The Shadow List Read online

  ALSO BY TODD MOSS

  FICTION

  The Golden Hour

  Minute Zero

  Ghosts of Havana

  NONFICTION

  Oil to Cash: Fighting the Resource Curse through Cash Transfers

  The Governor’s Solution: How Alaska’s Oil Dividend Could Work in Iraq and Other Oil-Rich Countries

  African Development: Making Sense of the Issues and Actors

  Adventure Capitalism: Globalization and the Political Economy of Stock Markets in Africa

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Todd Moss

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Moss, Todd, author.

  Title: The shadow list / Todd Moss.

  Description: New York : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2017] | Series: A Judd Ryker novel ; 4

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017004688 (print) | LCCN 2017011055 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399175947 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698406414 (EPub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Government investigators—Fiction. | Conspiracies—Fiction. | Political fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Political. | FICTION / Espionage. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.O785 S53 2017 (print) | LCC PS3613.O785 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017004688

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Also by Todd Moss

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Map

  PROLOGUE Chapter 1

  DAY ONE | MONDAY Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  DAY TWO | TUESDAY Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  DAY THREE | WEDNESDAY Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  DAY FOUR | THURSDAY Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  DAY FIVE | FRIDAY Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  DAY SIX | SATURDAY Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.

  —GROUCHO MARX

  PROLOGUE

  1

  CANARY WHARF, ISLE OF DOGS, LONDON

  FRIDAY, 9:11 A.M. GREENWICH MEAN TIME

  Free money.

  The American had been taught there was no such thing. Yet, looking up at fifty floors of glass and steel in the heart of London’s modern new financial district, that thought seemed ridiculous.

  Back at NYU, one of his professors had told the old joke: Two economists are walking down the street when one spots a dollar bill on the ground. As he bends over, the other stops him. “Don’t bother,” he scolds. “If that money was real, someone would have already picked it up.”

  Of course there was free money, the young man thought. He was surrounded by it. His friends in Manhattan were practically drowning in it. Hedge fund arbitrage was all about grabbing that opportunity, being the first one to seize it, never hesitating. It was about bending over and snatching up that cash, sometimes from a filthy sidewalk.

  That bill waiting to be grabbed was not only real, it wasn’t a dollar. It was millions of them. It was big, fat fuck-you money. Hamptons-beach-house, G5-airplane, buy-your-own-private-island, hire-Jay-Z-to-play-your-birthday-party money. The only question on his mind: Would he finally have the balls?

  The young man reached into the inside jacket pocket of his best navy-blue pin-striped banker’s suit and extracted a letter. The paper was a quality stock, thick and weighty. The letter exuded wealth and confidence. So, too, did the red-and-black crest in the upper corner above Global Allied Financial, One Canada Square, London E14 5AB, United Kingdom. He rubbed a finger across the embossed crest and then reread the letter, for the third time that day.

  Mr. Jason Saunders, Esq.

  Holden Harriman Quinn

  419 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10154

  Sir,

  Our firm has been designated by the Bank of England as probate agent for recovered funds from the Special Court for International Assets. In cases where the Court has identified unclaimed and improperly earned funds with no national jurisdiction, the Bank allocates said funds to an international consortium for management on behalf of the Court. Global Allied Financial has been allocated US$1,985,900,000 discovered in a Swiss branch of a British-registered bank that authorities have determined originate with the ruling family of the Republic of Syria.

  At this point, the first time through, he’d nearly put the letter in the shredder. The long-lost bank account of a foreign dictator? Obviously a scam. How many of these had he gotten in the email and deleted without even opening? But he’d been a little desperate that morning. Still was. So he had kept reading.

  As per Banking Regulation 34.7A, until the legal proceedings are concluded, these funds must be held on behalf of the Court by firms from at least two different sovereign jurisdictions. Global Allied Financial is the designee from the United Kingdom. We seek an urgent appointment to discuss whether Holden Harriman Quinn might apply as the des
ignee from the United States of America. We are approaching you on the basis of your past experience with sensitive asset management, notably your record with Turkish treasury bills.

  That was the phrase that had grabbed him. How had anyone known about the Turkish bond trades? That was a complete secret. On the other hand, it meant that someone really had written this letter specifically to him, not to a laundry list of random people. And what came next really caught his attention.

  If selected by the Court, HHQ would share in the management fees and the up-front legal costs. Please note that, as per Banking Regulation 34.7B, no individual firm’s management fees may exceed 4.00% per year.

  The American squinted at the digits on the paper and did the mental calculation again. Four percent of two billion equaled eighty million dollars. Every year. That was one colossal dollar bill just sitting there on the sidewalk. But was it possibly real?

  Who ever heard of a four percent management fee? He didn’t know of anyone even getting the old hedge fund 2/20 model of two percent plus a performance bonus of one-fifth of profits. Most clients had squeezed commissions down to a fraction of one percent. But four percent? To manage funds on behalf of an international court? Fat fees and no actual client to complain? It was highway robbery. If it was real. And he desperately needed it to be real.

  The letter had been waiting for Jason on his desk back in Manhattan one week earlier. He had just returned from forty-eight sleepless hours in Atlantic City that had cost him a small fortune: a $1,500 bar tab, $3,000 for a Kate Middleton look-alike hooker, and $85,000 at the blackjack table. Those losses were nothing, however, compared to his bad bets at the firm. He had doubled down on Italian treasury bills, and the red ink was now running above $25 million.

  Instead of telling Harvey Holden or any of the other senior partners about his mistake, he had hired a limo to AC. Jason had told himself what he really needed was to let loose, clear his head, and come back to work with fresh ideas. The only way to save his skin was to generate some quick profits to cover up the Italian bond debacle. A weekend of drunken debauchery was just what he needed to change his luck.

  Jason had already earned himself unusual autonomy within the firm after his first Turkish bond trade. Three months earlier, Harvey Holden had come to him late one night, a tumbler of forty-year-old single malt scotch in his hand, with a tip to short Turkish treasury bills. Holden had also given him access to the firm’s internal black accounts. So Jason had followed orders and placed a huge bet against the future of Turkey. The very next day the chief of police in the capital, Ankara, and the CEO of one of the country’s major industrial conglomerates had been gunned down in a drive-by shooting. Bondholders had panicked, prices tanked, and HHQ made an absolute killing off of Jason’s trade.

  The young associate received a promotion, a modest bonus, and extended authorization to keep trading on HHQ’s own accounts. He’d made several more successful wagers—quick profits on Ukrainian debt, oil futures, and Indonesian currency swaps—each time after receiving quiet instructions from Harvey Holden. But when Jason had on his own initiative bet big-time on Italian bonds, the gods of finance had conspired against him.

  That’s when he’d fled to the casinos of Atlantic City to figure out a way to make the money back before anyone noticed. But Jason Saunders had returned to Manhattan with only a pounding headache, an empty wallet, and no plan for salvation.

  And then there was the letter—like a death row pardon from the governor—waiting for him on his desk.

  Enclosed is a confirmation letter from the Bank of England. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.

  Yours

  faithfully,

  A.W. Windsor

  Even through the haze of an epic hangover, though, Jason had been wary. He’d googled Bank of England, Syria recovery, Special Court for International Assets, Global Allied Financial, A.W. Windsor—and it had all seemed to check out. The British financial authorities were indeed hunting for stolen Syrian assets that had been stashed in banks across the world. Global Allied Financial had a simple but elegant website, a prestigious London address, and a Mr. A.W. Windsor (MA Cantab) listed as its managing director.

  And if this Windsor knew about his Turkish bond trades, then he must have done his homework. Or he was exceedingly well connected. Either way, Jason decided it was worth calling in sick and making a quick trip to London. If the offer was real, he’d be the hero. If not, then there was no need for anyone at HHQ ever to know anything about it. And that’s what had brought him to Canary Wharf on an uncommonly sunny Friday morning.

  Jason Saunders refolded the letter and tucked it back into his inside jacket pocket. He brushed both shoulders and adjusted his tie in the reflection of the front glass doors at One Canada Square. His heart rate jumped as he entered the lobby, a blend of adrenaline and subconscious anxiety. As instructed, Jason announced his arrival at the security desk, above which hung logos for the Bank of New York, HSBC, JPMorgan Chase, the Financial Services Authority. The officer made a quick phone call, then handed the American a pass for the 48th floor.

  As the elevator rocketed skyward, Jason’s mind returned to New York and to his first classroom at business school. He thought of NYU’s motto: Perstare et Praestare. Persevere and Excel. Never give up. Go get what you want. That was exactly what he was doing. In the face of adversity, he had to persist. He’d made a mistake with the Italian bond bets. But the only way to thrive was to learn from his errors and press ahead. It wasn’t the time for self-doubt. It was time to double down. That’s what powerful, successful people did.

  The elevator dinged on arrival. Jason Saunders, twenty-six years old, aggressively single, a rising star at one of New York’s most profitable hedge funds, who had already bought a coal-black top-end Range Rover for six figures and had his eye on a three-bedroom loft in Chelsea that might run eight figures, strode with confidence toward the front door of Global Allied Financial. Yes, he would size up this British twit A.W. Windsor, whoever he was. He would sell HHQ, hook Windsor like he had that twelve-foot marlin in the Florida Keys last spring. And then haul the cash in. He would make rich profits for HHQ and a huge bonus for himself. Big fat fuck-you money. No one would ever remember a few lost Italian bonds.

  As the elevator door opened, Jason straightened his jacket and adjusted his testicles. He yanked open the door, feeling a cold blast of air. A man with a square jaw at the reception desk looked up without surprise. “May I help you, sir?”

  Jason scanned the lobby. It was basic décor, a slight disappointment from the gaudy imperial Victorian motif he’d expected. This was Canary Wharf, after all, not the City of London, he reminded himself. He shrugged as the thought of free money flooded back into his brain.

  “I’m Jason Saunders,” he announced. “I have an appointment with Mr.—”

  The room erupted. The receptionist ducked behind the desk as silhouettes, men dressed in all black and their faces covered with black balaclavas, stormed in from all sides and rushed at Jason. Before he could even think, he was forced to his knees, his hands quickly and silently bound. Duct tape was slapped across his mouth and the end of a pistol was shoved into his cheek. He whipped his neck trying to see his attackers, just as a hood was slipped over his head. At that moment, everything in Jason Saunders’ world went completely dark.

  THREE DAYS LATER

  DAY ONE

  MONDAY

  2

  U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  MONDAY, 8:25 A.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME

  Judd Ryker glared at the image his assistant Serena had just delivered.

  “This just arrived from Mr. Parker’s office,” she said. “Came in overnight from across the river.” She nodded toward the Potomac, where the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters lay on the other side, about eight miles up.

  Serena was dressed in her usual intense jet-black busine
ss suit that matched her personality. Even early on a rainy spring Monday morning, she was ready for battle. “What else can I get you, Dr. Ryker?”

  “Nothing yet,” Judd said, his eyes glued to the picture. He stroked his chin and its two days’ worth of stubble. “Maybe more coffee?”

  The high-resolution satellite photograph showed a tiny island, green water surrounding beige sand in the shape of a letter G. It reminded Judd of the barrier islands in the middle of the Stratego board, one of his favorite games as a kid. He had spent hours during the long Vermont winters devising the best configurations for the flag, the bombs, scouts, and all the different warriors of varying strength and special skills. And, of course, the most valuable and cunning piece: the spy. To an opponent, the spy in Stratego looked like every other piece. It could be anything. The spy destroyed everything it attacked, so long as it struck first. The spy was always beaten if caught by surprise. Every move was kill-or-be-killed. The spy was the perfect mix of strength and vulnerability.

  Judd had always preferred the challenge of arranging the Stratego pieces to playing the game itself. Finding the right balance between attack, defense, and especially deception before the fighting began. Even as a nine-year-old boy, Judd Ryker knew the game was usually won or lost before the first move. Pregame was everything.

  What immediately struck Judd as odd about the island in the satellite photo were the unnaturally straight lines. The world was rarely straight. The long side of the G shape showed an airstrip, the lower curl an ideally placed seawall creating a safe harbor for naval ships in the protected center. The island was a perfectly efficient military outpost by no accident. The bottom corner of the photo was stamped with yesterday’s date, 07:25:05, and Rogue Reef-14, the latest in a series of man-made islands the Chinese government was constructing in the heart of the South China Sea.

  The United States government was closely monitoring events in this part of the world. The South China Sea was surrounded by China, Vietnam, Malaysia, and the Philippines. Each and every boundary was under territorial dispute. More than half of all global oil tanker shipments passed though these sea-lanes, making it five times busier than the Panama Canal. Half a billion people crammed along the coasts of the sea and its rich fishing grounds. If that weren’t enough trouble in one place, seismic data hinted at massive deposits of oil and gas in the seabed.