Thomas Hoover - The samurai strategy

Numbers? The CBOT's long-interest contracts, notes and bonds, are in denominations of a hundred thousand each; the Merc's short paper, bills and CDs, are in units of a million per. Finally I did some quick arithmetic and toted up the zeros. Something had to be wrong here. Nobody had balls that big. I decided to run through the figures again, just to be sure.

It was along about then that I realized all Noda's pious talk about sheltering Japanese widows and orphans had been purest bullshit. Resting there in my hand was the biggest wager slip in world history. Assuming enough players could be found worldwide to take his action, he was planning to advance-sell U.S. Treasury IOUs in the amount of five hundred billion dollars. A full quarter of our national debt.

His bet: something or somebody was about to push America over the brink.

"Yo, counselor. Get thy butt over here and buy me a drink."

I was standing in the smoky entry of Martell's, on the way back downtown from Sotheby's, when I heard the voice, a Georgia drawl known from Wall Street to Washington. And sure enough, leaning against the long mahogany bar, the usual Glenfiddich on the rocks in hand, was none other than Bill Henderson.

Long time, no see. I'd actually stopped by for a little ninety proof nerve medicine myself, not to pass the time with America's foremost cowboy market-player. But the idea of bringing in a Wall Street pro was most welcome. If anybody could dissect Noda's game, Bill was the man.

What was I going to do? I'd stalled on giving Matsuo Noda a final answer, telling him I needed time to think. Then just to make sure the whole thing hadn't been some sort of macabre hoax, I'd checked at a Chase bank machine on Lex. He hadn't been kidding. A retainer had been deposited all right, presumably by certified check, since it had already cleared. I was on the payroll, ready or not.

Noda was right about one thing. What he planned to do had grave international consequences. The problem was, his game had just one payoff. The way I figured it, he won if, and only if, the U.S. suddenly went broke. As international consequences go, that seemed reasonably grave.

Henderson was the perfect guru to take apart the scenario. Assuming he was sober. Tell the truth, at first glance I wasn't entirely sure. The guy looked a mess. I assumed he was holding some sort of private celebration, or maybe it was a wake. What was the occasion?

"William H., welcome back to town. Thought you'd decamped permanently down to D.C."

"Packed it in. Back to start making a living again. Could be I've just set some kind of new world record for the briefest tenure ever seen on the Council." He eased over to make room, while the jukebox began some Bobby Short standard about incomparable NY. "So where's your TV star tonight? Sure love that gal." He toasted Donna's memory. "If tits were brains, she'd be a genius."

Sexist? Tasteless? That was merely Henderson warming up.

I hadn't actually set eyes on Bill since an ill-fated birthday dinner Donna had thrown for him in midsummer, a favor to a producer friend of hers at the station who'd wanted to try vamping a real live millionaire. That evening he'd arrived with a serious head start on the whiskey, his meditation on the concept of birthdays, and then proceeded to regale those assembled with his encyclopedic repertoire of farmer's-daughter and traveling-salesman vignettes. In the aftermath, Donna swore she'd kill him if he ever set foot in her place again. When I made the mistake of speaking in his defense, she critiqued a few of my character defects as well, then added me to the list.

"Friend, no small thanks to you and that sordid evening, I haven't seen Donna since."

"That was a dark moment in my history. After listening half the night to that air-head producer she put next to me, I was in mourning for the hearts and minds of America." He revolved back to the bar. "What're you drinking?"

"Something serious." I pointed toward the single malt. Laphroaig neat.

Just then Bill paused to watch as two women in bulky raincoats brushed past. They receded toward the other end of the bar, settled their coats across an empty stool, and ordered drinks. One was a youngish blonde, a bit nervous, having some tall, colored potion that looked as if it could use a cut of pineapple and a plastic monkey on the glass. But the other one, brunette, was a different story. Pained eyes, with a psychic armor that could only be called battle-weary New York. Joanna, all over again. Tanqueray martini. Straight up.

"Hot damn, sure is good to be back in this town." He was trying, without conspicuous success, to catch the younger woman's eye.

"Henderson, you're standing next to a man with some news that could well alarm you considerably."

"Like maybe this dump might run low on booze?"

"Not likely." I reached for my new drink. "I've got to make a decision, fast. So try to keep a clear head and see if you can help me out."

In my estimation Henderson was a phenomenon-sober or loaded. He'd emerged from the red clay hills somewhere in north Georgia, former football All-State ("I only did it for the pussy"), and ended up at Yale Law-where we shared an apartment for three whole years. By the time we'd finished our degrees, I figured I was ready to tackle real life, but Bill had hung in and gone for a Ph.D. in economics. Although his athlete's physique hadn't survived Yale-an early casualty of the single malt and the Dunhills-Henderson still had the delusion he was twenty-five. Easter before last he'd arrived at my place down in the islands with some leggy print model half his age and a case of Jack Daniel's Black. Did the redneck routine bamboozle the cautious hearts of his admiring ladies? Probably. Right under the radar.

All that notwithstanding, it was a commonly accepted fact that Bill was the sharpest private currency-trader on the East Coast. If tomorrow the dollar was about to dive, the guy who'd already sold it short tonight from Hong Kong to Zurich was invariably Henderson. That part of his life had been all over the papers the previous spring, after he got tapped for the President's Council of Economic Advisers. I guess some genius on the White House staff-urged on by that wily senator from New York, our mutual friend Jack O'Donnell-concluded the Council needed a pet "contrarian" on board for appearances, and Henderson looked to be a sufficiently pro-business prospect. Wrong. After a couple of interviews he was forbidden to make any more public statements. He'd failed to grasp that the national interest required fantasy forecasts just before elections. Bill may have been a master of subtlety when he was trading, but otherwise he tended to call a spade a spade, or worse.

"What's up?" He was about to punt with the blonde after one last try.

"Maybe you'd better go first." I took a sip, savoring the peaty aroma. Let Henderson decompress in his own good time, then sound him out on Noda's chilling proposition. "What are you doing here?"

"Call it modesty and discretion." He turned back.

These were not, as you might infer, the first descriptors that leapt to mind whenever I thought of Bill.

"Care to expand?"

He slid his hand across the bar, extracted another Dunhill from its red pack, and launched a disjointed monologue starting with the goddam traffic in D.C., then proceeding to ditto coming in from LaGuardia.

All this time his cigarette had been poised in readiness. Finally he flicked a sterling silver lighter, the old-fashioned kind, and watched the orange flame glisten off the mirror at our right. "So, old buddy, that's it. All the news that's fit to print. History will record this as the moment yours truly bailed out. I figure it like this. If I can't read the signals myself these days, what in hell am I doing giving advice? Time to hit the silk. Get back to making a living. Don't know how long this circus is going to last, but I figure we'd all better be saddled up and ready to ride, just in case."