T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

The marble-lined lobby was segmented by pillars and stairs and mock balconies. Clustered beneath the three-story ceiling were other dark-suited knots of serious faces and important murmurs. Everybody carried a briefcase, everyone expected to be noticed. A young man wearing the plastic badges of entry around his neck approached the guard, who pointed in their direction. Wynn demanded, “What do you want me to do here?”

“Just pretend like you’re talking straight into Hayek’s ear.”

The staffer said, “Congressman Bryant?”

“Just a minute.” He turned his back to the young man. “Go on.”

“These guys always travel in packs, it’s their way of sharing any possible blame. The one we’re interested in probably won’t say a word. His name is Gerald Bowers, and he makes me look pretty. Say whatever you think might make Hayek the most nervous. You know our situation. If this guy’s on our side we need to find out now.”

“Congressman, we are indeed grateful that you would take the time to bring these matters to our attention.” The spokesman was handsome in the way of manicured pandering. Another was rail-thin and heavily jowled. The third man was short and bald and had the complexion of a wizened toad. Other than that, they were identical. All three were in their sixties, all spoke with the nasal twang of inbred Ivy League snobs, all eyed Wynn with polite condescension. “We also regret very much the recent demise of your sister at the hands of Islamic terrorists.”

“They weren’t terrorists.”

“That’s not what the FBI is stating,” interjected the slender man.

Carter leaned forward, asked in an over-soft voice, “And just how would you be knowing that?”

The spokesman harrumphed his way back into control. “As I was saying, we are obliged to take note of your assertions. But I must also tell you that they are utterly without merit.”

“The fact that First Florida has been acquired by a Liechtenstein bank fronting for the Hayek Group doesn’t concern you?”

“We are well aware of the Banque Royale’s recent acquisition. And we have made an official request to the Liechtenstein authorities for a full list of shareholders.”

Carter snorted. “Which you will definitely be receiving. In about fifteen years.”

The spokesman gave Carter the fish eye before proceeding. “As to these other matters, I am certain even in your bereaved state that you can well understand how unfounded these allegations of yours are.”

Wynn caught Carter’s signal, rose to his feet, and let a little of his heat show. “Hayek and his group are responsible for the death of my sister. He is a menace.”

“He is a respected member of the hedge fund community,” interjected the spokesman.

“Same thing,” Carter said.

“Have your people ask him about the code name Tsunami,” Wynn said, turning for the door. “And do it fast.”

Wynn stood before the unlit fireplace in his suite and read off his note cards, “Currency traders are champagne-swilling speculators who treat the world’s financial markets like their own personal casino. These international gamblers produce nothing and help nobody. Their days are filled with maneuvers that endanger the lives and jobs of normal working people.” He stopped. “How’s that?”

“Be better if you could get the shimmy out of your voice.” Carter sat on the edge of the sofa, briefcase open beside him and notepad on the table in front of him. “But not bad.”

“I look nervous?”

“Like a rabbit staring down the barrel of a gun.” Carter glanced at his watch. “We have to go.”

Wynn reached for his coat. “I still feel like I ought to give them something with more meat to it.”

“If they want stats, have them talk to me. Every chance you get, hand the press a thirty-second soundbite. Anything more and you give them the power to edit you down.” Carter reached the door, gave Wynn’s suite a final glance. “Kay is going to have something to say about your present abode.”

Walking along the long hall and twice more in the elevator, Wynn had to stifle the sudden onslaught of panic. The Willard’s brass-framed mirrors reflected a man on the verge of serious meltdown. Carter met his eye just as the doors pulled back but said nothing. Too much was on the line for empty solace.

They were midway across the lobby when Carter murmured, “Well, just lookee here.”

The toadlike man from the meeting at the Federal Reserve was making his way toward them. Beside him walked a man in a red-and-blue-checked jacket and navy polyester pants. Despite the seventies golf attire, the second man carried himself with arrogant ease. Behind the pair walked the senior FBI agent who had wrecked Wynn’s Saturday. The squat man with the reptilian complexion said, “Gerald Bowers, Congressman. Far as the world is concerned, this is a no-hard-feelings little confab. Smooth the waters with the freshman in Hutchings’ seat after today’s set-to. Catch my meaning?”

“Yes.”

“This is Reed Brink, Vice President of the SEC and Chairman of the Arthur Brink Brokerage Company. Out of Saint Louis. A good man to have on your side. Agent Welker you already know.” Bowers planted himself within probing distance. “We’re here to tell you that we know the hedge fund community, Congressman. And as far as we’re concerned, they are the enemy. They’re a cancer that must be destroyed before it wrecks our entire financial establishment.”

The man barely made it up to the middle of Wynn’s chest, and smelled of hair oil, cigars, and the drink he had just had in the bar. “You guys came all the way over here to teach us the alphabet?”

“You look like a smart man, Congressman. Word is, you held your own when you went up against Jackson Taylor’s group. That’s good. We need us some fighters down in the front line trenches.”

“I’m still not clear on one thing. Just exactly why are we having this meeting?”

“Because once you unleash your firestorm tonight, officially we are going to be standing with the opposition.”

“I would never have suspected anything else.”

“Officially, I said. But we’d like to see things otherwise. Even so, we can’t box with shadows. Get us something real and we’ll do our best to help you take them down.”

“Explain one thing, please. Why is it I’m all of a sudden supposed to trust you?”

Bowers bristled. “If you were half as sharp as they say, Reed here and the agent are all the bona fides I should need.”

“Right. A man I don’t know and an agent who spent four hours in my face. Great references, Mr. Bowers.”

The agent stepped forward. “Tsunami is a name we haven’t had on our radar screens for some time, Congressman. Last time it popped up, the young lady who told us about it got very dead.”

Carter edged his way into the huddle. “What did she tell you?”

The agent held his focus on Wynn. “Little more than we have from you so far. A supposed connection to Hayek. Nothing more.”

Bowers repeatedly smoothed his tie, the nervous gesture of a man ready to bolt. “This has already taken too long. All you need to know is, if you come up with some real ammunition, we’re on your side. Otherwise, we’ll be just two more faces watching you from behind the enemy’s cannon.”

The taxi dropped them off at the member’s entrance to the Capitol. Wynn wanted to stop and catch a final breath of free air, but Carter grabbed him by the arm and pulled him forward. “Waiting won’t do anything but spotlight all the things that might go wrong.”

The stairways and corridors passed like a marble-lined maze. “I couldn’t find my way around this place with a map and a guide dog.”

“Remind me to give you the five-cent tour. That is, if we ever have time.”