Kerri's War, (Volume Three of The King Trilogy)

CHAPTER 1

New York. Tuesday, Sept.11, 2001, 8:40 A.M.

She was stunning, alluring. Men weakened at the knees when they saw her perfect white smile, her perfectly proportioned body, her intoxicating blue eyes. Thirty-three year old Kerri King was still drop-dead gorgeous and without an obvious wrinkle to her name. She had achieved material and corporate success beyond her most optimistic expectations. Her dedication to the commodities business and tireless work ethic had taken her to the top. She got there by demonstrating, with predictable regularity, a relentless and successful pursuit of objectives. She was now the president and C.E.O. of Iacardi & Sons, Commodities Brokers, with offices still in the South Tower of The World Trade Center. In less than ten years her capable leadership had lifted Iacardi from a relatively obscure boutique shop to number three in the world, with offices in New York, London, Toronto, Geneva, and Hong Kong. Wealthy individuals from all over the world stumbled over one another to become clients of Iacardi and to enjoy a piece of the enormous capital gains for which the company had now become famous.

A severe influenza attack had confined Kerri to her bed in her posh Tribeca apartment Monday, and now Tuesday. She hated to miss work, but was still unable to defeat the lethargy, coughing and nasal drip. Her career was her life, her salvation and escape from two utterly disastrous relationships: her marriage to Jet’s quarterback, Brian Pyper, and her rebound affair with Louis Visconti, the erstwhile Crown Prince of Wall Street. She had dated sporadically over the past ten years, but refused to allow herself to descend to the serious level. She kept telling others, and herself, that she was too busy to get serious, but her heart told her she was afraid to commit, terrified of being hurt again. It was too painful.

Her mentor, Miles Dennis, now sixty-seven, was still going strong and still her best friend. He could have used his enormous talent to rise through the Iacardi management ranks, but preferred instead to remain a broker, one of the best. A high-school dropout, Dennis was hired as an office boy by Iacardi in 1947, became a broker in 1960, and Kerri’s hero in early 1991. Armed with the $166 million remains of the King Trust, he had shorted crude oil at close to the top of the market and thanks to Desert Storm, nearly quadrupled its value. That bold move had freed Kerri’s father and saved him from an extended prison term. By convincing hundreds of investors to avoid being crushed in the Tech Wreck of 2000, Dennis had become a cult hero.

She downed two Ibuprofen, reached for the television remote on her night table, then tuned into CNBC to pick up some market gems from co-hosts, Mark Haines and Joe Kernan. Exploding from her screen was live video of the 103 floor North Tower of The World Trade Center. Haines speculated that a private aircraft had collided with the building, causing a gigantic

gash near its top. Flames and huge clouds of black smoke billowed from the ‘accident’ scene. Skeptical, Kerri wondered why a pilot could make such a horrible mistake on a clear cloudless day.

She would soon learn that the collision was no accident, but a suicide mission of al-Qaeda’s Mohammed Atta, piloting hijacked American Airlines Boeing 767, Flight 11. At 9:03 A.M., she, and the rest of the world, were shocked into the seriousness and reality of what was unfolding. A second plane, United Airlines, Boeing 767, Flight 175, smashed into the South Tower and exploded in a massive orange and yellow fireball. Now there was no doubt. The World Trade Center, and God knows what else, was under attack. The horrifying reality of what Kerri had just witnessed was that a large airplane had just struck the South Tower in the general area of the offices of Iacardi & Sons. CNBC replayed the video again and again, causing the images and implications to explode in Kerri’s mind. She tried in vain to process her trauma.

She reached for her cell phone and speed-dialed her office. No answer. No service. She dialed Miles Dennis’s private line. Same result. Her next call was to Andrea Dennis, Miles’s wife in Glen Cove, Long Island. Confirming her fears, Andrea told her that Miles had gone to work that morning, that she too was watching the nightmare on TV, and that she was scared. She was scared because Miles had phoned her earlier to tell her that a plane had hit the North Tower. She had no way of knowing that it was to be the final conversation of their forty-eight year marriage.

There was no good news. Worse, Kerri’s nightmare had just begun. The collapse of both towers was a vision that would live in her memory, forever.

CHAPTER 2

Threadneedles Hotel, London. 5:00 P.M., London time.

A large liquid crystal flat screen television set, tuned to CNBC, displayed ghastly images of events in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania. Both booze and testosterone were flowing, but somewhat tempered by the implications of events unfolding on the screen. Seated at a round glass topped table within a dart toss of the screen were three of Iacardi’s senior traders, all very successful, very relieved to be alive, and intoxicated. Within minutes of the al-Qaeda attacks in the United States the Iacardi Traders‘ Conference had been postponed until further notice. The three had retired to the bar to watch the unfolding catastrophe in comfort.

The czar of the trio was fifty-three year old, Peter Tavaris, Iacardi’s most senior trader and statistically second only to Miles Dennis in terms of career trading profits. A six foot four inch giant, Tavaris had the obligatory stubble and a head of well oiled long black hair, combed straight back and tied in a pony tail. A Wharton graduate, he frequently boasted that fact. Twice divorced, he was now a full time, irrepressible ladies man. If he was honest with himself and others, he would admit he hated women. More than once passed over by Charles Iacardi for senior management positions, he had become angry, cynical. Worse, he had been passed over for the president’s position in favor of Kerri King. He was furious and hated her to the core of his soul. He had an obsessive, vindictive nature. If you screwed Peter Tavaris, you needed to watch your back. Pay back wasn’t good enough for him, he wanted to mess up your life, and wouldn’t quit until he did.

On an adjacent chair was his close friend and lap dog, forty-eight year old Walter Deaks, A.K.A. The Deacon. He was a dead ringer for Harrison Ford. Many even referred to him as Indiana Jones. With a doctorate in mathematics from M.I.T., Deaks had conjured a virtual blizzard of algorithms to facilitate Iacardi’s trading decisions. They looked and sounded sexy, but few of them actually worked. Miles Dennis had surreptitiously gone out of his way to avoid employing any of them. They’re so elegant they scare the shit out of me, he had often said. Deaks was reasonably pleasant, but ruthless in his condemnation of stupidity. He thought Tavaris was brilliant, saw him as a messiah, the one who deserved to be Iacardi’s leader.

Accompanying Deaks and Tavaris was thirty-eight year old Billie The Kid Dukes, Iacardi’s highest roller. Thick well-groomed sandy brown hair, intoxicating brown eyes, a smile and physique to die for, Billie was damned good looking. He divorced only once, and early. Dubbed as New York’s most eligible bachelor by the Iacardi girls, preserving that title was a walk in the park. He had the hots for Kerri King and made it very obvious. He was ambitious in the extreme, always prepared to compromise to catch a wave, and to leverage his bets to whatever limit possible.

So what do you guys think? Dukes asked.

Tavaris slurped his fourth martini, then glared at Dukes. I think we’re stuck in this country until God knows when, and we’re all out of our fucking jobs. Iacardi & Sons is history. He pointed to the flat screen. Our offices, our careers, and our equity are somewhere in that pile of rubble.

Maybe they all got out, Dukes said.

Hoping some form of backup system might provide even a tiny bit of information, Tavaris reached for his Blackberry and dialed the Iacardi New York number for the sixth time in the past two hours. No service. Nothing! Not a fucking thing! If either of you can figure out how in hell we’re going to find out what’s going on, let me know. He flashed an evil smirk. I hope everybody got out except the bitch.

Tavaris’s last comment annoyed Dukes. Peter, why the hell do you let Kerri tie your shit in a knot? She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to Iacardi. Take a look at where the company was when she started. Then take a look at where it is now.

Tavaris took another huge slurp, then again pointed to the flat screen. I’m taking a look right now. It’s right there in the middle of that pile of steel and cement.

Yah, but you can’t blame her for that, Dukes argued.

No, but I can blame her for a ton of other things. She’s still a kid, she doesn’t even have a post graduate degree, and she doesn’t know shit about running a company. I’ve spent my whole life in this company, and with a modicum of humility, I think I’ve earned more than I’ve got. A whole lot more. I’ll promise you this: if that broad’s life has been spared, I’m going to make sure she’ll wish it wasn’t.

CHAPTER 3

Muskoka, Ontario, Canada. Wednesday, September 12.

Mike King, now fifty-nine, was in the autumn of his phenomenal and exciting business career. He had kept himself in excellent physical shape and his body showed it. Microscopic body fat. Still north of six feet tall and still a hunk, he still turned female heads with no effort. He had retained most of his thatch of wavy blond hair, although it was graying slightly at the sides. After his disastrous confrontation with Jim Servito in 1979, he had not only saved XG Petroleums, his retail gasoline company, but had managed to expand it and make it a national chain with annual sales in excess of two billion liters. Last year’s sale of a fifty percent interest in XG to Golden National Oil had given Mike the opportunity to slow down and smell the flowers, and more than enough money to enjoy it. Best of all, the sale had enabled him to spend more time with his wife Karen, the love of his life and the woman he had met in 1961 while he attended the University of Toronto.

He smiled as he turned his black Mercedes CL600 into the graveled parking area of Beaumaris Marina, delighted to have returned to his beloved Muskoka. He stepped from the car, took a deep breath of cool air and scanned the crystal blue water of Milford Bay. He turned to face Karen, who had also emerged from the car. The trees are starting to turn, Babe, he said, referring to the color of leaves near the tops of the tall maples on the far shore.

Karen, also fifty-nine but still every inch a beauty, smirked. So is my hair, she replied, straightening a wind blown strand of her graying hair. She walked around the car and grasped Mike’s hand. Let’s get some ice and go to the island.

They removed their groceries from the car, bought two bags of ice cubes from Beaumaris marina store, then climbed into their twenty-one foot red Donzi which was gassed up and tied off at the marina dock. Mike started the motor and steered the boat out onto Milford Bay, all the while keeping the speed several hairs above a gurgling idle. They exited the bay, rounded Pudding Rock, then Mike pushed the throttle forward to the limit and headed northwest toward Azimuth Island, a ten acre gem two kilometers off the northeast shore of Lake Muskoka. Previously owned by Karen’s ultra wealthy late parents, George and Jean Taylor, the island and its buildings were inherited by Karen, their only child.

Since the late eighteen hundreds, Muskoka was a destination for super wealth seeking an elegant lifestyle matched by few resort communities in the world. In addition to providing shelter and relief, the beautiful islands around Beaumaris provided dramatic sites for enormous cottages, many of which were constructed between 1900 and 1915 by wealthy Americans from Pittsburgh. Lake Muskoka and its numerous rock, pine and hemlock covered islands were carved twenty-five thousand years earlier by a layer of ice over two miles thick. The pinkish rocks and crystal clear soft water attracted health conscious visitors to the area for decades. The heart of Muskoka is comprised of three large lakes: Lake Joseph, Lake Rosseau, and Lake Muskoka, all joined and stretching thirty miles, top to bottom. The modern Muskoka is a place for deep pockets, movers and shakers, movie stars and over-paid hockey pucks, all needing to relax in their multi-million dollar cottages and get away from the stress of it all.

Karen’s cottage, a rambling three story white framed structure, was built at the height of the island in 1924. The twenty-seven room interior was crafted to reflect the rock and wood surroundings of Muskoka. Maple and cedar covered the walls and ceilings. The floors and furniture were made of oak. The massive fireplace, cut from the local rock, occupied an entire wall. The chimney towered above the green shingled roof. Beside the cottage and surrounded by pine trees was an ultra modern tennis court. The outbuildings, vestigial relics of an earlier era, included a laundry, the icehouse, servant’s quarters and the butler’s cabin. An octagonal gazebo, frequently used to view the spectacular Muskoka sunsets, stood at the end of a long rocky promontory on the southwestern shore of the island. Beyond the tennis court and at the end of a gentle rocky slope was the imposing seven-slip boathouse. A well-manicured lawn sloped gently from the sweeping verandah to the water’s edge.

Mike docked the Donzi in one of the seven boat-house slips, then he and Karen headed for the kitchen in the main building. From there, a bottle of chilled pinot grigio and two wine flutes accompanied them to the gazebo. The sky was clear. No wind. Temperature about sixty, Fahrenheit. It was still an hour before sunset, but hell, they hadn’t even opened the wine.

CHAPTER 4

Iacardi & Sons was decimated. Of the company’s 342 New York employees, only four survived the 911 attacks. Even Charles Iacardi, the chairman of the board was gone. His younger brother, Louis, board member, also perished. By the grace of God, three of Iacardi’s New York traders had been participating in a show and tell session at the company’s London, England offices on that date. Their survival was no more than a fortunate quirk of timing. All 103 of Iacardi’s London employees were shocked and saddened, but still alive. Kerri, saved by a virus, was devastated and saddened beyond all consolation. First came the shock, next the anguish, then the guilt. So many of her friends, colleagues and co-workers were gone. Try as she could to think about the future of the company, her concern for the families and loved ones of the victims eclipsed any consideration of the future.

The death of Miles Dennis hurt most of all. She simply owed her success to that man. He had given her a start at Iacardi. He had believed in her, and never wavered. He had encouraged and tutored her, always there for her when she was down, listening to her, drying her tears whenever she needed a shoulder to cry on, always willing to listen and advise, yet never pretending to have all the answers. He had given her a place to live when she lost her marriage. Her sympathies cried out for the families of all of the 911 victims, screamed for those of the Iacardi employees, but her heart was broken for Andrea Dennis and her two grown daughters. Miles and Andrea were high school sweethearts, and to the end their love for each other had been unshakable, an inspiration to Kerri. Privately, she had envied Andrea, and for so long had wished that she could have been so fortunate at love. She cursed fate for having ended such a beautiful relationship, so suddenly, so brutally.

Kerri’s health improved on Wednesday but the anguish persisted. Into the abyss of the foreseeable future her preoccupation would be visitations and funerals. Beyond and during that time frame would be the gargantuan effort of salvaging Iacardi & Sons. Even though all of the digital records of the firm, its trades and financial activity had been saved on a remote server in a New Jersey co-location facility, most of the company’s key employees were no longer alive.

She telephoned her father, always a tower of strength whenever she needed it, and she needed it now. She had called him the previous morning to assure him she was alive and to describe the horror of her experience.

You okay? Mike asked.

No, but thanks for asking. Where are you?

Muskoka. Karen and I are watching a beautiful sunset as I speak… What are you going to do? Have you made any decisions?

Tears flooded Kerri’s eyes. She knew what she had to do, but uncertainty and doubt clouded her view. So much had happened in the previous thirty-two hours. Processing the myriad of implications seemed impossible. I don’t know. The only thing I know for sure is that I need to talk to you, soon, and with no background noise.

Then come to Muskoka. It’ll give you a chance to look at everything from the outside in. Karen and I are going to be here until Monday morning.

It was an offer Kerri couldn’t refuse. Thanks, dad. If the F.A.A. allows me, I’ll take the company plane to Bracebridge on Friday afternoon. I’ll phone and give you an E.T.A. My conscience tells me to stay here, but I’ve just got to get away.

I’ll be there to pick you up. I love you.

Me too you.

CHAPTER 5

After a brief stop at Toronto’s Pearson Airport for customs clearance, the Iacardi Learjet 60 touched down at Bracebridge, Ontario airport at 3:10 P.M. on Friday afternoon. There were no clouds. The temperature was sixty-five, Fahrenheit. Kerri emerged, wearing faded jeans, white sneakers, a heavy gray sweat-shirt, a brown leather jacket and a Yankees baseball hat. She carried a black leather overnight bag and her briefcase. Her eyes showed the effects of days of stress and anxiety, but she managed a smile when she hugged her father. I missed you, she cried.

He kissed her forehead, Not as much as I missed you. Any problems?

Lots, but the trip was uneventful.

I feel your pain, he said, continuing the hug and moving Kerri to tears. What about your pilot? What’s he going to do?

He brought his girl friend. They’re going up to Deerhurst for a quiet weekend. It’s a celebration. She pointed at the Lear. They, and a syndicate of deep pockets bought that beautiful thing today, and relieved Iacardi of an expense it can do without. Part of the deal was that I get a return trip to Muskoka.

The two climbed into Mike’s Mercedes and he drove the short distance to Milford Bay where they boarded his Donzi. Neither spoke until the boat rounded Pudding Rock. I love this place, Kerri said. It’s like being on a different planet.

Mike nodded and smiled. Welcome back to my favorite place on earth. It’s great to have you here.

When the Donzi reached the dock on Azimuth Island, Karen was there to welcome Kerri like royalty. Generous hugs were followed by hot coffee on the verandah where all three sat on well cushioned wicker chairs.

By mutual agreement, Mike and Karen had decided not to discuss any aspect of the catastrophe in New York unless Kerri asked to do so. Mike could wait no longer. You feel like talking about it? he asked.

Kerri nodded, lips tightened. This is awful. I’ve taken a lot of hits before in my life, but all of them added together couldn’t even come close to this… I feel so guilty… All of those people are dead, and there isn’t a thing I can do to bring them back. I have no right to be alive.

Kerri, both Mike and I don’t think you’re guilty of anything. Everything that happened was as a result of the actions of other people. You were sick that day, and that’s something over which you had no control. There isn’t a person on this earth who could blame you for not going to work that day

Kerri’s frown persisted. Thanks for saying that, Karen. It helps, but it still hurts.

Maybe you’d rather not talk about it, Karen said, sensing Kerri’s discomfort.

I really do. It’s therapeutic… I came here because I missed you and dad and because I absolutely had to get out of New York… There’s another reason. She paused and locked her blue eyes on her father’s. Do you remember our meeting in The Loyalist restaurant in January, nineteen ninety-one? she asked, referring to January 31, 1991, the cold and snowy day Mike was cleared of all charges against him and released from Milhaven minimum security prison.

Mike’s face blanched. He hated to be reminded of that horrible aspect of his past. He had been imprisoned, accused by the Feds of hiding the millions, the illicit fruits of Jim Servito’s crimes. How could I forget it? It was the end of a nightmare, one of the most significant events of my life. What about that meeting?

That was when I told you that Miles had a hundred and eighty-six million left over after the Feds were paid.

Mike winced. And I told you that I didn’t want to have anything to do with that money again. I still don’t.

Well I want you to hear about it. It’s very important to me. Will you listen?

Even though he hated any discussion of that terrible time in his past, Mike nodded, only as a consideration to his daughter.

You also told me to keep it. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I asked Miles. I told him you didn’t want anything to do with it and that I didn’t either. I didn’t know if the money was still hot, or not, and I didn’t care. So he used it to set up a numbered trading account in Switzerland. Until Tuesday, he’s been actively trading it. Tears flooded Kerri’s eyes. Now he’s gone.

Does anyone else know what you did with that money? Mike asked.

Kerri shook her head. It was our dirty little secret. Now that Miles is gone, only three people know about it, and we’re all sitting here, Kerri said, glancing back and forth between her father and Karen. Fortunately, he kept me informed. I have access to all of the records, the documentation, and the access codes.

So why is this important to you? Mike asked.

Kerri showed a hint of a smile. Miles was a very good trader… Over the past ten years he managed to increase the value of that trading account to almost a half a billion dollars. That’s a hell of a lot of money… I wanted to tell both of you this, in person, because that money almost cost you your lives, and because I want to use it to help the families of the Iacardi employees who died on Tuesday.

Both Mike and Karen shared a glance, then Mike spoke. That’s incredible! I’m speechless!

Please say something, Kerri pleaded.

First of all, your plan for the money reminded me of how proud I am to have you as my daughter. Secondly, I’m honored that you chose to share this information with Karen and me. Finally, I’m confused. What, if anything, would you like us to do with this information?

I want you to help me. I need advice. I still have no idea if that money is hot. If it is, then anything I do with it is an exposure risk, one I’m prepared to take, if and only if there’s a way I can use it to help those families. I’m obsessed with the idea. Those people are going to need help and I’m in a position to give it to them.

Karen and I have been cleared, in writing, and the Feds have signed off, but I think there will be a problem, however. I’m sure if you suddenly show up with a half a billion dollars, they’ll want to know where you got it, and I don’t think you’ll want to answer that question, Mike said.

Karen formed a T with her hands. Time out, she said. Do it anonymously. Get Dan Turner to help you. He did it for us, and I don’t see why he wouldn’t do it for you. Those families need help and I doubt it’ll matter to them where it came from.

Both Mike and Kerri stared at Karen with huge smiles. You’re a genius, Mike said. Why didn’t I think of that? He turned to Kerri. What do you think?

It’s a wonderful idea. Do you think Dan will help me?

I’m not sure, but if he won’t, we’ll find someone who can, Mike replied. Finally, after all these years, Servito’s money is going to do some good in this world. I can’t imagine a better place to put it. If you want, I’ll call Dan on Monday and set up an appointment for you.

For the first time since Kerri clicked her remote to turn on her television set on Tuesday morning, she experienced a lift, a welcome relief from the unrelenting torment of bad news. At last she had something she could do to stop the tsunami of grief that had threatened to engulf her. She stood and hugged Karen, then her father. I would be grateful, she said.

Dinner on Azimuth Island that evening was, in spite of the circumstances, reasonably pleasant. It consisted of barbecued steaks, fresh corn on the cob, baked potatoes, and generous quantities of wine. Conversation, non-stop, consisting primarily of the events of the incredible week they had just experienced, also included discussions of the past, present and future. Sleep came early. Mike and Karen slept in the main cottage while Kerri chose the dorm above the boathouse.

Kerri awoke early, minutes after sunrise. Dressed in her gray track suit, Nike runners and her beloved Yankees hat, she left the boat house. Views of a huge plume of flame engulfing the South Tower tormented her as she started her run on the dirt track surrounding Azimuth Island. Sucking lungfulls of the clear cold Muskoka air gave her a measure of relief from her pain, but not enough. The morning sun warmed her face and began to burn off the heavy layer of mist above the lake’s surface. The haunting cry of a single loon disturbed the tranquility as she rounded the island’s south shore. Then came the collapse of the towers, exploding over and over in her brain. There was nowhere to hide.

A brief swim was within her contemplation as she finished her run, but the plan ended when she trotted to the end of the dock, removed her right shoe and sock, then dipped her toe in the ice cold lake. She showered instead.

Orange juice, cantaloupe, scrambled eggs, bacon, tomato slices, toast, and hot coffee greeted her arrival at the cottage. Mike and Karen, still in their pajamas and dressing gowns, were drinking coffee on the screened porch off the kitchen. Morning, Kerri. You have a good sleep? Karen asked.

The best I’ve had in years, she replied, then hugged her host and hostess. I’ve forgotten how quiet and dark the nights up here are. I wish I could take them to New York.

Forget New York. Just stay here, Mike suggested.

Kerri glared at her father with a scolding frown. You know I can’t do that. I have a few responsibilities in New York, not to mention that my cell phone is starting to melt.

What’s your schedule for today? he asked.

I’ll be on the phone for the next two or three hours. After that, no schedule.

Karen and I are going for a boat ride this afternoon. Will you join us?

Sure. Where to?

The Health Club.

What’s that?

A big lodge about two clicks south of here. It’s on the mainland, across from Tondurn Island. Ten of my fraternity brothers bought the place twenty-five years ago. They’re having a little anniversary party, and we’re invited. I wasn’t one of the ten because I couldn’t afford it and I was too busy trying to survive in this cold cruel world.

The last thing Kerri wanted to do was party. Her mood and circumstances shrieked, ‘No!’

Both the living and