T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

While Carter was speaking, Kay banged her gavel to adjourn the meeting. She rose from her seat, shook a few hands, then aimed for Wynn. He braced himself for another onslaught of unanswered challenges, but all she said was, “Is it true you’re living at the Willard?”

“That’s right.”

“A suite?”

“For the moment.”

“Do us all a favor. Move. You want to stay in a hotel, go someplace that won’t make such a splash on the six o’clock news.”

“It’s my money, Kay.”

“There’s nothing the press would love more than a photo of you getting out of a limo at the Willard with a pretty girl on your arm. I can see the caption now. Fat cat Wynn Bryant, so out of touch with his district he thinks a thousand dollar suite is real life.”

“You really think it’ll come to that?”

She gave him a look of brittle experience. “Try the Four Seasons. Nothing but a brick wall to shoot. Could be anyplace.”

As soon as Wynn entered his office, his secretary announced, “The governor’s office is on line two.”

“Right on time,” Carter said.

“You knew about this?”

“He caught me before the committee hearing. Yelled at me for a couple of minutes since you weren’t in range. I figured there was no need to worry you in advance.” When Wynn showed no interest in picking up the phone, he went on, “Sooner or later you’re going to have to let him sing his tune.”

The governor’s assistant, whom Wynn had known for more than ten years, treated him like an utter stranger. Or a pariah. “Hold for the governor.”

But when Grant came on the line, there was none of the screaming Wynn dreaded. The man’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you have any idea the kind of storm you’ve raised for yourself?”

“Just doing my job, Grant.”

“Your job. What about our agreement?”

“What about your responsibilities to my sister?”

He hit a high note then. “You leave Sybel out of this!”

“Afraid I can’t do that. Which you know as well as I do.”

“Go on up to Washington, I said. Have yourself a high old time. Sign a few bills, get your picture taken with the powers that be, meet some fine big-city ladies. Vote down one piece of legislation. Keep your nose clean until I got myself elected to the top club in the world. Was that so much to ask?”

“Yes, Grant. It was.”

“Well, this here’s your demolition notice. They’re coming after you. And when they’re done, we’ll be hard pressed to find a greasy stain.”

“Who’s behind this, Hayek?”

“That name happens to belong to one of my top supporters. You can’t possibly be implying he’d be mixed up in anything as nasty as what’s going to happen to you.”

Wynn countered, “You don’t have any trouble being the spokesman for the same group that murdered your wife?”

Another hard breath, then the phone slammed down.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Carter observed from his place by the door. “I don’t see any singed hair.”

Wynn swiveled his chair around to face the window. Through the sunlit curtain he could just make out the stone wall across the courtyard. Trapped in a cage of his own making.

Carter said, “They’ve got something on you, don’t they.”

Thursday

Jim Burke sprawled in the corner of his patio Jacuzzi, a drink the color of a tropical depression at his elbow. He felt as lifeless as the pictures he had seen in the development’s brochure-the couple seated just exactly where he was, strong-limbed and empty-headed, giving each other these full-tooth smiles. As if being here was the answer to every problem they’d ever had. He sipped from his glass, grimaced, and pushed it away. Since coming in with Hayek, these were the first free days he had taken while the trading floor was open. He absolutely loathed it. The world was spinning, the markets were flying, and he was trapped in a concrete square that made its own bubbles.

When his phone rang, Burke checked his watch. Right on time. He punched the button and said, “Burke.”

“Thorson here.” The man sounded suitably wired for somebody who had been taken from the cellar and launched into multibillion dollar orbit. “The senior trader’s had a phone-in order. Hayek’s group wants to buy another three-fifty worth of dollar-yen. That puts them a hundred million over the current Interbank limit.”

“Let me check with headquarters and get back to you.” Burke hung up the phone, leaned back, and imagined all the action he was missing. He felt the absence in his gut, a hunger that burned so bad he’d willingly swallow acid just to give it a physical name.

The Central Markets department of First Florida was in absolute chaos. This he knew from Brant Anker. Burke closed his eyes and saw it like he was there, standing in the corner, feeding off the frenzy. Thirty-seven traders operating in a space maxed out at twenty. Everybody sweating and screaming and moving money in great heaping piles. He understood why Hayek had ordered him to lie low and monitor activities from a distance. Thorson needed time to get used to his position as board member and top man. During this start-up phase, their Interbank line would be nudged up in three hundred million dollar increments. Enough to be noticed, but not enough to cause alarm. Not when they were literally awash with money. A billion had been injected so far. Double that in forty-eight hours. Another billion the next day. Then the big hit. Five billion more.

Burke decided he had waited long enough. He called Thorson back. “That’s a go on the three-fifty in yen.”

“Right.” Thorson was too experienced a trader to let much of his ebullience show. But it was there just the same. “I’ve had six calls from the Interbank crowd so far this morning. More than I’d usually have in a month. People asking what’s going on. I’m giving it to them straight, just like you said. At least so far as the money is concerned. Nothing about the new owner.”

“Good.”

“When they hear we’ve lined up Brazilian money, the envy starts pouring down the line.” Thorson sounded tightly jubilant. “Had three offers so far this morning to raise the size of our Interbank lines.”

“Take whatever they offer. Tell your senior trader to use it all.”

“Hang on a second.” The trader paused, then came back with, “The bank’s very own personal pachyderm has just entered the room. He looks hot.”

That would be Robert Carlton the Fifth. “I guess you better put him on.”

There was the shuffling of a phone being passed, then the fruity voice of history demanding, “Is this Burke?”

“It is.”

“I want to know what you’re going to do about these security people you have camped in my front lobby!”

“It’s a temporary measure,” Burke said, not caring whether the man believed him. “Just until we get the Capital Markets sectioned off.”

“One of them refused to let me pass until I showed him my driver’s license! Those dolts are frightening off my best customers!”

“Your best customers,” Burke replied calmly, “are the ones currently pumping fresh blood into your bank. I don’t suppose you’ve heard they just placed another half-billion with your foreign exchange department this very morning.”

“I want them out of here!”

“Look. Your Capital Markets division is now dealing in highly confidential information. And they’re making your bank a ton of money. We need to ensure no one from the outside gains access.”

Carlton took a couple of heavy breaths, then crashed down the receiver.

Burke raised his glass to the sunlight and the unfolding of Hayek’s strategy.