Den of Thieves by James B. Stewart

Author:James B. Stewart
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

In late July 1986, a little more than two months after Levine’s arrest, Boesky had flown to Los Angeles for a meeting with Milken. The two men sat beside Milken’s pool. Levine’s arrest had come as a shock to both of them; it suggested a level of securities enforcement that neither had previously believed existed. Milken warned Boesky that, given the media attention and government resources being focused on the markets, they had better limit their dealings. Boesky readily agreed.

They also talked about the $5.3 million payment that had been disguised as a consulting fee—the one piece of evidence that could cause them trouble. They agreed that they’d have to find a way to substantiate their phony explanation. Drexel could work up more documentation, showing the research it had done on Santa Barbara, Scott & Fetzer, and other deals that had never gone anywhere. But what about their accountants’ records—the sheets Thurnher and Mooradian had worked up to reconcile their positions? Those would have to be destroyed.

Boesky, back in New York the first week in August, had called Mooradian at his lower Manhattan office.

“It’s Ivan,” he began in an uncharacteristically hushed tone. “You’ve got to come uptown and talk.”

Mooradian wondered what this was all about. He talked to Boesky two or three times a day on the phone; they rarely needed to meet face to face. Even more peculiar, Boesky insisted that Mooradian meet him in the Pastrami’n Things on West 52nd Street. It was the same place where Boesky and Siegel had often conspired.

Although the coffee shop was nearly deserted, Boesky led Mooradian to the downstairs level and chose a secluded booth. Speaking in a barely audible whisper, he told Mooradian that what he was about to say had to be kept in the strictest confidence. He was to tell no one. Mooradian nodded in agreement.

“Do you have the Drexel documents?” Boesky whispered. Mooradian thought the whispering was absurd, since no one else was in the room.

“Yes,” he said in a normal tone.

“At home or in the office?” Boesky asked, continuing to whisper.

“At my office,” Mooradian replied.

Boesky leaned over the table, his face close to Mooradian’s. “Destroy them,” he said.

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