Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  “Not that you need it after all the money you made on the PC play. Maybe in an hour or two—you know, as a little payback for my looking after you all the time—you could cover for me while I take a conference room recess.”

  Peter agreed, but not before advising Stuart again to take it easy. “You’re going overboard with that shit.”

  “No such thing, dude.”

  By two in the afternoon, Peter’s all-nighter had caught up with him. He headed home with jelly-legged exhaustion one hour after the market closed. He zipped past the state park and the stretch of beach heading north from Stenman Partners’ La Jolla location. Although mentally burned-out, he purposely passed the turn to his co-op and made the decision to continue up the coast. Fifteen minutes later, he reached the mail depot where his mother had an address. What was her box number? Four hundred and something—405 or 406? For reasons he didn’t understand, his fatigue had vanished.

  Once inside the mailroom, he looked for the larger rental boxes. He spotted them along a bottom row, near an exit. He stooped and tried 405. The key didn’t fit. He worked his way down. When he got to 408, the key slid in and spun. He pulled the door open, listening to the chirping of hidden hinges. The narrowness of the mailbox had bowed the two registered envelopes—sent to Hannah Neil from Hannah Neil—requiring Peter to tug hard to free them from their home. Flattening them out, he hesitated to read the handwriting on the envelopes.

  What were you up to, Mom? he thought.

  Peter then grabbed the scrunched-up wad of junk mail that bunched half-in and half-out of the box. He carried the handful to the trashcans, but went through the sheets one at a time, making certain he discarded nothing significant in the tangled mass. He separated out the mail he’d come for and tossed the rest.

  Closing the mailbox, Peter paid the bill and prepaid, in cash, for another six months.

  He went to a corner of the office and set the mail on a countertop. He began with the letter to him, from his mother. His hands trembled as he unfolded the typed page and read:

  Dearest Peter,

  I do not expect you will ever read this, and I don’t know why I am writing you. Only that I am nervous. When I heard about . . .

  At this point in the letter, his mother had written Jackson Securities and crossed it out, not quite enough to hide the words. She continued:

  . . . certain recent events, I knew I was responsible. I sent some things to a man at the SEC, someone I thought I could trust. He must have leaked the information. I want to believe it is all an unfortunate coincidence, but I cannot.

  In these registered envelopes are documents that would implicate certain people in a massive conspiracy. I have breached legal ethics by making copies of these confidential papers. I do not know what to do with what I know.

  Do not open the registered envelopes. The date and seal will prove to any interested party that you have not made copies of the contents.

  If you are threatened, you must return the envelopes to Jason Ayers, in their current sealed condition. He loves us and will protect you, just as he has provided for me over the years.

  I wish I had not embarked on this insane crusade. It has already brought so much misery, and I now realize there is no way to win. These people are too powerful.

  Love always,

  Mom

  Against his cheek, the pages felt warm, and his mother seemed alive.

  Momentarily distracting him, a thick man in a brown suit pushed his way past, nearly brushing against Peter’s shoulder. The man stopped and stared less than five feet from where Peter stood. Had he been followed? Peter felt a wave of panic flush his face. He thought about his next move— flight or fight?

  In the midst of Peter’s confusion, the other man’s face suddenly turned soft. “You look upset,” he said. “You okay, mister?”

  With those words, Peter realized that tears had rolled down his cheek. He wiped them with a sleeve and answered, “Yeah. Just a letter from someone I love . . .”

  The man nodded like he understood. “Love can be a bitch,” he said, and exited the mailroom.

  As he recomposed himself, Peter debated whether to take the personal letter home with him, but decided not to. He placed everything back into the mailbox and re-locked it. His mother’s hiding place had proven effective for this long. Why not a while longer? The temptation to open the registered mail quickly passed. His mother emphasized he should not. Filtered through his taut nerves, her advice seemed brilliant. Sometimes, he convinced himself, ignorance was bliss—at least relatively speaking.

  When he arrived home half an hour later, Peter had two phone messages. The first was from Drew Franklin: “White Bread. Long time no hear. Baby’s due soon and she’s gonna be a girl. Yippy. Monica and I want to name her Hannah. I hope that’s okay with you? Don’t forget your friends. I’ve left a couple messages and not heard back from you. We still love ya, guy.”

  Henry jumped into Peter’s lap as he pressed the play button for the next message. Peter’s smile disappeared the moment the man’s words filled the room.

  “I was fired from the SEC yesterday. My investigation was unsanctioned, as you know by now. I will leave you alone, of course, since I am no longer a government employee. All I can do is wish you luck. You’re gonna need it.”

  For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Peter felt a fresh bout of anxiety coming on. Dawson fired? He disliked Dawson. Or did he? He didn’t believe anything the agent had told him. Or did he?

  “How much does it cost to bribe a dirty cop?” the agent had asked. With the information in the letter from his mother, Peter fought against the feeling that fresh meat hung on the carcass of Dawson’s arguments. It had all turned into a confusing mess.

  “Dawson got what he deserved,” Peter said to Henry. “The man is dangerously misguided.”

  One thing, however, stabbed at Peter’s rationalization. If only former Agent Oliver Dawson had never asked: “How much does it cost?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “OH, OLIVER. WHAT HAPPENED?”

  When the hotel room door closed, Angela ran and wrapped her arms around Dawson. Her neck folded over his shoulder as they embraced. For two days, she had had no contact with him—had no idea why he was fired. Every Thursday morning they met at a seedy hotel ten miles from the office to exchange messages. This Thursday, she apprehensively waited. When Dawson arrived, she had melted.

  After a kiss, Dawson tried to explain. “People know that Neil and I met. Someone then notified Ackerman that I was operating without supervision. I discussed this possibility with the director when we set this whole thing up. It was necessary for him to can me and to do it in front of his assistant, Freeman Ranson.” Dawson didn’t mention that Ranson had looked like the cat that had just consumed the family parakeet.

  “You’re not fired then?” she asked.

  “No. I am. If I’m right and can prove it, I’ll be rehired. In the meantime, the only ones who know I’m working on this are you and Ackerman.”

  “How can you be working on a case if you aren’t an employee?”

  “Unofficially.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “In truth, neither do I. Did the director give you anything to pass on?”

  “Not much. He sure as heck didn’t explain that you had his support.”

  “I’m not sure I do. But this thing with his special assistant is so big he feels he needs an answer. I want you to tell him I’m returning to San Diego. I’m going to make contact with Neil again. This time I’ll be more careful.”

  “You’re going back? You can’t.”

  “I have to. They think they’ve shut me up, so that makes this a good time to go.”

  “They’re killers.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he said, squeezing her hand.

  “I love you so much. Tell me I won’t read you’ve gone berserk and blown yourself to bits like everyone else who looks at these lunatics crosseyed.”

  “You won’t.”


  “You think Neil will come around and help?”

  “Given enough time, yes. What I’m afraid of is what happens to him if he slips up and is seen as a threat. Unfortunately, with what happened to his mother, Neil has few reasons to trust me. His mother sends me something in the mail and ends up in a car crash.”

  “But you were just trying to help.”

  “How does he know that?” Dawson draped an arm around Angela’s shoulder and pulled her into him.

  “Because you are a dedicated government agent.”

  “And supposedly so is Freeman Ranson. So are all those other people who are part of the network that sells information to the highest bidder. No. I need to do something to prove he can trust me.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “When he gets in trouble, and I’m certain he will, I’ll have to go to the mat for him. Hopefully Director Ackerman will pull the necessary strings.”

  “You think Ackerman will help when the time comes?”

  “If he doesn’t, then I hope you don’t mind being married to an unemployed lawyer.”

  “I would live in a hole with you.”

  “Good. A deep hole, just the two of us.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to. You go do your job. Get rehired. Now, if I don’t go, I’ll be late. I am, after all, the breadwinner.”

  “So true. Go win a loaf for us. I’m airport bound.”

  “So soon?” she asked, surprised.

  “No time to waste. I intend to begin building my friendship with young Peter Neil tomorrow.”

  Two hours later, Oliver Dawson sat in the last row of an American Airlines jet. With no delays, he would begin his work in earnest in less than six hours.

  When Peter arrived at work a few minutes after five on Friday morning, a crescendo had already been reached and sustained. He noticed that Morgan Stenman was in Howard Muller’s office. Jason Ayers, also in Muller’s office, gesticulated between their frantic bodies as if he were the referee at a main event.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Peter asked Stuart.

  “You read the IED yet?” Stuart asked.

  Peter looked down at the salmon-colored pages of the International Economic Daily, folded on top of his desk. He shook his head. “That looks like some pow-wow,” he said.

  “I love this shit. I wish I could hear through those walls. Hope Balloon-Head doesn’t think to close his drapes.”

  “You’re sick, Stu. What’s the story?”

  “Morgan’s apeshit. She’s got our law firm ready to file for libel.”

  “I’m not a mind-reader. Sue who?”

  “Everybody knows we went long Brazilian debt yesterday—huge, despite the risk of devaluation after Indonesia spun the drain. Word was that the Brazilian government would put a moratorium on interest and principal repayment.”

  “Default on their debt?”

  “Essentially, yes. Then, late last night, out of the blue, the IMF and U.S. Treasury come through with a thirty billion-dollar loan. I’m talking thirty-fucking-billion U.S. dollars. The President of Brazil then announces he’s going to defend the currency to the bitter end.”

  “The shorts must have gotten squeezed big-time,” Peter said, unable to hide the awe in his voice.

  “Killed is more like it,” Stuart confirmed. “The bonds we bought at a sixty-percent discount to par are now trading at eighty cents on the dollar. Since we borrowed to buy the bonds in the first place, we generated a one-day return of three hundred plus percent. But some noses are bent. You know Josh Robinson’s hedge fund?”

  “Yeah. His performance is always being compared with Morgan’s. You suggesting he went the other way?”

  “He’s rumored to have lost three billion.”

  Peter whistled. “Okay, but. I’m still in the dark. What’s this got to do with the IED and a libel suit?”

  “Some bright reporter with IED suggested Morgan profited from information she got from her former employee. The guy who used to work for her and now’s an advisor to the Brazilian government.”

  “Shit. Surely she expected someone to catch on.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Stuart asked, pulling his head back in pretended shock. “She denies having information. The reporter’s already been fired, and the paper has promised to print a retraction. She’s still going after blood, though. What a Bozo. Morgan’s got a net worth a thousand times greater than the value of his entire friggin’ newspaper. He should’ve known he couldn’t expect to win. After this, nobody’s gonna make that mistake again.”

  “Hard to believe we’d never use that kind of information, isn’t it?”

  Stuart shrugged. “I didn’t say these things don’t happen. I’m saying only a mutant-brain dares speculate about it in print. Guy might end up worse than fired one of these days.”

  The last sentence smashed straight into Peter’s brain.

  “Stuart. I’m worried about a couple of things.”

  “You look like someone killed your dog . . . no, make that your cat. What’s got you ready to wet your pants, Boopy?” Stuart sniffed.

  “That damn drug habit of yours for one. Some of the trading practices at this place for another.”

  Stuart stood and beckoned Peter to follow. While he trailed Stuart to the conference room, Peter stared at the chaos continuing in Muller’s office. Morgan Stenman waved her filter-tip like a sword at Howard Muller. Ayers, his head shaking like a bobbing-head doll, looked trapped in a conflagration that could melt his flesh at any moment. Every few seconds, one or another leaned into a speakerphone and screamed something. Just before Peter and Stuart entered the conference room, Muller looked at Peter. Their heads locked. Muller narrowed his eyes and drilled malevolent tunnels through Peter’s skull. The curious part of Peter wished to observe the meeting. The fear part of him sent out instructions to avert his attention and shut the door and curtains to the conference room. He went with fear.

  A minute later, Stuart had his customary lines of white drawn on the table. The room was dark, the door locked, the curtains drawn. First right, then left, the powder traveled up Ben Franklin’s printed face, invaded Stuart’s nostrils, passed to his lungs, soaked through membrane, swam into the blood stream, and got distributed to wherever it would create its wonderment. Independence Hall curled around the outside of that hundred-dollar tube, nestled between a thumb and all but the little finger.

  Wired, Stuart said, “Okay, dude. Whatta y’wanna discuss?”

  “We’re friends, right, Stu?”

  “The best of.” Tightly upturned corners of his mouth fed the words.

  “You said something that has got me . . .” Peter struggled for the right word. “I guess worried sums it up.”

  “I’m wracking my fried brain, but I don’t recall saying anything scary.”

  “The reporter. You said he might end up worse than fired. What’s that mean?”

  Stuart did a darting dissection of Peter’s face. “A joke,” he said. “What’s wrong with you, dude?”

  “This Brazilian thing. Breaking the Indonesian bank. I’ve been thinking about the social consequences of some of the things we’ve been doing as a firm.”

  “Get a grip. This ain’t no petting zoo we’re running here. Everybody’s nailing everybody, right and left. We’re just the best at doing it. So stop whining like a pussy.”

  “I don’t know,” Peter said, sounding confused.

  “You getting into some kind of complicated self-loathing thing all of a sudden? We’re doing what we’re supposed to do. And you—as much as I hate to admit it—are the fastest damn study I’ve ever seen. You’re good . . . better than good. That PC thing was straight-up, too. Nobody in this shop, including Muller, including Morgan Stenman, can do . . .” The words faded.

  “What, Stu?”

  “Nothing. The coke’s talking too much. Anyway, keep your chin up. When you get a few hundred K after-tax in January as a bonus, you’ll go back to seeing the world the r
ight way.”

  “I got a letter that has me thinking.”

  “Thinking is dangerous. Who sent you this missive?”

  “My mother.”

  Stuart sprang erect, then put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “She’s dead.”

  The clarity of Stuart’s words startled Peter. “I, uh, found it yesterday. Written a long time ago.”

  “What’d it say?”

  “Mom was worried over ethics, I think. Law firms representing evil. That’s why, when you said that thing about the newspaper guy, I needed to ask.”

  “I told you, it meant squat. What else’s bugging you?”

  “You and I both know that if Morgan and Muller bought Brazilian bonds, they knew damn well the IMF would initiate a bail-out.”

  Stuart shook his head. “You’ve lost all perspective. If you’re worried, talk to Ayers. He’s our attorney and a friend of yours. Anything else that’s got this bee buzzing up your butt?”

  “You remember Jackson Securities?”

  “Jackson?” Stuart asked. “Sure. You and I talked about them before. So?”

  Peter realized he had nothing to gain by floating unfounded theories past Stuart, especially those originating from Dawson. Even what his mother said didn’t make any sense. “Nothing. I don’t know why they popped into my head. Flustered, I guess.”

  “Your mother. Did she say anything else?” Stuart asked, his voice cracking with what sounded like excitement.

  With a head-shake meant to detach mental cobwebs, Peter said, “Never mind. I need you to explain something to me.”

  “Go ahead, dude. Shoot.”

  “How does backtrading work?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, Stu. When you and I went into Muller’s office to reverse those buys and sells, you said it was backtrading. I saw Muller do something similar that resulted in millions of dollars in profit the first day I went to see him. What is backtrading?”

  “You don’t want to know, Petey.”