T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Now that he was here, now that the time had come, Colin had difficulty finding the strength to rise and cross the palatial expanse. But the secretary was holding open the twenty-foot doors. So he took a hard breath and pushed himself forward, into the inner sanctum. Mentally he reviewed the array of armaments he had prepared for just this moment. The warrior ready to battle giants and win the invisible prize.

The chairman was seated at his polished boardroom table. To enter the conference alcove meant crossing two silk Isfahans and passing the boat-sized stinkwood desk, the pair of Monet oils, and the bronze Rodin nymph dancing by the corner silk sofa set. The alcove was separated from the office proper by sliding shoji screens with frames not of paper but mother-of-pearl. The conference area itself had glass walls with lakes and green beyond. Computer screens shone everywhere, silent projectors positioned so that wherever the chairman sat, all he had to do was glance up and instantly be fed the market’s constant spew.

Colin stood by the alcove entrance, waiting for the chairman to look up and motion him forward. The atmosphere was more subdued than the trading floor itself, yet far more intense. Around the table sat a group from the trading floor, including Eric, the closest Colin had to a friend among the traders. They circled the paper-stacked table like sated pumas around a fresh kill.

Pavel Hayek himself was not attractive, but his visceral power was so obvious the man’s physical attributes meant almost nothing. Today he wore a double-breasted blue blazer with the fancy crest on his pocket. The chairman was a trim late fifties, with even features, softly accented English, and perfect grooming. His gold ring matched the crest on the doors and the wall behind Colin, a crowned phoenix rising from burning brands. Colin had done some checking on Hayek, as much as he dared. Enough to know the man’s rumored royal heritage was genuine. The guy actually was a prince. Which meant he lived up to his nickname, the King, in more ways than one. At least, that was what most people called him around here. It was only beyond the Hayek compound that one heard his other nickname, Elvis. No one doing business with Hayek dared use it, even in jest.

“A half-billion dollars in new long-term capital is a big mouthful.” This from Alex, the firm’s senior foreign exchange trader. “How much time do we have to lay it out?”

“Not long.” Hayek was very tight with his words, measuring them like gold. The man was known for having no capacity for small talk. None. “A few days at most. And directed exclusively at the foreign exchange markets.”

“You want us to lay out half a big one, only in forex derivatives?”

“That is correct.”

Alex had a trader’s ability for rapid assessments. “You want to make the market sit up and take notice, is that it?”

Hayek seemed pleased by the appraisal, but said merely, “This could be the beginning of a very large fresh inflow.”

“How big?”

“Large enough for us to consider establishing a second fund.” He stifled further comment with one upraised hand. “That we shall leave for later. Thank you all.”

Hayek waited for the minions to depart. Only Jim Burke, Hayek’s second in command remained behind. Hayek did not invite Colin to sit. “Yes?”

“Someone is hunting again. I thought you would want to know.”

“Hunting?”

“Using Congressman Hutchings’ data, apparently. Asking the same kind of questions.”

King and courtier exchanged a silent communication before Hayek demanded, “You are certain of this?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how.”

“I inserted a target, a source any new hunter would go after. They’d have no choice but to reveal themselves in the process.”

“You are referring to the internet?”

“The web. Yes.”

“Go on.”

“The site automatically inserts a rogue program into the hunter’s computer system. I can then go in and search for data.”

The chairman asked his senior man, “Do you understand what he just said?”

Jim Burke was both a trader and a nerd, a serious combination. He was also, in the eyes of those who worked for Hayek, a walking fruitloop. There was a lot of personal weirdness within the hedge fund world. The business routinely attracted those with meager people skills. But Jim Burke took this infirmity far beyond any logical boundaries. Among the Hayek force, Jim Burke was known as the Unabomber.

Burke replied, “I think so, yes.”

Colin held out a sheet, despising the revealed tremors. “This is from my initial scan.”

Burke reached forward. “I’ll take that.”

The chairman waited as his squire surveyed the paper. Burke looked up and said, “This could be a red flag.”

“Then check it out thoroughly.” Hayek turned back to Colin. “You too. Can you get back into his system?”

“Her,” Burke corrected, still scanning the data. “Apparently it’s a woman. A local. Jackie Havilland.”

Colin replied, “Every time she logs on, my insert will instruct her computer to download all new files.”

“I want to know everything.”

Colin was utterly grateful to find both the words and Hayek’s iron glare directed at his number two. Burke offered, “I’ll put the new men on this.”

“Immediately,” Hayek commanded. “This very afternoon. There is not a moment to lose.”

Wednesday

By the time Jackie returned home, clouds and the setting sun cast a pastel gauze across the sky. The windswept day was so replete and the evening so gentle, she was almost prepared to dismiss the Boatman. His bizarre tales of foreboding and mystery were just too far removed from the same old, same old.

The borderlands of Winter Park contained some of Orlando’s oldest homes. Three blocks off U.S. 50, there existed a time warp of Florida oaks and two-story wraparound verandas and squeaky sash windows. Her particular treetop haven was a former servant’s apartment set above a derelict shed. The main house was a renovator’s dream-three floors of Victorian peaks, rotting porches, and peeling paint. The owner was Millicent Kirby, a widow who probably belonged in a padded cell. But the old woman was as attached to the house and the neighborhood as Jackie, and had a terror of being sent off somewhere to rot away alone. Jackie pretended the only reason she did Millicent’s shopping and arranged for gardeners and an occasional maid was because she didn’t want new owners to cast her adrift as well.

The muscles of her upper body quivered with a satiated hunger as she unstrapped her board from the roof of her car. Her legs scarcely held her aloft as she carried her gear into the shed. The surrounding trees bade a rustling farewell both to the departing day and storm. The nightly chorus of owls and cicadas sang an invitation to stick with the tried and true, the safe, the easy.

Then she noticed the figure standing by the big house’s back window.

Jackie had never seen Millicent remain in view so long. Even the monthly housekeeper claimed to see only a flitting wild-haired figure who danced from room to room, always just out of sight. Jackie studied the motionless figure holding up the curtain so that her hyperthin frame was visible. Jackie pointed a silent question up the stairs and was granted a single nod in response.

She hefted a serrated repair knife from her tackle box, then took the outside stairs as quietly as she could. The first sight of her door hanging drunkenly on one hinge pushed a soft groan from her gut. Jackie turned back to Millicent and shouted, “Call the police!”

The woman did not move. Jackie grimaced with understanding. There was nothing the police could do if the robbers were gone, which they had to be if Millicent was still there and letting her proceed. And the old lady wanted no truck with anyone who might threaten her isolation. Police meant social services, and they would only lead to windowless confines and nurses with needles. Jackie gripped her knife tighter and entered the maelstrom.