Simpson didn’t have any children, but seeing the woman he’d never stopped loving in pain had been eating away at him. “Me either.”
“Let me know what you come up with and if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Will do.”
“And Addy…”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve made it through worse, so keep your chin up.”
Chapter 85
Mountains and mountains of money. Andrei Tinkov knew that was the weapon of choice for the financial elite. The Group gained control of the world’s political systems by manipulating financial markets, and increased its fortunes in the process. On the list of distinguished billionaires and powerful executives, were the chosen few who had been anointed into an organization that was so veiled in secrecy even its moniker was anonymous. The Group simply did not exist in any attributable form. Together, its members wielded enough power to ensure the secretive system of offshore havens used to move their money remained intact.
It was a nervous time for the secret organization, a time where its members were being held up to great scrutiny. Several among its ranks had been tied to a recent interest rate scandal. Their coconspirators had been careless and stupid. Those from their ranks who were embroiled in the mess had families that could be leveraged, so it opened up their options to include more than elimination. The consensus of The Group was leaning toward making them fend for themselves, whilst publicly condemning their actions and continuing business as usual behind the scenes.
Tinkov had been waiting for his chance. He was tasked to set the elaborate plan fashioned by his communist brethren into motion, but the banter about the recent Libor scandal had made the climate too intense for him to subtly introduce their scheme. Any abrupt change in the subject would attract unwanted attention. He continued to bide his time as he listened.
The Group’s members were seated around a glistening mahogany conference table in the large rectangular room. All devices capable of recording or transmitting the meeting had been checked at the door.
“Cut off all ties, period,” Sir Oliver Wright demanded. His plump face was still red from his long tirade. The Londoner had emphasized his complete and utter embarrassment by his countrymen who had been at the center of the scandal. His words had put him at odds with The Group’s German contingent. He stared down the tall, slender Berliner in the gray suit who was seated across from him and declared, “Those imbeciles deserve nothing from us.”
“No help whatsoever?” Herr Friedrich Ulrich asked in a snide tone. He stared the Briton down the length of his narrow nose. “They are, after all, your fellow countrymen.”
Wright folded his arms tightly against his barrel chest, projecting the appearance of an immovable object. “No, absolutely none.”
“I’m impressed,” Ulrich said with a sarcastic look. “I suppose that now makes you the senior member when it comes to the United Kingdom’s vote amongst this”—he motioned around the room—“distinguished company.” It was a statement not a question.
Germany and the United Kingdom wielded significant influence over the European Union, since they represented two of its top economies. Ulrich, who had been the President of the European Central Bank since its inception, had made his displeasure with the situation known before an abrupt interruption served to conclude their heated exchange.
“Now that we have that settled,” Bart Stapleton said taking command, “on to our next order of business.” He searched the room for any objections. “The situation with our friends in Iraq.”
The Federal Reserve chairman noted the rumblings around the table and cleared his throat to demand everyone’s undivided attention.
“This is an investment that will start to pay off in just a couple of years.” He smiled tightly as he scanned their faces. “Think of it as the sort of gift that will keep on giving.”
Everyone knew he was referring to Iraq’s oil reserves, and it wasn’t the first time the subject had been raised by an American.
“I don’t like it,” a Belgian member said. “What will become of our investment if the situation with Iran escalates?”
“That is just what we’re going to prevent,” Stapleton said with a hint of condescension.
The Belgian’s face soured. “At some point we have to say enough is enough. We’ve been at this for more than a decade, and the region is as unstable as it’s ever been.”
Andrei Tinkov sat back and watched the two men parry each other’s comments. The semi-smile on his face had gone unnoticed. He had been nervously waiting for the right moment to make his move. The survival of the communist movement he had dedicated his life to, and the immediate resurgence of the Soviet Union, stood squarely on his shoulders. The fact that the situation had presented itself was a sign of things to come. He needed to manipulate the conversation perfectly, since it represented their only chance for an immediate and wide-sweeping success.
The irony wasn’t lost on the Russian. The American was pushing for an action that would deliver the same outcome as the one he had planned. Now, though, Tinkov would be in the clear. There would be nothing to tie their master plan back to any action taken by The Group. He would laugh out loud if he could, and he was certainly bellowing inside. A Frenchman at the other side of the table attracted his attention and two words came to mind: Carpe Diem.
“They need an infusion of money to keep the government and basic services running,” Stapleton insisted, “and if we don’t act now you can kiss the world’s largest oil reserves good-bye.” His eyes darted around the room until he had made eye contact with every man. “You might as well put a big fat bow on Baghdad so the Supreme Leader can thoroughly enjoy his present.”
Before the Belgian could jab back, Tinkov injected himself into the conversation.
“Russia will certainly honor the request from The Group’s distinguished American member,” he said.
Stapleton appeared surprised and nodded his appreciation.
Internal fireworks that would rival a Fourth of July display lit up the Russian’s face. Iraq’s secret dealings with the communists had spanned decades. Before the war broke out, they had helped the Iraqi government create an underground network similar to their own. The Americans were ill-equipped to understand the intricacies of the Iraqi power brokers, and had unwittingly empowered a regime that would be quick to turn and support their longtime ally.
“However,” Tinkov probed, “I’m afraid I would take exception to Mr. Stapleton’s proposed structure.”
All eyes were now focused on the Russian.
“I think we can all agree that the actions of his bank are the reason we, for the second time, are having to discuss this point.”
Stapleton’s face turned red, as if he knew where this conversation was headed. Everyone remained silent, but the body language in the room was deafening.
Tinkov raised his eyebrows and surveyed the men who were present. “Had your Federal Reserve not shipped forty billion dollars in cash”—he emphasized the word “cash”—“to Baghdad so carelessly, the rest of us might not be in the position where we must, once again, fund its government.”
Several uncomfortable glances were exchanged. Tinkov had never connected on a personal level with any of The Group’s cliques, so his comments had been a collective surprise. His inclusion in The Group had been deemed necessary after the fall of communism. Russia and its vast resources represented a significant opportunity to increase the wealth they commanded. Tinkov took great pleasure in knowing Stapleton was on the verge of exploding.