Rigged

by Ben Mezrich

  While he gave the taxi driver the Merc’s address, David grinned at the thought of Gallo going up against Bill Gates. He then shot a text back to Reston’s BlackBerry, and a second text to Serena, explaining that he was going to be late, again. Reston didn’t respond, but Serena came back almost immediately with a sad face, followed by two happy faces, one with a tongue sticking out. David grinned at the icons.

  He’d try to put out whatever fire Reston was fighting as fast as possible so he could get home to his girl and add a few more happy faces to the mix.

  It was eight-fifteen by the time David passed through the security post in the lobby of the Merc, flashing his ID badge to the skeletal after-hours staff—consisting of four uniformed, armed guards and an elderly supervisor with a clipboard—and letting the twin X-ray machines bombard his cellular structure to their hearts’ content. Once he was in the elevator, rising up through the building, he took another look at his BlackBerry, but there was still no response from Reston. Obviously, the Texan was using a different phone tonight. Maybe Reston had lost his BlackBerry again; David remembered a hellish afternoon during his second month at the Merc when he’d had to track down a phone Reston left on an airplane. A Harvard degree meant even less in the infuriating catacombs of JFK than it did in the halls of the Merc.

  David shrugged, putting his phone back into his pocket. He’d find out what Reston wanted soon enough. He tried not to let his creative mind invent potential disasters as he waited for the elevator to reach the trading floor. Sadly, it was a losing battle: by the time the doors finally slid open, David was half-expecting to find the floor crawling with poisonous snakes.

  Instead, the dimly lit, cavernous room seemed completely deserted; as David stepped away from the elevator, the only sound came from his own shoes against the freshly polished floor. Obviously, the cleaning crews had already come and gone. The snowfall of paper tickets that usually filled the various trading pits had been swept away, and the computer screens and telephone banks were all dormant, the monitors wiped clean and the last traces of eight hundred sweaty Italians and Jews vacuumed out of the ether. In fact, the only light in the room came from a few hundred seemingly coordinated screen savers and the digital readouts on the big board up above. Closing prices blinked out into the relative darkness, bathing the larger pits that were closer to the board in an eerie, reddish glow.

  David took a few more steps into the room, then squinted across the trading floor.

  “Nick?”

  His voice echoed between the warren of computer banks and through the deserted pits. David had never been on the trading floor after-hours before, and even though it was only 8:00 p.m., it may as well have been the middle of the night. Strange that he’d somehow beaten Reston to the floor; maybe the Texan was still up in his office, or on his way down. David was about to head back to the elevator when he heard a sound coming from somewhere on the other side of the cavernous room. A cough maybe, or someone clearing his throat. David rolled his eyes and started forward again. Reston had chosen a strange time to play games with him. Maybe the Texan had just gotten back from Little Tijuana’s and was planning some tequilafueled practical joke.

  “Come on, Nick,” David called across the dark room. “I rushed all the way over here. What the hell is so important?”

  He reached the first bank of computers and phones and cut left, paralleling the largest trading pit, trying to follow the cough back to its source. He was surprised at how narrow the alleys between the trading posts were; he’d never really wandered through the warrens of the different trading positions before. He was now strolling through a real maze of high-tech equipment and shoulder-high partitions stretching all the way around the hundredfoot crude pit. As he went, he had to be careful not to trip over the rubber cables and spaghetti-like extension cords that crisscrossed the tiles beneath his feet. No wonder Reston and Giovanni were always talking about automation, this place was a freaking mess—

  David’s thoughts were interrupted as a flash of motion flickered by his peripheral vision. He stopped, squinting over the partition to his immediate right. There, maybe twenty yards away, on the other side of the circular, sunken trading floor, someone was dodging in and out of the natural gas cubicles. David couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the man was wearing a trading jacket; still, he was too far away for David to see any of the jacket’s details.

  “Nick, what the fuck?” David shouted across the floor at him. “This isn’t funny.”

  Again no answer. David paused, wondering what the hell he should do. He wasn’t going to chase his drunk boss all over the trading floor. Then he felt a buzz in his pocket and realized his BlackBerry was going off again. He angrily retrieved it and glared down at the display.

  To his surprise, the text wasn’t from Reston. It was from Khaled.

  Get out. Now.

  David’s eyes widened. What the fuck? Before he could respond, he suddenly saw another flash of motion, this time from straight ahead, at the end of the long alleyway of computers and telephones. Someone was moving toward him. It was too dark to make out any of the man’s features—but from his size and catlike gait, he could see it definitely wasn’t Nick Reston. And this time David had a clear view of the man’s trading jacket: black and white stripes, like a zebra.

  David swallowed, blinking hard. He watched as the man moved toward him. What the hell were a couple of Gallo’s traders doing on the trading floor after 8:00 p.m.? And why hadn’t they responded when he’d shouted Reston’s name?

  David realized that his BlackBerry was still vibrating, a metallic earthquake against his palm. He glanced down at the display. Khaled again:

  David. Get out. Now!

  Christ.

  David stumbled backward a few steps, breathing hard. The man in the zebra jacket was moving faster now, striding straight toward him. David didn’t know what the hell was going on—but he didn’t like it. He had no idea how Khaled knew where he was. And he didn’t know what the hell Gallo’s traders were doing on the trading floor after-hours. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

  David took one more step backward, then swung around on his heels—

  And there, just a few feet in front of him, blocking the aisle, was a third man in a zebra-striped jacket. The man was big, maybe six-three, with spiky brown hair and acne scars on both cheeks. David didn’t recognize the man’s face—but he was pretty sure he wasn’t a trader. At least, David had never seen him before, and the jacket’s sleeves barely went past his elbows.

  David froze, his heart racing in his chest. If the man wasn’t a trader, what was he doing on the trading floor? And what did he want with David?

  David decided he didn’t want to find out. He could hear footsteps from behind him, getting closer. He had only a second to react. So he did the only thing he could think of.

  He lowered his shoulder and barreled forward. The big man stepped back, obviously surprised by the sudden charge—and the heel of the man’s right foot caught on one of the extension cords. He stumbled and David crashed by him, shoes churning against the hard floor. David felt a hand grab at his arm, but he was moving too fast. A second later, he was sprinting through the maze of computers. He didn’t know if the zebra jackets were behind him—but he didn’t care. He could see the elevator now, and the doors were already halfway ajar. His adrenaline spiked, and he lunged at the opening—

  And nearly slammed headlong into a huge man on his way out. David caught himself, skidding to a stop in time to see two more men step out of the elevator behind the first. David stared up at the huge man in front—and saw that he was wearing a janitor’s uniform. His massive muscles bulged beneath the light blue material.

  “Excuse me, sir. We’re here to clean the carpets.”

  The man’s accent sounded Arabic or Pakistani, David couldn’t be sure. At the moment, he didn’t care. He rushed around the three janitors and into the elevator. He jabbed his finger at the buttons—he wasn’
t even sure what floor, he was just punching whichever buttons were closest. It wasn’t until the doors had slid shut and he had collapsed back against the elevator’s wall that a sudden, strange thought hit him like a fist to the face.

  There weren’t any carpets on the trading floor.

  Chapter 38

  Twenty minutes later, when David stepped through the entrance of the Starbucks two blocks from his apartment in Midtown and took a deep breath that filled his nostrils with the overwhelming scent of Colombia-by-way-of-Seattle coffee, his panic finally started to subside. As he moved deeper into the Starbucks, eliciting a familiar nod from the Goth chick behind the counter, he let the dim lighting and soft, canned mood music calm his frayed nerves. He navigated past the few customers who were indulging their caffeine-junkie needs and took his customary table in the back corner of the café.

  Once seated, he forced his body to relax—his fingers laced together on the table in front of him—and tried to order his thoughts. Maybe his mind truly had been playing tricks on him. Maybe he had misinterpreted the entire incident. Maybe he had been mistaken: perhaps the man in the zebra jacket had actually been one of Gallo’s traders, just one David had never met before. Sure, the guy’s jacket didn’t fit, and he had tried to grab David’s arm—but only after David had nearly decked the fucker with his shoulder.

  And even though Reston had finally responded when David was in the cab on the way to the Starbucks, saying that he’d never sent the original text, at worst, that only meant that someone had been playing a practical joke on David. Vitzi, Mendelson, hell, Gallo—David wouldn’t have put it past any of them. That didn’t mean he had truly been in danger on the trading floor. The idea that the three men had been there to harm him in some way, perhaps to derail the Dubai project once and for all—David shook his head. That was ludicrous. Making a call to Beijing to fuck up his travel plans was one thing; hiring men to hurt him was quite another. Even the Don wouldn’t go that far—would he?

  Then again, none of these thoughts explained Khaled’s text message—which was why David was in the Starbucks in Midtown rather that on his way back to the safety of his apartment, where he could get Serena’s more grounded opinion on the terrifying incident. David had tried calling Khaled from the cab, right after he’d spoken to Reston, but Khaled had refused to talk over the phone and insisted that David head directly to the Starbucks. It had seemed a bizarre request considering that Khaled was supposedly already on his way back to Dubai. But David had finally acquiesced, given no other choice.

  David was about to try Khaled’s phone again when he felt a cold breeze wash across the Starbucks. A kid had just entered and was moving quickly across the café. Right toward David’s table.

  The kid was tall and gangly, maybe sixteen at the most, and obviously Arab. He was wearing jeans and a pullover, with the hood low over his forehead. Still, he didn’t look menacing. He looked like—a kid.

  He reached David’s table and pulled a piece of folded paper out of his pocket. He dropped the paper on the table, then turned to walk away. David held up a hand.

  “Wait a minute. What is this?”

  The kid glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Encryption,” he said quietly, in a heavy accent that David

  couldn’t quite place. “You dial those numbers before you make a call that you don’t want anyone else to hear.”

  “Hold on,” David started, looking at the piece of paper. “What the hell do I need an encryption code for—”

  But the kid was already moving back through the Starbucks, toward the door. David considered going after him—but then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. The sixteen-year-old kid wasn’t going to tell him anything. That kid wasn’t the one with the answers.

  David quickly pulled his phone out of his pocket and carefully dialed the six-digit number that was written on the folded piece of paper. Then he dialed the rest, from memory, and waited for Khaled’s voice.

  “David, sorry about this cloak-and-dagger business. But since we’re so close, I decided we can’t be too careful—”

  “Khaled, what the hell is going on? How did you know I was on the trading floor?”

  There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.

  “Trading floor? What are you talking about?”

  David stared at the phone.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Khaled. You just sent me two text messages. ‘Get out now’? Does that ring a bell?”

  Khaled laughed. “Yes, I know, I’m not daft. Last time I saw you, you were on your way to do something ridiculously stupid. At the time, I had decided it wasn’t my place to interfere. Three hours into my flight and I thought better of it. Look, this may be a cultural thing, but Serena is a wonderful girl. To ruin what you have, for a one-night stand—”

  David closed his eyes, leaning back in his seat. Of course. Khaled was talking about Jasmine. When David left Khaled at the Saudi consulate, he had been on his way to the Mandarin Oriental. Khaled had indeed texted him—“Get out. Now”—but he hadn’t been talking about the men in the zebra jackets. He hadn’t been trying to save David’s life—he had been trying to save David’s relationship.

  David shook his head. He felt like a total idiot. Maybe it really had all been in his head. He’d misinterpreted Khaled’s texts. They had added an imagined sense of peril to an already tense situation. Throw in a fake text from a fake Reston and add a trio of janitors who obviously hadn’t been long on the job, and you had one hell of a major mind-fuck.

  “Are you okay?” Khaled asked. For the first time, David heard the throb of a jet engine in the background. It certainly didn’t sound commercial.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I think I just spooked myself pretty bad, though. Hey, are you on a private jet?”

  “Yes. Now that we’ve got the Saudis’ okay, and the Europeans, brokers, and traders on board, my ministry has jumped us up to a real priority. David, it’s time to get your board to give us final approval.”

  David rubbed his hand through his hair. His pulse was finally slowing to the point where he could really think. That evening’s excitement—real or imagined—aside, was he really ready to try to get the board to finalize the exchange? If he went up in front of them again demanding a yes or no, it could go either way. And a no would be the end of the road.

  “I don’t know. Maybe a little more time—”

  “David, we don’t have any more time. The emir wants to move forward. He wants a decision in the next two weeks.”

  David watched the Goth girl at the counter working the latte machine. He shook his head. He needed to be sure of the board’s feelings before he made them take that final vote. He needed them to feel the same way he did—that the Dubai exchange had to happen, that it was important, that it was an incredible opportunity.

  Simply, he needed to make them feel the same way he had felt when he had seen the promise of Dubai for the first time. He needed them to experience that same sense of excitement.

  And just like that, it dawned on him.

  He knew exactly what he and Khaled needed to do.

  Chapter 39

  Febr u a r y 26, 2003

  Wow, you’re really not much for that lived-in look, are you?”

  David turned away from the window just in time to watch Harriet come through the open doorway of his office. She had a computer printout in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and she was smiling like it was the first time she’d seen him in a month—even though for the past six days they’d been as close as twins, working ten-hour days to get everything just right. Still, it was the first time they’d been together in David’s office: they’d been using the nearby conference room for the job, because they needed the space and also because David’s office wasn’t equipped with a teleconferencing system. It had almost been like Khaled was right there along with them, culling through the lists of board members, editing the invitations, putting together the itineraries, making sure every detail was perfect.
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  “You’ve never heard of minimalism?” David shot back.

  Harriet just rolled her eyes. She was right: his office looked pretty much exactly as it had the day Giovanni and Reston gave it to him: oversized desk, hardwood floors, an empty bookshelf, and little else. Not even a dying plant or a photograph of him and Serena on a ski slope—nothing but walls, wood floorboards, and windows. Still, Harriet should have cut him some slack. Aside from the past week, David had spent more of his four months as vice president of strategy traveling around the world with Khaled than he had in this office.

  While they’d worked in the conference room, David had done his best to describe his travels to Harriet, but she’d just listened politely, obviously more interested in the few details he gave her about the momentary travails of his love life than in the stories of far-off places. Even when he’d tried to describe Dubai, she’d basically turned off—because the truth was, as David had realized a week ago in Starbucks, there was no substitute for the experience of actually going there.

  And that, David had also realized, was exactly what he and Khaled needed to make happen. They needed for the board—or a large majority of the board—to see Dubai for themselves. If David could get those Italians and Jews onto an airplane, he felt certain he could win them over to the exchange. In their minds, the Middle East was a place of war and destitution; the minute they saw Dubai, they’d realize how far off base they were. Of course, simply inviting the board to Dubai would never work. David himself had only gone to Dubai in the first place because Reston had pawned the initial invitation off on him. To get the board on an airplane to the Middle East, David and Khaled needed to come up with something too seductive to pass up. It was Khaled who had finally come up with the perfect inducement. And once he’d cleared the details with the emir’s people— who had jumped at the chance to show Dubai off to a new group of skeptical Americans—David and Harriet had gone to work on the invitations. They’d embarked on the project entirely in secret; not even Reston had known what they were up to in the conference room. David couldn’t risk Gallo—or anyone else he couldn’t entirely trust—finding out what he was up to. Not until he was ready to take things public.