Crash

by David Hagberg

  “I don’t know. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

  “But it has to be done at the firm?”

  Cassy nodded, but her fingers were flying over the keyboard and she didn’t look up.

  “It’s one-thirty now, and it’ll take maybe a half hour or more to get downtown, which leaves you six hours or so with a margin to get it done before opening bell,” Chip said. “Plenty of time.”

  This time Cassy did look up. “You don’t understand. The markers are embedded on every page of the program. And there are more than one thousand pages. So let me get to it.”

  “I’ll get some more coffee and something else to eat,” Chip said.

  Ben took Chip aside. “That’s not the only problem,” he said. “We’ll still have to get her inside the building.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, I’d tell you to take the plane back to Washington.”

  “But these aren’t ordinary circumstances.”

  “I think that it’s a safe bet we’re going to get stopped trying to get in. We might get arrested again, and I’ll need you to call the admiral.”

  “He’s not going to be real happy about that, especially if it’s in the middle of the night. Admirals tend to get cranky when someone interrupts their beauty sleep.”

  “Tell him if he springs me, I’ll gladly come back and finish W for him.”

  “That, he’ll understand,” Chip said. “I’m going on another chow run. Want anything?”

  “Something not sweet.”

  “I’ll see if there’s a McDonald’s open somewhere.”

  “Watch your six,” Ben said.

  “Will do.”

  111

  Chip was gone for forty-five minutes, and during that time Ben sat by the window looking down at the parking lot. Brighton Beach was a Russian village, and it was possible that the remaining crew at the house where Cassy had been kept would have eyes on them.

  He had just finished disassembling the Beretta to check if the pistol’s works had picked up any lint, and reloading it with the spare magazine, when Chip showed up with a big bag from McDonald’s.

  “Did you pick up a tail?” Ben asked.

  “There’s not a lot of traffic at this time of the morning, and I went around the block a couple of times before I came in and didn’t see anything.”

  Cassy was still working on the laptop, her fingers racing over the keyboard.

  “Do you want to take a break and have something to eat?” Ben asked her.

  She waved him off.

  “You need something.”

  “Benjamin,” Cassy said sharply.

  Ben and Chip exchanged a glance, then sat down at the small table by the window and had their burgers, fries, and coffee.

  Ben looked at his watch. It was 3:45 already, a little less than six hours before the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. They were running out of time, especially if they ran into interference at BP.

  “Do you want me to call Huggard now, give him the heads-up?” Chip asked.

  “Not until we need him,” Ben said, when Cassy looked up.

  “Done,” she said, powering the computer down and closing it. “Let’s get this to BP.”

  112

  Chip was behind the wheel of the Chevy SUV, Ben was in front riding shotgun, and Cassy was in the backseat cradling the laptop, as they headed over the Brooklyn Bridge across the river to lower Manhattan. Traffic was nearly nonexistent at this hour, so they made good time.

  They got off at Park Row and headed south on Broadway, switching over to Nassau a couple of blocks later.

  One block up from the Burnham Pike building, Chip slowed down. Several police cars, their lights flashing, were parked on the street in front of the bank, along with a plain gray Ford sedan with U.S. government plates.

  “They’re expecting us,” Ben said. “Keep going, don’t stop.”

  “We’ve got to get into the building. Downstairs to my station in DCSS,” Cassy said, sitting forward.

  “I’ll try first, and if I’m arrested, which I think will happen, Chip can call the admiral,” Ben said. “As soon as some strings are pulled, and I’m released, you guys can pick me up, and we’ll go in together.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” Cassy said. “It’s after four already.”

  “It won’t do us any good if they arrest you and take the laptop,” Ben said.

  They passed the BP tower, and a half a block later Chip turned left on John Street and pulled up.

  “No matter what, stay here,” Ben told Cassy.

  He and Chip got out of the car and went back to the corner.

  “I’m going on alone,” Ben said. “If it’s all clear, I’ll wave you guys in. But if I’m taken, get the hell away and call Huggard.”

  “Will do,” Chip said.

  “The clock is ticking,” Ben said, and he crossed the street and headed down Nassau to the building and the waiting police and Bureau cars.

  * * *

  Sergeant Adams stood next to a police car talking to a uniformed cop and two men in blue nylon jackets with FBI stenciled in yellow as Ben approached.

  One of the Bureau agents said something to the sergeant, who turned around and smiled.

  “Here’s the tough guy back for the second round,” Adams said.

  “I need to get inside and talk to Mr. Treadwell,” Ben said. “He’s expecting me.”

  “Turn around and give me your wrists,” Adams said, pulling a set of handcuffs from a belt pouch.

  Ben did as he was told. “Won’t be long and the mayor will know you personally.”

  Adams leaned in close. “Careful that you’re not shot while resisting arrest and trying to escape.”

  113

  It was just coming up on 6:00 A.M., and Treadwell was sitting at his desk trying to figure a way out of the mess that was growing around him when Ashley arrived. She was a full two hours early, and when she came to his open door she looked concerned.

  He looked up. “You’re early,” he said.

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night after all the hubbub around here yesterday,” she said. “You okay, Reid?”

  “A lot on my mind and a lot to do before opening bell.”

  “The market was down twenty percent near the close yesterday; what do you think will happen today?”

  “Asia is worse. But that’s no surprise with the Chinese commercial banks still in trouble. Plus the failure of our T-bond sale. Something that’s never happened before. And given the mountain of debt that every country, including ours, is facing, it’s a wonder how we’ll ever dig ourselves out.”

  Ashley offered him a tentative smile. “If anyone can figure a way out of the mess, it’s you,” she said.

  He returned her smile. There was no way he could tell her the real problems he was facing. Cassy Levin on the loose, Julia O’Connell talking to Betty, Spencer Nast fired from his White House post, and the cops wanting to question him about Heather’s death.

  The only good things were the flash drive he had in his desk, and Whalen back in custody. Plus Abacus was set to go off when trading started in less than three and a half hours.

  That is if nothing went wrong with the program, or if the Russians succeeded in taking out the NYSE’s backup computer in Jersey, which would shift the blame for the crashed market on to terrorism.

  He glanced out the window. The sun was just coming up, and it promised to be a beautiful day. All he had to do was somehow get through it.

  Ashley had turned to go to her desk, but she came back. “By the way, I think there must have been a bad accident or something right in front of our building.”

  “What do you mean?” Treadwell asked, something clutching at his heart.

  “There are a lot of cop cars with their lights flashing blocking off the street.”

  Treadwell got up and went to the window. It was still dark fifty-four stories down, and the flashing lights refle
cted off the buildings across Nassau Street. There were a lot of cop cars, maybe eight or ten. But no ambulances. It wasn’t an accident.

  Treadwell turned around as Dammerman came to his office door, shoving Ashley aside. He didn’t look happy. “Do you see what the hell is going on downstairs?”

  “Yes, but where is Butch?” Treadwell demanded.

  “I can’t raise him. But Duke Lawson was downstairs when he says the cops appeared from all over the place, pulling our security people away from every entry to the building, including the loading dock and the side door down to DCSS.”

  “They can’t do that to us,” Treadwell said. He was on the verge of panic.

  “I don’t know what kind of show Butch is running, but it sure the hell looks to me like a royal clusterfuck!” Dammerman said, then noticed Ashley standing next to him. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “What’s happening?” Ashley said, confused.

  Dammerman shoved her out the door and closed it when she was clear.

  “I’ll call Hank Serling and get him over here right now,” Treadwell said.

  “Not a chance in hell I’m going down for this. It’s on you, you slippery son of a bitch. Every last bit of it.”

  “We’ll see how that turns out, you fat fuck,” Treadwell said, finally getting his back up. “This is Burnham Pike, one of the largest investment banks in the world, and I’m the chief executive officer.”

  “I made you, starting when you had to cheat on that college exam. And I’ve been doing your dirty laundry ever since. But now you’re Mr. High and Mighty, strutting his stuff with the bigwigs. High society hot shit. The toast of the town. The great Casanova who wouldn’t be shit without me and without his wife’s money and position.”

  “Let me remind you of something, Clyde. Abacus was your idea in the first place. You and Butch hired the Russians, and Julia designed the worm with help from her pals in Amsterdam. And you guys told me nothing about it.”

  Ashley, her eyes wide, opened the door.

  “Not now, Ash,” Treadwell said.

  “The front desk just called and said some police officers and FBI agents are on their way up. Betty Ladd and Ms. O’Connell are with them.”

  Dammerman turned without a word, bolted out of the office, and disappeared down the stairs as the elevator opened.

  Several men, some of them in police uniforms, others in plain business suits, a couple of whom Treadwell recognized, emerged and headed down the corridor. Trailing them were Betty Ladd in a stylish suit and trademark pearl earrings, and Julia O’Connell in a wrinkled white blouse and jeans.

  “I’ll take care of this, Ash,” Treadwell said. “Just sit at your desk.”

  She was frightened, but she did as she was told.

  The lead plainclothes, his badge held up, came into Treadwell’s outer office. “Captain Harold Cohen,” he said.

  “I know who you are, Harry. In fact, BP and I personally give generously to the First Precinct’s charity drives every year.”

  The FBI agent held up his credentials. “I’m Richard Mendoza, assistant agent in charge of the New York Division.”

  Treadwell forced a smile, even though he was bleeding inside. “I know you too, Richie. We’ve played golf a couple of times at Burning Tree.”

  Betty Ladd stepped forward. “I don’t need an introduction either, Reid,” she said. “I’m here in my capacity as a regulator of Burnham Pike. And because I want to see you led away in handcuffs, I’ve called the news media, who are waiting downstairs on the street.”

  “Mr. Treadwell, things will go much better for you if you volunteer to stop Abacus before the opening bell,” Mendoza said. “I’ve been given reliable evidence that it could cause irreparable damage to the stock market if it’s implemented.”

  “Never heard of it, Richie.”

  “You’re lying,” Julia shouted.

  “Why on earth would I want to sabotage the market?” Treadwell said. His heart was hammering. “Burnham Pike’s bread and butter is the stock market. So what you’re saying makes no sense.”

  Betty broke in. “For one thing you shorted the S&P in a ten-million-dollar off-market trade in Hong Kong. You knew what was coming. Front-running. I’ve heard that you were using Rupert Leland for your sleazy trades. We had the Hong Kong authorities lean on him, and he gave you up like yesterday’s garbage.”

  “Sounds like a frame-up to me,” Treadwell said. Sweat was forming on his upper lip, something that never happened.

  “The first priority is stopping Abacus,” the FBI agent said.

  “What exactly am I being charged with here?” Treadwell asked, working hard to maintain his composure.

  “How about the murder of Heather Rockingham?” Betty said. “You shot her in a stairwell outside the gala last night.”

  Treadwell held out his hands. “You may have me tested for powder residue, if you’d like. But you’ll find none.”

  “They found a pair of white gloves in the trash,” Betty said. “I was there. You showed up wearing them, but left without.”

  Mendoza tried to interrupt her, but Cohen held him off. “Let her continue.”

  “By all means,” Treadwell said.

  “I gave Heather a recorder, which was keyed to my cell phone and hidden in her clutch,” Betty said. “You thought that you were clever removing the battery in her phone.” She pulled her own phone out and hit play.

  They all heard Treadwell trying to bribe Heather by cutting her in on the deal. Then they talked about Abacus. No trading anywhere for at least a week, maybe longer, he said. Systems would be fried. The financial world would be on its knees. But Burnham Pike would be standing tall, helping society recover.

  And trust me, my dear, it’ll be a gold mine.

  There were sounds of a scuffle, and then a single pistol shot.

  Treadwell was staggered. It was over. Everything he’d ever worked for was done. His life, his position, all because of some little greedy bitch. It wasn’t fair.

  “Julia has agreed to testify that she was a part of the Abacus scheme, but so were you. Right in the middle of it. Plus you gave the order to have Cassy Levin kidnapped and killed.”

  Treadwell stepped back.

  “You’re nothing but scum, Reid,” Betty said.

  Treadwell swiveled on his heel, and before anyone could stop him, got into his office and closed and locked the heavy, shatterproof-glass door.

  Mendoza and Cohen were at the door, pounding.

  Treadwell opened his desk drawer, took out the flash drive, and threw it, sending the thing bouncing off the glass.

  Nothing was fair.

  He pulled out his father’s .45. Maybe it would have been better if he’d used it that day in college.

  Cohen had pulled out his pistol and was aiming it at the door.

  Treadwell locked eyes with Betty, brought the muzzle to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

  114

  This time when Ben was taken to the Midtown South Precinct on West Thirty-fifth, he’d surrendered his clothes down to his underwear and gotten dressed in an orange jumpsuit before being locked in a windowless isolation cell.

  The last time he’d managed to get a look at a clock it was five-thirty, and lying awake now on a cot, he had to figure it was at least eight or eight-thirty.

  Cassy had told them that once she got to her workstation in DCSS with Chip’s laptop, it would take her at least ten minutes to download the antidote program into BP’s system, and another ten or maybe twenty for it to find the worm and neutralize it.

  It meant that they would have to get there no later than nine to beat the opening bell at nine-thirty. They were running out of time.

  A key grated in the lock, and Ben jumped up as the door opened.

  A uniformed cop with a ring of keys in one hand and a mesh bag in the other came in and handed the bag to Ben, then went back out into the corridor.

  Adams, a deep scowl on his face, appeared in the doorway. “Get dress
ed, you son of a bitch. You’ve got company waiting for you, and I don’t have all morning to babysit you.”

  Ben took his dirty khaki slacks, light blue pullover, boat shoes, and wallet out of the bag and quickly got dressed.

  Out of the cell, he followed Adams and the uniform back to the lobby, where Cassy, Chip, and a stern-looking man he didn’t recognize in a business suit, no tie, his eyes bloodshot, were waiting.

  “You are making a lot of people in this town unhappy, Mr. Whalen,” the man said. “Including me.”

  Adams and the uniform disappeared, and another man in civilian clothes showed up. “Sorry to drag you away like this, Mr. Mayor.”

  “You’re Voight, the precinct commander here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t want another call from Washington. This matter is concluded, unless Mr. Whalen shoots somebody, and then it’ll depend on who he shoots.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The mayor turned back to Ben. “Whatever you and your friends have come here to do, get it over with and go home.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ben said. “And thank you.”

  The mayor turned and left.

  “You heard the man,” Voight said. “Get the hell out of my station.”

  The clock on the wall behind the booking desk was at fifteen minutes before nine as Ben, Chip, and Cassy raced outside to where the Chevy SUV was parked.

  * * *

  Workday morning traffic was heavy, and Chip drove as fast as was possible, blasting through red lights whenever he had the chance.

  “Are we going to run into any trouble at BP?” Ben asked.

  “The cops and Bureau people are all over the place, but with any luck, the mess will be cleared up by the time we get there, and we’ll have a free ticket inside, or at least downstairs to where Cassy needs to go,” Chip said.

  “What mess?”

  “There’s a big shake-up. I saw them carting a body out the front door.”

  “Just get me inside before it’s too late,” Cassy said. She was cradling the laptop like it was a sick child as they sped down Ninth.