The Tainted Trust

  “Absolute insanity!” Turner protested. “As your attorney, I’m compelled to advise you in the strongest possible language. You must abandon this madness and return the money to its rightful owners. You can’t imagine the trouble you’ll be in if the Feds ever discover what you’ve done. They’ll lock both of you up and throw away the key. No bail this time. You’re both flight risks.”

  Mike shook his head and pointed a defiant finger at Turner. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men aren’t going to convince me to change my mind. What the Feds did was nothing short of atrocity. You can’t imagine the anguish they’ve caused Karen and me. The money stays where it is. No negotiation.”

  Sensing Mike’s determination, Turner re-directed his protest to Karen. “Can you knock some sense into this man’s head?”

  Even though Mike had displayed an uncharacteristic larcenous trait in making the decision to keep the money, Karen still had difficulty faulting his logic or his motive. She too had suffered greatly at the hands of the Feds. “Sorry, Dan,” she said, shaking her head. “I agree with Mike.”

  Turner shrugged his shoulders and raised both hands in surrender. “At least I tried. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” He smirked. “Off the record… I might be inclined to do the same thing if… That’s not legal advice, just a private thought.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Dan,” Mike said. “Karen and I want to thank you for sticking with us.”

  “My pleasure. You’re the most exciting clients I’ve ever had… You have any plans for the money?”

  Mike shook his head. “Only to make sure the Feds never see it again,” he said.

  Karen stood, walked around the table and kissed Turner on his forehead. “Mike and I are finally getting married.”

  Turner chuckled, his face reddened. “Congratulations. Where and when?”

  “We’ll send you a formal invitation as soon as we know.”

  “Wherever it is, I’ll be there.”

  Turner stood and accompanied his clients to the elevator. “Good luck to both of you,” he said. “I hope we never have to meet again under such unfavorable circumstances.”

  Karen waited until the elevator door had closed, then wrapped her arms around Mike’s waist. Pressing her head against his chest she felt a sense of closure. At last she was completely free to be with the man she had never stopped loving. She lifted her head and kissed him hard. “I love you, Mike King. I love you from the bottom of my heart… Do you think we could ever make up for all the years we missed?” she asked, her lips barely grazing his.

  Mike grinned. “We could have a hell of a lot of fun trying… When and where do you want to get hitched? Have you considered that?”

  “You bet your cute butt I have! It’s all I’ve done for the last eighteen years.”

  “Then let’s do it, soon.”

  The two lovers proceeded toward the heavy glass doors leading to Bay Street, then Karen squeezed Mike’s hand to get his attention. “I’m really worried,” she said. “What the hell are we going to do with over three hundred million dollars of stolen money? What’s going to happen to us if we’re caught?”

  Mike frowned. He was not sure what to do with Servito’s millions. His only certainty was that he would rather die than turn it over to the Feds. “We won’t get caught if it stays out of sight long enough. Schnieder will continue to manage it, we’ll forget we even have it and let time take care of the details.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I do, but I worry about his age. He’s getting a little long in the tooth. He’s sixty-four. He told me he was twenty-eight when he left Germany in nineteen forty-four.”

  “What if he dies?”

  “He’s covered that. He’s picked a successor. His name is Louis Visconti. Alfred told me he’s in his early thirties, brilliant, extremely capable, and very discrete. He lives in Connecticut, works in New York. With our permission, Alfred’s prepared to bring him up to speed on the trust.”

  “Then five people will know about it.”

  “It has to happen eventually, Babe. Even if Schnieder lives, someone will have to replace him when he retires.”

  “Did he tell you anything more about Visconti?”

  “Yup. He gave him a heavy duty testimonial and said he would trust him with his life.”

  “I think we should meet him first, and I don’t think we should give Schnieder permission to tell him anything until we do.”

  “Definitely. I’m going to call Visconti and set up a meeting.”

  “Are you going to include me?”

  Mike grinned and nodded. “Unless we both agree, without reservation, Visconti’s out. Okay?”

  “Deal,” Karen replied, feeling only slightly more comfortable.

  CHAPTER 4

  Caracas. Friday, April 25, 1980.

  A brilliant financier, Alfred Schnieder fled war torn Germany in early 1945, leaving behind all of his wealth, almost all of his teeth, and a dubious past. Arriving in Caracas, Venezuela without a cent to his name, he committed his remaining years to the banking business. He was acutely aware that by keeping his mouth shut and remaining religiously discrete with clients’ money, he could live like a king in South America. And he did.

  A gentle knock on his office door caused him to turn his bald head and raise his graying eyebrows. “Hold for a minute. Someone’s at my door,” he said into his gold plated telephone receiver, then placed it on his desk and hurried to the door. He opened it to see a very excited Manuel Blanco, his diminutive administrative assistant, about to knock again.

  “Mister Schnieder, two people from the United States Internal Revenue Service are in my office,” Blanco announced. “They have been very rude and have demanded to see you immediately. They have refused to tell me why they are here.”

  “Stall them for a minute, then show them in,” Schnieder ordered, then returned to his desk to pick up the receiver. “Forgive the delay. I have visitors. I’ll call you later.”

  Thirty seconds later, Blanco appeared at his door with the two I.R.S. agents. He politely ushered them in. “Mister Schnieder, these are the people from the Internal Revenue Service who want to see you.”

  Schnieder stood and nodded to Blanco. “Thank you, Manuel. You may leave now,” he said, then turned to face his visitors with a confident smile displaying a glittering array of gold capped teeth.

  One of the two I.R.S. agents, a short fat man with a white brush cut, removed his standard issue sunglasses, took several steps toward Schnieder’s desk and removed a badge from his sweat-stained beige summer suit. He held it out for Schnieder to see while he introduced himself. “It was kind of you to see us, Mister Schnieder. My name is Charles Anderson.” With a pompous sweep of his right arm, Anderson introduced his partner, a very attractive Mexican in her thirties, wearing dark sunglasses, a white blouse, beige cotton skirt and navy blue jacket. “This is Mary Sanchez. We’re with the Criminal Investigations Division of the I.R.S., in Washington, D.C. We have a few questions.”

  In no way intimidated by his visitors, Schnieder had been subjected to similar interrogations numerous times in his long career. “I’m at your service… I must remind you however, if your questions relate to the activities of any of our clients, I am by no means obliged to answer.” He winked at Anderson. “Besides, it would appear that you are considerably beyond the limits of your jurisdiction.”

  Shaken by Schnieder’s response, Anderson took a deep breath. “We’re very much aware of your banking laws, sir. And you’re quite correct about our jurisdictional limits. It would be appreciated however, if you would try to cooperate with us. The government of the United States is attempting to recover a very large amount of money and Miss Sanchez and I have been directed to find it.”

  “What money?” Schnieder asked, aware his bank was home to the fruits of crime and flight capital of many clients. “Perhaps you could be more specific.”

  “Hundreds of millions of stolen gasoline tax dolla
rs. We have reason to believe they’ve found their way into your bank… Several years ago, it came to our attention that a Canadian citizen by the name of James Servito might be involved in gasoline tax evasion. In addition to other things we did, we followed him all the way to your branch in Grand Cayman.” Anderson riveted his green eyes on Schnieder’s. “We did that too many times not to conclude that he was making very large deposits in your bank. Would you care to comment on that?”

  “You know I can’t do that,” Schnieder replied.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, Mister Schnieder.” Anderson said. “Our people have photographed Servito’s wife and Mike King enter this building on several occasions. Did they visit you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s privileged information.”

  “Have they ever deposited any money in your bank?”

  “None,” Schnieder replied, aware that he had provided a truthful answer, in spite of the fact that he was not obliged to do so.

  “Then if they didn’t put money in your bank, what the hell were they doing here?”

  Even though Schnieder knew he was not required to answer Anderson’s question, he decided to deflect suspicion. “You appear to be an intelligent man, Mister Anderson. Did it ever occur to you that they too might be looking for Jim Servito’s money?”

  “Are you saying they are?”

  “I’m not saying that. I merely asked you a question.”

  “Do you know where they are now?”

  “No, but I will tell you that Mike King and the former Karen Servito are now husband and wife, and I believe they’ve gone somewhere to enjoy a honeymoon.”

  Obviously frustrated, Anderson pursed his lips, turned to Sanchez and shook his head. “Let’s go. We’re wasting our time,” he hissed.

  Schnieder stood and followed them to the door. “I’m very sorry I could not be of more help. If you care to leave a card, I’ll call you if I learn anything which might help.”

  Anderson gave his card to Schnieder, then left with his partner.

  Mary Sanchez stopped several feet outside the bank’s front doors. “Hey Charlie,” she said, then lit a cigarette. “Stay in the shade. Let’s talk.”

  Anderson leaned against the building beside Sanchez.

  “What did you think of our friendly banker?” Sanchez asked.

  Anderson turned and spit on the pavement. “Fucking ice man. We could put that son of a bitch on a rack and still get nothing out of him.”

  “I think he knows a hell of a lot more than he’s telling us, don’t you?”

  “No question. I bet my pension he knows exactly where Servito’s money is, and he’s giving it his personal attention.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Mike’s return to his office in North Toronto was a defining moment in his unique career. At last he was free to resume his duties as the president and owner of an extremely successful company. His staff stood and gave him a long, standing and loud ovation when he hobbled into the reception area on crutches. After spending more than an hour drinking champagne and telling them the details of his life-threatening excursion to Caracas, he proceeded to his office and immediately placed a call to Paul Conrad, the president of Golden National Oil Inc. Conrad liked Mike from the day they met. He saw a lot of himself in Mike. He had taken a chance on Mike years earlier by giving him a sweetheart gasoline contract. The generous credit terms gave him the financial horsepower to launch his business. The price escalation clause had later rewarded him beyond his wildest imagination. He waited patiently for Conrad’s secretary to connect them.

  “Congratulations, Mike,” Conrad said. “I’m delighted to have you back in the saddle.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Dan Turner called me this morning and told me the whole story. He’s maintained close contact with me ever since you left the country… So what are you going to do for excitement now?”

  Mike chuckled. “Watch the grass grow. I’ve had all the excitement I need for a long time.”

  “You might have that opportunity. You might even enjoy the luxury of boredom now that the business has settled down to a dull roar.”

  “In that connection, I want to thank you and Golden National for supplying my company in my absence. I appreciate that more than you could possibly know.”

  “It was nothing. We had the extra gasoline available. More importantly, we need people like you in the business.”

  “Thanks to you I’m still in it, and thanks to a fortunate break, I’m about to get married.”

  “Congratulations. Who’s the lucky girl?”

  “Her name is Karen. You don’t know her but her former husband stole a hell of a lot of your company’s gasoline.”

  “Well I’ll be damned! Where did you meet her?”

  “Long story. Karen and I go back a lot further than her husband and the gasoline business. For one reason and another it took us a lot longer to get together than it should have.”

  “Put me on the list. I wouldn’t miss it. Will it be in Toronto?”

  “I’m not sure, but we’ll send you an invitation as soon as we pick a time and a place.”

  “I’ll be there, wherever and whenever… By the way, did you ever find out what Servito did with all his money?”

  Mike privately scolded himself for being unprepared for Conrad’s question. Again he had cause to question his motives for keeping the fruit of Servito’s crimes. Until now, his worst transgressions had been nothing more than white lies. Now he was a co-conspirator in a three hundred million dollar scam. The excitement of it intoxicated him. His compulsion to continue it worried him. He adjusted with a measured and oblique statement. “Sure we did. We also discovered the streets of Caracas are paved with gold.”

  “Please let me know if you hear anything. A chunk of that money belongs to Golden National.”

  “I will and I’ll talk to you again soon,” Mike said, then hung up. He lowered his head and pushed his fingers through his wavy blond hair. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said aloud.

  CHAPTER 6

  New York. Friday, July 18, 1980.

  Standing beside their bags and wearing faded jeans, T-shirts, and well worn sneakers, Mike and Karen King had just emerged from a cab near the entrance to the Plaza Hotel. Mike, tired and unshaven for twenty-four hours, paid the driver and hurried to the front door. He approached the portly doorman who was dressed neatly in an olive colored suit, long-coat, and matching top hat. “Excuse me. I’m looking for a man named Louis Visconti. Would you…”

  “Are you Mister King?” the doorman interrupted with a broad smile.

  Mike nodded.

  “Mister Visconti’s been expecting you. He’s right in there,” the doorman said, pointing to a man standing just inside the glass front doors. “He’s the good looking young man in the beige suit. Will you be staying at the hotel this evening?” he asked, his arm raised to summon a bellboy.

  Mike stuffed a ten dollar bill into the doorman’s shirt pocket. “No. We’ll be leaving after we have lunch with Mister Visconti. I would appreciate if you’d store our bags until then.”

  The doorman winked, smiled and nodded, then Mike and Karen proceeded to the lobby.

  Visconti flashed his irresistible white smile and extended his right hand to Mike. “Hi. I’m Louis Visconti. I saw the doorman pointing to me and knew you had to be Mike King.” He shifted his focus to Karen and was instantly captivated by her beauty. “Hello,” he sang, his grey eyes penetrating her clothing.

  “Louis, please meet my wife, Karen,” Mike said with a disapproving scowl.

  Visconti grasped Karen’s hand with both of his own. “Pleasure to meet you, Karen,” he said, then motioned toward the lobby with his left arm, his eyes still riveted on Karen. “I took the liberty of making reservations. Would you like to follow me?”

  Mike and Karen followed Visconti through the lobby and into the ornate dining room. They stopped at a beautifully decorated a
nd windowed alcove.

  “I hope you like this. We can dine in comfort here,” Visconti said, then pulled out a chair for Karen. “From what little information Alfred gave me about you, I assumed you would appreciate the privacy.”

  Karen liked Visconti’s appearance and demeanor, but had difficulty determining why. Strangely, she felt attracted to him. The complete big city package, Visconti was slick, clean, sharp, and super suave. He exuded confidence.

  A waiter materialized carrying menus. “Would you like to order lunch now, Mister Visconti? Or perhaps you would like to relax for a while with a beverage?”

  Visconti turned to face his guests. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “White wine, please,” Karen ordered.

  Mike placed his hand on the waiter’s forearm. “Bring us the whole bottle. We’re celebrating.”

  “What are we celebrating?” Visconti asked, puzzled.

  “Karen and I were married yesterday.”

  Visconti flashed another of his irresistible smiles. “Congratulations,” he declared, then turned again to face the waiter. “Peter, bring us the best in the house, chilled.”

  The waiter nodded. “Just give me a few minutes, Mister Visconti,” he said, then hurried from the table.

  “So, you were married yesterday. Any plans for a honeymoon?” Visconti asked, then eased himself into the chair next to Karen’s.

  “When we’re finished here, we’re going to get lost in Europe for a while,” Mike answered.

  Visconti glanced at Mike, then at Karen. “I envy you guys,” he said, displaying a perceptible expression of sadness. “I see happiness and anticipation in your eyes.”

  “Are you married, Louis?” Karen asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

  Visconti frowned and shook his head. “Marriage and I didn’t get along too well. I experimented with one and paid the price in misery. She was a wonderful girl, but couldn’t cope with my life style.”

  “The fast lane in New York?” Karen asked.