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Marc Rich was eventually pardoned by Bill Clinton on the last day of his presidency in exchange for huge "donations" to the Clinton Foundation |
Private Sector Intelligence with Clair George
January 1991
As dawn cracked in London, Clair and I boarded Swissair at Heathrow and flew off to
Zurich.
A woman
greeting passengers held up a sign that said Mr.
Rich.
“Could that
be for us?” I asked Clair.
He
sauntered over to her. “For whom are you
waiting?”
(We later discovered Nixon was code for none other than Leonard
Garment, one of President Richard Nixon’s Watergate lawyers, on retainer, we would soon learn, to Marc Rich.)
We should have said, “Yes, that’s us,” and stolen Garment's ride, but instead we grabbed our own taxi, which drove us into misty mountains—colder and damper than London, and far from the sun and tranquility of the French Riviera. It took 45 minutes to reach Zug, which seemed non-descript, sad and lonely.
Said
Clair: “You couldn’t pay me enough to
live here.”
Zug was
home to Marc Rich, fugitive billionaire, protected by the Swiss for his local
philanthropy, but monitored and tracked by U.S. Marshals who wanted to cuff his
wrists and manacle his ankles and place him inside a penal colony.
The Rich
building, headquarters for his company, Glencore, was six stories of concrete
and bulletproof glass.
We strolled in and announced ourselves. The receptionist cheerfully sat us next to a row of potted plants, which I pointed out to Clair.
“If I were Marc Rich," I whispered, "I’d bug the area where my visitors wait and listen in to their strategizing.”
We strolled in and announced ourselves. The receptionist cheerfully sat us next to a row of potted plants, which I pointed out to Clair.
“If I were Marc Rich," I whispered, "I’d bug the area where my visitors wait and listen in to their strategizing.”
“That’s
why,” said Clair, “I didn’t want Nixon’s
cab."
Bob F approached,
accompanied by another Bob, also a lawyer.
“We’re
taking you out to lunch,” said the Bobsy twins.
We walked six blocks in clammy greyness
to a bustling pizza joint, where the two Bobs chatted about what a fine case
they’d drafted for their client.
“Marc
didn’t really do anything wrong,” said Bob II.
“Marc thought he had done something
wrong, but after a lawyer spent two years reading all the accumulated legal
work, it was discovered Marc had done nothing more than steal his own
money. Hardly a crime,” he added.
“So what’s
the big problem?” asked Clair.
“Marc is perceived as a tax evader, and, as such,
the Department of Justice has it in for him.
You see, Marc admitted to a felony he never committed, and if
prosecutors will not be open-minded about this, Marc would just as soon stay in
Switzerland. He loves it here.”
We did not
see much to love about Zug, especially on this dark, dank day.
The folks
plugging this story missed something:
Rich, a high-end commodities broker, was a born deal-maker, and for seven years he’d been trying to deal
himself out of exile, with a justified fear of U.S. Marshals.
Back at
Rich headquarters, we passed through elaborate security hurdles, into an
elevator and up to the sixth floor executive suite—the inner sanctum of Marc
Rich, almost-billionaire, fugitive.
Clair
George relished every second of it.
The Bobsy twins hustled us into the conference
room, overlooking Zug’s train station.
One Bob switched the TV to
CNN—everybody anticipating war to break out any moment—and awaited Marc Rich to
appear.
The other Bob decided to start
without his client.
“Mark has a lot to offer the U.S. government," he began. "As head of all his far-flung trading companies, he comes into a good deal of information that would be of interest, Clair, to your former employer.”
“Mark has a lot to offer the U.S. government," he began. "As head of all his far-flung trading companies, he comes into a good deal of information that would be of interest, Clair, to your former employer.”
Clair was nonplussed. He’d heard it all before, countless times,
from persons offering their service, usually unsolicited.
“What’s he got to offer?” asked
Clair.
“Plenty,” replied Bob II. “And it’s not as if we are looking to make a
deal. We’re just maybe suggesting that
our client knows a lot that would be of interest to your former employer. And maybe, if he was willing to offer
information, maybe someone could suggest to the Justice Department that he be
given a fair shake. We’re not suggesting
that he be let off, just that we create the climate for a fair hearing.”
“There’s a guy I could go to,” said
Clair. “The head of Domestic
Contacts—that’s the division that does this kind of thing—but the first thing
he’d ask me is, what have you got?”
“We’ve got a lot,” repeated Bob II.
“Fine,” said Clair. “But you’re going to have to show me yours
before I show you mine. That’s the way
it works.”
That’s when Marc Rich strode in,
busy and brusque. He gave Clair and me a
long, hard look, shook our hands and seated himself at the end of the conference
table.
He held a big cigar and asked if anyone objected to his smoking it.
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Pastel by Sean Kirkpatrick |
He held a big cigar and asked if anyone objected to his smoking it.
No one did.
“So what do you have in mind?” Marc looked at Clair, then me, unsmiling with
an expression that said, Okay, you got
this far, what the hell do you want?
“Well,” said Clair, slightly intimidated, “we’re aware that you have serious problems with the U.S. government, and we’ve started this little problem-solving consultancy, and with our contacts and experiences—we come from different backgrounds—we thought we might we able to help you.”
“You wrote
me a letter,”’ shot Marc, abruptly. “You
must have had something in mind. An
idea?”
“To be completely
honest,” said Clair, “we don’t have an idea at this stage. Our letter was meant to get us this far, into
your office.”
Rich
digested this. “And now you’re here.”
We were,
indeed—and beginning to wonder why we came.
Bob II
helpfully interjected: “We were talking
about a scenario whereby we might be willing to share information we have with
Clair’s former employer.”
“And I was
saying,” said Clair, “that I have to know what kind of information you’re
talking about. A lot would depend on
that.”
A
functionary rushed in and whispered into Marc’s ear. He spoke to the young man in Spanish, as if
to rebuff the call, but then thought better of it, rose from his chair and said
he would return in a few minutes. He paused
at the door and turned to say, “Let them
come to me if they want to make a
deal.”
“Huh?”
somebody said.
“They
should come to me,” repeated Rich, before
scooting out.
A moment of
silence ensued.
Clair said,
“I hope I haven’t offended Marc.”
“Oh, no,”
said Bob F. “That’s just the way he is.”
The Bobsy
twins seemed less uptight, more comfortable, with their client out the
room. They continued their banter about
a fair exchange, information not for leniency,
they stressed, but for a fair shake.
Marc strode
back in, retook his seat and asked his secretary to bring him a beer.
I felt like
saying, may I have one, too?
Then Marc
looked at Clair with hard eyes. “What
can you tell me about the U.S. Marshal Service?”
“All I can
say,” replied Clair, “is that when I was in my last job, they came to me and
said they wanted our help to catch you.”
Marc’s
reaction was probably indiscernible to the average observer, but I thought I
detected a slight draining of blood from his face and a faster pulse.
“And?”
growled Marc.
“It really
wasn’t our thing, but we humored them along.”
“Did they
say anything about where they hoped
to catch me?”
“No,” said
Clair. He was lying. He wasn’t about to give away secrets, under
any circumstances.
I piped
up. “What we have here is an image
problem,” I said. “Maybe what you need
is a biography of yourself by a credible writer that will tell the truth, as
you see it.”
“We’ve
thought about that,” said Marc. “A lot
of good writers have asked. But we long
ago decided a no-publicity policy would suit us best, and we see no reason
because it has been a success.”
A success?
Are you nuts? You’re still stuck
in this place surrounded by misty mountains!
I refrained
from saying this.
Marc warmed
a tad, not much, but a tad, during our 45 minutes together. He graciously left the door open, saying,
before he departed, “Let us know if you think of anything.”
The Bobsy
twins were gracious, too. They escorted
us down and arranged for the receptionist to call us a taxi.
Outside,
Clair took a breath of clammy air and shook his head. “Well,” he said. “That
was interesting.”
A Mercedes
pulled up.
“I don’t
suppose we should talk about it in the taxi,” said I.
“Not a
word.”
The driver
pretended not to speak English. But he definitely could not interpret total
silence.
At ride’s
end, we offered to pay the hundred-buck fare, but the driver pushed it away,
compliments of Mr. Rich.
Inside the
airline terminal, we purchased two sets of Swiss paring knives.
Two minutes later, passing through security,
the guards scrutinized them.
“Why,” I
asked, “do you have a knife shop fifty yards from here if they worry you?”
They did
not get it.
Back at the
Cavendish Hotel in London, I fell into the first decent sleep I’d had since arriving in
Europe one week before.
A ringing phone awakened me.
It was
Clair. “Turn your TV on,” he said. “It started.”
From
beneath bedcovers I watched bombs explode and anti-aircraft fire shoot into the
night sky over Baghdad, reported by panic-stricken correspondents.
The Gulf War had begun. After a six-month build-up and six-day wind-up, it felt as if a world war had just ignited.
The Gulf War had begun. After a six-month build-up and six-day wind-up, it felt as if a world war had just ignited.
At Heathrow
Airport next morning, soldiers dressed in fatigues patrolled with machine guns,
the departure lounge abuzz with TV news reporting the latest from Kuwait and
Iraq.
And then we
launched westward across the Atlantic, a Bloody Mary each, joking about Harry
Schultz and Marc Rich.
By the time
we landed at Dulles Airport, we felt as if we’d experienced a surreal dream.
“Don’t
bother telling anyone about it,” said Clair.
“No one would believe you anyway."
My buddy
Winston, who had joined our team on The Circus project, greeted us at
Dulles. He’d brought two kinds of cold
beer, soft drinks, bags of corn chips, and five different newspapers for the
ride home, doing his best to impress the spymaster.
Clair, I
soon discovered, did not like surprises like this. His mood worsened when Winston, who was
nervous, took a wrong turn and had to drive all the way back to Dulles before
steering us back on track—about twelve miles.
Clair grew
even more testy as the ride progressed—a surly side I had not before
witnessed. And when Winston tried to apologize upon reaching the spymaster’s
house, Clair snarled, “Next time stay home, we’ll take a taxi.”
Keep ‘em laughing half the time, scared of
you the other half.
Clair
practiced what he preached.
But as I got to know him better, he was more funny than scary.
A few years later I penned a novel about renditioning a fugitive named Markham Fitch.
But as I got to know him better, he was more funny than scary.
A few years later I penned a novel about renditioning a fugitive named Markham Fitch.
Meet Jay Sandak, a maverick private spy with a penchant for the good life. In this debut novel, Sandak accepts an assignment from his former employer, the CIA. Operating out of Monaco, Sandak becomes embroiled in an extraordinary rendition, intelligence jargon for kidnap and repatriation. The target is Markham Fitch, a secretive billionaire who fled the United States for sanctuary in Switzerland years earlier. Fitch leads Sandak to a strange German baron, a peddler of nuclear metals stolen from Russia, who believes his genius will bring about a New Age renaissance. Sandak enters a gray zone of rival U.S. government agencies, supervised by risk-hating bureaucrats like Pikestaff, the spluttering operations chief at the CIA. He struggles to complete his ever-evolving mission, always one cocktail ahead of latigue (a combination of jet-lag and fatigue) as he yo-yos the Atlantic. Back in his favorite Monaco bar, Sandak plans the final phase of this intricate operation, certain he wasnt paid nearly enough for his audacity.