Andrew Gross: Reckless

A team of government agents jumped out. Hauck saw a stocky, dark-complexioned man in a tan suit, followed by Naomi, in a brown pantsuit, close behind. Three more agents exited the second SUV, wearing earphones.

He recognized them all as FBI.

He went up to Naomi and her demeanor brightened when she saw him. “I’m glad you’re here. This is Senior Agent in Charge Anthony Bruni.” She introduced him to the agent in the tan suit. “He’s with the Financial Crimes Task Force in New York. This is Ty Hauck. He’s worked with me on much of this case. More like I’ve worked with him.”

Hauck shook hands in front of the entrance to the hotel.

“I know who you are.” Bruni nodded respectfully. “I followed what you did on the Grand Central bombing case and that mess up in Hartford. Glad to have you aboard.”

Hauck nodded back appreciatively, as if surprised his exploits had made their radar.

Bruni grinned. “Hey, FBI agents watch CNN too.”

He stationed two of his men at the cars and one in the lobby; the other two went with them in FBI Windbreakers as they entered the posh hotel. “This could go several ways,” Bruni explained. “And it won’t be quiet. One thing I know: the ruling family back in Bahrain is going to throw a fit. We have a representative of the State Department meeting us back at FBI offices.” He smirked. “You might also think about shorting Reynolds Reid stock before the end of the day. This isn’t going to go well on the Street, either.”

The group entered the crowded lobby and went up to the front desk. The hotel manager, in a black suit, came out to meet them. “I’m Special Agent Bruni,” the FBI man said. “We spoke on the phone.”

The manager, a tall fortysomething man with a receding hair-line, appeared understandably anxious that a procedure of this magnitude was taking place at his hotel. “I checked. Mr. Hassani is still in his room,” he said. “He arrived about forty minutes ago and hasn’t come back out. I’m hoping you can exit through the side entrance on Fiftieth and keep this as discreet as you can.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Bruni assured him. He radioed to the drivers to wait around the block. Then he turned to Naomi. “Ready, Agent Blum? It’s your show.”

The determination was clear on Naomi’s face. Not only was this the biggest arrest of her career, but she had traced this since it was no more than two seemingly unrelated deaths of Wall Street traders. They’d tied them to a cryptic call from Hassani and followed the chain of money to Serbia and London, murders blocking them every step of the way. Now they were back to Hassani.

“One hundred percent,” Naomi said, inhaling a deep breath and casting a tight smile at Hauck.

“Then let’s go.”

Hauck, Naomi, Bruni, the hotel manager, and the two accompanying agents went over to the elevators across the red carpeted lobby. When it came, the manager politely asked a couple about to step in if they could wait for the next one. They climbed in. The elevator whisked them to the twelfth floor, where Hassani was staying. On the private floor, there was a concierge seated behind a desk.

“Chris, is Mr. Hassani still in his room?” the manager asked.

“Yes, sir.” The concierge nodded, checking. “He went in about forty minutes ago. There’s only been one other person on the floor, another guest, who went in and out shortly after.”

In and out.

Naomi’s gaze shot to Hauck. He saw in it the same sense of alarm that was buzzing through him.

This couldn’t happen again.

Naomi started to run. With her leading the way, they went quickly down the long hall of rooms and turned the corner to the suite at the end.

The wooden double door read 1201.

Naomi knocked. “Mr. Hassani! This is Agent Naomi Blum of the United States Department of the Treasury. We need you to open the door.”

There was no answer.

She knocked again, this time with more force. “Mr. Hassani. This is the United States Treasury Department. Please open the door.”

They waited again. Nothing came back. Hauck could feel the nerves rising in Naomi’s blood.

The same feeling was going on in his.

Bruni stepped in. “Mr. Hassani, this is the last time we are going to ask you. This is the FBI. We need you to open the door. We have a federally executed warrant for you to come with us on matters of national security. If we don’t hear a response, we’ll be forced to make our own way in.”

They waited a few more seconds. No sound emanated from the suite. Bruni nodded to the hotel manager, who stepped between them, wearing a concerned look, and slipped an electronic key into the lock. The green light flashed with a click. He turned the handle and opened the door, then backed away.

Bruni and the two agents behind him drew their arms. “Mr. Hassani, we are coming in…”

The door struck something hard.

With an anxious look, Bruni put his shoulder against it and forced it open. It took just a second for it to become clear something was deadly wrong.

A heavyset, Middle Eastern-looking bodyguard in a dark suit was on his back on an expensive-looking Oriental rug.

Two dark circles of blood spread on the man’s white shirt.

Hauck’s own blood scame to a stop.

Naomi muttered, “Oh, no, no, no, no…,” and, rushing inside, shouted, “Mr. Hassani?”

The entrance opened to a spacious and modern living area. There was a wall bar, a set of curtained windows overlooking Park Avenue. Next to it was a large dining room and a kitchen.

“Mr. Hassani!” she called out again. Now everyone had their weapons drawn.

The team of agents spread, the cry of “Clear! Clear!” echoing through the multiroom suite.

Hauck went ahead of Naomi and found what looked like the master bedroom. He carefully stepped into the room, his Sig in front of him, but when he saw what was there he lowered the weapon.

“He’s in here.”

A man reclined on the bed, in his sixties maybe, wearing a white terry bathrobe, gray bearded, reading glasses on his forehead, composed, a newspaper spread on his chest as if he were napping.

A bright red hole dotted the center of his forehead.

Naomi and the other agents rushed in. She stopped, as if some invisible force had halted her motion, and she gazed, deflated, at the bed. Her fists clenched and she pressed her lips tightly, her eyes glassing over in anger and dismay.

A look of understanding spread across her face.

“Simons?” Hauck asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s larger than Simons.” She took her gaze off Hassani and turned back to Hauck. “I know what’s happening, Ty.”

He nodded back. “So do I.”

Peter Simons was pleased.

The annual meeting had been a home run. He had stood up in front of two thousand concerned shareholders in the Grand Ballroom at the Pierre and mapped out-simulcast on a giant screen above him and across the globe-how Reynolds Reid was in position to emerge as one of the victors in these challenging times.

Yes, he had acknowledged, the stock price had taken a hit. The entire financial sector had.

Yes, there were billion-dollar write-downs that would have to be taken. The government had proposed a possible rescue plan for the troubled banks. It was conceivable the firm might participate in it, he told the shareholders.

Participate?

Simons had to hold himself back from laughing out loud. It was the biggest bonanza in the company’s history. And he had been sitting at the table where it was conceived, Simons reflected with glee, but, of course, he could not divulge this.

Still, the firm was solid, he declared. It was not in line to be one of the casualties, he said with commitment. It had shifted out of its subprime positions long before many of its competitors, like Wertheimer or Citi or Merrill. Its balance sheet was fundamentally strong.