T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

He resumed his taut pacing. “But those muddling idiots in Foggy Bottom would not leave it alone. Under pressure from Washington, the coup leaders backed down, and power was handed over to Vice President Noboa. Overnight, the dollar transfer was back on.

“But my own trauma did not end there. I then received a visitor, some nameless gray specter from the Treasury Department. Someone utterly removed from my lobbyists and power politics and the influence I have garnered over elected officials. This Washington apparition looked down at me in the most humiliating manner, spoke around his mouthful of Ivy League marbles, and said they would not be going after me. The U.S. financial markets were already nervous after the Long-Term Credit debacle. So I was simply going to swallow my sucres and never exercise my options. All eight hundred million dollars worth. Amazingly, this spook actually had the correct figure, despite my best attempts to hide my actions. The American government made a paper write-off of this amount from Ecuador’s outstanding sucre debt. Which meant I had effectively financed the country’s transfer to a dollar economy.”

Hayek stared out the window and said in a tone dulled by old fury, “I learned my lesson well. I removed myself from the porous Street, where information is bandied about by everyone from the bus drivers to the corner newsboy. But I did not move so far away as to raise warning flags with the SEC. I began paying careful attention to the do-gooders and their interference. I established a new electronic security system. And I replaced my entire senior team. I doubt seriously they had anything to do with my failure, most of them probably had no idea what had happened. Only four people even knew what I had planned. But I fired them anyway, as a warning to all future employees that failure of any kind was not to be tolerated.”

“I won’t fail you.”

“Esther Hutchings is involved with the Sant’Egidio band. So is the new congressman’s sister. Which makes the risk of their meddling absolutely unacceptable.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Proceed with the next phase. Meet the bankers this weekend.”

Burke had to smile. Forcing a bank’s board to meet on Easter weekend would establish the perfect atmosphere for what they had in mind. “And the funds?”

“The first installment will be transferred on Tuesday.”

Burke hesitated, decided he had to say, “I don’t like how the senior traders have made Colin Ready their pet techie. It only means his reach has been broadened even further.”

“Don’t give me mere chatter,” Hayek snapped. “It is time for proof.”

“I could put Anker back on him.” Then Burke waited. When Hayek did not object, Burke knew with utter certainty that Hayek in truth had not objected to Anker’s tactics. Only his failure. “And if it’s Colin?”

“Proof,” Hayek insisted. “Hard and fast. And spread your net further in case you’re wrong.”

This time Burke did not move. “What do I do if Colin Ready is spying for the Brazilians?”

Hayek did not like being trapped. “Must I really spell out every detail for you?”

“No.” Burke headed for the door, vastly satisfied. “Absolutely not.”

Valerie Lawry sat in Hayek’s outer office and pretended to fume. Thus far she had been kept waiting precisely two hours and twenty-three minutes. No one kept her waiting two hours and a half. Not even the President of the United States, when twice she had attended conferences in the Oval Office. And to have it be Hayek, a man known for his eccentricities and his swagger, was doubly galling. Not to mention the fact that she had just risen from seven hours of ragged sleep, after two transatlantic flights in thirty-six hours. Even so, she didn’t want to leave, or even complain. In truth, she was far too shaken for much real anger.

People were coming and going from Hayek’s office in a constant stream. Initially the great double doors had opened to reveal a genuine shouting match inside. Valerie had never heard Hayek raise his voice before, or show any emotion stronger than scorn. Then the doors had expelled a waxy-headed young man in Rodeo Drive garb, looking utterly crushed as Hayek blistered the silk wallpaper. Even Hayek’s secretary was frightened.

Then Hayek had emerged, but not for her. A line of sullen traders had entered Hayek’s office. Among them was the slender techie who had sat in on her last bout with Hayek, a man who appeared frightened of his own shadow. Strange that he would be there among the heavy hitters. Valerie made a mental note to find out who he was. But not today, when the atmosphere stank of gunpowder and dread.

She would not be there at all, except for the fact that Hayek was her first real client. Not of the K Street firm where she slaved and struggled. Her own. Almost six months earlier, Hayek’s android, Burke, had sought her out at the close of an international banking forum and explained that they were looking for a private rep. Her firm was the chief lobbyist for the American Investment Managers, or AIM, so there was certainly the potential for a conflict-of-interest claim. But these things happened all the time within lobbyist circles. They were far less organized or monitored than, say, the lawyers. Which was why Valerie had hung tough, obtained her secret dream, then signed.

Valerie had fought tooth and nail for a contract clause that stated if she reached the six-month mark, she would be kept on for an additional five years. Which meant a solid base with which to go indie and start her own firm. Next week marked the six-month window. Which made this meeting crucial.

“Ms. Lawry?” The secretary gave Valerie a pasty smile. “Mr. Hayek will see you now.”

She rose to her feet, took a moment to straighten her jacket and smooth the lines of her skirt. But her mind refused to throw off the jet-lag clumsiness. Valerie decided she would hear him out, then claim fatigue. Which was both understandable and the truth. She would not be pressed into making any decision until she had rested.

Even so, her ankles wobbled on her high heels as she entered Hayek’s office. He waved her into the seat opposite his desk. “How are you this morning, Ms. Lawry?”

“Tired. I have just gotten back-”

“From Rome. Yes. Rome.” Hayek wore his most infuriating smirk, his dark eyes glittering and mesmerizing. The man’s authority was what had struck her the first time they had met, and it affected her still. He was far from handsome, with his eagle’s beak of a nose, eyebrows like silver-gray shrubbery, hair Brylcreemed to his skull, and lips both sensuous and cruel. The jaw of a prizefighter, cheekbones of an Indian chief. But his demeanor was so awesome the physical attributes were secondary, if noticed at all. He rested calm and omnipotent, surrounded by a storm of his own making. Sucking whatever he required from those about him, giving nothing back. She was merely another pawn for him to put into play. There was only one way to give the situation any dignity at all. And that was to use him just as cynically, playing this situation to accomplish her own agenda. Lawry and Associates. Offices on K Street, three blocks from the White House. A name known to everybody in the business of power.

Hayek asked, “How was your journey?”

In truth, it had been as grand an experience as any intercontinental flight could be. Hayek’s new private plane was the largest Gulfstream made, equipped with deerskin seats, a six-screen entertainment center, butler, bath, and a double bed whose silk sheets smelled of lavender and rosewater. “Long.”

Hayek asked, “Will you have coffee?”

“Thank you, but I’ve had two and a half hours to drink your coffee.”

“Indeed so.” Hayek leaned back in his chair, swiveled so as to stare out the back window. “You saw the congressman in Rome, did you not?”