Book of Dreams

by Bunn, Davis

  They were all silent. Watching.

  “The key is not what another person says. It never has been. The objective of this book, and of the prayer it holds, is communion with God. It was then. It is now. For everyone. This was the lesson Jesus gave us. The gift of this prayer. To unite us with the Father.”

  They stayed as they were. A human still life. No one spoke. Or moved.

  “The farther I move down this road, the more I treasure the Holy Spirit’s presence. So I sit and wait and hope. For insight. For wisdom. For guidance that truly deserves the term eternal. And for the strength to turn the wisdom into action.”

  Elena motioned to Sandra. “Did you bring it?”

  Sandra lifted a simple metal pitcher used by the cafeteria for salad dressing. “It’s not the fanciest vessel I’ve seen.”

  “It’s fine.” Elena said to them all, “The Scriptures are full of times when the Lord’s servants prepare themselves through the act of anointing. That is what we are going to do now. Each of us will stand here by the bed so that I can join with others in laying hands upon them. Sandra will then anoint their heads with oil; then we will pray over them. And ask the Father for all that he and only he can grant us.”

  The group did not disperse after the final prayer. Elena understood their reluctance. In here was the safety of a sacred calm. Out there, beasts of the dark coiled and writhed and hunted. Elena was sorry to disturb their tranquillity. But it had to be done.

  “Last night, I had a dream.” Elena related her experience. Then she asked Shirley, “Do you have Teddy’s letter?”

  “I carry it with me everywhere.”

  “Would you read it to us, please?”

  Elena had read the letter through several times. But hearing Shirley speak the words brought the man to life, him and the love they had shared and the sorrow his absence had created. Shirley’s voice broke only once, not over his declaration of love, but rather when he makes his final prayer to God. Elena found that the most moving of all.

  Lawrence stared across the bed at Antonio. He looked ready to launch himself out of the room. “Read that part over.”

  Shirley wiped her eyes. “Which part?”

  Antonio said, “About the money.”

  Shirley did as they asked. Elena did not understand. She did not need to. The light in the two men’s gazes was enough.

  Sandra saw it too. “This is it. Isn’t it.”

  Teddy’s letter said his bank’s derivatives traders had begun demanding more capital. Just like last time. And the banks had identified a major new source.

  They planned to drain life insurance companies. Buy controlling interests through shell corporations, then redirect the insurance capital that backed the life insurance policies into the derivatives markets. And then bundle life insurance policies like they did subprime mortgages.

  Lawrence said, “The mother lode.”

  “Teddy has come through for us,” Antonio agreed.

  Shirley said, “Explain, please.”

  “We suspected this,” Lawrence said. “But we had no proof.”

  “They knew we were opposed to it,” Antonio said. “So they hid it from us.”

  Sandra asked, “Can they hide such activities from their own people?”

  “So long as the CEO and a majority of the board are on their side, they can do whatever they want,” Lawrence replied.

  “Remember, the derivatives and hedge funds are not regulated,” Antonio said. “That is what the commissions were for. To protect the world’s economies from the banks creating havoc all over again.”

  “Most bank directors don’t want to know what’s happening,” Lawrence said. “These derivatives traders are bringing in a major portion of the banks’ profits. The banks aren’t making loans to the average consumer or small businesses. Credit has never been tighter. The flow of capital is still contracting and the banks’ normal customer base is starved of funds. Why? Because the banks have redirected capital to their biggest profit center. The derivatives trading arm.”

  Antonio said, “But the money on hand is not enough. Derivatives devour money. The more they gorge, the more they need.”

  “Money and risk,” Lawrence said. “If there isn’t enough risk, they create it. They bundle risk and they calculate the odds and they sell it on before the risk becomes toxic. Fast trades and tiny margins. Done in such sizes, and with such lightning speed, that the profits continue to mount.”

  Shirley said, “We have to stop them.”

  Lawrence and Antonio stared at each other across the bed. Searching the air between them for the answer.

  Nigel pointed out, “Easton Grey is here for a meeting with the Bank of England.”

  “The Bank of England is a regulatory body,” Antonio said. “Like the Federal Reserve Bank. They can’t know what he’s doing.”

  “But Easton is the key,” Lawrence said.

  Antonio nodded slowly.

  “You don’t know him like I do. The official reason for Easton’s visit may be some public announcement. But the real reason …” Lawrence drummed on the railing at the foot of the bed. “How do we capture him. That’s the real issue.”

  Nigel said, “We must catch the beggar with his hand in the till.”

  Elena decided it was time. “I have an idea.”

  47

  I told you before, this can’t be the place.”

  Lawrence was adamant. “Whatever Easton Grey is up to, he won’t do it here. If the Bank of England ever discovered he was intent upon wrongdoing, they would shut him down. He might as well set up shop in the lobby of the Federal Reserve.”

  Nigel said, “My sources were very clear. He’s scheduled to sign the articles linking the US commission to the UK’s oversight arm at four this afternoon.”

  Lawrence checked his watch. “It’s just gone noon. He could be anywhere. We’re surrounded by hedge funds and derivatives operations.”

  “The dream was very clear,” Elena said. “This was where I met the man. Right where we are standing.”

  “That’s sound enough for me,” Nigel said.

  “I’ll gladly plant myself here for the duration,” Janine agreed.

  “I’ve got chills,” Shirley said.

  Lawrence merely sighed.

  They stood on a narrow lane in the heart of the City, the financial district within London’s original Roman walls. They were surrounded by bankers and their minions dressed by Savile Row and armed with money. The Bank of England was directly in front of them. The Georgian edifice was surrounded by new steel-and-concrete monuments to financial clout. Even so, the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, as the Bank of England was known, still had the power to impress.

  The day was cloudless and still. The dense city buildings trapped the air and the heat. Their lane was crowded with noontime traffic. Elena reveled in the light and the freedom. She was tired, and the taxi ride had left her shoulder aching. She was glad for how Antonio’s arm encircled her waist and the way he offered his support. She molded herself more tightly to him and wished they were alone so she could say how nice it was to let him be strong for her.

  Farther down the lane’s opposite side, a noisy crowd spilled from a pub. Drinks and food were handed out through the pub’s door and open window. In her dream, Elena had been alone. Just her and the man whose face she could not see. She did not remember the sky, or if she had noticed it at all. None of this mattered. The sense of rightness, of intention, was so powerful that her entire body vibrated.

  Antonio must have sensed her tremors, because he said, “Perhaps we should find a place for you to sit down.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  Their narrow lane angled slightly to the left from the bank’s front entrance. Everyone had insisted on coming. They formed a tight cluster, shielded from the foot traffic by two uniformed officers. Oncoming pedestrians caught sight of the police and veered to the lane’s opposite side. Detective Mehan stood just behind her, wedged between them and the
pub’s crowd. Elena had been waiting for him to ask questions to which she had no answer. But so far he had remained silent.

  Sandra said, “Here they come.”

  The white van with the BBC logo threaded the pedestrian traffic and halted behind the police car. Lawrence said, “Big mistake, calling that man.”

  Sandra said, “I felt it was important that he came. I felt, I don’t know, guided.”

  Elena said, “The Spirit is working in us all, Lawrence.”

  Andrew Kerr popped out of the side door before the van stopped rolling and rushed over. “What have I missed?”

  Lawrence looked from his wife to Elena and did not speak.

  “We are working on guesses and suppositions,” Antonio warned the newscaster. “You might have come for nothing.”

  Sandra said, “But if it is what we think, it could be a major development.”

  Kerr rubbed his hands together. “From the fireworks display you have put on for me thus far, I’m more than willing to work on a hunch.”

  While the cameraman took lighting measurements and the sound technician fitted them with body mikes and battery packs, Antonio and Lawrence related what they knew. Andrew Kerr continued to rub his hands together, tight circular motions. When they were done, Kerr said into his mike, “Did you get all they just told me?”

  The sound technician had returned to the van. He must have said something through Kerr’s earpiece, because the newscaster said, “Are you absolutely certain?”

  The sound technician stuck his head out of the van’s panel door and glared at Kerr.

  The newscaster said to Shirley, “You wouldn’t happen to have your husband’s letter with you.”

  “In my purse. Where is your producer?”

  “Shadowing another crew who is covering the story I dropped in order to join you.” Kerr’s smile was as tight as his gaze. “You heard CNN and MSNBC have picked up my piece?”

  “Yes.”

  “It appears the segment will also be aired by the major news networks in Paris and Berlin. This could well transport my career to a totally new level.”

  Lawrence warned, “It could also be nothing.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “I just wish we could be more certain.”

  “Your concern is duly noted. I am here of my own volition. Mrs. Wainwright, could I ask you to stand so the bank is visible behind you? Excellent. Now for the camera, let us run through what we know.” Kerr summarized the details of Teddy Wainwright’s demise and the security-camera photographs identifying the woman now in custody. He then distilled the connections between the woman and the attacks on Teddy Wainwright and Francesca d’Alba. “Do I have all that correct? Splendid. Now, would you be so kind as to read the appropriate segments of your husband’s letter?”

  When Shirley was done, Kerr thanked her, then said, “Mr. Ambassador, could I ask you for an opening statement? Another hook, similar to what you gave me in the shelter.”

  Lawrence said to Antonio, “You do it.”

  “Indeed, Mr. d’Alba, it would be marvelous if we could use you this time.”

  Nigel said, “I happen to have the photographs of the woman in custody shadowing Teddy Wainwright and Antonio d’Alba.”

  “You don’t say. Might I use them?”

  “I took the liberty of making electronic copies.” He handed over a memory stick. “Just make sure the agencies responsible are not mentioned by name.”

  “Oh, this really is splendid. You must excuse me while I pop back to the van for a look-see. Won’t be long.” He started to turn away, then stopped and said, “Perhaps I should also do a quick shot with you, Dr. Burroughs.”

  “I will not be filmed,” Elena said. “I am not the story.”

  “But you are the woman’s latest victim—”

  “Leave her alone.”

  Something in Shirley’s voice turned them all around. Kerr said, “Yes. Quite. Well, back in a jiff.”

  When he returned, Andrew Kerr positioned Antonio so the sunlight lanced across his face and the bank gleamed behind him. Antonio held a resolute calm as he said on camera, “The world of international finance has become little more than a giant casino. It has lost sight of its responsibilities to anchor economic growth. They treat the principles of sound finances as nothing more than advertising jingles. They manipulate the American Dream, while they sit in their towers and watch the common man be crushed by debt and despair. Their only concerns are rising quarterly profits and the bonuses they will take home. They do not foster growth. They destroy it.

  “Over the past twenty years, banks have made a concerted effort to transform the legal structure in both the United States and Europe. This allowed the meltdown to happen. People blame the subprime crisis. This is wrong. If it had not been mortgages, it would have been something else. The root problem is still there. The crisis will happen again.”

  Kerr demanded, “What about the new financial oversight committees?”

  “They are being manipulated. They will be as weak and powerless as the laws that were supposed to have protected our economies from this recession. The banks have identified their next source of ready capital. They are attacking. The next meltdown is brewing. It is only a matter of time.”

  Kerr was into his follow-up questions when Sandra suddenly said, “There he is.”

  The newscaster showed irritation at being interrupted. “Who?”

  “Him. The fixer.”

  Lawrence jerked off his position by the wall. “Cyril Price? Here?”

  Sandra Harwood pointed into the traffic separating them from the bank. “Right over there.”

  “I don’t see …”

  “The sidewalk to the right of the bank. Wait, he’s blocked from view.”

  A pair of trucks trundled through the intersection fronting the bank. “Perhaps you were mistaken.”

  “Lawrence, I saw the enemy.”

  “All right. Don’t get …” He tensed. “I see him.”

  Kerr demanded, “Would someone kindly tell me what I’m not seeing?”

  “His name is Cyril Price,” Lawrence said. “He’s a deputy secretary of the Treasury. But the title is nothing. It’s a means of giving him official access. He’s a fixer. That’s someone—”

  “I know what a political fixer is. I’ve brought several of them down in my time.” Kerr focused on Sandra Harwood. “You referred to him as the enemy.”

  Shirley Wainwright said, “He’s in one of the photographs with the woman who murdered my husband.”

  No one had noticed Detective Mehan slipping in tight behind them until he said, “Allegedly murdered.”

  Cyril Price looked even more unassuming than in his photograph. He was a pudgy fellow whose height was masked by what to Elena looked like rancid baby fat. His cheeks were full enough to push his mouth into a permanent little bow. As he waited to cross the street, he slicked his hair down tight against his skull.

  Kerr demanded, “You think he’s tied to our Easton Grey?”

  “He must be,” Nigel said. “They couldn’t possibly just happen to be on this side of the Atlantic at precisely the same moment.”

  “Price is probably part of the baggage train,” Lawrence said. “That’s the term used for hangers-on who accompany White House officials on an international junket.”

  Mehan said, “I might just know where that fellow is headed.”

  “So do I.” Nigel turned and signaled. “Gerald.”

  The bodyguard who had been circling their outer perimeter drifted over. “Sir.”

  “Scoot around the bank’s left, then jink down that alley. Make sure he doesn’t slip away.”

  “Roger that, sir.” Gerald did not so much leave as vanish.

  “You lot stay here. Is your phone on, Detective?”

  “Yes. But I can help—”

  “You stay put and stand guard. Allow me to do my bit for the higher cause.” Nigel revealed a wolfish hunger. “I was born for the hunt.”
<
br />   Nigel drifted away and became just another gentleman in his fine City suit. Andrew Kerr asked the cameraman, “Did you get that?”

  “In the can.”

  48

  The call came ten minutes later and directed them around the bank’s other side and onto Fleet Street. Nigel met them outside a pair of fancy gilded doors, his nose twitching with anticipation. Another crowd of rowdy lunchgoers filled the sidewalk. Nigel reported, “The prey has gone to ground upstairs.”

  “Main hall?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “All right.” Mehan turned to the two officers. “Watch for my signal.”

  “Should we radio this in, sir?”

  “First let’s see if there’s anything to report.” He nodded to Nigel. “Lead the way.”

  They entered a vast chamber that was far too ornate to be called just another pub. Which was hardly a surprise, as the room had originally contained the Bank of England’s law courts. Directly beneath a massive brass and crystal chandelier stood the bar, fashioned from seasoned oak that had once formed the chamber’s wainscoting. A huge clock dominated the fourth wall, a mockery of Big Ben. An iron-rimmed balcony ran around three walls. Elena’s gaze drifted over the gilded Italianate ceiling and the frescoes and the velvet-draped windows.

  Nigel said, “I tracked him upstairs.”

  “Let’s move on then,” Mehan said. “Your man is on the rear entrance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do we need to tell him to stop any who try and slip away?”

  Nigel’s smile carried a feral edge. “His mate was just released from the hospital yesterday. I doubt seriously any of this lot would care to meet him in an empty alley.”

  As they started for the stairs, Mehan explained, “The upstairs has several small rooms and one formal chamber that used to serve as the main court. There is a side entrance where prisoners would be brought in. It opens into the alley where Nigel’s man is stationed. It has made this chamber a favorite for City types looking for a discreet neutral territory, one where they can come and go unseen.”