knife in a very large drawer, one of the smartest guys on the Street.
Faced with dwindling profits, Myers hatched a plan. He couldn’t control Mother Nature and all those damage claims against the company but he could boost their investment returns by “wandering over the line,” as he put it. Government regulators, not to mention their own internal charter, imposed strict restrictions on the kinds of investments they could make, mostly low-return, nonrisky forays in the bond market and conservative investments in mortgages, consumer loans, and real estate.
They couldn’t take their precious reserves and bet them up the road on the roulette tables. But Myers had his eye on a hedge fund run by some math whizzes in Connecticut who had reaped enormous returns by correctly betting on international currency fluctuations. The fund, International Advisory Partners, was off-the-chart from a risk perspective, and investing in it was not an option for a company like Desert Life. But once Elder signed off on the scheme, Myers set up a dummy real estate partnership, ostensibly meeting the Desert Life risk profile, and passed a billion plus in reserves into IAP, hoping for outsized returns to repair their profit statements.
Myer’s timing was not good. IAP used Desert Life’s cash infusion to bet that the yen would fall relative to the dollar-and didn’t the Japanese finance minister have to mess things up by making an adverse statement about Japanese monetary policy?
Their first quarter: down fourteen percent on their investment. The IAP guys were insisting that this was an anomaly and their strategy was sound. Myers just needed to hang on and everything would come out roses. So, in the full desert heat, their palms were sweating but they were holding on as tightly as they could.
Elder decided to meet Peter Benedict on a Sunday morning to keep it low-key and far away from his office. A down-market waffle house in North Las Vegas seemed like a venue his employees or friends were unlikely to frequent, and with the smell of maple syrup in his nostrils he sat and waited in an interior booth, dressed in white poplin golf trousers and a thin orange cashmere sweater. He wasn’t sure he remembered what the man looked like and he scanned each patron.
Mark arrived a few minutes late, an unassuming presence in jeans and his ubiquitous Lakers cap, carrying a manila envelope. He spotted Elder first, steeled himself, and made his way to the booth. Elder rose and extended his hand, “Hello, Peter, nice to see you again.”
Mark was shy, uncomfortable. Elder’s culture demanded some small talk but it was painful for Mark. Blackjack was their only known common ground so Elder chatted about cards for a few minutes before insisting they order some breakfast. Mark became distracted by the fluttering in his chest, which he worried might be turning into something pathological. He sipped ice water and tried to control his breathing but his heart raced. Should he get up and leave?
It was too late for that.
The statutory small talk ended and Elder got down to it. The pleasantries done, his tone was flinty: “So, Peter, tell me why you think my company is in trouble?”
Mark had no formal finance background but he had taught himself how to read financial statements in Silicon Valley. He’d begun by dissecting his own data security company’s SEC filings then moved on to other high-tech companies, looking for good investments. When he came across an accounting concept he didn’t understand, he read about it until he had amassed a body of knowledge a CPA would envy. His mind had so much horsepower, he found the logic and the mathematics underpinning accountancy trivial.
Now, in a constricted voice, he began rattling mechanically through all the subtle anomalies in Desert Life’s last 10-Q: the quarterly financial report filed with the government. He had detected faint footprints of fraud that no one on Wall Street had noticed. He even guessed correctly that the company might be trawling in prohibited waters for high-yield returns.
Elder listened with a queasy fascination.
When Mark was done, Elder cut into a waffle, took a small bite and quietly chewed. When he swallowed, he said, “I’m not commenting whether you’re right or wrong. Suppose you just tell me how you think you can help Desert Life.”
Peter took the manila envelope he’d been keeping on his lap and handed it across the table. He said nothing but it was clear to the older man that the envelope was to be opened. Inside were a bunch of newspaper clippings.
All of them were about the Doomsday Killer.
“What the hell is this?” Elder asked.
“It’s the way to save your company,” Mark almost whispered. The moment was upon him and he felt woozy.
Then the moment seemed to slip away.
Elder reacted viscerally and started to get up. “What are you, some kind of a sicko? For your information, I know one of the victims!”
“Which one?” Mark croaked.
“David Swisher.” He reached for his wallet.
Mark mustered his courage and said, “You should sit down. He wasn’t a victim.”
“What do you mean?”
“Please sit down and listen to me.”
Elder complied. “I’ve got to tell you, I don’t like where this conversation is going. You’ve got a minute to explain yourself or I’m out of here, understand?”
“Well, he was a victim, I guess. He just wasn’t a victim of the Doomsday Killer.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because there is no Doomsday Killer.”
6 JULY 795
A bbot Josephus caught sight of himself in the reflection of one of the long windows of the Chapter House. It was black outside, but the candles indoors had not yet been smothered so the window had the quality of a reflecting glass.
He had a bulging middle and fleshy jowls and he was the only adult male in the community who was not tonsured, nor could he be, since he was completely bald.
A young monk, an Iberian with dark hair and a beard as dense as bear fur, knocked and entered with a candle snuffer. He bowed slightly and began his task.
“Good evening, Father.” His accent was thick as honey.
“Good evening, Jose.”
The abbot favored Jose above all of the younger brothers because of his intellect, his skill as a manuscript illustrator, and his good humor. He was seldom gloomy, and when he became amused, his laugh reminded the older man of the laughter he had heard many years earlier booming from the mouth of his friend Matthias, the blacksmith who had forged the abbey bell.
“How is the night air?” the abbot asked.
“It is fragrant, Father, and filled with cricket-song.”
With the Chapter House dark, Jose left two candles burning in the abbot’s chamber, one on his study table, the other by his bedside, and bade his superior good night. Alone, Josephus knelt by his bed and prayed the same prayer he had uttered since the day he became abbot: “Dear Lord, please bless this humble servant who strives to honor you each and every day and give me the strength to be the shepherd of this abbey and to serve your ends. And bless your vessel, Octavus, who toils endlessly to fulfill your divine mission, for you command his hand just as you command our hearts and minds. Amen.”
Then Josephus blew out the last candle and climbed into his bed.
When the Bishop of Dorchester asked his new abbot whom he wanted to serve as prior, Josephus was quick to suggest Sister Magdalena. To be sure, there was no one better suited for the task. Her sense of organization and duty were un-surpassed among the ranks of the ministers. But Josephus had another motive, which had always
