They turned at the sound of a light knock on the door and Rahmani entered with a tray bearing two plates of lamb couscous and stuffed grape leaves.
“I take it I’m not a prisoner anymore,” Gage said.
Rahmani set the tray down on the dresser, carried the plates over to the desk, and set them down.
“You knew I wasn’t going to shoot you,” Rahmani said. “Anyway, the truth is that one way or another, we’re all prisoners. Here, everywhere.” He gestured toward Ibrahim. “He calls it human gravity. We’re all subject to it, but no one knows how it operates.”
Gage looked at Ibrahim. “That sounds like something Milton Abrams might’ve said.”
Ibrahim nodded. “He did, back when we were friends.”
Gage pointed at the outline of the revolver in Rahmani’s front pants pocket. “You really need that?”
Rahmani’s face flushed.
“I got it because I handle a lot of cash at the dealership.” Rahmani pulled it out and rested it in his palm. “But the thought of shooting someone makes me nauseous.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “The whole idea seems absurd, like death itself.”
Gage thought of Kenyon Arndt and the fantasy role he’d planned for the videotape in the theater of his mind, and then of Rahmani, standing behind the counter in the gun store, who’d now admitted to doing the same thing.
But an armed man in the midst of that kind of existential confusion was as dangerous as a sleepwalker wielding an ax.
Gage held out his hand. Rahmani glanced at Ibrahim, who nodded. He then passed it over, more like he was abandoning it rather than surrendering it. Gage swung out the cylinder, slid out the bullets to check their condition, replaced them, snapped the gun shut, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He then noticed that the two had been watching him as though they were spectators at a military exercise.
Rahmani sat with them as they ate, then collected their plates.
Gage’s encrypted cell phone rang as Rahmani closed the door behind him. He glanced at the screen, and then said, “It’s my office calling.”
“It’s about Faith,” Alex Z said. “She’s been detained by the PLA in Xinjiang, along with Ibrahim’s wife. As soon as she walked into Ibadat’s apartment, soldiers closed in.”
Gage felt his body tense, but only nodded, as if the call was the confirmation that Alex Z had passed on the message to Casher.
“Anything else going on?” Gage asked.
“Boss, didn’t you hear what I said? Oh. I get it. Somebody’s listening.”
“Exactly.”
“They let her make some calls. She doesn’t understand why, but for some reason they wanted you to know. She tried your regular cell, but it was turned off and your encrypted phone blocked her call, so she tried here. They’re flying her and Ibadat from Xinjiang to Beijing right now.”
“Did they say why?”
“No. But the BBC is saying that the PLA has arrested about a thousand government officials and have given the rebels a deadline to turn over the ones they hold, along with company officers.”
“Give me a call if anything changes,” Gage said, then disconnected.
Gage took a sip of tea, afraid to display his worry to Ibrahim, afraid that Ibrahim’s loyalties would reverse again if he learned that his wife had been captured by the Chinese.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Gage said, trying to anticipate Ibrahim’s reaction when he found out, “why aren’t you and your wife together?”
“She is a religious person and I committed the sin of theological sarcasm with the offshore tax scheme.”
Gage pointed upward and said, “Rahmani told me that the whole thing started as a joke.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Ibrahim said.
The words echoed in Gage’s mind. They were the ones he’d said to Hennessy’s wife, the ones she’d quoted back to him, her husband’s refusal to explain.
“I’ll admit that the Manx trust was a stunt, but it was directed at the people involved, not the principle. If the West had followed Sharia finance, which prohibits making money from other money, there wouldn’t have been a dot. com collapse or a mortgage crisis. There would’ve been investment in real production, rather than in gambling on financial derivatives.”
Ibrahim cocked his head and looked away as though he was rethinking his last thought. Finally, he shook his head and said, “It’s not even gambling, because in gambling you can estimate odds. You know how many spots there are on dice. You know how many suits there are in a deck of cards. These idiots risk trillions on dice whose spots keep disappearing and on cards whose face value keeps changing.”
“I’m not sure that answers my question.”
“From my wife’s perspective, my sin was unforgivable every which way. I sinned against the faith. I made it possible for Muslim separatists to blow up innocent people. And I worked for a Chinese government that is repressing her people.”
Ibrahim sighed. “I should’ve spent the last few years inventing a time machine, that way I could now go back and do things differently.”
Gage looked toward the door as it opened. He rose as Ronald Minsky strode in. Minsky glared at Gage, and then at Ibrahim. It seemed to Gage as though in an intuitive leap Minsky grasped the meaning of the three points in the triangle they formed in the rectangular world of the room.
“So you’ve gone over to Abrams’s side,” Minsky said, his face flushing. “And sold out Relative Growth.”
“But from which side did I move? “ Ibrahim asked.
Minsky’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at Ibrahim, but he was looking for an answer that lay somewhere in the past.
“Who do you think I’ve been working for?” Ibrahim asked.
Gage pointed at the chair next to the desk that he’d vacated. Minsky glanced at Gage and seemed to grasp that it was an order. He walked over and sat down.
“Tell him how you set him up,” Gage said to Ibrahim.
Ibrahim looked across the corner of the desk at Minsky, his lips tight, overcoming internal resistance like a surgeon saving the life of a man who’d killed his wife.
“Let me guess what happened in the last few weeks,” Ibrahim said. “They forced you to restructure Relative Growth so you could pass the audit and, more importantly, so you could conceal from the auditors how you manipulate the markets.” Ibrahim lowered his head and raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”
Minsky didn’t answer.
“But that left you sitting on a lot of cash that wasn’t earning you anything. The Chinese then suggested that it was time to make a move on the euro. Do the same as what you did to the franc in the old days, except on a huge scale, in the scores of billions. A shock and awe attack that no one would see coming.”
Gage watched Minsky half smile, unable to suppress his owner’s pride.
Ibrahim grabbed his mouse and navigated to a spreadsheet, but the entries on it weren’t financial. They were a list of business and financial media. The Financial Times, Bloomberg, CNBC, the Wall Street Journal, India Market Watch, and Reuters UK, and next to them falsehoods, half-truth headlines, and fact-sounding rumors and the times they’d be planted in the press:
“STRIKE TO SHUT DOWN SOUTH AFRICAN PLATINUM MINES”
“TERRORIST ATTACK ON RUSSIAN GAS PIPELINE THWARTED”
“FRENCH FLOODS CAUSE LOSSES IN THE BILLIONS, MASSIVE SPIKE IN UNEMPLOYMENT”
“EU REVEALS $500B TRADE DEFICIT WITH CHINA”
“GERMANY FALLS BEHIND CHINA IN EXPORTS”
“MAD COW DISEASE FOUND ON DUTCH FARM, CATTLE INDUSTRY THREATENED”
Gage imagined Minsky’s currency trading network then engaging, starting to dump euros from a thousand different trading desks around the world, and speculators watching their monitors, then panicking and rushing to trade their euros for dollars ahead of the collapse, each sale driving the euro lower and lower.
“You think the Group of Twelve are on your side,” Ibrahim said. “A strong dollar means high bond prices. You win, they win. But the truth is that they’ll win, and you’ll lose. The Group of Twelve will be buying the cheap euros
