John Thompson - Armageddon Conspiracy

Simmons shrugged. “That’s not evidence.”

“No, but it’s unusual.” Brent tried to recall Owen Smythe’s exact words. “Smythe said that Biddle takes control when he gets ‘messages.’ I tried to ask more questions, but he clammed up and wouldn’t say any more.”

Simmons’s harsh expression softened a little. “I know I tend to get impatient. Don’t push too hard. Give it time.” A sardonic smile flickered across her lips. “After all, you are being paid quite well for your patriotic duty,” she said, referring to Brent’s three million dollar a year salary, paid bi-weekly in installments of a hundred fifteen thousand dollars before withholding. It was a staggering sum that was going to allow him to pay off his mountains of debt in only a few months. “Or maybe you’d prefer to trade that for a government paycheck.”

“Unlikely,” Brent said, wondering if bitterness over his salary was what made her seem so contradictory.

Simmons interrupted his thoughts by holding out her hand. “By the way, give me your cell phone.”

Brent blinked in surprise but did as she asked. She put his phone in the pocket of her jacket then pulled another phone out of the opposite pocket and handed it across. “Use this one from now on. The first number on speed dial will reach me twenty-four hours a day,” she said. “If you ever feel threatened or in danger, call me.”

“In danger?” Brent smiled.

Simmons leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re going to take their business down.”

“These guys are money managers, not drug dealers. They’re not going to pull something stupid.”

“If your cover gets blown, I wouldn’t assume anything.”

Brent thought her warning was melodramatic. Everything he’d seen so far told him the Justice Department had the situation wired, starting with how easily they’d maneuvered him into the firm. Even though his resume was rock-solid, there had to have been other strong candidates. But then Simmons had sent a twenty-five thousand dollar donation in his name to Prescott Biddle’s church, some kind of evangelical denomination called the New Jerusalem Fellowship. They believed in the literal interpretation of the Bible, but apparently they also believed in money because once the check had been cashed he’d been the only candidate that mattered.

Minutes later as he walked the remaining blocks to his apartment, he glanced over and imagined his brother walking beside him, Harry’s cheeks permanently chapped from flames and heat, the sleeves of his tee shirt rolled up to display the NYFD tattoo on his thick bicep.

Harry had his head thrown back. He was laughing. My little brother, the secret good guy!

Brent scowled.

So, what’s your beef?

“Even if these are bad guys, I feel like a traitor.”

You just hate taking crap from Uncle Fred.

Brent nodded. “I almost told him.”

About working undercover? Good call that you didn’t. Fred hasn’t kept a secret in his life.

“I know.”

Just remember, where there’s smoke there’s fire, little bro.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

We’re the guys who put out the fires.

“That was your life, not mine.”

You sure about that?

“I’m not too sure about anything.”

If Harry were still alive, he would have responded by slapping the back of Brent’s head or popping his shoulder with an elbow. Of course, nothing came. There was only the noise of the city all around and the echo of Brent’s footsteps as he walked the avenue alone.

GREENWICH, CT, JUNE 9

FRED WOFFORD’S PHONE JERKED HIM from a deep sleep. He felt his wife shift beside him as he opened his eyes in the darkened bedroom, checked the bedside clock then fumbled for the receiver. It was nearly five thirty, time to be getting up anyway.

He put the phone to his ear and listened as a disembodied voice in the background announced a train, the sound echoing off a cavernous ceiling. He knew it was the sound of Union Station in Washington, D.C.

“Up two hundred thousand,” the caller said.

“Two hundred thousand,” Wofford repeated. “Go with God.”

“Go with God,” the man said.

NEW YORK, JUNE 9

IN CENTRAL PARK BRENT PRACTICED his taekwondo katas on the East Meadow as the day’s first light began to pierce the dark, early morning sky. As a third degree black belt, running through all of them took well over an hour. The air was cool and the mist drifted from the wet grass like smoke. Slick with sweat, he ran hard around the reservoir as the apartments on the West Side began to glow with the dawn light, striking a hard contrast on a pale sky. Through it all he tried to keep his mind blank and surrender to the joy of physical exertion, to the insistent beating of his heart, the in and out of his respirations.

He had planned his workout in hopes that it would help him burn off some of his confusion about his current assignment. Only the moment he finished and started walking home, it came racing back.

If the GA partners were using inside information, he was doing the right thing if he helped bust them. He thought about the firm’s client list, the eleven billion dollars they managed. It seemed preposterous, maybe even impossible, that the firm’s senior partners would break the law. They were making tens of millions of dollars, so why risk it?

Even if Biddle occasionally overruled the rest of his partners, it was probably because he was an egomaniac. Nothing illegal about that—egomania was as common as pigeons on Wall Street. Brent shook his head, unable to stave off his doubts. What if the Justice Department was wrong and overzealous? It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe rather than doing a good thing, Brent was about to ruin the reputation of a brilliant man.

An hour later in the morning meeting, his uncertainty continued to nag as he looked around at the other members of the firm. It was a boys’ club for sure. The partners were all Caucasian, and other than Owen Smythe, who appeared to be in his midthirties, they were all late forties to early sixties. Their hair was uniformly short, their shirts white. They looked as similar as members of some WASP fraternity, and he wondered how their investment style could be so much more aggressive and edgy than their appearance.

He heard little that appeared noteworthy, and it seemed like the meeting was starting to wrap up. Brent pushed away from the table and was halfway out of his chair when the room fell silent. At the head of the table, Wofford had folded his hands. “Let us give thanks,” he said.

The others were still seated. They all bowed their heads, and Brent felt a wave of hungry expectation wash over the room. Instinctively, he put his hand in his pocket, found the recorder, and pressed the on button.

“Lord Jesus,” Wofford intoned, “we give You thanks for making our minds keen so we may build wealth for our clients and Your church. Make our hearts true as we prepare the world for Your return. In Your name we offer our obedience, Amen.”

Brent glanced around. The prayer was over, but no one moved. Wofford let the silence build. “Biddle called early this morning from Europe,” he said suddenly. “The Lord spoke to him last night. He is blessing us with prosperity, and the economy is strong. So speaketh the Lord.”

The others began to stir. They exchanged knowing looks and brief nods as if important information had just been communicated. Several mumbled, “Amen.” As they filed out of the room, Brent remained frozen, wondering whether to risk a question. “Excuse me,” he said.