Flushed with a compassion he had never known before, Paul shoved a bill into the open hand and headed into the cool glass lobby.
18
The Demetrius brothers’ executive offices were located in the pyramid atop the building. The lobby guard told Paul to take the glass jetvator to the thirtieth floor. From there he could switch to another bank of jetvators or, to get the full dramatic impact of the design, walk the rest of the way—
five floors up a glass staircase—to the office of the younger Demetrius brother, Arthur.
The first two floors of the pyramid were filled with back-office operations. Hundreds of clerks and clerical workers hunched over computers and high-speed calculators, ignoring the spectacular views outside their maze of cubicles. No one seemed even to have the time to chat, all were so busy keeping up with the mass fortunes of the brothers Demetrius.
Paul found the next two floors equally fascinating, but for a different reason. Here fewer people just as obsessively filled vast offices and sat before banks of flat screens, trading slavishly with brokers all over the world. Word was that the place never shut down. Three shifts worked around the clock to keep up with all the international markets.
The fifth story of the pyramid boasted an extravagant reception area that divided the floor in half. Marveling at its marble and gold and silver and mahogany, Paul couldn’t imagine a more opulent piece of realty anywhere in the world. Discreet signs pointed to the right for the offices of Ephesus Demetrius, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer, and to the left for Arthur Demetrius, President and Chief Operating Officer.
The sixth and top floor, Paul knew, comprised the utilities for the entire structure.
In the bowels of the place, beneath the street level, sat one of the largest vaults in the USSA. Supposedly it was jammed with more precious metals than any repository outside Fort Knox.
The receptionist confirmed Paul had an appointment with Demetrius the younger. He was asked to wait in the reception area, where his attention was drawn to pristine first editions of rare books displayed in elegantly carved wooden bookcases. As Koontz had suggested, a number of the titles had to do with divination—finance-oriented interpretations of the I Ching and the tarot, as well as Western, Asian, and Indian astrology, among other systems. Before he was able to examine the books, an assistant escorted Paul to the Arthur Demetrius side of the floor.
“Both wings of this level are identical,” the assistant purred. “The brothers enjoy equal space and facilities.”
They passed several offices and conference and meeting rooms until Paul found himself in yet another reception area, this one apparently the last buffer between Arthur Demetrius’s office and the real world. The assistant handed Paul off to the personal secretary, who ushered him into Arthur’s private office.
Paul tried to keep from gawking. This office alone was as big as the first floor of his home. It was not only professionally decorated, but it was also landscaped. Trees. Bushes. Flowers. Tables, chairs, a sofa, two fireplaces, bookcases, credenzas, pillars. The half-moon, granite-and-smoked-glass desk was centered between a bank of windows that looked out over Battery Park and the Hudson River for as far as one cared to see.
An enormous telescope added even more potential. On bright sunny days like this one, Paul was certain he would have been unable to concentrate on his work.
The floor on either side of the desk was not marble but Plexiglas, and one could watch the traders at work below. How much of Arthur Demetrius’s day was spent keeping tabs on his most important mercenaries?
The secretary pointed to a luxurious leather chair that sat in a grouping about ten feet in front of the desk. Paul sat, briefcase in his lap. Then he put the case next to his feet and crossed his legs. That seemed too casual too, and he knew he should stand when Demetrius entered. But where would he come from? Behind? From the side, which Paul guessed led to private quarters?
Paul reminded himself that he was in charge here. He was the one with the agenda, the warrants, the questions. This place may have been intended to intimidate the competition, but it should have no effect on him.
At least the marble floor would make it impossible for the man to sneak up on him.
Fortunately, Arthur Demetrius entered from his private quarters where Paul could see him coming. His soft leather shoes made hardly a sound.
He was tall and lithe, bronzed, and wearing an exquisite black pin-striped suit, white shirt, and gleaming white tie with a silver stickpin. His watch and a ring on each hand were also silver. His hair was black, short, and curly; his eyes dark; and his teeth perfect.
“Dr. Stepola,” he said as Paul rose, “do I need a lawyer?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. We should be able to cover what I need without acrimony.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I just have a few questions, sir. Our reports show that you and your brother, on behalf of the firm, had a particularly active silver-buying period last month. This abruptly ceased, causing much speculation in the marketplace. Rumors of an attempt to corner the market, that sort of thing.”
“You get right to the point,” Demetrius said, clearing his throat. “First, we have a long history in the precious-metals market, and we have broken no laws. I would hesitate to discuss our strategy and don’t believe I am obligated to.”
“I assure you,” Paul said, “finance is not my area. I don’t work for the Securities and Exchange Commission. My role for the National Peace Organization has more to do with investigating claims of the supernatural.”
Demetrius did not blink, his face impenetrable as stone. “I am a capitalist, sir, and I make no apologies for that. My brother and I would never have to work another day in our lives, but we love the chase, the challenge. But we also know and understand the law, so no, we are not trying to corner the silver market. As for the supernatural, you’ll have to explain where that comes into play, and while you’re at it, who believes in it.”
Sifting through his file, Paul thought about the divination books.
Funny that trying to read the future didn’t count as believing in the supernatural, according to Arthur Demetrius. Paul assumed all the Wall Street firms had similar books in their arsenals of business tools.
“Let’s start by talking about the vault. Is it true that two of your uniformed guards, the last to visit your vault, were discovered in an elevator in a state of shock?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Mr. Demetrius, what would they have seen in that vault?”
“Our vault contains precious metals, of course, and cash, securities, original bonds, that type of thing.”
“Is it true these guards are under the care of mental-health professionals and have not returned to work?”
“I told you, I don’t know what you are talking about.”
For the first time, Paul noticed something in the man’s eyes. “All due respect, sir, but the story of the guards has swept your company, fueling speculation that something supernatural has occurred.”
“Nonsense.”
“Are you aware that the alternative explanation, which a significant portion of your workforce believes, is that your brother absconded with the contents of the vault, and that is why no one has seen him for days?”
“Ridiculous. Why would he steal from himself?”
“And that the guards saw an empty vault and collapsed out of fear of being blamed, since it was full the last time they opened it?”
“You’re wholly mistaken.”
“Where is your brother?”
“Abroad. We take turns traveling a great deal.”
“Where?”
“We go many different—”
“Where is he now, as we speak?”
“His people could give you that information.”
“Has the vault been opened since the incident with the guards?”
“I deny any knowledge of the incident, but no, to my knowledge the vault h
as not been opened for several days.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not unusual for it to be used infrequently.”
“Then it’s not true that no one, including you, has dared go near the vault since the guards saw whatever it was they saw?”
“That is correct. It is not true.”
Paul shuffled papers in his file for effect. A faint hysteria was starting to color Arthur’s responses. “Well, it says here that the mystery of the vault and your brother’s disappearance, on the heels of an alleged curse, caused your local NPO bureau to invite me here from Chicago.”
Arthur stood. “Come, Doctor, let me show you something.”
“But I have more questions—”
“I will answer everything, but please, come.”
Paul followed the man to one end of the drapes to the left of his desk.
“The only door that opens to the outside,” Arthur said. He pressed a button and the glass turned, allowing access to a small balcony enclosed in a wrought-iron fence with spearlike posts.
It was windier than at street level, and Demetrius’s hair fluttered. The sun glared off the black windows. Paul had to stand close to Arthur to hear him, and Demetrius seemed to want to confide in him.
“Listen,” he said, “you must know that this is not the first time I have been asked these questions. The local NPO office has been through all this, and there is an explanation.”
“Well, sir, this is now under my jurisdiction, and I need to hear it.”
“It all stems from an act of vengeance on the part of a disgruntled employee. Maybe more than one. Anytime you have a business so openly successful with people at the highest levels enjoying the spoils, there will be resentment and jealousy. You understand.”
“Vengeance? You mean the curse?”
“There is a religious faction here,” Demetrius said, sighing, “clearly violating the law. Maybe because we’re a big company in a big city, they are bolder than they might be elsewhere. One woman did make serious threatening remarks to Ephesus. She was out-and-out trying to persuade others to believe the way she does until Ephesus finally fired her.”
“Sir, proselytizing is a crime. Why was this not reported to the authorities?”
Demetrius shrugged. “Our business depends on quick response. We didn’t need the police or a government agency nosing around, slowing us.
It seemed easiest to simply be done with her.”
“Nosing around? Are you hiding something? Where can I find this woman?”
“I have no idea. I have been asked and asked about the whereabouts of both the woman and my brother. My employees have been quizzed at length about these two allegedly freaked-out guards. The investigation has turned up nothing and has resulted only in the interruption of our business.”
“Might your brother have harmed the woman to keep her from turning him in?”
“No! Dr. Stepola, the reports that brought you here are nothing but rumors. Wall Street is full of them, and fortunes are made and lost based on them. The lies of the religious faction are a result of one of their own being fired. They are trying to undermine us.”
Paul glanced down the angled wall to the roof of the supporting skyscraper, which extended a little more than four feet beyond the bottom of the pyramid. “I don’t want to see you undermined, sir. Firms like yours, acting within the law, keep this country going.”
Back inside, Paul pulled an envelope from his briefcase and put it in his inside breast pocket. “Is it not true that it was common for you, before the recent incidents, to be in and out of the vault daily?”
Demetrius pursed his lips. “I never kept track. The vault is on a timer and can be opened only at 8:00 A.M. or 8:00 P.M. I have had no business in there recently.”
Paul looked at his watch. It was past five. He pulled the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Arthur. “I have here a warrant to search the vault. I will return by eight o’clock this evening, and I will require your presence to open the vault.”
Demetrius studied the document, and Paul thought he heard the man’s rate of respiration increase. “Of course, I will comply,” Arthur said, standing, and again, Paul heard something in his voice. The pitch, the timbre—something was different. What he had detected, Paul decided, was stark terror.
“I assume you won’t mind if I look around on my way out? I’d like to get a sense of your operation.”
“We have nothing to hide. In a few minutes the two-to-ten shift breaks before the Tokyo markets open.”
* * *
Paul moseyed around the trading floor a few minutes, then moved one floor lower to an almost identical operation. Many traders were finishing conversations and transactions. He headed toward an exit but was overtaken by an unusual odor.
Peanut butter.
Paul followed the aroma to a tiny tree in a glass cubicle, where a thin, dark-haired woman he guessed to be about his own age was arranging her things and packing her purse. Paul fell into step with her and others as they headed for the jetvator.
At ground level Paul followed the woman into the crowded streets. But then she was gone, caught in the rush-hour swirl. He scanned the crowd frantically, shouldering his way deeper into the throng hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but to no avail. Just my luck—she’s probably day shift, heading home. She could be blocks away on the bullet train by now.
Someone plucked his sleeve. He tried to jerk away, but the tug was insistent. He turned and found the same street person he had given money to clutching at his coat, pointing past him with a filthy hand. There she is!
“Thanks,” Paul said, darting after his quarry . How did he know?
Slowing, he pulled alongside her, apparently without engendering suspicion, but said nothing until they had passed the Stock Exchange. The old Georgian building with its marble columns now sported a mammoth mobile of the spinning planets. Behind it, a zodiacal chart loomed.
“Hey, excuse me,” he said. “You work in the district here?”
Without slowing, she gave him a New York look. “Maybe. Why?”
“I understand the blinking sign on the Exchange there, with the stock prices and all. But what’s the zodiac thing? Looks like it shows the relative positions of the planets every few seconds.”
She slowed. “That’s for superstitious investors. Gives them an instant read on their fortunes.”
“Kinda silly, isn’t it?”
“I think so.”
This is the moment of truth. Will she talk to me? “Name’s Paul,” he said, reaching for her hand with an ailanthus leaf in his.
She cautiously gripped his hand and her eyes grew wide. She peeked at the leaf and froze, then continued walking.
Paul hurried to catch up with her. “I’d like a minute,” he said.
“Across the street and left, there’s a deli.”
A few minutes later they sat across from each other in a booth. Paul introduced himself more formally.
“Call me Phyllis,” the woman said.
“I’ve just come from your office, where I was interviewing Arthur Demetrius.”
“I thought so.” She looked at him suspiciously.
What should I say? “Officially I am here as an NPO agent, investigating the possibility of a supernatural occurrence.”
She laughed. “And what would the NPO do if there had been a supernatural occurrence?”
“Probably the same thing they did in Washington, Gulfland, and San Francisco.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why should I talk to you?”
He pulled out a handful of leaves from his pocket. “Because of these. I know what they signify: ‘Blessed are those who do His commandments, that they may have the right to the tree of life, and may enter through the gates into the city.’”
She said nothing.
“‘To him who overcomes I will give to eat from the tree of life, which is in the midst of the Paradise of God.’”
She appeared to relax. “You seem to kn
ow what you’re talking about.
What do you want with me?’”
“Well, first, why would a believer work for Demetrius?”
“I’m trained in finance,” she said. “It’s no worse than anywhere else.
All the financiers worship money. Plus, I’m not alone. There are almost thirty of us believers there. We’re nothing compared to the total, but we’ve made progress. Things are a little more open here than in the rest of the country, and we’re careful. People get to know we’re believers, and they want to know about things like the oil well fires in Texas and the cherry blossoms. They want to know what these things mean. We believe they signal the beginning of the end, and we say so.”
“Risky.”
“That’s our lives. Yours too if you’re working for Uncle Sam.”
Paul shrugged. “Can’t argue with that.”
They sat in silence for a moment. “Tell me, Phyllis,” Paul said finally,
“what do you think is going on at your firm?”
“I think it’s God.”
“What do you mean? I should tell you, I’m new at this.”
“At the NPO?”
“At being a believer. What did God do?”
“Well, Ephesus was a greedy man. Arrogant. He ridiculed Dolores and challenged God. He thought he was above the law and beyond God’s reach.”
“Dolores? The missing one? Did you know her?”
“Not well. She was one of the new ones hired to buy up silver. She didn’t like what Ephesus wanted her to do.”
“Did he hurt her?”
“I don’t know. I pray she ran away when word of this ‘curse’ got out, so she wouldn’t be arrested as a Christian. If he did something to her, we’d never find out. He’s rich enough to cover it forever.”
“What about the guards? That story true?”
She nodded. “I knew them both. And I haven’t seen them since.”
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