“So what about the federal authorities?” Townsend asked, a trace of old English civility creeping into his voice now that he better understood Lake’s plan. “If we start making money like you suggest, won’t the federal regulatory agencies become curious?”
“Yes,” Lake admitted, after gauging Cazaux’s expression. More than information, Lake felt, Cazaux was looking for honesty, and if Lake ever had to be one hundred and ten percent up-front, it was now. “I don’t think you can do this for very long — eventually someone will question all these coincidences…” His voice regained a lot of the confidence and steel that he had lost since the incident at SFO. “But I think we can plan Henri’s three strikes against carefully selected targets, take the proceeds, close up shop, and get away clean before the Securities and Exchange Commission alerts the Treasury Department and the FBI.”
“Now you’ve got three American federal agencies chasing us…?”
“These options trades are done tens of thousands of times a day,” Lake explained. “Hundreds of millions of dollars in options are traded every business day. The federal agencies have rules and enforcement officers examining these trades, but it works slowly, and they look for the big fish. Besides, we’re not stealing the money — we’re just diverting it, spreading it around, with most of it spread in our direction. Lots of other traders will be making money, and the guy who just lost money one day will make it all back, plus a little extra, the next day or the next week. This sounds like big bucks, gents, but it’s small potatoes — most big-time traders need to make ten million a day just to keep their spurs.
“We’ll be outgunned by the really big traders, the superbig investors and brokers and even some governments. That’s the time we take our profits and step back. We’ll be lost in the confusion — a perfect opportunity to escape. The feds will go after the elephants, and they’ll let the ants scoop up the crumbs and shoo — except our ‘crumbs’ will be counted in the millions, maybe even the tens of millions of dollars.”
“Henri, this bastard is givin’ us a snow job,” Ysidro said, totally lost and completely exasperated by Lake’s attempted explanation. “We gotta get the money this asshole stole from us back, that’s the fuckin’ bottom line.”
Cazaux looked at Ysidro, then Townsend, then at Lake, nodded solemnly, and said in response, “Harold, your plan of action has merit, but it still does not erase what you have done — risk this entire army’s very existence by compromising our financial resources. It is nothing short of treason and conspiracy. However, because of your long years of service to us and because I feel your plan should be considered by the general staff, you will not be tried of treason and conspiracy for a period of twelve hours.
“In that twelve hours, while under ’round-the-clock arrest, you are to turn all funds belonging to this organization over to me.”
“No problem,” Lake said. “I can have the eleven million dollars in your offshore accounts in three—”
“In cash,” Ysidro said, “not any of this Jew-banker contract-note shit.”
“In cash,” Cazaux agreed.
Lake swallowed hard, the back of his mind racing trying to determine the best way to transport a truckful of money to the Owl’s Nest from a friendly bank. He quickly determined that it was not possible. “Henri, it can’t be done in twelve hours,” Lake said. “One or two million, yes, but not eleven. The fastest way to get the money is from the Federal Reserve Bank in New York or Boston, but we don’t want to stir up that hornet’s nest, which means we try going to the commercial and private banks, which will take time. Not many banks carry that kind of cash on hand, which means we’d have to go to several banks, which greatly increases the likelihood of—”
“Then you will die, Harold,” Cazaux said, raising the big .45 again.
“Wait!” Lake shouted. “I can get four… no, five million with just a phone call. I’ve dealt with the Win Millions Casino in Atlantic City for emergency cash deals in the past — they can divert five million to me in just a few hours, before the gaming commission inspectors count their receipts tomorrow morning. They’ll charge twenty percent—”
“Which you will pay out of your own funds,” Cazaux said.
“Of course, of course,” Lake agreed. Twenty-percent interest for a one-week loan worked out to an astronomical one million percent compounded annual interest rate, but it was his only hope right now. “But Henri, the other six million should stay in the various offshore accounts. We can’t write those option contracts with cash.” The gun was still trained on him, distrust showing in every man’s face around Lake. “Henri, you’ve got to trust me on this one. I’ve got a loan commitment for eighteen million dollars in my hands. I pay Fraga at the Win Millions Casino six million, I need four million for my other creditors, that leaves you with the rest of the—”
“You will pay us fifteen million dollars,” Cazaux said. “Five million now, in cash, and ten million credited to our offshore numbered accounts. You will keep the rest.”
“But… but I can’t do that,” Lake protested. “I’ve got to cover thirty different trust and escrow accounts. The four million is just enough to hold off any legal action for—” “You will agree to these terms or die,” Cazaux said. “That is your only concern right now.”
“Henri, I can’t step on the floor of any exchange or even talk to a broker unless I—” Cazaux pulled the hammer back on the .45. The sound of the hammer locking into place was as loud as a church bell in Lake’s ears. “All right, all right!” Lake shouted. “Fifteen million for you. I agree. Five million now, ten in your accounts.” He paused, looking to Cazaux and Townsend, afraid to look at Ysidro, and added, “To be used for Operation Storming Heaven, yes?”
“What the hell is Operation Storming Heaven?” Townsend asked.
“It’s an appropriate name for this project,” Lake said. “Comes from a quote by the Roman tribune Quintus Hor- atius Flaccus: ‘Nothing is too high for the daring of mortals; they storm heaven in their folly.’ Quite good, don’t you think?”
Ysidro looked disgusted and angry enough to chew nails, but Cazaux nodded his approval. It was one of those touches that Lake knew that Cazaux appreciated — having a title for any operation he was about to undertake was important to him. Cazaux decocked the pistol and stuck it back in his belt. Lake had to look behind him to see what would have gotten ruined had he pulled the trigger. A nineteenth-century oil painting of Abraham Lincoln, once appraised at over a hundred thousand dollars, would have needed extensive cleaning and repairs to remove Lake’s brains and bone fragments if his explanation of Operation Storming Heaven did not convince Henri Cazaux.
Cazaux put the question to a vote of the members of his general staff — merely a formality, because almost no one ever voted against Henri Cazaux. Tomas Ysidro was the only one to vote against the plan, asking again that Lake be executed for what he’d done with the organization’s funds. “I’ll be on you like stink on shit, Drip,” Ysidro told Lake as the staff members were given their instructions to begin planning the three attacks. “You get out of line once, just once, and I’ll blow your fuckin’ ass off. Cazaux will bitch, and he might even throw me out on the street, but you’ll still be dead like you fuckin’ deserve.”