Drummer In the Dark (28 page)

39

Monday

W
YNN WAITED UNTIL midmorning to call Jackie again. She answered with a terse, “What.”

“Maybe I should call back.”

“Wynn?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been sitting out here for almost two hours. My shoulder hurts. It’s hot. It’s muggy. I didn’t sleep well and now I’m trapped inside a car that’s twelve years old and smells like a dirty sock.”

“Sitting where?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do.”

“I have to track down a lead. And it has to be done outside the office.”

“Hayek?”

“Who else. This guy is probably sunning himself on the upper deck of one of those cruise liners, sipping his drink, eyeing the girls, having himself a grand old time.”

“You think you can get one of Hayek’s own men to talk with you?”

“I told you, Wynn. Don’t ask. Where are you?”

He decided it was definitely not the time to bring up his suite at the Willard. The heavy silk drapes pulled back from the sunlit windows, the utter quiet of downtown Washington on Easter Monday, the breakfast tray pushed to one side. He glanced at the folder at his side and said, “Working. I’ve got a meeting with Kay Trilling this afternoon. I’ve been going through Graham’s old files.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Most of it I’ll probably never understand. He spent years on this. I’ve got days. The currency trading issue is just impossible.”

“Slice it into bite-size chunks. There’s bound to be somebody who can help on that. What about the guy in your office, the one who looks like a boiled turnip.”

“Carter Styles. As far as he’s concerned, the jury’s still out on me.”

“Then find a point of agreement and make him come around.” A different Jackie this morning. Terse and sharp as the Washington crowd. No room for play. “What you need to focus on is the fact that giant funds like Hayek’s are sharks patrolling the financial seas. They seek out weaknesses and then they attack. Over the past seven or eight years, what was once a disturbing issue has become an ongoing international crisis.”

“I wish you’d come up here and work with me on this.”

He might as well not have spoken. “The monster hedge funds have grown both in size and number. We’re talking hundreds of billions of dollars worldwide now. And remember what I said about this in Rome? Hedge funds operate on margins. Which means they do business on a huge multiple of their actual assets. Because they’re so enormous, they’re now able to transform controllable problems or minor economic swings into major catastrophes. Fund managers claim they’re simply profiting from globalization and the natural outcome of opening markets. But this is just not true. They
make
problems. They identify a potential weakness and they throw all their weight at it, creating calamity.”

The longer Jackie spoke, the faster the words came. “And it’s not just the currency markets they seek to destabilize. In the Asian meltdown of the late nineties, when they began bombing down the currencies, they also threw billions at the local stock markets. They sold short hundreds of locally owned companies. They pushed and pushed until five regional economies crashed. The intention was to make the swing as drastic as possible.”

Then she went silent. Wynn waited a moment, then asked, “Jackie?”

“Hang on a second.” An instant’s pause, then, “I have to go.”

“Will you call me?”

“Yes. Okay. I can’t say when. Oh, and Wynn.”

“Yes?”

There was the sound of a car door opening and shutting behind her. “Did your sister ever mention a contact she had, somebody called the Boatman?”

“Sybel never spoke much about her work.” He could not hide the bitterness. Or the remorse. “I never gave her a chance.”

“Esther thought he might be somebody working for her. Listen, when you see them, ask if they’ve ever heard about something called Tsunami.”

“That’s Japanese for tidal wave, right?”

“It may mean something to Hayek.” She was on the move now. “Bye.”

“Be careful, okay?” But she was already gone.

J
ACKIE SLIPPED the phone into her fanny pack and zipped it shut. She watched as Eric Driscoll’s Porsche pulled past the guardhouse and rumbled down the otherwise quiet lane. Jackie wore wraparound shades and her brightest spandex outfit with a matching sky blue bandana. Clamped to her ears was a radio Walkman with the sound cut off. Most of the security at these places were concerned only with vehicular traffic and keeping out the riffraff. Jackie gave the gatekeeper a casual wave as she jogged past. The guard didn’t even lift his gaze from the television on the counter. Just another local lady out for her morning run.

She sped up as she saw the garage door closing behind the Porsche. The compound was silent. The grass was the color of careful grooming. Each town home was slightly different—a skybox sort of attic alcove on one, smoked glass overlooking the central lake on the next. Eric Driscoll’s place had a tiled driveway and crown molding around the recessed front door. Jackie jogged straight up, puffed out a single nervous breath, and rang the bell.

As soon as he opened the door, she gave him a tight smile and the words, “Hi there, Eric. Shane told me to stop by, give you his best.”

The guy wasn’t at all what she had expected. He did not look a bit like Shane. In fact, he resembled Preston so much that she ached to watch the terror grip his features. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Jackie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Look. We’re going to talk. The question is, do you want to do it out here where people might see?”

Before he could recover, she pushed past him and into his house. Taking control. It was how this was going to have to play. In and out so fast he was left gasping from the blows, with no chance to either recover or duck. “Nice place.”

His weekend tan did not begin to erase the telltale signs of his profession. Dark smudges were still there under his eyes, the layer of excess flab about his middle. Eric Driscoll was strung out from being three days away from his last adrenaline hit, as well as suddenly very scared. “You have to get out of here.”

“I will. Don’t worry. Soon as you and I have a little chat.” She walked to the dining alcove, selected a seat. The place was neat as only a full-time maid could make it. “Are we alone, Eric?”

“I’m calling the cops.”

“Sure. Fine. While you’re at it, go ahead and tell them how you helped Shane with the scam. Or better still, call Hayek.” She reached into her fanny pack, pulled out the phone. Gripped it hard to keep her hand from shaking. “If you prefer, I could do it for you.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to come over here and sit down.”

Up close the similarity was even more telling. Eric was just another little kid playing the macho game. Through Shane and Preston she had come to know well the civilized savagery of most trading room floors. Some were different, sure. Schwab had a reputation for fair treatment both of minorities and women. But other floors celebrated their macho rivalry like tribal lore. “Where are you from, Eric?”

“I still don’t get—”

“I asked you a question.”

“Boston.”

“What part?”

“South.”

A Southie. Boston’s notorious gangland. Figured. Good traders were often utter failures at mainstream life. Hard fighters willing to do whatever it took for another notch on the gun belt. “But you got out. And that means you’re smart. I’m glad. I was hoping you’d be smart.” She gave him a closer inspection. “You know, I think we met once. A party or something. My brother used to work on the floor. Preston Havilland. You remember Preston?”

“H-He’s dead.”

“That’s right. He is.” And to sit beside this man-boy who resembled her brother had her dying from a thousand cuts. “Here’s the thing, Eric. I need information. Inside data.”

“On Hayek? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You know I’m not. We’re sitting here. I’m talking. You’re listening. And I know all about you and Shane.” She let the terror do its work, then continued, “Hayek is planning something.”

“I don’t know anything about that side of the ops.”

“But you do know something. Right? I mean, anything that big can’t be a total secret.”

“Sure, I’ve seen the guys around. But they’re totally cut off. They’ve gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Tell me.”

“Word is, Hayek’s bought a bank. Not directly. Through a dummy corporation overseas.”

“Which bank?”

“First Florida. He’s parked his guys over there, is what I hear.”

“I want to know what’s coming down.”

“I can’t—”

“And fast.” She rose to her feet. “You’ve got until Wednesday. Do it, or I’ll personally have a talk with Hayek.”

She walked to the door, glanced back, saw him collapse at the table, head in his hands. “One more thing. We’re hearing the word
Tsunami
being passed around. See what you can find out about it.”

40

Monday

W
YNN STOOD OUTSIDE the entrance to the Hutchings’ Watergate apartment, staring at the door and dreading what he might find inside. He did not need to have them explain the reasons why he should not be given the job. They were all painted upon the doorpost in front of him.

Upstairs the elegant corridor echoed with the litany of all his weaknesses and failures. He forced himself to push the doorbell.

Esther opened the door with a gaze as hard and flat as the previous evening. “Come in.”

Graham’s wheelchair was pushed close to the fireplace. The former congressman was a flaccid shell, unable to bring his head upright, the skin on his face folded and creased. His mouth was frozen into an overbite. His left hand was curled into a half-fist and shook uncontrollably. But his eyes tracked Wynn across the room and watched him settle into the sofa opposite Kay and beside Carter Styles. Two more sets of flat-eyed expressions greeted him there. Wynn did not even bother to speak.

Kay waited for Esther to return to her seat beside Graham before saying, “We’re going to give you a chance. But there are conditions.”

Wynn reached for the arm of his chair and grappled for a hold on the news. “Anything.”

“Anything pretty much sums it up,” Kay affirmed. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to bring you up to speed in time.”

“I realize that.” He found it necessary to wipe the burning sting from his eyes. The relief was that strong. “I won’t let you down.”

“We’ll see. Carter and I are going to be feeding you the tune and the steps both. You’re our puppet. First time we pull your string and you don’t perform, it’s over.”

“Yes. Fine.”

At a glance from Kay, Carter reached into the briefcase beside the sofa and pulled out a typed page. He slid the sheet over in front of Wynn. “Read and sign.”

The words swam before his eyes. On his official letterhead was an undated resignation. His own.

“You are going to be our point man in name only. You will take the heat, but I and my team will hold the reins. You have to live with that, Wynn. There isn’t any other way for this thing to fly.” Kay pointed at the page. “This is both insurance and our way out, if anything goes wrong. And believe me, if I have to use it, I won’t hesitate. Not for an instant.”

Wynn took the pen Carter was offering him and signed his name. “Smart.”

He watched Carter inspect the signature, then slip the paper back into his case. Esther’s expression clearly said she had been hoping he would refuse.

“Tomorrow night we’re pulling a page right from the lobbyists’ own game book,” Kay said. If she felt any pleasure or regret over Wynn’s capitulation, she did not show it. “One of their favorite ploys is to hit Congress at a downtime, stack the floor with their supporters, and pass amendments to vital legislation. That’s exactly what we’ve got planned, only in reverse.”

“What do I do?”

“Carter will walk you through it tomorrow.” Kay looked around the room and said, “Looks like we’re good to go.”

When she started to rise, Wynn halted her with, “Does the name Tsunami mean anything to you?”

The tableau froze. It was Carter who demanded, “Where did you hear that?”

“Jackie has an internet contact she knows only as the Boatman. He mentioned it to her.”

“She told me about that mystery guy. I thought perhaps it was one of Sybel’s people.” Worry tightened Esther’s face and voice both. “We’ve got to get her out of there.”

“Not a chance,” Wynn said. “I’ve begged her to come help out around here. She’s following up on something down in Orlando. She won’t say what, only that it has to do with Hayek, and that she’s got to do it herself.”

“Jackie has proven herself to be a pretty solid lady,” Kay offered.

Wynn demanded, “What’s going on here?”

“We lost a key person over this name, far as we can tell,” Carter said. “A researcher at the Library of Congress. But we haven’t been able to find out a single thing more.”

“A wonderful young woman,” Kay added. “A friend.”

“She was tracking down Hayek and came across a reference to Tsunami. Next thing we know, the lady was thrown off the roof of a downtown hotel.”

“The police claim it was a suicide,” Kay said.

“We know exactly what it was,” Esther replied. “And it wasn’t just one victim, it was two. That was the night Graham had his second stroke, or whatever it was. Right after we received the news about our young friend.”

Kay glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go.”

Graham Hutchings gave what Wynn thought was a moan of pain. The others went on full alert but showed no alarm. Esther leaned in close to the wheelchair and asked softly, “What is it, dear?”

Graham made a feeble motion with his right hand. Esther clearly understood, for she said, “Just a minute.”

She slipped a pen into his fingers, held it until he had gripped it firmly, then lifted the pad into place on the wheelchair’s arm and put the pen down on the page. With her other hand she reached into her pocket, drew out a handkerchief, and wiped a line of spittle from his chin.

Graham took a very long time to form the letters, each one requiring dogged effort. He signified completion by dropping the pen. Esther examined the sheet, blinked, then asked stonily, “Who do you want me to give this to?”

The hand lifted a fraction, far enough to point toward Wynn.

Reluctantly, Esther tore the sheet free, but handed it to Kay instead. The senator stared at the page a long moment, then handed it to Carter. The aide humphed a humorless laugh, then handed the sheet to Wynn.

On it was scrawled a single word.
Friend
.