As they headed toward the lobby, Jaime couldn’t help but notice Woodbury’s watchful gaze following them all the way out the door.
THURSDAY
January 25, 2007, 6:48 a.m.
(2 days, 2 hours, 42 minutes until end of auction)
Steigenberger Hotel Belvédère
Davos, Switzerland
* * *
It was the family legend, whispered among the men when they had consumed enough brandy and cigars. The story of a mysterious white-haired woman who had appeared at the scene of a legendary secret meeting. The tale of a spy who had disappeared in the waters of the Jekyll River.
Woodbury was not a superstitious man. In fact, he prided himself on his ability to gather facts and make decisions based upon those facts without involving extraneous emotion.
But seeing that very striking woman on the eve of an incredibly important meeting…a meeting whose significance could eclipse that of Jekyll Island. Even J. Aldrich Woodbury found that a bit unnerving.
Omens? Then he shook his head and snorted. Don’t waste my time!
Woodbury’s granduncle had engineered one of the biggest coups in modern financial history when he established a federal reserve system that cushioned banks from the inevitable ebbs and flows of markets. It had been a smart move then–for the banks, that was–but Nelson Aldrich knew it was eventually destined to crash.
Omen or no omen, J. Aldrich Woodbury had engineered the next great coup, turning the world’s reserve system on its head!
The banker stood in white undershirt and boxers, observing his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he carefully scraped the last of the shaving cream off his neck with a straight razor. He leaned in close to the glass and felt with his hand to make sure he had not missed a hair.
Woodbury despised the unshaven look so many young men seemed to sport these days. If one of his male employees was unfortunate enough to walk into his office with the hint of a five o’clock shadow, he would be fired on the spot. If it meant shaving twice a day, so be it!
Woodbury was reaching for a towel when his assistant, a young woman named Nicole Barron, suddenly appeared over his shoulder in the mirror. Woodbury, a closet sexist, had never before hired a woman to work as his executive assistant, but Barron was the daughter of one of his Harvard classmates and had just graduated from Harvard Business School herself. As a favor to his classmate, the banker had agreed to take the young graduate on as an assistant, which for the most part translated as “valet.”
But the young woman had no reason to complain. She was getting paid good money and, if she did well, her references would allow her to work anywhere she wanted.
Contrary to his first impression, the banker had to admit Nicole had promise. Her looks were certainly deceiving. At just over five feet, with long silky black hair and almond eyes that added a slightly Asian flavor to her countenance, she was often dismissed by clients and competitors as being harmless. She’d told him she was half Chinese, a quarter Mexican, and a quarter Irish, Russian, and French. A walking international consortium. Her drive, her energy, and her willingness to go for the throat when closing a deal made her very dangerous in negotiations.
“Your newspapers, sir.” Nicole waved three large papers and stepped back to let her boss pass but continued her update at a slightly higher decibel as he disappeared into the bedroom to finish dressing.
“Our tickets are confirmed on the train for Geneva tomorrow with the follow-on flight to Boston. All arrangements finalized for Strela Alp at noon today. Every guest has now confirmed their attendance. I’ll get the key from the manager and have it open by eleven thirty. Will you be needing anything else before then?”
Woodbury walked back into the sitting room tucking in his shirt. He noted for the first time that the young woman was not wearing a business suit but instead seemed dressed for outdoor activities.
He paused, frowned, then replied, “No, just make sure the room is ready. Keep your BlackBerry handy.”
With a quick nod, the assistant disappeared out the door.
It’s possible I was wrong. Barron may not have what it takes to succeed.
Having decided the fate of his assistant’s career, the banking magnate threw a tie around his neck and returned to the bathroom mirror to make sure the knot was perfect.
January 25, 2007, 8:30 a.m.
(2 days, 2 hours, 0 minutes until end of auction)
Highway A5
6 miles southwest of Larnaca, Cyprus
* * *
Abihu el-Musaq watched the countryside through dark tinted windows. Mountains of rock covered by pine, cypress, and dwarf oak flew by as the stretch limo wound its way along the southern coast of Cyprus toward the Larnaca International Airport.
If el-Musaq absolutely had to travel, this was the only way to go. Plush seats, thick windows tinted so you could look out, but others could not look in. Yes, he liked to watch things, but secretly, in such a way that he would not be watched by others.
Maybe it was because el-Musaq was a fat little man in a world where fashion models of both genders were tall and slim. Perhaps more to the point was that the features of his face were oddly proportioned. He wasn’t what you would call ugly, just unusual looking. The width of his eyes was slightly greater than normal, and they were not precisely aligned, so when people looked at him they rarely smiled, but they did often stare, as if trying to figure out what was wrong.
So, el-Musaq preferred to live and work where he could watch others, but they could not watch him. He treasured his privacy above all else. He had a telescope on his rooftop that enabled him to spy on bathers at the beach. He had placed hidden cameras around the house so that he could observe the maid and the cook at work. And he always traveled in his limo with deeply tinted glass.
But now he was heading for the airport, forced to leave his cocoon and fly to Israel and to the damn Bedouin camp. Forced to leave his place of privacy and watching others. Why? Because some idiot sheikh had decided he did not want to give up the prized possession he had promised to sell. Because the dolt did not understand the implications for both of them if the sale did not go through.
Abihu el-Musaq fully understood the implications, and he was not willing to give up his life for a jeweled box that some oversexed old goat was hoarding. He would make the Hajj understand the seriousness of the consequences, and return with the box.
He had checked the bids one last time before leaving home. They were now down to three serious bidders. And yes, serious was the key word. In previous auctions all three bidders had proven they were willing to go to the max for an item they coveted, and they were serious in the action they would take if the deal did not follow through.
The Afghan poppy dealer. What could he possibly want with the box? Claim some religious significance? He held the current high bid, but past history would indicate he might fall away at the close of bidding.
Now the Canadian woman, there was a tough bidder. She must have an incredible collection of artifacts in her personal museum. But she was not the danger; her husband was. Rumor was he had torn a man limb from limb who had displeased his wife.
And finally, the Brit. What was he, some sort of archeologist? More rumors…that he was the picture of the perfect English gentleman. But it was said he was the most ruthless of the bunch. It would be extremely dangerous to cross him!
So, how best to convince the Hajj to give up the item? A trade, maybe. You want something from someone, be prepared to offer something they wanted just as much, or more. In this case, the trick would be to steal something of equal or greater value than the box and then offer it back to the Hajj in return.
But el-Musaq would need some accomplices for this plan. He would stop in Bethlehem and add some people to his entourage. His family was indebted to him for the constant flow of money he sent their way. And besides, he would be less conspicuous traveling with others.
The Hajj had only met el-Musaq’s trusted messenger, and so el-Musaq him
self should be able to join the marriage celebration without anyone being wise to his purpose.
The car was now slowing as it approached the outskirts of Larnaca. Content with his plan, the little man settled back into his seat to watch pedestrians along the road. A woman was carrying a child on her hip, and a couple were holding hands as they strolled down a path and a young boy skipped along behind them.
I see you. El-Musaq smiled a secret smile.
January 25, 2007, 11:45 a.m.
(1 day, 21 hours, 45 minutes until end of auction)
Bergrestaurant Strela Alp
Schatzalp, Davos, Switzerland
* * *
Jaime sat with Dr. Farmer in the sunshine that filtered down between massive cumulus clouds as they lounged on the outdoor terrace of a mountain restaurant. They were surrounded by skiers and hikers who had stopped for lunch before continuing their day of winter sport in the mountains above Davos. The two women were dressed warmly, with hiking boots, layered sweaters, and light parkas.
This was it. As calm as Jaime tried to seem outwardly, her adrenaline was pumping.
As Jaime picked through what was left of her lunch, (her pommes frites were cold, but who cared?) she listened over earphones and watched what appeared to be a video iPod. The video feed she reviewed was not a recorded program, however, but was live and provided by the tiny camera planted by Eddie in a basement room two floors below them. Andrea had her own set of earphones plugged into the same device.
The call from Eddie had come about six that morning. He told Jaime he’d tapped into a phone conversation between Woodbury’s assistant and Ran Li. It was terse but just what they needed.
“Noon. Strela Alp. Wood door to basement. Knock twice.”
Strela Alp was a restaurant on the mountain above Davos. The only way to reach it was to ride the Schatzalp Bahn, a kind of mountain tram, from Davos Platz straight up the mountain, followed by a ten-minute walk up a winding path.
This had to be the location and time of the meeting they were waiting for.
Eddie had wasted no time. In what they both knew to be a highly dangerous operation, he’d broken into the meeting room in the early-morning hours and planted a small video device to observe the proceedings. He’d then set up an observation point and recording equipment in a small barn behind the restaurant.
Jaime and Andrea arrived at eleven thirty. On her way up the outdoor staircase, Jaime noted that near the foot of the steps there was an old wooden door in the wall. It looked like a walk-out basement but seemed old and unused. It also fit the description from the phone call Eddie had heard. This must be the place.
They’d settled onto the terrace above and ordered lunch. The table provided a suitable vantage point from which to watch as hikers and skiers trudged up the snowy path and mounted the stairs to the terrace.
As they waited, watching the live feed from the as-yet empty room, Jaime put a chilly hand into the pocket of her jacket and felt a crinkle of paper. She’d nearly forgotten. The message light on the telephone in her room had been blinking when she awoke. But when she’d called for her message, it was to discover someone had left her a written note, which she picked up at the front desk.
Jaime Richards, is that you? it asked. Thought I saw you in town. The hotel wouldn’t give me your room number, but said I could leave you a note. It’s been too long. Are you free for dinner?—Mark
It was from an old friend of hers, whom she’d met through her late husband, Paul. Mark and Paul had shared many of the same passions, including working for a lasting peace between Israel and Palestine. In fact, they’d met on a fact-finding trip. Hearing from Mark brought back so many old memories. Paul and Jaime had gone on several working vacations with Mark and his wife, Ondine, and had spent as much time as they could at their home in the French Antilles as Ondine fought, and finally succumbed to, pancreatic cancer. And now Paul was dead, as well. Those days had been a different season of Jaime’s life, a different time. The four of them had been so young, so hopeful.
The four of them had been alive.
Just touching the note brought back so many complicated feelings.
It brought her back to the world before Yani.
Was she free for dinner?
Jaime sighed and thought, Let’s start by seeing if I live through lunch.
The first sign of activity was when a young snowboarder wearing very close-fitting black ski pants, a red windbreaker, and Oakley sunglasses came whizzing down the hill above them and stopped at the base of the restaurant. At first Jaime thought it was a young teen, but as the woman stepped off the board, shook the snow off her boots, and removed her cap, long dark hair fell to the middle of her back. This was no child.
Jaime waited for the snowboarder to ascend the steps to the restaurant terrace, but she never appeared. Instead, the young woman appeared over the video feed in the basement room below.
She can’t be more than twenty-five. Jaime wondered how someone so young could be a financial power broker. But her confusion disappeared when the woman set to work moving chairs around, pulling a dusty cover off of a couch, and cleaning off a coffee table. She disappeared up some inner stairs and reappeared with a tray with bottles of Belgian beer–of this they were certain because Eddie zoomed in to check the labels.
“Leffe Brun,” Jaime heard him comment over her earpiece. “That’s good stuff!”
“Eddie, do we have an ID on her?” Jaime replied.
The response took only a moment. “Name, Nicole Barron. Woodbury’s current assistant.”
The tables around Jaime and Andrea began to fill with customers, but every once in a while someone would come up the walkway, approach the front of the restaurant, and never appear at the top of the steps. Usually these people were dressed more like businessmen and -women than hikers.
Andrea provided commentary for Jaime and Eddie as the crowd in the basement room grew.
Ran Li had brought two other Asians with him. “I think they’re Chinese stock traders,” whispered Andrea. “And that petite woman on the rocker, fur-lined ski jacket and coffee-colored skin…don’t let that angelic smile fool you. She is the Leona Helmsley of India, a multi-billionaire who operates in real estate investment and is about as cutthroat as they come.
“The handsome man sitting on the arm of the couch is a banker from Argentina. His home base is Bariloche, tourism capital of the country, and he manages one of the largest state-owned banks. He’s slowly built its portfolio since the crash of 2001, which was not easy in what has been, historically, a very uneven economy.”
Precisely at noon, Woodbury appeared. Jaime and Andrea had not seen him come up the walk, so he must have been waiting inside the restaurant somewhere. His sudden appearance was dramatic, startling everyone.
“Reports first. Then time line,” he began, taking charge. “Ran, what do you bring to the table?”
“Five of the top ten institutions, all family owned, will join with my own.”
“Ipsa?”
The petite Indian spoke with authority. “In spite of differences in our political associations, I have gathered allies in both India and Pakistan who see the personal advantage in joining this venture. A total of eight banks will buy in.”
“Excellent. Matias?”
The Argentinean spoke hesitantly at first. “The political leadership of Argentina can and will have nothing to do with such a venture…but of course I have still convinced four very large investors to join us.”
One of the Chinese stockbrokers said nothing but held up both hands, displaying nine fingers.
Woodbury nodded with satisfaction. “I myself have twenty-two very capable large-scale investors joining me from the U.S. and Canada. With this support I believe we can achieve our goals.”
He pulled out a calculator, punched in a few numbers, thought for a moment, then scribbled some numbers on a piece of paper. He passed this around for all to see.
“This is my estimate of the minimum amount it wil
l take to move the market.” Jaime couldn’t see the paper but noted that eyebrows raised as each person in the circle observed the figures on the paper.
“Slowly, carefully, over the next year, everyone in this cabal will purchase Chinese yuan, as well as shares in the Chinese gold market. Also, add as much gold and silver bullion from the London market as you can without causing suspicion. Be careful not to drive up the prices.
“At the same time, I want you to purchase large quantities of U.S. dollars. Be very public about these purchases, and don’t worry about market fluctuations.
“Then, one year from now, on a specific Friday afternoon to be named later, everyone will sell all their dollar holdings and purchase more yuan with those sales, driving up the yuan at the moment the dollar is crashing, and setting it up as the new candidate for a world reserve.”
“And if someone jumps the gun and sells out early?” The Argentinean banker did not sound as if he had great trust in his fellow conspirators.
Woodbury moved his gaze methodically about the room, locking eyes with each participant as he slowly spoke.
“The stakes in this game are extremely high. The potential rewards are staggering. So must be the consequences of betrayal. If anyone leaks this plan, if anyone cuts and runs early, they’re dead.” The matter-of-fact way in which he spoke the last two words brought a chill to the room greater than any caused by the Alpine snow outside the door.
As she listened, Jaime was struck by the profound calm Woodbury demonstrated when plotting to ruin the economy of his own nation. She squinted as the sun popped in and out of the clouds, and noticed how people all around were taking great advantage of the fresh powder with skis, snowboards, and snowshoes.
What a shame to take a breathtakingly beautiful place like this and make it the scene of such a nasty plan.
Could they really do this? she mouthed, looking over to get Andrea’s professional opinion. But Andrea wasn’t there. Jaime looked around the deck to see if she was in sight, maybe stretching her legs, or asking the waiter for water. Just as Jaime was about to go check the restroom she heard Eddie over her earphone.
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