Nathaniel Rich - Odds Against Tomorrow

“They’re reporting that FutureWorld is the only firm to have predicted the flood,” said Mitchell.

“That’s right. We were. You were.”

“Charnoble wants me to do interviews. Though I don’t see why I should help him at this point.”

“But the flood scenario — you came up with it yourself. Charnoble doesn’t deserve the credit.”

“They’ll lose interest soon. They’ve got more important things to cover than some consulting firm’s predictions about things that have already happened.”

Jane wasn’t listening anymore.

“What,” said Mitchell. “What is it now?”

She was staring at the television, her mouth open. Mitchell turned.

A patrol boat was ferrying patients from New York Hospital up the East River to the Bronx. Semiconscious bodies doubled over the railing; others lay sprawled on the deck. They had wild eyes and gaping mouths, like astonished fish heaving on the bottom of a fishing boat.

“Exactly. They don’t have time for FutureWorld when this kind of thing—”

“No,” said Jane, impatient. “Read the crawl!”

Squinting, he focused on the text scrolling beneath the images: “… Zukor, a consultant at the firm, the only financial analyst to have foreseen the tragedy…”

“Jesus King,” said Jane. “No wonder Charnoble wants you to call.”

Mitchell’s phone started to ring. It was an unlisted number. When he picked up, the caller introduced himself as a producer from the Morning Show .

“Morning, like top of the morning ?” said Mitchell. “Or mourning, like mourning an unspeakable tragedy.”

Jane gestured at him frantically. “Tell them you’ll call back.”

Mitchell hung up.

“Let’s think about this,” she said. “Strategize.”

“There’s nothing to think about. I’m not going to shill for FutureWorld.”

“No,” said Jane. “You should talk to them.”

Mitchell’s phone buzzed again, a different number. They stared at it. Mitchell pressed REJECT INCOMING CALL.

“Look, Charnoble sent you out in the hurricane too,” said Mitchell. “Just so you could make him a few extra consulting dollars. We might have died back there. We should have died. By all odds.”

“That’s just it. You do the interviews, but only on one condition: they don’t credit FutureWorld.”

“What would it say under my name — freelance consultant? What’s the point?”

“It doesn’t say freelance consultant. It says ‘Founder and Director, Future Days.’”

“Future Days?”

“Your new consulting firm.”

“ Hold on.”

“You were the soul of FutureWorld. Charnoble was just an administrator, a scheduler. Brumley was the money behind the whole operation — and it was their idea anyway. But you’ve been devising worst-case scenarios since you were a kid. You’re the talent.”

“No way. I appreciate the thought. But I’m not interested.”

“Every scenario we presented to our clients, you created. You did the research. Most important, you were the one who scared the bejesus out of all those Nybusters we met with.”

“Thanks. You were pretty scary yourself.”

“Glad you think so. Because now that you’re the director of Future Days, I was hoping you might consider hiring a number two.”

“Have you been plotting this?”

“ Plotting sounds devious. But yeah, I’ve been planning some future scenarios myself the last couple of days. Mitchell, the money is going to be flooding in.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Jane. “Look, you deserve this. Now’s the time to move. It’s a new market. We could make serious, consequential money. For you, frankly, the flood is a best-case scenario.”

“Listen to yourself. You sound like Alec.”

“Alec had his points. He was a good salesman, at least. He knew how to turn fear into capital.”

“Mm.”

“We might as well make the best of a bad situation, right?”

There was a heightened mania in her eyes. Passionate Jane had seized on another passion. She was like a puppy with a new toy clenched between her teeth. Mitchell remembered how she looked in Central Park, dancing when the storm broke, the rain bouncing off her exposed neck, her hair in wild tendrils, giddy and free.

“I can’t think about this now,” he said. “It’s too soon.”

“If we wait much longer, other people, other firms, will jump in. You know Brumley will.”

Mitchell thought of his father, gaping in awe of the high business machinery of New York City. The moral of the Hungarian Revolution: Greed is Good.

His phone rang. Jane tried to read the number that popped up on his display.

“Television calling?”

It was Anchor Liberty, a FutureWorld client. Mitchell plugged in his earphones and connected.

“Zukor, thank God.” It was Harold Harding, the investment firm’s boss. “You’re alive.”

“Mr. Harding? I showed up yesterday morning for our appointment, but the building was closed. The security guard didn’t let me in.”

Jane tapped Mitchell on the shoulder, indicating that she wanted to listen to the conversation. She nudged close to him, and he handed her one of his earbuds.

“Yesterday morning?” said Harding. “You mean the morning Tammy hit? You’re goddamned right it was closed.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“We assumed you left once the storm started bearing down. Why, we were following the directions you gave us yourself.”

“I suppose Alec wanted us to be sure—”

“Charnoble! He made you stay? I never trusted the guy. You, I’ve always respected. Always thought you had a real ability. You know that.”

“Yes sir.”

Jane, next to him, was smiling.

“But he forbade you from leaving the city,” said Harding, incredulous. “He made you go against your own recommendations? Frankly I’m stunned.”

“I’m stunned myself. I’m still in a state of stun.”

“We evacuated all our employees in time — not just the Manhattan office but also Fairfield. Followed your scenario to the letter. Everyone with an Anchor Liberty Go Bag. They avoided the traffic too, sticking to your escape routes.”

“They took Tenth Avenue, then?”

“Tenth to Amsterdam to the 181st Street bridge.”

“So it worked. I’m glad to hear it.”

“A bonus will be arriving with the first mail. Count on that. And now I see you’re some kind of national celebrity. Well, this has been a nightmare, a hell of a nightmare. But we’re grateful to have had your wisdom guiding us through.”

“See what I mean?” said Jane, after Mitchell disconnected. “They depend on you now.”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

“There’s a logic to it, right?” she asked. “A logic , no?”

“Yes,” he said, humoring her. “I see the logic. But how? We have nothing. We might not even have access to our apartments or the office for weeks.”

“That’s my job. All we need is our clients’ information, and I have that on my phone. They know you’re more valuable than Charnoble. We’ll call Anchor Liberty and Lady Madeline and a few other firms right away — those contracts will stake us while we develop our business plan. Especially since you’ll be able to bill more than FutureWorld. A lot more.”

“Future Days, huh?”

“It has a certain ring. If I don’t say so myself.”

“We’ll need a financial team, office space, a marketing strategy.”

“There are profits to be made,” said Jane, “in being prophets.”

“Yep. Got it. But first I’m going to Maine.”

Jane cocked her head, as if he had suddenly started speaking Farsi.