T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Eric was like most on the middle rung, inching his way up with strings of good days, only to plummet back to the precipice’s edge with a near-fatal trading error. He was also constantly in debt, raising his head above the waters only around annual bonus time. This was a common trait among the junior traders. They pulled in anywhere from sixty to two hundred thou, but their tastes and ambitions were molded by those on the top rung. Senior traders pulled two to three mil, doubling that in bonuses. It was hard to live on peanuts when the senior traders chowed down on filet mignon.

It was a slow morning, a few desultory traders trying to talk up the market, the rest waiting for the world to take its first hit of adrenaline and find a reason to scream. Those nearby watched the screens and smirked among themselves as Eric played with the mutant techie. “Any word on what’s happening upstairs?”

Colin did not need to look up to understand the question. The trading room’s ceiling was forty feet up. The left and front walls were overshadowed by glass-enclosed balconies, each about eighty feet deep and a hundred and forty long. One held the special issues department, traders designing and selling their own derivatives. The other had formerly been the domain of middle managers and had been known as the Snake House. But three weeks earlier, the managers had been moved upstairs, one floor below Hayek himself. Now a team of outsiders was working like army ants, installing new equipment. Nobody knew why, or whom it was for.

“I have no idea,” Colin replied truthfully. “They haven’t let me up on the parapet.”

“Oh, Mr. Ready, there you are.” The thin-faced guardian of Hayek’s inner chamber hurried down the aisle. The traders parted swiftly. She paid them no mind. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Mr. Hayek’s screens have started flickering again.”

“Right.” Colin slid out. “I’m all done here.”

Eric muttered, “What do you and the King talk about? It can’t be football.”

Colin dusted off his pants, decided not to risk further delay by going back for his jacket. He followed the severe woman through the front security doors and out into the reception area. A pair of gray-jacketed men scowled their way but said nothing. One sat by the front entrance, another stood by the stairway leading to the glassed-in balconies. Colin did his best to follow the secretary’s example and pretend they did not exist.

Hayek’s secretary did not speak again until the elevator doors had closed around them. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know what to say. There isn’t anything the matter with his computers that I’m aware of. But when I couldn’t locate you, Mr. Hayek grew most irate. He also said to bring you quietly.”

Colin started to ask who the muscles in gray were but decided she would not tell if she knew. “It’s fine.”

The doors opened. “You’ll need to wait just a moment please, Mr. Ready. I’ll tell Mr. Hayek you’re here.”

Upon entering the antechamber, Colin found Jim Burke standing outside Hayek’s office doors. The Unabomber looked as seriously weird as ever. Today it was a white polyester shirt, patterned black-on-black tie, black pants, railroad shoes. Newly polished crew cut. Prison-type black-rimmed spectacles. This on a man earning serious seven figures, maybe eight. “Morning, Mr. Ready.” Jim Burke nodded toward the empty corner chair. “Why don’t you have a seat. Mr. Hayek has somebody with him just now.”

Three other men sat hunched around the coffee table. One was Dale Crawford, chief of Hayek’s security detail, a leather-skinned former policeman from somewhere strange and hostile-Oklahoma perhaps, or the Dakotas. Because of their matching navy blazers, earpieces, and grim secret-service expressions, Dale Crawford’s bunch was known throughout Hayek-land as the KGB. The other two men wore the same gray blazers and dark slacks as the strangers downstairs. Only the anger burned more fiercely with this pair. They trained their ire first on the security man, then on Burke, then Colin. Black volcanic gazes taking careful aim.

Burke walked over and settled a hand on Colin’s shoulder. He spoke to the gray goons with a raspy slowness the traders loved to mock. “This is one of the good guys. Nod if you understand me. That’s fine. Colin Ready is his name. Can you say that? Never mind.”

The head of security smirked at Colin’s discomfort beneath Burke’s hand. Burke went on, “See, we had this problem. Money kept disappearing and we couldn’t figure out how. All we knew was, at the end of the month our books weren’t balancing.” The hand squeezed. Perhaps the man intended it to be reassuring, but Colin could feel his bones grinding together. “Then we had this idea, bring in a man from outside, have him look through all the electronic pathways. Mr. Ready identified the problem, and fast. We’re talking days, after we’ve been at it for three months. More. What did you call it, Mr. Ready?”

“Fractional interest siphoning.” Squirming to let Burke know the hand was not welcome.

But the man was not getting the message. Or chose to ignore it. “Mr. Ready designed us a hunter-seeker program. I’ll never forget that name. Loved it. And it worked. We found two backroom nerds dipping into the accounts payable, taking a couple of bucks here, a couple there. Did us for six hundred thou. The trouble was, they vanished just before we came for them.” A significant pause, waiting for Colin to confess he’d had a hand in warning the pair. The hand squeezing painfully.

“Mr. Ready?” The secretary had never sounded more welcoming. “Mr. Hayek will see you now.”

One of the swarthy men tried to rise with him. “Plant yourself back down,” Burke ordered, then released his grip and moved a step aside. “See you around, Mr. Ready.”

As Colin slipped past the secretary and entered the chairman’s office, Hayek pointed him to the chairs arranged by the back wall. “Be with you in just a moment, Ready.”

Colin took his seat, not bothering to mask his sudden interest in the woman seated before Hayek. He had seen her before, flashing in and out of private conferences with the King. Someone this stunning attracted notice. Colin had done some checking, discreetly of course. She was a big voice up in Washington, a player in the power game. Valerie Lawry was a lobbyist with one of the K Street firms. She ignored Colin entirely, remaining intently focused upon the man behind the desk. The antique table was big enough to rival oceangoing vessels, easily capable of sleeping six. It suited the chairman perfectly. The woman was saying, “I fail to see the merit behind your actions.”

“That is my concern,” Hayek replied. “I am simply telling you what needs doing.”

Colin stared at his nemesis-boss, and thought of a great cat resting easy, or a god from some mystical age when giants ruled the earth. Hayek’s authority was that strong. Colin had spent quite a bit of time around the man, more than anyone else from the back room. He had seen how certain women went for Hayek, and not the ones he might have expected. Powerful women, intelligent and aggressive. Young, old, beautiful and not so; their responses to Hayek seemed spontaneous, visceral. Either they loathed him, wanted to spit toxins and erase him from the earth, or they were attracted so strongly they could hate him and still want him. Hayek seemed to find both responses amusing, and used either to his advantage. Like now, bringing in his tame hacker while he met with the sharp-edged beauty. Playing the hacker and the woman both like pawns.

The woman continued to ignore Colin and told Hayek in her overbearing English accent, “I’m paid to advise you. And my advice is, you’re overreacting. I fail to see why anything Esther Hutchings does at this point is of any importance to you. What are we referring to here, a soon-to-be widow hiring a backroom flunkey? From what I’ve read, Jackie Havilland’s experience is limited to a few college classes which ceased over a year ago. She is out of date and utterly unconnected to the issues at hand.”