by Frank Stein
I had spent the past few days meditating on my imminent emancipation. After initially revolting against the idea of stopping, I soon realized I’d be ready to quit after this last assignment. Although at some level I felt like I was at the beginning of a long and happy career as a killer, at another level I knew that Mo was no small reason why I was doing this. And if she wasn’t going to be with me, I didn’t really want to do it.
I couldn’t begin to explain why I felt this way. It wasn’t something as simple as saying I was in love with her. Well, maybe that was part of it, but if so, certainly not a conventional romantic kind of love where I imagined us cuddling together or raising babies. Neither did I fantasize about having mad, passionate sex with Mo. That was Simone, and that wasn’t the kind of love I had for Mo.
No. This was something different. An overarching love that seemed to connect us at a level beyond that of the world around us. Like we had fought together and loved each other over many lifetimes and in many different times and places. Not that I was a believer in reincarnation or anything like that—I wasn’t, and I’m not. But it’s the only way I can describe it in terms that even begin to ring true.
I felt like a lovesick puppy as I walked towards the taxi line outside LaGuardia Airport late Thursday night. Mo had taken an earlier flight, and so I had been left alone with my pathetic self-pity and overly dramatic analysis. I lit a cigarette, and as the hot smoke fired up my nicotine receptors, I reminded myself that I wasn’t a goddamn puppy.
I nodded and smiled and stared at the clueless people around me. I could feel confidence and power well up like a fluid filling my inner being. No, I wasn’t a puppy at all. I was a big dog, and I was a killer.
And big dogs bite. And killers kill.
SIXTY-TWO
The Ritz was surprisingly understated for a hotel whose name had morphed into a common noun. Understated, but still elegant. The C&C Hedge Fund Symposium was to be held in the main ballroom, which had been carved up into a large common area surrounded by private sections for breakout sessions. Each of the three days was to begin with a keynote speech in the main space, followed by several smaller workshops or lectures in the walled-off areas. The final day would end with Mo’s keynote speech.
Naturally, Mo wanted the symposium to go well, and so we’d only move on the final day. The plan was simple enough, and somewhat reminiscent of my suggestion for killing the fourteen Walker-Midland employees. Mo would schedule private meetings with each of the three funds to discuss “innovative marketing techniques designed to reach untapped segments of the institutional investor universe.” It sounded good, and would be ideal for our three funds. After all, the word “innovative,” when used in the world of finance marketing, simply meant “deceptive and misleading but perfectly legal.”
Mo had asked one of the other consultants to reserve a suite on one of the high floors. Her only requirement was that it have a door to the separate bedroom and a view of the water. We’d use the bedroom as our makeshift morgue, and I figured the view was so that no one from the neighboring buildings could see inside.
This room was by no means a secret. Mo had informed her colleagues that it was available all weekend for private meetings as well as for a quick nap or shower for the C&C folks, many of whom would be working late into the night to prepare for the next day’s sessions. We'd make sure to place the “No Maid Service” sign on the doorknob at the end of the second day. Mo wanted the room to be covered with random fingerprints and DNA by the time Sunday afternoon rolled around. She also made sure that neither of us spent any time in there before Sunday. That wasn’t a problem, because we had our work cut out over the next couple of days.
Our immediate task was to figure out who was who at each of our target firms. There was a chance that one or more of the funds had brought a young analyst with them, perhaps someone who didn’t know exactly how those commissions were being made. If that were the case, we’d have to figure out a way to keep those individuals out of the Sunday meetings.
Of course, we had a list of attendees, but it didn’t tell us much more than how many people were attending, what their names were, and which funds they worked for. No titles or biographies were available, and my internet searches didn’t come up with anything useful about their backgrounds. To top it off, hedge fund folks are secretive by nature as well as necessity, and many of the symposium attendees weren’t wearing their nametags, so we had to do some mingling before we could even match the names to the faces.
Luckily, mingling is something consultants learn early in their careers. From analyst-training bootcamps to the various networking events organized by C&C for its consultants to meet colleagues from other branch offices, mingling was encouraged and expected. Alcohol was always present, but the best consultants quickly learned how to minimize their own consumption while maximizing someone else’s. This asymmetry in drunkenness usually resulted in an information advantage, since the other party was happy to talk. I also found that talking to someone who was plastered had the benefit of making my own limited comments seem extraordinarily witty and engaging.
I grabbed the final list of attendees and looked up my targets’ names. One person had cancelled, so I needed to track down a total of eleven people—three from Charter Capital, two from MacroResearch, and six from the NationFirst Fund. The size of the NationFirst contingent scared me. Mo wanted to schedule them last, anticipating that it would be the messiest. I had disagreed with her. I figured we’d need to be at full strength if we hoped to kill six people, so I thought it’d be best if we did that first. Descending order of difficulty, is what I told Mo. Of course, Mo didn’t budge, and so I gave up and focused on my snappy cocktail party conversation.
The NationFirst contingent was easy to spot. One of them had a nametag, and he was standing with five others who I could tell weren’t C&C folks. And since this was the first evening of the symposium, most of the attendees were sticking to their cliques. My nametag identified me as part of the C&C organizing committee, and I was about to go up to them when Mo stopped me.
“No, let me,” she said. “I don’t want too many people seeing you chatting up the future murder victims. Just mingle around and locate the other five and point them out to me when I’m done with these guys.”
She didn’t wait for my response, but walked up to the NationFirst group. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I knew she was dishing out her best charm, and that would be enough to put anyone at ease. I turned away and continued my covert scoping mission.
After several false alarms and polite conversations, I got a hit. MacroResearch’s Jake Jessup and Paul Chin were sitting at a table with one of my C&C colleagues. All three of them had beers in hand, and they seemed to be having an actual conversation. I nodded at my colleague, and waited for a break in the dialogue to get myself involved.
I stayed long enough to figure out that MacroResearch was a small shop, and Jake and Paul were the co-managers. This meant they would both know exactly what they invested in. I asked a few casual questions, which they evaded, and so I backed off and slumped down in my chair and simply observed.
Jake was mid-forties, with thick black hair that could have benefited from some combing. His accent was odd, and I wondered if he was the guy I had spoken to in my failed attempt to extract information over the phone. The more I listened, the surer I became, and I was glad I had remained quiet. If he recognized my voice, it might have put him on guard.
Paul was younger, with cropped hair and something that resembled a soul patch under his lip. Only after getting a closer look did I realize it was a heavy scar from an old injury. Although I was becoming quite good at inflicting creative damage to the human body, I couldn’t figure out the scar’s origin.
Jake and Paul had met at business school in London, and had dropped out to start MacroResearch. After two years in Europe, they had moved to New York, apparently to be closer to a broader pool of potential investors. The way they talked, I could tell they
were the kind of people that liked to make money for its own sake. Money was how they kept score. As the conversation began to get edgier, graphic details of how they spent their money began to emerge, and I made an excuse and took my leave. Mo hadn’t wanted me to spend too much time with these guys just yet, and I had enough information to know that if MacroResearch was indeed packaging and reselling the securities of rogue nations and unrecognized self-proclaimed sovereigns, Jake and Paul were the ones responsible.
I stepped out onto the terrace for a smoke and watched the room through the glass French doors. Mo seemed to be in top form, and the NationFirst crew were nodding and smiling at her. Whatever she was selling, they were buying. It wasn’t for nothing that Mo was a top partner in the New York office of a global consulting firm. I smiled to myself, and then got back to work examining the six members of the NationFirst delegation.
There were four men and two women. All the men wore suits—three in black, one in gray. Good, no individualists here—unless you count the one dude who broke from the pack and went with gray. Two of the men were early thirties and white and, by their mannerisms, almost certainly American. The guy in the gray was maybe fifty, also white, but more Mediterranean, and I couldn’t help thinking he was French. The last guy was clearly younger, maybe mid-twenties, and looked like he was from the Indian subcontinent.
The French guy was paying attention to Mo’s pitch, but I could tell he was also evaluating her, like he was trying to figure out how much of what she was saying was bullshit consulting sales stuff and how much was actually something that could benefit his fund.
The two American men were completely enthralled by Mo’s spiel. My guess was that they were the day-to-day traders and managers with a stake in the firm, while the French guy was the founder. No doubt all three of them were well aware of their fund’s investment strategy.
The Indian-looking guy I wasn’t so sure about. He appeared self-conscious, and I could tell he wasn’t particularly interested in Mo’s talk, but was trying hard to make sure he looked earnest and professional in front of his colleagues and boss. Yeah, this guy was a low-level analyst. They probably used him as an analytical gofer—someone to whom they’d assign bits and pieces of research. I doubted that he had a full view of the actual investments. We’d have to keep him out of the room.
Now my attention shifted to the two women. One was maybe late twenties-early thirties, and she wore a dark green pant-suit that didn’t fit so well. Perhaps she had lost some weight recently and hadn’t bothered to downsize her wardrobe. It couldn’t have been an illness, because she looked alert, clear-eyed, and fit. Maybe she just didn’t wear suits much and hadn’t for a while, so didn’t realize this one’d be too big. Based on her age and her mild interest in what Mo was saying, I guessed she was somewhere between analyst and manager, but probably not a partner. Maybe she handled sales or dealt with clients along with her French boss. Either way, no way of telling how much she knew. Mo would have to make the call.
The second woman was older, maybe mid-forties. She was heavy, and her white blouse and matching long skirt made her look heavier. As I looked at her, I realized that she was the only one who wasn’t laughing. Sure, she could have just been bored, but I knew what bored looked like and that wasn’t it. No, she was staring right at Mo with a distant yet condescending look on her face. Perhaps she was an ex-consultant and could see right through Mo’s dog-and-pony show. Or perhaps Mo had brought up the topic of the Sunday sessions and this woman didn’t like the idea.
I sighed and turned away from the glass-paneled door. The moon was out, and the Statue of Liberty looked greenish-blue and very pretty. I dropped my cigarette and was debating whether to have another before embarking on my search for the Charter Capital people when I heard a thick female voice behind me.
“You have an extra smoke? I left mine in the car, and it’s with the valet.”
I turned, and was startled to see the large woman from NationFirst standing in the doorway. Now that she was close, I could see that it wasn’t flab that had made her seem large. It was muscle. Her biceps were well-formed, and I could tell they had been worked recently. The wings above her shoulders and near her neck told me that she used a rowing machine often, or perhaps she was on a crew team. The top three buttons on her blouse were undone, and I almost gasped at the muscle definition on her pectorals. This woman could probably bench press me while smoking a cigarette.
She smiled as I held out my pack. “Thanks,” she said.
I stared at her in silence before realizing she was patiently waiting for a light. After fumbling for my matches, I thankfully managed to light her smoke with some degree of composure. But that didn’t last long.
“Wow, you are in great shape,” I blurted out, and immediately turned red. “Sorry. That sounded crude.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s still okay to tell a woman she’s in great shape.”
I smiled and looked down at my nametag. “I’m Frank Stein.”
“Lori Hildebrand.” She shook my hand. “From NationFirst.”
“I’m with C&C.”
Hildebrand nodded. “Do you work with a lot of hedge fund clients then?”
“Not really. I’m just here for the free food and booze.” I shrugged.
Hildebrand laughed. “At least you’re honest.”
I was quiet.
Hildebrand stopped laughing. “Sorry. I just have a low tolerance for bullshit consulting sales pitches, and my tolerance levels have already been exceeded after ten minutes with what’s-her-face.” She waved towards the ballroom without turning.
I knew she meant Mo, but I didn’t ask. I just nodded. “Well, our partners are partners because they sell new work. And sure, there’s always some bullshit involved in a sales pitch. But our clients are all well-informed and intelligent, and no one pays millions of dollars for services unless they know they’re getting something out of it.”
“Fair enough. NationFirst sells stuff, too. Of course, it’s a lot easier for our clients to measure what they’re getting out of it.” She smiled.
“So you’re on the sales side of things? You deal with the insurance companies and other institutions that invest in your funds?”
“No. That would be Henri and Shanaya.” She turned and peered through the glass door. “There. The French-looking guy and that skinny thing with the long black hair.”
I nodded. “Then you’re a portfolio manager? You allocate money?”
Hildebrand shook her head. “Nope. I do field research. And I do deals.”
I paused for a moment and pretended to be trying hard to remember something. “Now, you guys are a macro-fund, right? You invest in sovereign debt? The securities of other countries?”
“Very good. I guess you do know something about the hedge fund world.”
“So when you say field research and deals, you mean you go out and investigate the creditworthiness of a country? And if you think the interest rate they offer on their bonds is commensurate with the country’s stability, you work out the terms and conditions with that country’s treasury department?”
Hildebrand laughed. “That’s a very professional explanation. But ‘treasury department’ is too glamorous a term for some of our counterparties. ‘Dude with an army and a crapload of diamonds or minerals or oil to use as collateral’ is more like it.”
My face was turned away from the light, so Lori didn’t see me go flush. I swallowed hard, and then nodded again. “So you lend money to small countries? Third world types? Up-and-comers that can pay high interest rates but have enough collateral that you feel the loan isn’t too risky?”
She nodded. “Yep. But don’t ask me which countries. Those are trade secrets, you know.”
I laughed. “Of course. Besides, I’m not very good with geography. Especially of places that seem to change borders and rulers every couple of months.”
Hildebrand smiled. “Those are the some of the best opportunities for exactly that reason
. People can’t keep track of who’s who and which group owns what. You can’t figure this stuff out by searching the internet. You need someone down on the ground. See, the debt business is all about collateral. And since many small, unstable countries are rich in natural resources, they actually have excellent collateral. All you need is a clear contract with the ruling party of the country.” She paused and took another cigarette as I handed her the pack. “And, of course, a way to enforce the contract in case the rulers start to miss the interest payments or seem to be in danger of being unable to pay back the full loan.”
I was quiet as I lit her cigarette. Then I smiled and spoke nonchalantly. “So NationFirst has its own group of mercenaries that you dispatch when some African despot you lent money to is overthrown in a coup? And your people either get your cash back, or take his diamonds or gold or whatever other valuables you can?”
Hildebrand laughed and then winked at me. “Something like that.”
I nodded and shrugged. “Well, it’s not much different from how the American loan industry works. Or US foreign policy, for that matter.” I dragged on my smoke and looked at her. I had suspected she was ex-military, but now I was sure of it. How else to explain her knowing her way around war-torn nations that no one wants to lend money to? Not to mention her authoritative manner of speaking. Oh, and those serious GI Jane muscles.
Hildebrand smoked quietly. She turned away from me and walked to the edge of the terrace and stopped and stared at Lady Liberty. She seemed lost in thought. Her body was straight like a post, and as I looked down at her feet, I saw that her heels and toes were perfectly aligned. With the exception of her smoking hand, Lori was standing at full attention.