John Thompson: Armageddon Conspiracy

Wofford raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“The unemployment report is supposed to be announced at ten this morning.” Brent noticed that several of the portfolio managers had stopped and turned. “The market expects employment to be down by maybe a hundred thousand.”

Wofford nodded.

“Are you saying it’s going to go the other way?”

“I think God is saying it’s going to go the other way,” Wofford corrected.

Brent looked at him for a moment. “Okay,” he said.

From the hallway outside his office, Brent looked through Smythe’s open door and saw him hunched over his computer keyboard. “Got a second?” he said.

Smythe glanced up then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He was probably six-five, maybe an inch taller than Brent, but he had narrow shoulders, bad posture, and the tallowy skin of a non-athlete. “Just checking my cash position.”

“Was Wofford’s announcement supposed to be a buy signal?” If the employment report were up sharply, the market would explode to the upside.

Smythe nodded. He had a slight double chin and receding brown hair. “Better believe it.”

“Sounds like God tells Biddle what the market’s going to do?”

Smythe shrugged. “Whatever works.”

Back in his own office, Brent turned off the recorder. What he had on tape wouldn’t constitute evidence, but he understood its importance. Several large “short funds” as well as a number of hedge funds had made recent, highly publicized bets against cyclical stocks. The sudden perception of a strengthening economy would cause those stocks to shoot up, forcing the funds to cover their positions at significant losses, and that would push prices even higher.

Suddenly, his phone rang and he answered. It was Joe Steward, the head trader. “I’m waiting for your buy orders,” he said.

“I’ll get right back.”

Brent quickly scanned the cash balances in the accounts he’d been assigned, checked his buy list against current positions, and then called the trading desk. He invested fifty million dollars before the Commerce Department announced the much stronger than expected employment number, and then he sat back and watched the market soar nearly two hundred points.

NEW YORK, JUNE 14

THE FOLLOWING WEEK THE MARKET rally seemed to be holding and even extending, and the firm buzzed with the kind of confidence people show when they know they’ve got things figured out. A few minutes before eight on Tuesday night, Owen Smythe breezed into Brent’s office with a bulging accordion file. “Fred asked me to bring this,” he said.

Brent raised his eyebrows at the phonebook-size thickness. “Another account?”

Smythe winked as he dropped the file on Brent’s desk. “Don’t screw it up.”

Smythe turned to leave, but Brent flicked on his tape recorder and said, “I have a question.”

Smythe was almost out the door, but he stopped. “About?” he asked.

“The unemployment number.”

Smythe studied Brent a few seconds.

“It seems like somebody’s got a crystal ball.”

Smythe raised his eyebrows. “I assume you belong to the same church as all these other guys. Maybe you ought to ask one of them.”

“I’m a new member.”

“Yeah, right.” Smythe closed Brent’s door and leaned against it. “Just between us girls, I think you’re full of shit.”

Brent sat perfectly still, but his pulse began to kick. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m probably the only guy in this firm who’s not a member of the New Jerusalem Fellowship, but they keep me around because I’m smart. I don’t know how the hell Biddle and Wofford get their information, whether it’s God or something else—but I don’t stick my nose in it.”

“You’re telling me this for a reason.”

Smythe nodded. “I checked you out with a couple buddies in Boston, and I know what you did at your old firm. Wofford and Biddle certainly ought to know if they did their homework, but they don’t seem to give a crap. I don’t know why you’re really here, but whatever’s going on, you stay out of my backyard, cause I’m clean.” He nodded once then turned and walked out.

Brent waited a few seconds then picked up his cell phone and called Simmons in Boston. Without preamble he reported the conversation.

“What do you want to do about it?” she asked.

“Nothing. He’s not one of the insiders. Now that he’s said his piece and covered his ass, I think he’ll keep quiet. Still, the fact that he came in and said something suggests that we’re on the right track.”

Simmons was quiet for another few seconds. Finally, she said, “Just keep that cell phone with you.”

Brent hung up then sat for a few seconds trying to shake off the feeling that Simmons wasn’t telling him the whole story. Did she really believe these guys might come after him? He thought about Wofford—a fat, lumbering guy. Biddle was too much like a professor, and Smythe was just trying to keep himself out of it. Very unlikely, he decided.

He reached for the folder Smythe had brought and read the name on the cover, Dr. Khaled Faisal. His eyes widened in recognition. Dr. Faisal was an Egyptian billionaire, famous for having spent millions in efforts to promote peace in the Mideast.

Brent opened the file and let out a low whistle. His other accounts were between five and fifteen million—average-sized for the firm—but this one was huge. Suspecting a mistake, he pulled it up on the computer and saw that, indeed, it was one of the largest accounts in the entire firm, some seven hundred fifty million dollars. His name appeared beside it as the manager of record.

The correspondence folder accounted for much of the file’s thickness. In testimony to Faisal’s philanthropy, there were perhaps a hundred letters directing the firm to send money to various universities, hospitals, and health care organizations. Brent shook his head as he read. It didn’t make sense to assign such an enormous account to a “new guy.”

He sat back and checked his watch. It was getting late. Deciding not to waste time on an account somebody would undoubtedly take away first thing tomorrow, he tossed some research into his briefcase and walked into the hall. A light glimmered under Owen Smythe’s door, and on a whim he knocked and stuck his head inside.

Fred Wofford was leaning on one of the visitor’s chairs talking with Smythe. “Sorry,” Brent said, as both men looked in his direction.

“No problem,” Wofford said as he turned and moved toward the door, almost rushing. “We were just killing time.” He pulled Brent inside and went out. “You fellows chat or go out for a beer,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Brent listened as Wofford’s heavy footsteps faded down the hall then he turned and studied Smythe.

“Don’t worry,” Smythe said after several seconds. “We weren’t talking about you.”

Brent looked down at his hands a moment then looked up. “You know, being a whistle-blower one place doesn’t mean you make it a habit.”

“Whatever you say. Just as long as you know where I’m coming from.”

“It sounds like you think there’s something going on.”

“I don’t see, I don’t know, I don’t ask. We straight on that?”

“Tell me something, how is it that I’m being given Dr. Faisal’s account?”

“You joined the right church,” Smythe said with a cynical smirk. “Biddle wanted you to have it.”

“I thought it had to be a mistake.”

“Nope.”

Brent nodded, started to leave, then change his mind. “Feel like grabbing a beer?”

“You serious?”

Brent smiled.