“I can try to get a line on people who had access to the documents in the fax, but that could turn out to be a very long list. We don’t have time for that. Maybe you could help focus things a little more.” Pierro shook his head.
“I’ve been going nuts ever since this started, trying to figure out who could have those documents… who would do this. And I just don’t know. After all these years, it seems like anyone could have those papers.” He rocked back in his chair, and last night’s tension returned. He folded his arms on his chest and stared out over my head. “I just don’t know,” he said.
“We won’t worry right now about how many hands the documents could’ve passed through over the years, okay? Let’s focus on who had them originally, back when you first did the deal. Let’s start there. Tell me about Textiles,” I said. And he did.
It was, Pierro told me, one of several deals that Nassouli had brought to him. Textiles was a big MWB client in Europe. The company maintained a slew of cash accounts with the bank, to support its operations around the world. MWB also provided financing to Textiles. Textiles was planning a move into the United States and needed additional financing, in dollars, to support it. MWB couldn’t take on any more exposure to the company, but French Samuelson, having no previous dealings with Textiles, could. Nassouli had made the match.
Pierro’s main contact at MWB, on the Textiles deal and all the others that Nassouli brought to the table, was Nassouli himself. Pierro remembered working directly with only one other person from MWB: a guy named Al Burrows. Burrows worked for Nassouli, and ran MWB’s correspondent banking department in New York. Pierro recalled him helping out on the Textiles deal, and on one or two others. He didn’t know if Al was short for Albert or Alfred or Alvin, and he had no idea where the guy might be today. He spelled the name and gave me what he could of a description.
I took Pierro through the fax, looking not only for people who had access to each of the documents in it, but also for people who would’ve had the entire package. He wasn’t much help. According to Pierro, the late Emilio Dias, the Textiles CFO, would have had most of the documents: Nassouli’s letter to Dias, Pierro’s own letter to him, and the list of drawdowns and repayments. But he also thought that Nassouli would’ve had the same stuff. Pierro, as a courtesy, had copied Nassouli on his letter to Dias; and all of Textiles’ loan transactions moved through cash accounts at MWB.
I brought up Nassouli’s memo to “The Files,” the one alleging that he and Pierro had prepared Textiles’ loan application. Pierro bristled.
“That thing is bullshit,” he said, his face darkening. “There’s no point wondering who had access to it, because nobody did. It was made up by the same asshole that sent the fax. End of story.”
“So, the applications and the corporate documents-the Textiles people were responsible for those?” Pierro looked at me hard.
“I told you-yes. Is there another way I can say it?”
“How well did you know the company?” The muscles around Pierro’s mouth clenched, then he closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.
“I knew them as well as I was supposed to, John. The world was different then, I’ll admit. The know-your-customer rules weren’t as tight as they are today, and there was maybe less scrutiny on referrals that came from the private banking department or from another big firm-but we didn’t just give the money away, for chrissakes. I kicked the damn tires, and as far as I knew Textiles was a legitimate concern.”
“Okay, the allegations are bullshit, but what about the document itself? You’re sure Nassouli couldn’t have written this?” Pierro looked at me for a while and ran his hand over his forehead. When he spoke his voice was low and tight.
“Why the hell would he do that? Why would he implicate himself in something like this-especially since it never happened? Why would anyone do that?” It was a good question, and I had no answer to it. We were quiet for a couple of minutes, and Pierro’s nascent anger seemed to fade. We moved on to the question of enemies.
Pierro readily admitted that in twenty years at French, he’d ruffled his share of feathers, perhaps more than his share. And he conceded that some of those birds might hold a grudge. But he thought it impossible that any of them would go to these lengths to get even. If the goal was to sink his career, he pointed out, there were easier and less risky ways to go about it. One could simply send the incriminating stuff to the French Samuelson executive committee and be done with it.
Nor did Pierro see any of them as potential blackmailers, for the simple reason that they were too damn rich already. I pointed out that we weren’t yet certain this was blackmail, but in fact I agreed with Pierro’s reasoning. The fax made more sense as the prelude to some sort of squeeze than as a warning of impending vengeance. Whichever it was, it was probably too risky a game for a senior investment banker to be playing.
Pierro considered all my questions carefully, and he was deliberate in his answers. And the talking seemed to relieve his tension. It often works that way with clients. Answering questions makes them feel like they’re taking some action, like they’re doing something. It’s better than the feeling of waiting around for something to be done to you. But Pierro was astute enough to recognize that this was fleeting comfort.
“Is this really helping?” he asked.
“A little,” I answered. “Right now, the documents are the only trail we have to follow. Textiles Pan-Europa is defunct, and so are the executives you dealt with back then, so working it from that side isn’t promising. That leaves the MWB end of things, looking at the people who were there with Nassouli eighteen years ago, and the people who are there now. ‘Burrows’ is a new name; that might be helpful. But frankly, there’s not a lot here.” He nodded. I had more questions, but the phone interrupted us.
“Russell, hi. Yeah, I’m home today. No, I can talk, hang on a sec.” Pierro put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, apologetically, “This is the one call I was actually waiting for today. Give me two minutes. Thanks.” I nodded and left the study, closing the door behind me. I found my way back to the foyer.
The black-framed photos had caught my eye, and I walked slowly around the room now, taking a closer look. They were black-and-white pictures, and they all seemed to have been taken at fashion shoots. But they were not themselves fashion photos. Rather, they were candid pictures of the photographers, models, makeup people, and other assorted production types working on the shoots. And they were remarkable. The best of them caught petulance, vanity, pettiness, anger, frustration, and exhaustion all unawares. Even the less successful ones were arresting and beautifully composed. With their stark lighting and heavy contrasts they had the look of old crime-scene photos. Many of them had been taken outdoors, and I recognized streets in New York and London. They were superb, but I doubted that any of their subjects would have been pleased. In the bottom right corner of each frame, hand-printed on the matting paper, was the name “H. Barrie.”
I heard footsteps approaching and a child’s laughter, and I turned. A woman came into the foyer, pushing a small boy in a stroller.
“You must be John. Rick told me you’d be stopping by. I’m Helene.” She smiled and put out her hand and I shook it. Her hand was smooth and warm, her grip firm.
Helene Pierro was somewhere in her thirties. She was nearly my height and slim, but no starving model. She had broad shoulders and a firm, athletic figure. Her glossy chestnut hair was gathered into a ponytail that came to her shoulders. There was red in it where it caught the light. Her slender brows arched over large, dark eyes. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, her nose long and straight, and her lips full. Her skin was fair but not unblemished. Fine laugh lines bracketed her eyes and mouth, and on her chin, like a comma, was a small white scar.