Emma and Remy
Mar. 10th, 2008 03:07 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
x-celsis.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsOOC: posted in wrong place, originally. Deleted and correctly re-added in x_logs and backdated. Sorry 'bout that.
Emma Frost was not a naturally patient woman. Time, however, and the demands of a career as both multi-national CEO and White Queen of the Hellfire Club had imbued her with the capacity for both long-term strategic thinking and a grasp of fine detail. Particularly, she would be the first to admit, when it came to whether her money was being spent wisely.
The quite impressive pile of documents that lay on the desk before her, therefore, had a truly impressive number of Post-It notes covered in her meticulously neat writing. Writing that seemed to end primarily in question marks.
Across the desk, in one of the increasingly rare moments when he was in the country, Remy sat in the chair. He had even stuffed himself into a suit, although in LeBeau's case, he'd been coming off of three straight days of field work, and he looked more like a salesman who was missing too much sleep and hitting too many bottles.
His body language wasn't overtly hostile, but the Cajun obviously didn't seem to put much stock in the requested meeting. Thanks to Nate's tip off, he'd had Marie-Ange and Sarah pull some numbers on their intake, and the growth of the network, just in case they'd be in the position to have to justify anything. "So, dis de point where we all ask for raises?"
"That would be rather difficult, Remy," replied Emma. "Neither yourself nor Pete are actually listed on the payroll of Snow Valley. I believe you are listed under fixtures and fittings. Or possibly sundries. And there certainly isn't a whole lot of wriggle room in either of those categories. Or," the emphasis was slight but definitely there, "stationery. How exactly does one spend $790,000 on stationery in a twelve month period in an Centre with nine employees?"
"Remy need a lot of dose little yellow sticky notes." Remy shook his head, finally straightening up. "De Centre in theory publishes papers and reports for clients, of which dey can claim as proprietary materials. Or, in Agency speak, it means things dat we don't have to account for and dat can be demanded to be produced in an audit. It's a very good way to legally wash money through to certain channels."
Emma's look was long and considering and went on just slightly too long to be comfortable. Her tone was very calm when she finally broke her silence. "Remy, I may be the epitome of every 15-year old boy's wet dream, but please don't assume that I have the intelligence of Britney Spears. I am well aware of the fact that what goes through the stationery account is very unlikely, in the main, to consist of sticky notes and green highlighters, no matter how useful they are to intelligence gathering. The difficulty that I have is that it is not a realistic amount of money for the Centre."
She leaned back into her chair, blue eyes fixed on Remy's face, the vague flickering of his thoughts and feelings skimming the outer edges of her shields in a way that made him a profoundly annoying person for her to deal with. It always made her feel like being in a supermarket and having to politely ignore a small child being ADHD in the fruit aisle. Not that Emma would go to supermarkets. Or politely ignore anyone. "Are you aware of the Sarbanes-Oxley Act? The sub-prime crisis? Sovereign wealth funds? Employment and scrutinisation of workers employed by contractors to the Defense Department? Do you know about KKR? Macquarie? The Texas Pacific Group?"
"Emma, if we get scrutinized, den no amount of hiding is going to keep de money hidden." Remy said. "De CIA funded my program through de same overseas accounts for cultural events over de Iron Curtain. Dis was supposed to be a tax sink for you."
Remy shrugged. He didn't like being talked to like some kind of idiot, or worse, some kind of thuggish line animal. While he certainly wasn't going to pass as a tax lawyer anytime soon, Gambit had happily manipulated the world's various banking rules in building his own fortune, the same one that Remy had mostly pushed back into Wisdom's team as a way of cleaning up dirty money. "If dis is such a big problem, we can go back to working out of blind accounts and de less legitimate banking markets in Asia and de Middle East. Dere's dis guy in Madripoor, originally from Behrin. He's got dis network dat--"
"Remy," Emma interrupted, one perfectly manicured fingernail tapping at the folder in front of her. "I accept that you understand black finance and are, presumably, well aware of the turmoil in global financial markets at the moment. But there is a reason I asked to speak to you specifically. Nominally, you are as close to the head of Operations as the Centre has. And I am about to cut your budget and possibly change some of the rules under which you operate and I need you to know why." She held up her finger as it looked like Remy would interrupt. "I don't want us bickering like school-girls in the hallways about money or the importance of missions and I believe you are professional enough to understand my position."
Emma sighed, resisting the urge to rub her forehead, knowing it wouldn't get rid of the annoying buzz of a multitude of mental channels flickering away in front of her. "Charles Xavier runs a private army, a militia, if you will, under the nose of our Government. I, on the other hand, fund my own international espionage unit and assassination squad. There is a reasonable chance, if the Centre's true purpose became known, that I would be charged with funding a terrorist organisation. And while you might have the pleasure of knowing that you would most likely be taken out the back and quietly shot, I would have to deal with the horror of spending the rest of my considerably foreshortened life wearing an orange jumpsuit. I am not willing to take that risk, Remy." She leaned forward, tapped the folder again. "And in the current financial climate, with hedge funds and private equity firms circling and banking firms desperately scrambling through accounts trying to save themselves, these are my weakness."
"Dere's less den fifteen of us trying to cover de same ground as professional agencies, Emma. Even wit' de private networks dat Wisdom, Betts and I have, de only way to get de kind of coverage dat we need is money. We start nickel and diming our missions, and we going to start tainting de intelligence wit' our decisions on where we will and won't spend money on." Remy shook his head. "If de Centre's cover is blown, we all dead. Don' kid yourself. Someone will make sure you don't survive de length of de trial."
"I would spend every cent that Frost Enterprises has ever made on this Centre, if I could make sure that something like the Church of Humanity got stopped before it started crucifying mutants," said Emma quietly. "I would fund every mission that you ever suggested if you gave me hope that no mutant would ever be sold into slavery again or weaponised or put into an asylum or forced into suicide. But we are going to die if the Centre's accounts continue the way they are. I am sorry, Remy, but there may have to be compromises."
"Den we left wit' two options. Either we limit de depth of what we can do, or we limit de avenues. Either way, dat's taking a big chunk out of our ability to know what de hell is going on, Emma." Remy wasn't entirely unsympathetic to Frost's position. Place like the CIA had trillion dollar budgets in which to hide their funding. She had stockholders, who would be looking. The trouble was that if they had to start worrying about the money, they weren't going to make good decisions in the field about spending it. The expenses of the Centre were hardly extreme, but they did reach eight figures.
"Dere might be 'nother way 'round dis, but it's going to take time to set up. We all used front companies, different shells to move money back in our professional days. If we can setup a series of dem which interconnect wit' de Centre, dat provides a way to channel it a step or two directly removed. Take months to do dat."
"It's . . . do-able," said Emma slowly. "Set them up so there's no connection to Frost Enterprises - use shelf companies and cashboxes. There are - opportunities for Frost Enterprises to - lose some money. I know some people who run hedge funds who'll do whatever I ask and never remember afterwards that I asked it. If I get them to make some margin calls, I could sell some parcels of shares - free up some cash. Salt it into a cashbox to keep the Centre running without having some of the expenses appear on my books." This time her immaculately manicured fingernail tapped at her lower lip. "A bit of civil litigation might help - settle some matters out-of-court - that could give us some more seed capital." Her focus came back from the far-away place it went to when she considered money and its movements and there was the hint of a smile on her lips. "It will take time, however, Remy. And there may have to be some emergency measures to tide us through. Budgeting. Discipline. Rearranging what's on the spreadsheets. More reports. New staff maybe - there has to be some justification for the costs we're already running up." For the first time since she'd walked in to the room, Emma was enjoying herself. Money, power and deception had always been three of her favourite things. "Which office has the nicest view?" she asked.
"Don't forget dat we can make a few robberies dat you can get de insurance return on and, wait, what?" Remy stopped, giving her a look of horror. "You moving you office into de Centre?"
"Well, not 24/7," replied Emma. "There is that little multinational conglomeration of companies that I have to CEO - that’s probably going to keep taking up most of my time. But I'm sure I have a few hours spare each week in which to be mistress of my own domain." Her laugh at Remy's expression was low and throaty. "Just think of it as enforced discipline, Remy. And remember, I will do my very, very best to make sure you enjoy it."
The quite impressive pile of documents that lay on the desk before her, therefore, had a truly impressive number of Post-It notes covered in her meticulously neat writing. Writing that seemed to end primarily in question marks.
Across the desk, in one of the increasingly rare moments when he was in the country, Remy sat in the chair. He had even stuffed himself into a suit, although in LeBeau's case, he'd been coming off of three straight days of field work, and he looked more like a salesman who was missing too much sleep and hitting too many bottles.
His body language wasn't overtly hostile, but the Cajun obviously didn't seem to put much stock in the requested meeting. Thanks to Nate's tip off, he'd had Marie-Ange and Sarah pull some numbers on their intake, and the growth of the network, just in case they'd be in the position to have to justify anything. "So, dis de point where we all ask for raises?"
"That would be rather difficult, Remy," replied Emma. "Neither yourself nor Pete are actually listed on the payroll of Snow Valley. I believe you are listed under fixtures and fittings. Or possibly sundries. And there certainly isn't a whole lot of wriggle room in either of those categories. Or," the emphasis was slight but definitely there, "stationery. How exactly does one spend $790,000 on stationery in a twelve month period in an Centre with nine employees?"
"Remy need a lot of dose little yellow sticky notes." Remy shook his head, finally straightening up. "De Centre in theory publishes papers and reports for clients, of which dey can claim as proprietary materials. Or, in Agency speak, it means things dat we don't have to account for and dat can be demanded to be produced in an audit. It's a very good way to legally wash money through to certain channels."
Emma's look was long and considering and went on just slightly too long to be comfortable. Her tone was very calm when she finally broke her silence. "Remy, I may be the epitome of every 15-year old boy's wet dream, but please don't assume that I have the intelligence of Britney Spears. I am well aware of the fact that what goes through the stationery account is very unlikely, in the main, to consist of sticky notes and green highlighters, no matter how useful they are to intelligence gathering. The difficulty that I have is that it is not a realistic amount of money for the Centre."
She leaned back into her chair, blue eyes fixed on Remy's face, the vague flickering of his thoughts and feelings skimming the outer edges of her shields in a way that made him a profoundly annoying person for her to deal with. It always made her feel like being in a supermarket and having to politely ignore a small child being ADHD in the fruit aisle. Not that Emma would go to supermarkets. Or politely ignore anyone. "Are you aware of the Sarbanes-Oxley Act? The sub-prime crisis? Sovereign wealth funds? Employment and scrutinisation of workers employed by contractors to the Defense Department? Do you know about KKR? Macquarie? The Texas Pacific Group?"
"Emma, if we get scrutinized, den no amount of hiding is going to keep de money hidden." Remy said. "De CIA funded my program through de same overseas accounts for cultural events over de Iron Curtain. Dis was supposed to be a tax sink for you."
Remy shrugged. He didn't like being talked to like some kind of idiot, or worse, some kind of thuggish line animal. While he certainly wasn't going to pass as a tax lawyer anytime soon, Gambit had happily manipulated the world's various banking rules in building his own fortune, the same one that Remy had mostly pushed back into Wisdom's team as a way of cleaning up dirty money. "If dis is such a big problem, we can go back to working out of blind accounts and de less legitimate banking markets in Asia and de Middle East. Dere's dis guy in Madripoor, originally from Behrin. He's got dis network dat--"
"Remy," Emma interrupted, one perfectly manicured fingernail tapping at the folder in front of her. "I accept that you understand black finance and are, presumably, well aware of the turmoil in global financial markets at the moment. But there is a reason I asked to speak to you specifically. Nominally, you are as close to the head of Operations as the Centre has. And I am about to cut your budget and possibly change some of the rules under which you operate and I need you to know why." She held up her finger as it looked like Remy would interrupt. "I don't want us bickering like school-girls in the hallways about money or the importance of missions and I believe you are professional enough to understand my position."
Emma sighed, resisting the urge to rub her forehead, knowing it wouldn't get rid of the annoying buzz of a multitude of mental channels flickering away in front of her. "Charles Xavier runs a private army, a militia, if you will, under the nose of our Government. I, on the other hand, fund my own international espionage unit and assassination squad. There is a reasonable chance, if the Centre's true purpose became known, that I would be charged with funding a terrorist organisation. And while you might have the pleasure of knowing that you would most likely be taken out the back and quietly shot, I would have to deal with the horror of spending the rest of my considerably foreshortened life wearing an orange jumpsuit. I am not willing to take that risk, Remy." She leaned forward, tapped the folder again. "And in the current financial climate, with hedge funds and private equity firms circling and banking firms desperately scrambling through accounts trying to save themselves, these are my weakness."
"Dere's less den fifteen of us trying to cover de same ground as professional agencies, Emma. Even wit' de private networks dat Wisdom, Betts and I have, de only way to get de kind of coverage dat we need is money. We start nickel and diming our missions, and we going to start tainting de intelligence wit' our decisions on where we will and won't spend money on." Remy shook his head. "If de Centre's cover is blown, we all dead. Don' kid yourself. Someone will make sure you don't survive de length of de trial."
"I would spend every cent that Frost Enterprises has ever made on this Centre, if I could make sure that something like the Church of Humanity got stopped before it started crucifying mutants," said Emma quietly. "I would fund every mission that you ever suggested if you gave me hope that no mutant would ever be sold into slavery again or weaponised or put into an asylum or forced into suicide. But we are going to die if the Centre's accounts continue the way they are. I am sorry, Remy, but there may have to be compromises."
"Den we left wit' two options. Either we limit de depth of what we can do, or we limit de avenues. Either way, dat's taking a big chunk out of our ability to know what de hell is going on, Emma." Remy wasn't entirely unsympathetic to Frost's position. Place like the CIA had trillion dollar budgets in which to hide their funding. She had stockholders, who would be looking. The trouble was that if they had to start worrying about the money, they weren't going to make good decisions in the field about spending it. The expenses of the Centre were hardly extreme, but they did reach eight figures.
"Dere might be 'nother way 'round dis, but it's going to take time to set up. We all used front companies, different shells to move money back in our professional days. If we can setup a series of dem which interconnect wit' de Centre, dat provides a way to channel it a step or two directly removed. Take months to do dat."
"It's . . . do-able," said Emma slowly. "Set them up so there's no connection to Frost Enterprises - use shelf companies and cashboxes. There are - opportunities for Frost Enterprises to - lose some money. I know some people who run hedge funds who'll do whatever I ask and never remember afterwards that I asked it. If I get them to make some margin calls, I could sell some parcels of shares - free up some cash. Salt it into a cashbox to keep the Centre running without having some of the expenses appear on my books." This time her immaculately manicured fingernail tapped at her lower lip. "A bit of civil litigation might help - settle some matters out-of-court - that could give us some more seed capital." Her focus came back from the far-away place it went to when she considered money and its movements and there was the hint of a smile on her lips. "It will take time, however, Remy. And there may have to be some emergency measures to tide us through. Budgeting. Discipline. Rearranging what's on the spreadsheets. More reports. New staff maybe - there has to be some justification for the costs we're already running up." For the first time since she'd walked in to the room, Emma was enjoying herself. Money, power and deception had always been three of her favourite things. "Which office has the nicest view?" she asked.
"Don't forget dat we can make a few robberies dat you can get de insurance return on and, wait, what?" Remy stopped, giving her a look of horror. "You moving you office into de Centre?"
"Well, not 24/7," replied Emma. "There is that little multinational conglomeration of companies that I have to CEO - that’s probably going to keep taking up most of my time. But I'm sure I have a few hours spare each week in which to be mistress of my own domain." Her laugh at Remy's expression was low and throaty. "Just think of it as enforced discipline, Remy. And remember, I will do my very, very best to make sure you enjoy it."
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