“I’ll get right back.”
Brent quickly scanned the cash balances in the accounts he’d been assigned, checked his buy list against current positions, and then called the trading desk. He invested fifty million dollars before the Commerce Department announced the much stronger than expected employment number, and then he sat back and watched the market soar nearly two hundred points.
FIVE
NEW YORK, JUNE 14
THE FOLLOWING WEEK THE MARKET rally seemed to be holding and even extending, and the firm buzzed with the kind of confidence people show when they know they’ve got things figured out. A few minutes before eight on Tuesday night, Owen Smythe breezed into Brent’s office with a bulging accordion file. “Fred asked me to bring this,” he said.
Brent raised his eyebrows at the phonebook-size thickness. “Another account?”
Smythe winked as he dropped the file on Brent’s desk. “Don’t screw it up.”
Smythe turned to leave, but Brent flicked on his tape recorder and said, “I have a question.”
Smythe was almost out the door, but he stopped. “About?” he asked.
“The unemployment number.”
Smythe studied Brent a few seconds.
“It seems like somebody’s got a crystal ball.”
Smythe raised his eyebrows. “I assume you belong to the same church as all these other guys. Maybe you ought to ask one of them.”
“I’m a new member.”
“Yeah, right.” Smythe closed Brent’s door and leaned against it. “Just between us girls, I think you’re full of shit.”
Brent sat perfectly still, but his pulse began to kick. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m probably the only guy in this firm who’s not a member of the New Jerusalem Fellowship, but they keep me around because I’m smart. I don’t know how the hell Biddle and Wofford get their information, whether it’s God or something else—but I don’t stick my nose in it.”
“You’re telling me this for a reason.”
Smythe nodded. “I checked you out with a couple buddies in Boston, and I know what you did at your old firm. Wofford and Biddle certainly ought to know if they did their homework, but they don’t seem to give a crap. I don’t know why you’re really here, but whatever’s going on, you stay out of my backyard, cause I’m clean.” He nodded once then turned and walked out.
Brent waited a few seconds then picked up his cell phone and called Simmons in Boston. Without preamble he reported the conversation.
“What do you want to do about it?” she asked.
“Nothing. He’s not one of the insiders. Now that he’s said his piece and covered his ass, I think he’ll keep quiet. Still, the fact that he came in and said something suggests that we’re on the right track.”
Simmons was quiet for another few seconds. Finally, she said, “Just keep that cell phone with you.”
Brent hung up then sat for a few seconds trying to shake off the feeling that Simmons wasn’t telling him the whole story. Did she really believe these guys might come after him? He thought about Wofford—a fat, lumbering guy. Biddle was too much like a professor, and Smythe was just trying to keep himself out of it. Very unlikely, he decided.
He reached for the folder Smythe had brought and read the name on the cover, Dr. Khaled Faisal. His eyes widened in recognition. Dr. Faisal was an Egyptian billionaire, famous for having spent millions in efforts to promote peace in the Mideast.
Brent opened the file and let out a low whistle. His other accounts were between five and fifteen million—average-sized for the firm—but this one was huge. Suspecting a mistake, he pulled it up on the computer and saw that, indeed, it was one of the largest accounts in the entire firm, some seven hundred fifty million dollars. His name appeared beside it as the manager of record.
The correspondence folder accounted for much of the file’s thickness. In testimony to Faisal’s philanthropy, there were perhaps a hundred letters directing the firm to send money to various universities, hospitals, and health care organizations. Brent shook his head as he read. It didn’t make sense to assign such an enormous account to a “new guy.”
He sat back and checked his watch. It was getting late. Deciding not to waste time on an account somebody would undoubtedly take away first thing tomorrow, he tossed some research into his briefcase and walked into the hall. A light glimmered under Owen Smythe’s door, and on a whim he knocked and stuck his head inside.
Fred Wofford was leaning on one of the visitor’s chairs talking with Smythe. “Sorry,” Brent said, as both men looked in his direction.
“No problem,” Wofford said as he turned and moved toward the door, almost rushing. “We were just killing time.” He pulled Brent inside and went out. “You fellows chat or go out for a beer,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you.”
Brent listened as Wofford’s heavy footsteps faded down the hall then he turned and studied Smythe.
“Don’t worry,” Smythe said after several seconds. “We weren’t talking about you.”
Brent looked down at his hands a moment then looked up. “You know, being a whistle-blower one place doesn’t mean you make it a habit.”
“Whatever you say. Just as long as you know where I’m coming from.”
“It sounds like you think there’s something going on.”
“I don’t see, I don’t know, I don’t ask. We straight on that?”
“Tell me something, how is it that I’m being given Dr. Faisal’s account?”
“You joined the right church,” Smythe said with a cynical smirk. “Biddle wanted you to have it.”
“I thought it had to be a mistake.”
“Nope.”
Brent nodded, started to leave, then change his mind. “Feel like grabbing a beer?”
“You serious?”
Brent smiled.
Smythe gave a self-deprecating laugh. “My bark’s worse than my bite.” He glanced at his watch. “Give me a rain check. I told my wife I was leaving thirty minutes ago.”
Brent waited while Smythe swept some papers into his briefcase then they went downstairs and outside into a cool evening drizzle and air that smelled of humidity and car exhaust. Overhead, low clouds cut off the top floors of taller buildings and made the evening unnaturally dark. Three or four streetlights were burned out along Fifth Avenue, leaving the sidewalk deeply shadowed. Smythe stepped toward the corner to flag a taxi on Fifth, so Brent said goodnight and started walking east.
He had gone about fifty yards when he heard an alarmed shout and looked back to see two men in hooded sweatshirts standing beside Smythe, who was bent over as if he’d just been slugged.
Brent started toward them, breaking quickly into a sprint, running on his toes to cut the noise. The nearest mugger sensed motion and looked around, his eyes registering surprise and shock, but too late. Brent’s shoulder slammed the guy’s chest just below the armpit, lifting him off his feet and into the crosswalk light. The guy bounced off the post and collapsed, while Brent kept moving, spinning leftward around Smythe, letting his heavy briefcase swing wide and catching the second mugger in the hip. The man grunted and splayed on the sidewalk. He came back up in a low crouch, holding his side, and Brent saw the glint of bare steel.
He dropped his briefcase, deciding it was too unwieldy against the knife. The first mugger was still on his hands and knees, stunned but trying to stand. Before he could, Brent grabbed him by his pants and the neck of his sweatshirt, jerked him off the ground, and hurled him into his partner. Both muggers went down in a tangle. Brent rushed over, pinned the second man’s wrist with one foot, and stomped on his hand with the other until he heard bones crack.
He kicked the loose knife into the gutter as sirens sounded in the distance. When he looked around he spotted Smythe with his cell phone to his ear.
“I already called 911,” Smythe said breathlessly.
Brent glanced back at the two men, both getting to their feet, one cradling his wrist. Heedless o
f horns and screeching brakes, they scuttled across Fifth Avenue and disappeared over the park wall.
“Come on,” Brent said as he bent over and picked up his briefcase. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We have to wait for the police,” Smythe said.
“You’ll be looking at mug shots all night. Your wife will be pissed.”
Smythe gave him an amazed look. “You’re a damn Kamikaze!” Still, he started walking. Halfway down the block he turned. “You do stuff like that all the time?”
Brent winked. “Every chance I get.”
“I owe you,” Smythe said. He shook his head as he continued to look at Brent. “Thanks.”
• • •
On the second floor of the Genesis Advisors building, Fred Wofford stood in the window of his darkened office. He had witnessed the entire confrontation—in fact he had arranged it. Even though he hadn’t intended for Smythe to be involved, it had worked even better. He nodded to himself. The kid with the injured arm would have a fat wad of cash to compensate him for his discomfort, but more important Wofford had seen what he needed about how Brent Lucas would respond.
SIX
NEW YORK, JUNE 14
A HALF HOUR LATER, BRENT perched atop an unpacked moving box as he sipped a cold beer and gazed out his apartment window at the shrouding yellow mist. One hand was bruised and his shoulder ached, yet he felt pleased. He’d reacted purely on instinct, just like a Lucas, like his father or Harry or his Uncle Fred, having no thought for self-preservation.
The building across the street had large picture windows, and there was a dinner party underway. In other apartments couples watched television; a man read to his daughter on a couch. He watched them, thinking that these were normal people, not those who would risk everything on a random confrontation. He sipped his beer, thought about how unlike them he was, and his mood darkened.
He’d been brought up to think he was different from the others in his family. He was smart—in school they’d called him “gifted.” At Yale, as an All-Ivy football star, he’d been swept into a different world. Courted by wealthy alums, he’d gone on to become an analyst with a prestigious investment bank. Two years later he’d entered business school then joined a fund manager in Boston. His rise had been meteoric and had shown no signs of slowing until the ugly truth of an ugly business began to chip away at the fairytale facade.
The greed of his co-workers had been a slap in the face and brought the values of his family rushing back. He’d blown the whistle without a thought of what it would do to his career. Now here he was at GA, still making great money but an outsider and a short-termer. Where was he headed from here, he wondered?
He took a sip of beer and shook his head because his career was only part of the problem. The bigger piece was Maggie. He closed his eyes and pictured her. Lush black hair, worn short but always sexy. Serious face that could thaw in a heartbeat into a teasing smile. Dark eyes full of cool intelligence one minute and fiery passion the next. Maggie defied labels, a wild combination of lush and sparse, serious and funny, sensual and tough. Her contrasts worked perfectly for him.
He’d never opened up to people easily, but with her—especially after Harry’s death—it had been different. Even though they hadn’t spoken in months, he imagined her walking through the door right now. Lithe and athletic, her movements quick and sure. Even in her absence she remained a part of him, like the enduring sensation of an amputated limb.
He took out his cell phone, dialed her number, but then hesitated. What would he say—confess to being lonely and confused? They’d broken up because she had wanted a bigger commitment, one that he still wasn’t ready to make.
For him, two other things had always come before marriage, namely his debts to Fred and Harry. His older brother had dragged him from the fire that destroyed their house and killed their mother, then protected and guided him for years afterward. Fred had taken in the two orphans and become the family they had lost.
For Christmas 1999, Brent had given Harry a brand new twenty-eight foot Mako because his brother loved saltwater fishing. Borrowing a hundred thousand dollars on top of tens of thousands of dollars in education debt was something most people would never understand, but Brent knew Harry could never afford that boat on a fireman’s salary. In hindsight, it was the best decision he’d ever made. He and Harry had spent irreplaceable weekends fishing during the summer of 2000.
In Fred’s case, Brent planned to buy him a small house in Florida. It was something Fred might have afforded on his own, only not after the expense of raising his two nephews. Brent’s salary from GA would soon make the house a reality. Then, if the job even lasted that long, a few more months of scrimping and he’d finally be free of tuition debt and able to start thinking about other things.
In the building opposite, couples were still laughing, talking, and sitting together in contented silence. The sight added to his hunger for the sound of Maggie’s voice; however, instead of pushing the send button, he closed his phone.
His regret was a cold stone in his chest. He’d never fully explained his reasons to her but held them inside the way he did so many things. Now he was paying the price.
SEVEN
PARIS, JUNE 14
AS HIS LIMO PULLED UP in front of the Hôtel de Crillon, Abu Sayeed glanced out the rain-spattered windows and thought yet again how much he detested Europe. He hated the gray skies, the springtime of constant spitting rain, and the wet cold that went straight into his bones. He took his briefcase and dashed up the steps, and as he came through the front doors, his hatred bloomed to embrace all things European, from the lobby’s rococo gold leaf décor to the cigarette smoke, the ever-present wine and alcohol, even the self-satisfied smirk and chatter of the people.
Europe made him yearn for silence, for the burn of the Saudi Arabian desert air in his nostrils, for sunbaked sand and the endless emptiness south of Riyadh. Unlike this northern hell, with its babble of godless infidels and honking horns, he craved his homeland, where the aridity and bone-scorching heat reduced man to his essence.
Out of the corner of one eye he could see his young lieutenant, Naif Abdulaziz, dressed in a dark pinstriped suit, reading the Financial Times in a chair where he could observe the entire lobby. Naif’s hair had been styled in dreadlocks, which made him look less Muslim and more secular, like some young African businessman. His left leg was crossed over his right, the all-clear signal, so Abu Sayeed continued through the lobby to the library bar where he would meet the American.
He sat at a small table at the rear of the otherwise empty room and ordered tea. He was several minutes early, and in the brief moments before his meeting he reflected on his belief that Islam and the desert embodied the same truth. The extreme rigor of Wahaddi Islam seared impurities from a man’s soul, and the desert did the same to a man’s flesh. Westerners regarded both the land and the religion as inhumanly harsh, yet for Abu Sayeed truth and beauty could be accurately perceived only in utter extremes, either morally or in the physical contrast of life and death.
“Lost in thought?” a voice asked.
Abu Sayeed looked up from his tea, and from years of practice his mind instantly changed gears. He searched the American’s eyes for any hints of danger or betrayal. He sensed extreme nervousness, but no immediate threat. The man was clearly anxious at the risk he was taking, and he probably considered Abu Sayeed a lethal and unpredictable Arab extremist. So much the better.
“I was reflecting on the irony of your offer,” Abu Sayeed countered in his flawless Oxford-accented English. He suffered a small flush of shame that he’d been caught yearning for his homeland. In the present circumstance all considerations other than the Greatness of Allah were sinful, all personal desires inconsequential. He smiled and waved at an empty chair.
The man threw an edgy glance at his two bodyguards who had positioned themselves in the entrance to the otherwise empty room, then sat. He tapped his toe against the table leg. “I see no iro
ny,” he said after a moment. “We simply believe in different versions of truth.”
Abu Sayeed smoothed an invisible wrinkle from his suit. He yearned for the freedom of an abaya and thobe, but traditional Saudi garb brought unwelcome attention in the West. He was thirty-four years old, a little under six feet with a lean face and piercing eyes that people often likened to a falcon’s. The eldest son of one of the richest men in Saudi Arabia, he traveled the globe managing his family’s vast business interests.
The Western media fussed over his “movie star” looks, a preoccupation he despised, but he valued the accolades of its financial press regarding his brilliance. He wondered what they would say if they discovered that he also directed the terrorist group known as the Wahaddi Brotherhood.
“Clearly one of us must be misguided,” he said at last. He needed what this infidel had to offer. With this man’s help he would carve a wound in the American Devil that mujahideen would sing about for centuries, yet he must not appear too eager.
The American leaned forward, again betraying his intensity. “One of us is.” He was a few years older than Abu Sayeed, perhaps midforties, also with a reputation for financial wizardry. He had the high forehead of an intellectual and the leanness of an athlete, but the odd spark in his blue eyes betrayed his barely controlled fervor.
“A belief in infallibility is a powerful weapon,” Abu Sayeed agreed. “I have the same conviction about the eventual success of my jihad.” He glanced at his companion’s uncalloused hands, on the surface as soft as any westerner’s. It was the wild passion that glowed just beneath the surface that made him formidable.
The bodyguards—one red haired with freckles, the other big and square jawed, both with the rough-cut look of country policemen—had the same hot flush, too. All three of these men had the ardor of suicide bombers. Such emotion could make people resolute but at the same time unpredictable.
Armageddon Conspiracy Page 3