by Bunn, Davis
Finally, Sandra Harwood said, “Yesterday Lawrence and I met with allies. Everyone is very worried.”
Antonio sounded impossibly tired. “The bankers are trying to work the same underhanded maneuvers here in Brussels.”
“Of course they are,” Lawrence said. His voice grated from the smoke of battles still to come. “If their tactics work in Washington, they will work anywhere.”
Antonio asked, “Lawrence, how many allies can you expect to have on your commission?”
Lawrence pondered a moment. “Three, maybe four.”
“How many will serve on the commission?”
“They’re still arguing over that. My guess is somewhere around fourteen.”
“So you will be a tiny minority.”
“Looks that way. What about you?”
“I am one ally away from a fifty-fifty split.”
“I ought to have you come help out over here.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Antonio tried for humor. “But I am a little busy at the moment.”
As they said their farewells, Lawrence offered, “Larry King is taping a segment with me this afternoon. Sandra, when will it air in Europe?”
“Saturday evening. Nine o’clock in England, ten in Brussels.”
Antonio demanded, “Why didn’t you say something before now? We need to pray for this as well.”
After they prayed a second time, Elena hung up the phone and sat in the empty room. Wind rattled a window’s loose pane. Clouds and sunlight sent shadows scuttling across the stained carpet. She had no idea how long she sat there. The sigh she emitted as she rose and crossed the room could have come from her own grandmother.
When she opened the office door, she found a gray-haired woman she did not recognize seated in the foyer. “May I help you?”
“Your man said it would be all right if I waited inside.” The woman rose and swayed dangerously. “Oh my.”
Elena reached out and gripped her arm. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve never been much of a flier. I feel like I’ve been trapped in a can of bad air for eight hours.”
The woman was angular in a manner that was both intelligent and severe. She was also very tall, standing close to six feet. Elena asked, “Do I know you?”
“I’m Shirley Wainwright.”
“Of course. The woman who lost her husband.”
“I didn’t lose him. And despite what you’ve heard, Teddy did not just have a heart attack and die in the back of that limo.” She had a voice that sounded permanently cracked, perhaps from crying herself hoarse once too often. “Teddy gave himself up to God’s cause.”
“I needed to make this trip. I had to. Soon as Sandra told me what you were doing, leading them in prayer every day, helping them focus on God’s will, I knew I had to be a part of this.”
Shirley Wainwright wore a dove-gray suit that looked both expensive and travel-worn. She allowed herself to be guided into Elena’s office. If she noticed the building’s hollow vacancy, she gave no sign. “Teddy was one of the architects of the Wall Street bank failure and the recession that followed. What do you know about derivatives?”
Elena guided her into the chair, went back around her desk, and seated herself. “Almost nothing.”
“Derivatives traders manipulate risk. They hunt out danger points and they magnify the swings. They don’t care whether the market is going up or down. What they want, what they thrive on, is movement. The greater the movement, the faster the swings, the more money they can make.” She settled a large black purse in her lap, opened the gold clasp, and began rummaging. “Teddy’s first day on the job, the chief of derivatives came to him and said they needed more capital. Teddy already knew this man. They weren’t friends. Most derivatives traders have the social skills of a cougar. But Teddy knew what the board was hiding from almost everyone, including their own shareholders. The derivatives department was responsible for more than two-thirds of the bank’s total profit.”
Elena watched the woman across from her dig impatiently in her purse. Shirley Wainwright’s movements were almost manic. Her words carried a repetitive quality, as though they had been said so often that she no longer had to give them any notice.
“The derivatives chief told Teddy his department had become extended on several huge bets and were desperately short of cash. He didn’t care where it came from. But the bank’s funds were used up. The derivatives chief said they were onto a sure thing. A fire sale, was what the man told Teddy. They had the chance to double the bank’s capital. Teddy asked him what he had in mind. The derivatives chief asked Teddy to supply him with as many new mortgages as Teddy could arrange.” She started pulling items from her purse and slapping them on Elena’s desk. “I’m positive I put it in here.”
“Perhaps it would be best if you first told me—”
“Teddy identified a California bank that specialized in subprime mortgages and bought a controlling interest. He then ordered the bank’s loan officers to ignore standard procedure. Approve every loan they could get their hands on. The first year of operation, Teddy’s plan netted the bank eight hundred million dollars. The second, three billion. The next year, the subprime market collapsed, dragging the world economy down with it. The federal government bailed Teddy’s bank out. The traders and the bank’s directors all got their bonuses. Everybody was happy but Teddy.”
Shirley Wainwright drew a crumpled envelope from her purse and waved it at Elena. “I’ve been a believer since the year our second daughter was born. Teddy used to scoff at it. But this tragedy brought Teddy to Jesus. I weep for all the families who have suffered. But I thank God that Teddy finally saw the light.”
Elena reached over and took the letter. Keeping her motions easy. Calm. Like her voice. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’ve tried and tried to talk about this with Lawrence. But he treats me like an addled old woman. Which I suppose I am.” The woman’s hand trembled slightly as she pointed at the letter. “Read what Teddy says. It’s all there.”
Antonio did not return her call until that evening. He listened to her describe the conversation with Shirley Wainwright, then said, “Wait just one minute, Elena.” He muffled his phone, but she could still hear Antonio’s voice and someone else in response. Then he came back on and said, “All right. I’m listening. Tell me what the letter said.”
“Where are you?”
“At EU headquarters.”
“But it’s eight o’clock at night.”
“I needed to speak privately with one of the leaders here. We’ve both been tied up in meetings all day.”
“Should I call you back?”
“He has been delayed. I am sitting in an outer office. His aide is off fetching me a coffee I don’t want.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am more worried than tired. And I am very tired indeed. Now tell me about the letter.”
“Most of it was very personal. He was grateful for how faith had healed his relationships with Shirley and his daughters. He was grateful for salvation. He wished he had come to know and understand these things years ago. He wished he had a chance to do his life over again. Then at the end of the letter, Teddy Wainwright said that the banks were planning to do the whole thing again.”
Antonio’s voice hardened. “He suspected this, or he was certain?”
“His letter states it as fact. Teddy said the only real profit generators in the Wall Street banks these days are the derivatives departments. The banks’ standard operations are all down. New laws have stifled the banks’ predatory credit card practices. Savings are down because of the low interest rates. And the finance officers are too frightened of another downturn to generate new loans.”
“We have suspected this. Banks are careful to hide their derivatives operations, even from other divisions. All we can say for certain is, banks are not loaning money. Their credit operations are run with savage brutality. Small businesses are going bankrupt because of the
lack of capital. And yet the banks are generating profit. We are fairly certain this income is spawned by derivatives. But until our committees are up and running, the derivatives markets still remain uncontrolled. And the banks’ shareholders are making money. They do not ask because they prefer not to know.” Antonio was silent a moment, then asked, “Where is Teddy’s widow?”
“I booked her into the Randolph. Antonio, the letter said something else that—”
Antonio’s voice underwent a sharp change. “I must go, Elena. The minister has arrived. We will speak tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“What bother? This is important news. Until tomorrow.”
32
SATURDAY
Antonio did not call.
Elena kept the phone beside her as she packed a bag and prepared for the day. She rode into Oxford with her cell phone open on the seat beside her. Charles parked in front of her new office and Elena walked over to the Randolph, the phone in her hand. Shirley Wainwright was waiting for her in the lobby. Elena sank into the chair beside her and set the phone on the table between them. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine. Well, not fine. I haven’t had a fine night since Teddy left me. I slept enough.”
The woman certainly looked better than she had the previous day, though her calm facade still showed cracks and her voice still refused to settle on any one octave. Elena said, “I shared the information in Teddy’s letter with Antonio.”
“The gentleman you told me about in Brussels, is that right?” She shrugged. “Anyone in finance already knows about it. Or at least they suspect. I showed you the letter because I didn’t want you to think I was crazy.”
“I didn’t—”
“I know how I look, and I know how I sound. Borderline, isn’t that the correct word? I’ve heard my daughters use it enough. ‘Mama is borderline frantic.’”
“Clinical psychologists tend not to use words like crazy or borderline anything. But thank you for showing me the letter.”
“Why do you keep looking at your phone?”
“Antonio was supposed to call me this morning. He hasn’t. I’m trying not to worry.” Elena shut her cell phone and slipped it into her pocket. “I have a very busy two days coming up. A friend passed away. Her memorial service is tomorrow.”
“How can I help?”
Elena said what she had decided on during the drive into town. “You’ve had your own share of loss. Maybe it would be best if you took the weekend to rest.”
“Oh, piffle. A weekend isn’t going to make any difference. Teddy was the center of my world. He’s gone. God is just going to have to fill the void.” Shirley Wainwright rose to her feet. “Right now, the nicest gift you could give me is something useful to do.”
When the day’s meeting began, Antonio did not join them. Instead, one of his aides came on the line and breathlessly apologized, Antonio was in another meeting with the minister. Elena swallowed her disappointment and introduced Shirley. Sandra Harwood was clearly surprised by the woman’s presence. Lawrence sounded too preoccupied to care. After the opening prayer, Sandra praised her husband’s performance on Larry King. Lawrence simply muttered the word, performance. Otherwise he did not speak.
Shirley Wainwright proved the right companion for the day. She did not speak once during the journey from Oxford to Heathrow Airport. When they had parked, Elena checked the phone once more, just to be sure she had not missed the call. Shirley asked, “Why don’t you call him?”
“I can’t.”
“Okay.”
“No. I mean, Antonio must be busy with something extremely important, if it caused him to miss our meeting. That’s never happened before.”
“Antonio is a banker?”
“Most recently he’s been a financial adviser to the Vatican. Now he’s Lawrence’s counterpart in Brussels.”
Shirley watched a man pass through the customs gate and embrace a young woman who awaited him. “I know my being here is an imposition.”
“Not at all, you’re—”
“I had to come, you see. I couldn’t stay in New York another minute. My daughters think I’m going crazy with grief. That’s not it at all. I feel like I’ve stepped into a vacuum. Teddy gave his life for something very important. I need to help. I’ve got to help.” She turned to Elena. “Can you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“My days have become so futile. I feel like I’m failing God. There must be something I can do, some way to make this loss and this sadness all feel worthwhile.”
Elena reached across and touched the woman’s hand. “I’m glad you came.”
Miriam’s daughter was precisely as Elena recalled, pinch-faced and acquisitive. She kissed the air by Elena’s cheek and expressed empty condolences, then returned to an argument with her daughter. Miriam’s granddaughter was growing into a younger version of her mother, which was ironic, since the two women clearly did not get along. Elena was not the least bit sorry to hand them over to Shirley Wainwright, who bundled them into a taxi. An hour later, Elena’s parents came through customs.
Elena’s mother had taught high school biology for thirty-one years. Elena’s father was a metallurgist. They had filled Elena’s home and early years with much love and a fair share of good times. They still attended the same uptown church where they had met. The church had been one of the few bones of contention between Miriam and Elena’s parents. Miriam had always referred to it as a country club where God was occasionally granted a visitor’s pass. Elena’s father had responded that the only religion he ever intended to give more time and attention to was golf. Elena was certain he only said it to goad Miriam.
Her mother was red-eyed and stumbling from fatigue and loss. She had not seen Miriam in several years, but the two women talked by phone at least once a week. For several years now, Elena’s mother had shown growing signs of early-onset dementia. But her father had adapted, turning his love into a protective barrier between his wife and any need for change. Her father greeted Elena with an embrace and the same words that had started and ended their conversations for years. “Your mother is fine.”
“Hello, Daddy. I’m sure you’re right.” She hugged her mother, then slipped the purse from her shoulder. “Let me take that, Mom.”
Elena introduced Gerald simply as a driver. To say anything more would only cause unnecessary concern. Gerald drove them to the Courtyard by Marriott, the closest hotel to the church and where everyone involved in the remembrance service was staying. Two hours later, Elena and her parents walked to an Italian restaurant around the corner from the hotel. Charles maintained a discreet distance and went unnoticed by her parents. Her mother was most comfortable with memories and regaled them with stories from her and Miriam’s school days. Candles softened the evening’s ragged edges, and the shared recollections left them all able to smile. They walked back to the hotel through a soft spring rain.
As soon as Elena returned to her room, she called Antonio. Elena’s heart clamored and her hands turned damp as she punched in the numbers. When his answering machine responded, she sketched out where she was. Then she cut the connection. She stood by the hotel window, staring out over the parking lot, and said the words she had not spoken on the phone. “Please come. I need you.”
She then spent half an hour seated at the hotel desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper. Brian had wanted her to say something at Miriam’s memorial service. But she had no idea how to compact a lifetime’s friendship into a few sentences. When Shirley Wainwright knocked on her door, the page was still empty.
Elena turned on the television in time to hear Larry King introduce the evening’s two guests. Lawrence Harwood had aged several years since leaving London. His expression reminded Elena of an eighteenth-century etching that had occupied one wall of her father’s office. It had shown America’s founding fathers at the Constitutional Congress, debating the structure of their new country’s first laws. She had
been fascinated by the picture as a child, though some of their expressions had frightened her. They had looked like fierce birds of prey, the strength so profoundly severe, she knew they were capable of the unthinkable. Her father had often said such conviction was necessary to accomplish the impossible. They had faced established interests and entrenched powers. Elena had not understood much of what her father said. But she had loved the way he had held her and studied the image with her. As though the picture’s deep and abiding mystery joined them. She had not thought of that picture in years.
Lawrence Harwood responded to Larry King’s first question with “The collapse of Lehman Brothers proved that the nation’s top banks had become too big to be allowed to fail. But since the bailout, these same financial institutions have only become larger.”
Larry King said, “But your opponents are swift to point out that this is not a monopoly. This is just healthy business. There are over a dozen major players on Wall Street, and the competition between them is fierce.”
Lawrence Harwood’s craven features made a mockery of the presenter’s easy manner. “At one level, this is true. But at another level, they are allied. They do not merely work together. They collude. They do so in secret. They hide their tracks well.”
Larry King’s other guest was Easton Grey, a former secretary of the Treasury. The secretary’s on-camera presence was very polished, his responses smoothly glib. Easton Grey smiled easily as he countered Lawrence’s comments, pointing out that Lawrence had himself worked for these very same institutions.
“I worked for several of them and sat on the boards of others. I have resigned from all these positions,” Lawrence replied. Compared to the former Treasury official, Lawrence looked like an aging boxer, off his prime, unable to defend himself against the opponent’s blows. “How many of these banks are paying your bills tonight, Mr. Secretary?”
Easton Grey shrugged easily. “I am employed by one of the banks that has helped make America great. My loyalties are to my employer, and to this great nation. Unlike you.”