Rich Uncle’S Conspiracy: A Novel

By Robert Wallace Christie

Bruce Wallace, Warren Hudson, and Ian Mac Donald are three executives and long-time friends who have just met up at a financial conference in Atlanta. Warren, who arrives early in the conference room, switches their name tags with two men on the other side of the table without telling his friends. A short time later after the conference leaders turn the lights on for a break, the two Japanese dignitaries that took their old seats are found murdered.

While the three friends attempt to determine what happened, if they were the intended targets and why the assassinations occurred, the police delve into a complicated investigation of the murders. After the police realize that all the conference attendees received identical invitations with a personal note attached and are providing similar answers to their interview questions, they are led deep into the same mystery that is taking Bruce, Warren, and Ian down a dangerous path to Moscow, Washington, Edinburgh, and eventually to the front door of the oval office. But who will survive and who will sacrifice everything to learn the truth?

In this political thriller, three long-time friends find themselves in the midst of a complex mystery after they realize someone wants them dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480859395

Robert Wallace Christie

Robert Wallace Christie enjoyed a long and rewarding career that included many years traveling and working abroad. When he was not working, he and his wife cruised and fished extensively while on their yacht, Huggie Bear. Now retired, Christie resides with his wife, Gail, in Gaithersburg, Maryland. Rich Uncles Conspiracy is his debut novel.

Book preview

1

Tuesday, day 1, early morning, Moscow.

IT HAD RAINED DURING THE NIGHT IN MOSCOW. THE STREETS were still wet, and sunrise was just beginning to break through the cloud layer. The flight crew of Apollo International Airlines flight 31 was gathering in the hotel lobby. The call this morning had been earlier than usual. The van to take them to Sheremetyevo International Airport arrived on time. As they headed out to the airport, the morning traffic headed into Moscow was unbelievably heavy. All the VIPs in their black Mercedes had the blue flashing lights on the roof and, as usual, were speeding up the wrong side of the highway into oncoming traffic.

Captain Johansen remarked to the rest of the crew, It amazes me how there can be 9 million horrible drivers in Moscow and not more accidents. Look at this guy coming at us head on. I’ll bet he is going one hundred kilometers per hour. And with that, a screeching of brakes and the black Mercedes, blue light still flashing, cut back into the main stream of traffic. No harm, just rattled nerves. The crew arrived at the airport, cleared security, went straight through to customs, and then boarded the plane. Today, they were flying special guests to New York, where they would change flight crews and then fly onto Atlanta and Houston.

The back third of the plane had been reconfigured. Thirty coach class seats had been removed and replaced with twelve first class seats. A special curtain was set up to close off this area and to provide aisle space and additional privacy for the special guests.

The special guests were first to depart from the VIP area and go directly to the plane. Captain Johansen was standing at the door when he saw, in the distance, walking toward him a man wearing a NASA astronaut jacket. No matter how many times he had flown NASA flight crews back and forth to Moscow, it was always a thrill for him to meet and chat briefly with them.

The regular boarding began, and the plane filled quickly. A few of the astronauts walked slowly down the aisles so they could sign autographs for some of the children on board. Their flight supervisor (chaperone 1) then escorted them to their seats in the special section in the back and closed the curtain. The curtain reopened briefly while the plane backed away from the gate and took the runway. As soon as they were airborne, the curtain closed again, and it remained closed for the rest of the flight. Captain Johansen said to himself,

Hmmm. When we first started flying NASA crews, there were not as many changeovers. It would go months without a crew change. Now it seems like we are flying fresh crews back and forth every other week. And another thing: they have more supervisors flying with them now, and they don’t allow them to mix with passengers at all like they used to do. Oh well.

In the background, you could hear over the intercom, Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned off the seat belt sign. You’re free to move about the cabin.

Day 1, late afternoon, New York.

IT HAD BEEN A ROUTINE, UNEVENTFUL FLIGHT, CAPTAIN Johansen thought. He deplaned his VIP cargo first and handed them off to customs, checked in with operations, and was now headed to the parking lot to have a heart-to-heart talk with his car in hopes that it would be nice to him and start. How he hated the Belt Parkway and the sixty-eight-mile trip to Bernardsville, New Jersey, from JFK, but he wanted the best for his wife and kids. Next Tuesday, he would begin another three-day round trip on flight 30 and 31, and then he would be off for the rest of the month. Well, sort of off. His wife, Kathy, had placed a honey-do list on the refrigerator door.

Day 1, sixteen hours later, Atlanta.

TWO LOUD THUMPS AND THE SOUND OF THE RUSH OF AIR IN the wheel wells startled me awake. Groggily, I stared at my watch. My god. We left Moscow sixteen hours ago. I must have slept nearly the whole trip. I looked out my window into the fog and mist and thought we must be on our final approach into Atlanta. The stewardess, who was nearly my age, came up the aisle, raised my seat back, and gruffly told me to put away my tray table. We would be landing in less than five minutes.

It was a bounce less landing. The rush of engines and the reverse thrusters slowed us down. Once again, I looked out my window, and in the distance, by the terminal tarmac, fire trucks were spraying a large jet. That was an Apollo International Airlines tradition when a captain reached age sixty and had completed his final flight. One couldn’t help but wonder what the captain must be feeling. How could you give something up easily that had been such a large part of your life for so many years?

Twenty minutes after deplaning in Atlanta, I was on an escalator headed for the exit. The first sign I saw was my driver holding up my name. He grabbed my bag, and off we went. Fifty minutes later, I was checking into the Buckhead Suites and Conference Center in Buckhead.

All the toasts and celebrating in Moscow had done me in. I wanted just a simple supper and a comfortable bed.

Tomorrow morning would arrive soon enough, and another round of meetings would begin.

Friday, I would be able to fly home and spend some time with my wife. Our plans were for a quiet weekend on the boat with nothing but a gentle breeze, a smooth anchorage, and a good book. Dinner reservations had already been made at one of our favorite restaurants on the eastern shore.

2

Wednesday, day 2, Atlanta.

A TALL, DARK-HAIRED MAN IMPECCABLY DRESSED IN A DARK-gray Armani suit entered the lobby of the Buckhead Suites and Conference Center. He checked the bulletin board and found that Investments International Group (IIG) was meeting in conference room A. Warren Hudson, CEO of International Technical Enterprises, had arrived early. He made his way to the conference room where the meeting was scheduled to be held and walked into the room. No one had arrived. Only a few of the catering employees were putting the final touches on the audiovisual equipment and bringing additional glasses, cups, and saucers to the beverage table. He said to himself,

Ah ha, they were smart enough to bring the coffee early.

He went over to the table and poured himself a cup.

The room had been set up in a U fashion with the center open to a large screen at the end. All the participants’ place tags and notebooks were in place. Warren walked around while looking at the names.

There we are, he said to himself. Bruce Wallace and Warren Hudson.

He took the liberty of taking our name tags to a better location and swapped seats with those seated there. He didn’t recognize their names.

Slowly the room started to fill with people. Warren sat down and began sipping his coffee and reading the agenda. None of us were clear on exactly why this meeting/seminar had been called; however, it was emphasized that it would be in our long-term interest to attend.

Warren’s thoughts were interrupted by a man with a Scottish brogue shouting orders to the greeter at the door. Warren laughed and said aloud, I recognize that gruff old bark. It was the voice of his good friend Ian Mac Donald, who was chairman of the Royal Scottish Investment Bank (RSIB).

Ian had graduated from Oxford, but for some reason he still couldn’t explain, his father sent him to Wharton School of Business for his doctorate degree. Warren and Ian met during Warren’s second year at Wharton. They had the same Friday night interest of slipping out of school and heading over to Smokey Joe’s for a few beers. They became fast friends. Over the years, they had worked together on numerous projects in Europe and now in China.

Ian! Warren shouted.

Ian looked up and hastened to meet his old friend with a warm handshake and a hug. "What brings ye here, lad?" Ian asked. And they began to chat.

I arrived at the meeting just in time to grab a cup of coffee and find Warren. I was quite surprised, and pleasantly so, to see Ian. We exchanged brief greetings and agreed to have dinner together. Warren and I sat down.

The speaker for the event went around the room and briefly introduced the attendees. Several major international banking institutions were represented: HSBC, Barclay’s, UBS-Warburton, Deutsche Bank, Tokyo Bank, and Royal Scottish Investment Bank just to mention a few. Many individual angel investors, venture capitalists, and project firms such as ours, who were seeking money for specific client capital investments, were also in attendance. There were several people sitting in the rear of the room that I recognized as World Bank employees and several others that I didn’t know.

I leaned over and whispered into Warren’s ear, I must be getting old. A meeting of this group doesn’t make sense to me. Usually we are beating on each other for the few available investment dollars.

The speaker lowered the lights in the room. He began the slide presentation by indicating money for foreign capital expenditure had become much more available in the private funding market despite the US government’s propensity to increase regulations on lending institutions; thus, making it difficult to lend money. He went on to show graph-after-graph and slide-after-slide to explain why we should act now and rush to the well before the funding dried-up. I looked over at Warren and then to Ian. They both looked like they would rather be somewhere else other than at this meeting. The speaker went on to the point that all I heard was a voice fading into a boring drone. All I wanted was a coffee break.

The door to the conference room was over my right shoulder. The room was dark, and I noticed the light as it opened and saw the shadow of two large well-dressed men in Armani leather jackets standing in the entrance entering the room. They went over to the coffee table and each of them poured a cup of tea. I turned back to the speaker and the slide presentation. After what seemed to be an eternity, the speaker finally said,

Let’s take a break, there are refreshments for you on the table in the rear, let’s try to reconvene here again in twenty minutes.

As the lights in the room came back on, two men sitting next to each other at the side table were bent over and looked to be asleep. From the back of the room a comment was overheard,

They were really into this presentation.

Quiet laughter followed. Then Simon Chang from HSBC went over to wake them. As he touched the one man’s shoulder, his hand felt wet as he looked down. It was covered with blood. Quickly, he looked over at the other man next to him; he too was covered with blood. Simon cried out,

These men are dead, someone quickly call 911.

Immediately, my eyes started to survey the room. I quickly realized that the men I saw in the leather jackets were conspicuous by their absence. I glanced over at Warren and Ian. Ian looked stunned. Warren was ashen with white beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. I knew Warren well enough to know something was very wrong. Nobody else would sense it, but over the years when playing poker with someone as much as I have with Warren, you learn to read people.

The police were quick to arrive. The lead cop was Lt. Dominic Aiello, a veteran of 27 years on the Atlanta police force. The last 15 years he was the lead detective. He looked like he struggled with the donut box in the precinct, but, in general, was in good physical shape. He first examined the victims and determined they had been shot. He then ordered his task force to seal off the crime scene.

They then escorted us one-by-one to another room. We were asked to identify ourselves and to say if we had seen anything unusual that might assist the police in their investigation. I said,

Lt., I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, as a matter of fact, the speech was so boring, I barely stayed awake!

We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and he requested that if there was anything else that came to mind to please call him. I assured him that I would.

I had not seen Warren or Ian since the police interviewed us. I had not revealed to the police seeing the two men in the leather coats who had entered the room. I found Warren and Ian in the 8th floor Concierge lounge. They were both having their second Glenmorangie and Foster. I exclaimed,

Why did you guys disappear so soon? Did the police question you? Turning to Warren, I said I looked over at you when we were still in the room and you looked awful -- as if you had seen a ghost.

What I heard next made me feel like someone had just hit me in my gut with a baseball bat. My knees weakened, and I was about ready to fall. Warren and Ian helped me to a chair. I sat down and ordered a drink. Warren had just related to me the events of his early morning arrival in the conference room. How he had switched our name tags with the two men on the other side of the table. The table and seat locations where the two men had been who had just been murdered! He felt that those bullets were meant for us. Warren felt that whoever did this hadn’t realized that he had changed our places with those of the victims. Outraged, I sophomorically asked,

But who would want to kill us?

Trying to reduce the tension of the moment he replied,

Everybody.

I related the story of the two men who entered the room when it was dark and how they were no longer there when the lights came on at the break. Warren asked,

Did you tell that to the police?

No, I replied, I didn’t think it wise to offer too much information until I had a chance to talk to you and Ian. Now I’m glad I didn’t.

The television was on in the background. The news was just breaking about a shooting in the Buckhead Suites and Conference Center where two unidentified men were killed. The police interview stated that the names of the victims would not be released until the next of kin could be notified. When asked if they had any suspects, Lt. Aiello answered that this was an ongoing investigation and he couldn’t comment. Ian observed astutely,

"If you two lads were the intended victims, then we better do something to get you out of here and undercover before the 6 o’clock news breaks with the poor bastard’s names and the assassins find out that they may have shot the wrong blokes."

Ian went onto to say he had flown over here alone on the bank’s Falcon 50 and that he intended to return to Edinburgh tonight. The plane was gassed up and ready to go. The pilots had already filed a flight plan for a 5:17 p.m. departure from Hartsfield International. Ian had a driver and limo at his disposal through the bank and he was discreet. He wouldn’t remember driving anybody anywhere.

"Why don’t we get you lads back to Scotland where we can hide you for a while and figure out what this is all about," Ian exclaimed.

Warren and I looked at each other and said,

What the hell, it is a plan, we don’t have a lot of time before the 6 o’clock news breaks and they realize they shot the wrong blokes.

Our rooms were on the 8th floor. We quickly packed our suitcases and met Ian at the elevator. We took the elevator to the second floor and walked down the back staircase three flights to the parking garage where Ian had told his driver to meet us. Our luggage went in the truck and we got in the limo. Within a minute, the limo with its blacked-out windows, was on its way out of the garage. When we reached street level, it looked like a circus with all the news crews.

Look at Simon, I muttered aloud, the news crews with their microphones and cameras are in his face. He looks like he is enjoying his fifteen-minutes of fame.

Soon, we were at Hartsfield and entering customs when the young officer commented,

You gentlemen certainly travel often, what do you do?

I answered, we are engineers.

Over the years, I found that any other answer was too complicated. He stamped us clear without any incidence or further questions. We thanked him and walked across the tarmac and boarded the Falcon. The pilot came back to tell us that we would be hitting strong headwinds out of the northeast and requested permission to stop in Nova Scotia to take on additional fuel. Ian said fine.

We could hear the cockpit radio. The tower squawked, Falcon G-BSS, proceed and hold 4 right. The pilot responded back with the same message. When we arrived at the end of the runway, the radio again blared Falcon G-BSS you are cleared for take-off. You have Zulu contact departure at 128.50 g’day. Moments later, the engines ‘spooled up’ and we began our roll down the runway.

Soon we were airborne. You could feel the release of tension once we were at cruising altitude.

Let’s have a drink, relax and get some sleep. Ian said, we can study this problem when we are fresh in the morning.

As we flew past east of Boston, I called home to tell them that I would be delayed for an extra day and would call them tomorrow morning when we had a coffee break.

Warren was in the middle of a divorce, so he didn’t bother. The less the enemy knew, the better, at least until we had a chance to sort some of the events out the next day.

3

Wednesday, day 2, afternoon Atlanta

BY 2:30 P.M., THE MEDICAL EXAMINER HAD HIS INITIAL AUtopsy report messengered to Lt. Aiello’s office. Dan picked up the file and began to read the findings. The ME had established the cause of death.

Both men were identified as high level Japanese dignitaries. They had been shot at very close range in the back of the head with a small caliber gun and suppressor with a low velocity bullet. The bullet entered the skull and spun around inside and destroyed the brain. There was no evidence of an exit wound. They died instantly.

He murmured to himself,

The small caliber gun with a noise suppressor and synthetic powder, no flash and noise less than a fart! That would explain the little blood loss.

He sighed heavily and muttered,

Nothing is ever straight forward.

Dan Aiello put the file down on his desk. As much as he hated to get the Feds involved he thought better of it as this was clearly a multi-jurisdictional case as there were foreign nationals involved. He dialed Miles Farrington, chief of the FBI’s Atlanta office.

Miles looked like an FBI chief. Early to mid-forties, 6’- 2" tall, 200 lbs., no body fat. He always wore a tailored grey suit and stiffly starched white shirt with either a red or blue tie, depending on which political party was in the White House. Dan snickered, "No donuts in his office!"

The phone rang,

Miles Farrington, he answered.

Miles, this is Dan Aiello, Atlanta police.

Hi Dan, it’s been a while since we’ve chatted. How are you? Miles asked politely.

On a personal basis great, but this call is for a lousy situation that has been dumped in our laps Dan answered. He went on: Earlier today, we were called to investigate a double homicide at the Buckhead Suites and Conference Center. Two guys had their brains blown apart. Ballistics shows it to be a .25 caliber set up as an assassin’s special. Much like the MO of the old European agents or the KGB.

Miles responded,

It sounds like something that’s clearly under your jurisdiction. Why are you calling me?

Dan continued,

Here’s the rub Miles, the two guys that got themselves wacked are international boys, here on some super-duper secret financial meeting. It gets better. The fellas at the Japanese Embassy have positively identified one as a deputy finance minister of Japan, Tommaso Yamoto, and the other as Sr. Vice President of Kyou Worldwide, Edward Tong. It looks like we have a fucking international incident on our hands! Dan relayed a little over dramatically.

Miles uttered, Holy shit! Who else knows about these people?

Dan emphasized,

No one yet, but there will be all kinds of hell breaking loose if we don’t have something positive for the blood suckers on the six o’clock news.

Miles responded,

Dan let me get my people together and we’ll have someone over to meet with you and go over the medical examiner’s report within the hour. You’re right. We have an international mess on our plate.

Miles said goodbye and quickly hung up the phone.

He called Special Agent Victoria Post Norwhale into his office.

Vicky had been raised in South Dartmouth, Ma. The daughter of Norman Norwhale. In his younger days, he was an owner of a New Bedford fishing fleet and now a successful fish wholesaler, broker, and acting curator of the New Bedford Whaling Museum. Her mother, Lindsey Post Remington, was an heiress to part of the vast Post fortune.

Her mother and father met one summer many years before when he was the tender operator at the South Dartmouth Yacht Club where her father kept his yawl anchored. He would take Lindsey and her father out to their yawl and they would sail to their summer home on the Elizabeth Islands. Naturally, one thing led to another and Lindsey and Norman fell in love, married and then along came Vicky.

Vicky was brought up in a family of conflict between the two worlds. Those who have money and those who don’t have to do anything for it except manage their trust funds. Like her mother’s world, and that of her father’s world, who fought hard in the toughest of all businesses to be successful and a self-made multi-millionaire, they differed on just about everything except their love for each other and their love for their children.

When it came time to go to college, Vicky chose, over her parents’ objections, mother pushing for Harvard while dad was insisting on Dartmouth, to go to the University of Southern Massachusetts. She hated it. By the end of her sophomore year, she had achieved the status of ‘party girl of the year.’ She cut every one of her early morning classes, made the dean’s ‘other list, probation’ with a 1.92 grade point ratio, and quit. The only bright spot in her first two years of college was her love of mathematics. She aced those courses.

On her 19th birthday, Vicky joined the Marine Corps. It was there she found the importance of team work, reliance on one another for survival, a profound interest in computer database modeling, and above all loyalty.

Her unit was sent to Afghanistan. It was there that she became an expert level marksman. When her tour of duty was finished, she applied to, and with the help of some heavy donations from Mother’s foundation, was accepted at Yale. She finished her degree in mathematics and computer science Magna Cum Laude. She was directly recruited by the FBI on campus, trained, graduated second in her class, and assigned to the Atlanta branch.

Miles said,

Vicky, we have a problem and with your strong financial background, I feel you are our best choice to head up this investigation. Select the members of your team and we will schedule a briefing in the conference room in a half hour.

It was almost 3:30 p.m. when the front door to the Peachtree Precinct opened and in walked, a beautiful and seductive woman about 5’ 6 tall and brownish blonde hair tucked into a French twist. Not one hair was out of place. She wore a custom-tailored blazer, slacks, and white blouse all of which were obviously made for her by Chanel. As she walked closer, the desk sergeant noticed her magnificent steel blue eyes. Her eyes said, you can look but that’s all. Any funny business and the Glock 9 mm pistol holstered at my side will instantly find its way into my hand and be pointed at any assailant without the slightest hesitation of ‘shoot to kill’."

The Desk Sergeant hung up the phone and said, here is your pass Ms. Norwhale. Please leave your weapon with the clerk. Lt. Aiello’s office is down the hall, last office on the right. He is expecting you.

She walked through the door, spoke briefly with the clerk, left her weapon and walked down the hall. The cat whistles were deafening. She said to herself,

Too much testosterone on the loose in here.

She arrived at Dan Aiello’s office and knocked on the door. The voice behind the door said, Come in.

4

Thursday, day 3, Halifax - Edinburgh

IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT LOCAL TIME IN HALIFAX. SIX HOURS after departure from Atlanta when the Falcon 50 touched down in Halifax to refuel as