T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Hanyo Bank of Yokohama was the world’s seventh largest, with two hundred and twelve billion dollars in assets. Forty-seven forex and derivative traders worked in New York, out of a total U.S. staff of two hundred. Five years earlier their New York operations generated over one-third of the bank’s total profits. This year they lost a cool billion and a half. From kings of the hill to lords of the dung heap. Desperate times. They had been Hayek’s easiest sell.

The Frenchwoman used her gold pen to check another item off her list, then inquired, “When, exactly, will your plan be put into play?”

Really, this was too much. “Duclos knows perfectly well that I can’t say.”

“But my superiors demand-”

“Our goal is to wait for a moment when the market is at a euphoric high, then hit it with catastrophic news. News that we control. Which Duclos is already aware of.”

It was a lie, of course. But there was no need to tell these people or anyone else precisely what he had planned. Anyone who knew his true design was instantly an uncontrolled risk.

She then asked the logical follow-on, which was, “How do you control such events?”

It was Burke who answered. “By having the catastrophic news already in-house.”

“This is news of your government, yes?”

“News that the controllers are desperate to keep under wraps,” Hayek lied. Not even Burke knew the truth. Which was as it should be. “News that will wipe twenty percent from the markets within hours of its release.”

“When this news is amplified by the market’s current volatility,” Burke added, “we should have a genuine stampede on our hands. We go in fast, we strike hard, we win while the market is still reeling.”

“So when-”

Hayek rose to his feet. This meeting was over. “The minimum input is two billion dollars,” he said.

She accepted the dismissal with stiff grace. “I will report to my superiors and come back-”

“No. Play or don’t, it’s your choice. If you’re in, transfer the money. Finish.”

When Burke had shown the woman out, Hayek told his number two, “Hire someone good. Use the Liechtenstein bank for cover. Put tags on her and Duclos both.”

“You don’t think he’s coming in?”

“Whether he is or not, we have to assume the information will be passed on or used.” Neither of which he could afford. If their plans were successful, there would be an enquiry. The SEC and Fed would like nothing better than to hit him with a charge of collusion. Which was why no one knew the whole picture-not even Burke, and certainly not Duclos. Still, it was best to be safe. “Despicable people, the French.”

Burke shuffled papers and tried to make his query sound casual. “What about the Brazilians?”

“I am meeting them tonight.” Hayek noted the underlying tension in his own voice. “That is another group quite beyond belief. Those gray-jacketed security oafs endanger everything.”

“I still don’t see why you sent them to search the Havilland place.” Burke hesitated, then added, “Unless you meant for them to fail.”

That was the trouble with hiring intelligent people, Hayek reflected. They might just surmise the underlying enigma. He countered with, “Not to mention roughing up my security technician in front of the entire trading floor. Such brutality might work where they come from. But it accomplishes nothing here.”

“The Brazilians won’t agree to pull out their security.”

Not yet, Hayek silently amended. “They’re multiplying like lethal spoors. We really must find a way to contain them.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Hayek was tempted to tell him. Which was genuinely remarkable. He never gave his secrets away to anyone. It was the clearest indication yet of the strain he felt. So many years to arrive at this point, so much riding on each step, each motion, each and every word. The answer to Burke’s question was the same as to them all: find a solution that would turn the liability into his advantage.

He said simply, “Call for my car, will you.”

Burke did so, then helped him on with his coat. “I still don’t have the goods on Colin Ready.”

“No doubt you’ll find them, if they are there to be found.” Lemmings, Hayek thought as he watched Burke spring for the door. A fraternity of highly intelligent, gilded lemmings. That’s all these traders are. They are a breed driven by rumors, he thought, nodding to his aide’s farewell. They prance about like princes, they bray like stallions, but at the first hint of peril they show their true nature. As the world would soon see.

That evening Hayek dined in solitary splendor at Norman’s, not an altogether foul restaurant in Coral Gables. But neither the meal nor the Spanish colonial surroundings held his attention. He found himself given over to another place and different meals, ones shared with his mother at Manhattan’s Russian Tea Room. It had been his mother’s favorite place, the red velvet and brass and padded linen tablecloths all vaguely reminiscent of the grandeur she had once known. One of the waiters of Pavel’s youth had been a minor Hungarian noble, someone his mother would most likely have scorned in another era. Even so, she would always sit at one of his tables. They would say little to one another, and speak only French, the social tongue of the central European aristocracy. And never, ever would they mention the lost realm. There was no need. A subtle shift of one eyebrow, a lingering sigh, a languorous glance at the restaurant’s pedestrian crowd. It was enough. The waiter always called her Principessa and referred to the young Hayek as Monsieur le Comte. In return she had always used the most powerful of his vague connections, just the one word-Romanov. Upon departure, as she offered him a gloved hand, he would give the stiff half-bow of royalty, and she would bestow upon him a second title-that of Cousin. He was long gone now, as was Hayek’s own mother. But the memories made for pleasant company. His mother would no doubt approve mightily of his present strategy.

Afterward he proceeded to the Jackie Gleason Theater of the Performing Arts, known locally as the TOPA. Tonight the full Kirov Ballet was dancing Stravinsky, providing the only reason Hayek had agreed to this journey at all. The director’s box had cost him a twenty-thousand dollar donation. Hayek sat in solitary detachment and watched the dancers take leaps of which even Nijinsky might have approved.

Before the intermezzo applause had died down, a dark-suited young woman appeared at his elbow. “Would you follow me, Mr. Hayek?”

“Everything has been arranged?”

“Just as you requested. This way, please.”

And indeed it was, a remarkable feat in this most variable of towns. The upper floor had a small open mezzanine, guarded now by yet another official. Hayek had ignored the Brazilian banker’s insistence on meeting in their downtown offices, knowing the disadvantage would be too great. Controlling the turf was half the battle won. The young woman opened the door for him, accepted the tip with grave thanks, and shut the door firmly behind him.

“My dear Pavel, this is marvelous. Really.” The Brazilian was portly and wore a saint’s wreath of white hair. He waved his cigar to the balcony, the spring night, the champagne in the beaded silver bucket. “How you find these islands of privacy in the midst of this glorious city is utterly beyond me.”

“There is nothing glorious about Miami,” Hayek replied loftily. “Nothing whatsoever.”

“But it is your closest metropolis, not to mention a place of Latin flavors. Even the crime is served with salsa.” The banker beckoned at a shadow hulking by the balcony railing. Another man stepped from the night and entered the light splashing through the doors behind them. “A new associate of our group, and a new potential investor for you.”