Terminal Payback

By Wolodymyr Mohuchy

Former managing director of emerging markets at Bear Sterns and retired sergeant of the NYPD, Terry Adams is the forensic investigator for a law firm catering to upper crust clients. He also maintains a detective agency in the East Village servicing the local community, mostly as a pro-bono problem solver.

An intriguing telephone call thrusts him into a web of conspiracy and corruption on a global scale. The caller hires him to find those responsible for the death of Charles Gregory, an investment banker at his old firm, who was killed by an oncoming subway at the Wall Street station, even though the police pronounced the death accidental.

He zeroes in on a bank in Cyprus where a trail of illicit payments to the victim uncovers insider trading at JP Morgan-Chase and leads him to massive corporate fraud in the emerging markets of eastern Europe. Investigations in Budapest and Stavropol, Russia, identify Alexei Godunov, an ex-KGB colonel, as a principal perpetrator in the scheme.

Through networking he identifies the corrupt broker, who is also the agent for the Brighton Beach mob. Hacking into brokerage records, Terry discovers the mobs significant investment losses in the swindle. He concludes that the death was the mobs payback for the misdeed.

When Alexei Godunov meets the same fate as Charles Gregory and Terry learns of Godunovs business connection to his client, he attempts to intercede with the mob to save his clients life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514492765

Wolodymyr Mohuchy

Wolodymyr Mohuchy is a retired technologist specializing in electronic, microwave, and phased array design. He is the author of From the Ashes, a biographical novel of survival and redemption under the brutal Soviet and Nazi regimes. Terminal Payback is the initial Terry Adams adventure which delves into a web of conspiracy and corruption on a global scale. He is a philanthropist and a community activist.

Book preview

1

Café Mocha Grande – elixir for the pallet; respite for the soul.

Armed with his iPad and cellphone, Terry stepped out from his office into the sweltering July heat, hastily jaywalked across Second Avenue and entered the corner Starbucks on Ninth Street. Over time the excursion evolved into a midday ritual, though lately it was less frequent due to the increasing workload at the uptown office.

He was a familiar neighborhood patron, so much so, that, on seeing him cross the storefront threshold, the barrista immediately began blending the brew without second thought. Terry greeted him with a hand wave and proceeded to the customary corner nook.

The barrista made the accustomed exception, came out from behind the service counter and brought the tall drink to his table.

Good morning Mr. Adams, he said. Your usual? Would you like anything else to go with the coffee? Your favorite chocolate croissants just came out of the oven.

Thank you Andrew. It sounds very tempting. But I must decline. I treated myself to a sumptuous breakfast in Veselka and I fear my calorie regimen has been blown for the rest of the day.

Well, let me know if you would like anything else.

Thanks.

Terry turned on the iPad and keyed the free Wi-Fi connection to the internet. Leisurely sipping the coffee and viewing the latest domestic and international happenings was his temporary escape from the daily grind. Unfortunately, the tabloids were besieged by little green men, balaclavas, kalashnikov AK-47s and unmarked weapons of war. He sat riveted to the flickering screen, impatiently darting from one demoralizing report to the next, which detailed the brazen terrorist invasion of his ancestral homeland. On this day the elixir provided little respite for his soul.

To the upper crust clients his calling card introduced him as Terry Adams – Forensic Investigator. The moniker was embossed on beige, cloth-impregnated paper with a scrolled heading Wilson, Stern & Abrams, Counselors at Law. A sequence of telephone numbers, e-mail address and a no-less impressive Lexington Avenue location rounded out the rest. The message was clear – clients without deep pockets need not apply. For this very reason he still maintained the downtown office where he embarked on the career as a private investigator before being catapulted to the expensive uptown title. The substantial fees allowed him to be active in the local community as a volunteer and as a pro-bono problem solver.

In the scheme of things, the fees did not seem outlandish for the services rendered. Nor was there ever a fee negotiation or even a hint of dissatisfaction. What mattered were the results, which quite often uncovered hidden millions for delighted clients. In the global financial marketplace his reach appeared to have no bounds. As a senior bond trader at Bear Sterns for over a decade, he cultivated and maintained close personal relationships in countries that lately evolved into favored depositories of sheltered money. The friendships were now paying unimaginable dividends. Switzerland and Cayman Islands were receiving too much scrutiny. The action was in Cyprus, in Malta, in Crete and in similarly corrupt realms. There, with time, his contacts matured into senior executive positions who had access to confidential information and were willing to share it, sometimes for payment, but mostly for a nostalgic in-person thank you. They were all but a phone call away.

The cellphone vibrated. His office number appeared on the screen.

Yes Maya. What’s up?

You got a strange call from someone who wants to speak to you urgently on a personal matter. He did not leave his name and his caller id was blocked. I suspect he used a prepaid throwaway. Anyway, he will call you on the office land line in half an hour. He did not want to contact you on your cell.

What do you make of it, Maya?

As I told you, he expressed some urgency. He had a heavy accent. I don’t know … I’m sure he did not call out of the blue. He had to know that you were downtown today … If he calls again, maybe I should tell him that you went somewhere on business and won’t be back in the office for the next couple of days. Maybe he’ll feel put off and walk away.

Since Terry’s wife unexpectedly succumbed to cancer, Maya became his confidant and his tower of strength. At all of four foot five, with a body ravaged by misaligned genetics, she battled through every imaginable ailment and physical adversity. She always had a cheerful disposition and wore bright colorful blouses and skirts that streamlined her figure and diminished the appearance of her deformity. Her features were inviting, not overindulged with makeup. Her auburn hair was closely cropped in a stylish hairdo.

This diminutive woman proved to be the best antidote for Terry’s bouts of depression after the demise of his darling Alicia. His wound may never heal from the devastating loss, but his spirit would not be broken because of Maya’s heroic example. Her judgment was more often than not on the mark. Her opinion always mattered.

Heavy accent? Hmm … Did he sound like one of the Brighton Beach crowd?

I suppose it’s a possibility. After all he did ask for you by your given name and patronym. Yet, despite the thick brogue, I sensed a hint of an out of town accent.

Let’s see, it’s a quarter to one. I’m almost done with the coffee and the news is too depressing to continue. I’ll be over in a few minutes. We’ll see what this mystery man is about.

The office was a modest cubicle with a tandem of windows stretching over the entire wall facing Second Avenue. Two desks with telephones, computer screens, printers, several chairs, file cabinets lining the wall opposite the windows, a mini refrigerator, microwave and the essential coffee maker – a functional work space without partitions between the proprietor and his secretary. The one indispensable modernization was a Bose noise-canceling system piping soothing elevator music. Second Avenue traffic amplified with ambulance, fire truck and police sirens, plus random gear grinding of delivery trucks and frustrated automobile horn blowing persisted through day and night. The cacophony of the street dynamic filled the cubicle unabated and would otherwise make the working environment unbearable without the electronic miracle.

The space was actually an afterthought perched atop a storefront. The entry was also functional and in line with the lifestyle of the neighborhood: a heavy wooden door whose lock was electronically controlled once the visitor was identified through the armored window. After hours, a steel shutter was lowered and secured by a pick-proof padlock, a most effective deterrent against the local free-lancers. There were no markings on the windows or the door indicating the enterprise. It was a neighborhood venture serving their knowledgeable own.

The telephone rang. Terry picked up the receiver.

Taras Grigorovich?

The light bulb popped. It’s one of them!

Yes it is. How can I be of help? Terry replied in English, setting the tone for the conversation.

Taras Grigorovich, you have been highly recommended to me as a very reliable, discreet investigator. I need your help to resolve a puzzle.

I am intrigued. What exactly is the puzzle?

It is of a sensitive nature. I am not disposed to discussing such things over open airwaves. I can assure you it is very personal. I would like to meet with you in person at your earliest convenience.

Would you hold for a minute? Let me bring up my calendar. Terry said as he turned on the computer and clicked on Outlook.

What would be suitable for you? Terry asked as the screen displayed his commitments for the rest of the month.

I am anxious to engage you as soon as possible. I can adjust my schedule to meet with you in, let’s say, in two days. Would that work?

That would be Thursday. How about Thursday noon? Is that doable?

I will make it work, the caller said. Everything else can wait. I will let you know if there is a last minute change.

Fine. Now that that part is settled, would you mind telling me who you are and what is this all about?

I would prefer to leave the details to our meeting. I assure you there is nothing sinister involved. I just don’t wish to have you needlessly speculate about me or my concerns. I will contact you on Thursday morning with the location of our meeting. I assume that you will be in the Lexington Avenue office in the morning. I will make certain that we can meet in a convenient location and address your concerns and fees over lunch. Is that agreeable with you?

All I can say, you peaked my curiosity. I make no promises. But I will meet with you on Thursday noon.

2

Wilson, Stern & Abrams specialized in divorce and partnership disputes. Solomon Abrams, the junior partner, was as close a friend as a friend can be. They met at the police academy and struck up a friendship, despite the difference in their ages. Taras was seven years older than his Hassidic pal. The friendship cemented in the after hours at McSorleys on Seventh Street where they explored common ground in their heritage over pints of chilled tap beer and sliced, breath killer onion rings.

As luck would have it, they were both assigned to the ninth precinct and both rookies pulled the graveyard shifts, patrolling the neighborhoods together. Solomon discovered early on that this was not exactly what he envisioned for a lifetime career. Once seniority freed his evenings, he enrolled in the Brooklyn Law School. He enjoyed the subject matter and completed the studies at the top of his class. Wilson and Stern were expanding their practice. The search was brief. Solomon was a natural fit.

Terry arrived early at the uptown office on Wednesday morning, hoping to talk with Solomon before the day’s activities took on a life of their own and made private conversation impossible.

Solomon was an early riser and was usually the one to unlock the office front door. He was already at his desk perusing a thick file.

Hi Sol. You have a minute?

What’s on your mind, Terry? Must be important for you to be in so early. Mrs. Forrester’s appointment isn’t until ten … You look like hell, by the way.

I pulled an all nighter trolling the waters of the Adriatic. At last I struck the mother lode, which will be excellent news for the Forrester meeting. I came straight from my office and brought a change of clothes with me. I’ll go down to the club, have a light workout, steam and dress accordingly. I’ll be back for the meeting as crisp as a fresh picked daisy. He counterpunched with a gotcha smile on his face.

Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What is this excellent news?

It seems our Mister Forrester is not the upright citizen he pretends to be. I found his stash in Dubrovnik, of all places. He must have been inspired by Barbra Streisand to go there, he chuckled. Dubrovnik! Can you believe it? Anyway, it looks like quite a substantial sum, as much as nine hundred thousand euros. I should have the details in my hands within a day or two. Those types of details are not the subject matter for transatlantic telephone transmittal. A courier will hand carry the report from my agent.

Sounds like you came up with a significant breakthrough. What led you to the Adriatic, if I may ask?

Yesterday afternoon I obtained the list of his itineraries for the past five years and, lo and behold, his travels took him to that general region too many times. It could not possibly have been on company business, since his dealings are entirely stateside. To boot, he traveled alone and the trips were too short in duration to be vacations. Hence the all nighter.

It’s fascinating how you always seem to connect the dots. Your instinct seems to be your strongest asset. … I am sure we can now avoid a lengthy court fight with that piece of evidence in hand. Brother, you certainly made my day. But, I suspect from the expression on that mug of yours, you have something else on your mind.

Sol, why is it that you can read me like an open book? Terry retorted sarcastically.

I can very well say the same about you, Terry. Now, what’s on your mind? Give!

I had an unusual phone conversation yesterday with someone who would not identify himself or state his problem. He seemed well informed about me and my movements. He spoke with a heavy accent, most likely Russian or eastern Ukrainian. Maya thinks he’s from out of town, yet he’s that well informed. It smells like the mob and he must be more than a simple foot soldier. You know, I dealt with those types before. It has not always been very pleasant. They are not the most genial clients and they are very demanding. I’m not sure I should get involved.

Well then don’t get involved. It sounds like too much cloak and dagger from the start. With the outrageous fees that you command here, why do you need this headache?

That’s just it. I am intrigued and somewhat excited with the change of pace. I guess I’ll have to make up my mind tomorrow after meeting with this guy. I’ll keep you in the loop, just in case.

Mrs. Forrester arrived a few minutes after ten and was ushered into the smaller conference room for a more intimate meeting. Solomon and Terry welcomed her warmly and exchanged pleasantries. A secretary rolled in a stainless-steel cart bearing an insulated pitcher of coffee, creamer and Mrs. Forrester’s favorite French pastries. Three ceramic cups impressed with the firm logo, silver utensils and cloth napkins embroidered with scrolled WSA in one corner were neatly arranged on a polished silver platter.

Both Solomon and Terry wore custom tailored, lightly-striped polished wool suits, white shirts and conservative business ties. Terry, at six-foot two, stood three inches taller than Solomon. The two virile specimens could have stepped out from the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. There was merely a slight imperfection in the idyllic picture that an airbrush could not eradicate. Terry’s profile displayed the permanent memento from his teens, which he earned in the ring under the auspices of the Police Athletic League. But the remnants of a deviated septum were by no means a distraction. On the contrary, they merely embellished his no-nonsense persona, someone not to tangle with. The athletic physiques of both men imbued the environment with a high level of professionalism and reassurance for their distressed clients.

While Terry played host with the refreshments, Solomon switched on the voice recorder, specified the location, the time and date of the meeting and identified the participants. The official proceedings were on the way.

Mrs. Forrester we have news that should please you and, in all likelihood, bring this unfortunate episode in you life to a rapidly successful conclusion. Aside from your husband’s holdings at JP Morgan-Chase and scattered bank accounts at Bank of America and Wells Fargo, we uncovered a sizeable offshore account. This casts an entirely new perspective on our case.

Mrs. Forrester put down her coffee mug and reacted in disbelief.

An offshore bank account – and sizeable one at that? How could that be? Where could he get that kind of money? And by the way, how much money are we talking about?

Apparently it’s in the hundreds of thousands in euros, which would translate to well over a million dollars. The account details are being hand carried by a courier as we speak. It’s not something we could trust to the airwaves. We’ll know the exact amount within a day or two.

I am astonished. How in the world did you find out?

Our forensic investigator, Solomon bowed his head in Terry’s direction. Over the years he cultivated and still maintains worldwide connections, which give us access to both the local financial institutions and private investigators abroad. The rest is hard work and perseverance.

I am indebted to you both.

As she expressed her gratitude, she returned to her coffee and her favorite napoleon pastry.

Mrs. Forrester, let’s review the significance of this find.

The mood at the conference table was now more upbeat. Mrs. Forrester allowed herself yet another portion of pastry. Her attention, however, was fully engaged.

"First of all, your husband did not disclose the offshore account to us or to the court. The judge will not look kindly at the omission. But that is the least of his problems. We examined his tax returns for the past ten years; there is no evidence of any offshore dealings. Once the offshore account is brought to light, the IRS will immediately sniff it out. Severe penalties and possible jail time would inevitably follow.

Then there is the money. As you astutely noted, Mrs. Forrester, where did the money come from? Was money laundering involved? Federal prosecutors would hound him into prison because of such an enormous amount of undeclared capital.

Solomon drank slowly from his mug to let the news take effect.

My dear Mrs. Forrester, he continued. "Your husband