects, no witnesses.

 

Both fell silent.  The news was too shocking to absorb. At a moment like this, people often switch to an emotional automatic pilot, too dazed to function otherwise. Focus on the mundane to restore structure and order.

 

"The funeral is tomorrow.  We will go, won't we Bill? "

 

"Of course," Bill said seeking solace by taking charge.

 

"I'll have Frances charter a Learjet.  We'll fly down for the day. Leave say, about 5am.  It's a three and a half hour flight, two hour time change, so we'd arrive about 10.30am local time.  We'll return in the evening.  I'll call Maria Teresa."

 

With that Bill hung up and told Frances the news and asked her to call Maria Teresa Ruiz.

 

She paused for only a moment to remember Jorge who'd visited often before reverting to her efficient "Girl Friday" mode.

 

Bill pushed his chair away from the desk and swivelled around, staring at the Bay so she would not see the tears in his eyes. 

 

"No one should die so young."  You associate death with dark, cold, bleak weather and desolation. In contrast, the view from his window was radiant sunshine, sensuously curved green hills and the deep blue Bay.

 

The grim news of his best friend's death jarred with the too perfect picture postcard view before him.

 

He collected his thoughts for a few more minutes.  Frances had Maria Teresa on the line.

 

"Maria Teresa," he began, searching for a word of comfort he could share.  "I'm so sorry.  Jorge was..." he felt awkward using the past tense to describe his best friend.

                         

The widow recounted the same facts Elaine had shared earlier but without further enlightenment.

 

"Elaine and I will come to the funeral tomorrow," Bill assured her. He hoped she would draw comfort from the thought that her oldest family friends would be with her and her children to lay her husband to rest. Though he did not relish having to be out of the office for an unproductive reason like a funeral.

 

"Maria Teresa, are the police investigating? Have they come up with any leads?"

 

As an heiress to one of Monterrey's industrial fortunes, her family was well connected. Her brother Luis, whom Bill had met, had pressed the Governor to solve the case. 

 

"Bill, it was an execution.  That's what Luis told me.  Jorge was executed, like the Mafia does to its enemies."

 

"But Jorge never had enemies. Who would want to see him dead? Maybe they tried to kidnap him and he resisted?" Bill wanted some answers.

 

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," she said mirroring his own disbelief.

 

"Who did he go to meet in Texas?"

 

"He went to a business meeting in Matamoros. I think he said something about importing a new line of auto parts." She paused, struggling to maintain her composure. "Bill, I just don't know. Jorge's secretary is going to give Luis his itinerary, to help in the investigation."

 

Realising that his probing was upsetting her, Bill changed the subject.

 

"I'm going to have Frances give you the details of our trip tomorrow.  If there is anything we can do......"

 

"Thank you, thank you Bill."

 

He could hear her weeping as Frances picked up the phone and he said goodbye.

 

Brownsville, Matamoros, Laredo: how many times had he visited those mean Texas - Mexico border towns with Jorge. Devoid of charm or character, they were towns that you went for cross border business. But legitimate business had given way to drug trafficking and cocaine in particular.

 

He had been to Matamoros a couple of times with Jorge. It was a hard, soulless place even before the rise of the drug industry -it had become even worse since Bill was there. Matamoros had become the cocaine gateway from Mexico to the United States. It was crawling with undercover drug enforcement agents.

 

Even legitimate businessmen tried to get in and out of the place as quickly as possible.

 

Jorge's company, Automotores Nortenos was one of the largest car dealerships in Northern Mexico and  Matamoros is also a port of entry for US manufactures into Mexico, so it was a logical destination for Jorge, Bill reflected.

 

Anyway, he was killed outside Matamoros on the way back to Monterrey. Maybe there wasn't any connection between his meeting there and the murder.

 

Bill called his CFO, Lenny Weiss, to tell him the news.

 

"I want to see Jorge's latest account statements."

 

Bill used to review Jorge's account annually but the last couple of years, with the growth of the business, he had not reviewed it.

 

While it had been some time since they had gone over the account's investment performance, Bill recalled the account balances totalled about $20 million.  At least Maria Teresa and the kids would be well provided for.

Copyright (c) 2000 James Herlihy. All rights reserved.