T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

The senior Dresdner Bank trader was from Singapore by way of Chicago, and known for his Cuisinart blend of accents. “We hear buyers started coming out of the woodwork late Friday.”

Burke pretended surprise. “What’s the spot?”

“Come on, Burke.” The Barclay’s senior American trader was an utterly hairless man who wore a straw boater to protect his pate. “Like you guys weren’t nose down at the trough.”

The Dresdner man pressed, “Dollars against euros, sterling, yen, anything so long as the position has them dollar long.”

“The dollar does look pretty firm, doesn’t it,” Burke said.

But the cognac and the company had fueled the Dresdner man’s ability to mask his worry with angry bluster. “It’s a panic spree.”

Burke smiled at the guy. “You’re telling me you’re long euros?”

“We’re looking at a sure-fire arbitrage. I’ve told my guys it’s a mopping-up exercise.”

“Not me.” Barclay’s spoke to the Paribas guy but was eyeing Burke, hoping for a sign. “I told my people they better have their buyers locked in before they move. Either that or they’ll be planted on the street.”

“The dollar’s overvalued, I’m telling you.” This from Dresdner.

Burke smiled once more. “Then why are you sweating?”

“The heat down here stays cranked up to sauna, that’s why. Look, have your guys call my guys. We’ll take whatever you’ve got on offer.”

The Barclay’s guy moved in tight. “Unless Hayek is trying to form a bull corner on the dollar market.”

“Cornering is illegal,” Burke replied coolly. “The Fed would plant their inspectors in our front room and shut down our operation for the duration.”

“So there’s nothing to the rumor,” the Barclay’s man pressed, “that Hayek is holding some juicy big news, something that might really strike the market hot?”

“All I can tell you is what I’ve already said. The dollar is looking pretty solid from where we stand, and the current investment flow seems to be pushing it higher.” Burke rose to his feet, gave the table a benign smile. “Think I’ll go check out the action in the bar.”

He took his time maneuvering through the tables, exchanged greetings with people he knew from previous conventions. Things were moving just as Hayek had predicted, and it was important for the gathered traders to see him and take note. All the while, Burke marveled at Hayek’s plan. Currencies often made huge fluctuations in August and early September. The same thing happened between Christmas and the New Year, when the gnomes of Zurich closed down for their annual migration to Gstaad and St. Moritz. The financial press often assigned blame to whatever political or interest rate crises happened to be brewing. But the reason was far simpler: less liquidity. Fewer traders were exchanging less money. A relatively small amount of activity was therefore enough to cause a massive shift. Hayek’s plan was to push the markets around, and do so violently. The best time to do this was when the fewest senior traders walked the floor. The senior traders were the ones allowed to trade the bigger positions. And come Monday, these traders would be on the third day of a serious annual binge.

Burke smiled to the palms and the manicured lawn and the blistering heat. One thing was certain. Hangover or not, come Monday the gathering would be swarming like a hive on fire.

Sunday

Sunday morning Carter Styles picked Wynn up and drove him first to church with his family, then the three blocks from the church to their tract home on the outskirts of McLean. Carter’s wife was a quietly intense woman who did statistical research for the American University science department and three local labs. The two Styles children were six and nine, and mercifully resembled their mother. Their home was a two-story brick cookie-cutter with a large fenced-in backyard full of swings and toys and an ecstatic golden Lab.

Carter tended burgers on the grill as he sipped a glass of iced tea and made short shrift of his background. “I was born and raised in Fort Pierce. Little town of about fifteen thousand, double that when the snow birds come flocking down. Sits between Vero Beach and Boca. Place is full of your basic hourly wage crowd.”

“I know Fort Pierce.”

“Sure you do. I was fourteen the year we finally crawled out of Vietnam. Spent my teenage years watching my hometown grow tumors. Fourteen head shops. Six Harley depots. Meth houses. Bars with bullet holes in the front doors. By the time I got out of college, I was just looking for a way to get even. Graham found me, pointed me in the right direction, told me which legs to bite.”

Wynn squinted through the smoke of grilling meat, listened to the kids laugh and play tag with the dog, and watched Carter’s wife talk over the fence with a neighbor. He knew there would never be a better time than this to unload. “The years before I was able to sell my business, Grant ran for Congress. Toughest race of his career. Only one he ever lost. Cost a ton of money. Sybel was campaign treasurer. Ended up she’d personally underwritten some of the debt.”

“Oh, man.”

Wynn nodded, seeing nothing but smoke and sunshine. “I set up an offshore account in Bermuda. We’d licensed a Taiwanese company to use our technology, and my share of the take never found its way home.”

“Far as I recall, this is a totally illegal act you’re describing to me.”

“I used the funds to buy futures options on the company that was buying us out. Jackson Taylor’s old company.”

Carter was no longer tending the meat. “It just gets worse and worse.”

“Made a bundle. Had the bank write Sybel a check. Never mentioned it was me, but she knew, and knew enough never to talk about it.”

Carter glanced down, started sliding the burgers onto plates. “The account was in your name, is that what you’re telling me?”

“Do I look that dumb? But somewhere there are bound to be records showing my signature on something.” He waited for Carter to call the kids over, then said, “If you guys want me to resign, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Carter had taken over the guest room for his home office, claiming it was the only way he could watch his kids grow. He found Kay at Esther’s and had Wynn repeat his tale over the speakerphone.

Kay was silent a long time. “There had to be something.”

“There usually is,” Carter agreed.

“Grant had something he figured would tie you in a knot, so he appointed you like Sybel wanted. I never did like that man.”

“There’s something more.” Wynn related the meeting he’d had in the hospital lobby.

“You went to see Nabil?” Kay sounded genuinely pleased. “He didn’t mention that to me.”

“The point is, the Feds left themselves the perfect out. If the press makes a big noise with this, the FBI will basically be obliged to open an investigation.”

“Do you want out?”

“Not if I can still do some good here.”

“Carter, what’s your take on the situation?”

“I’m clear out of answers at this end, but my gut tells me we ought to stay with what we have.”

“I’ll think on it and let you know tomorrow.” Kay sounded very weary. “A little clarity would be sweet just now. Very sweet indeed.”

Sunday

Jackie spent the entire weekend searching through her textbooks, waiting for Eric’s phone call, and picking at the scabs of old memories. She found nothing but futility and frustration on all counts. Eric neither called nor answered his phone. She drove by his development twice each day, walked the street, but saw only drawn curtains and a barking dog from two doors down. Each time she left a little more worried.