Man in the Middle

wants to get caught short, not with Stratton’s analyst issuing an aggressive buy and raising his estimates—the guy’s the number-one rated industry analyst. When he opens his pie-hole, institutions listen. They’re gonna waddle in like lemmings to buy this stock. I told you, Petey: you can’t have enough information.”

Peter watched while prices in Global Technology ticked higher. First Stratton Brothers’ trader showed a 56.50 bid, up a point. Other market makers followed as the news of an important analyst’s upgrade announcement raced up and down Wall Street. By the time the market opened for trading, the bid had climbed to $57.30 per share. A couple minutes into trading, with Glo-Tech’s volumes huge, Stuart responded to a bid from Stratton Brother’s trader.

“I’m selling you three hundred two thousand GLTS at 58.20, net,” Stuart said.

Watching Stuart check boxes and scribble the details of the transaction, Peter did some quick math. In less than ten minutes, Stuart had cleared three dollars a share on three hundred thousand Glo-Tech shares, or nearly a million bucks profit.

“Not bad for a few minutes work,” Stuart announced.

“The other two hundred thousand shares?” Peter asked. “You holding out for a better price?”

Stuart brimmed as he punched the direct wire to Gordon, Ashe. “Nope. Gonna sell them right now.”

He gave an order to sell the two hundred thousand shares. Before he hung up, Stuart said to his counterpart on the other end of the phone, “And that order is to the credit of Louise Hartman and Aimie St. Claire. Thanking them for dinner.”

Stuart shrugged and explained to Peter: “Gotta pay for what you get in this business. That trade should cover their expenses. Later, I’ll shoot them more commission to cover extras.” His teeth flashed like a drive-in movie screen. “How much was getting your rocks off worth, dude?”

Peter didn’t answer. Even without understanding everything he’d seen over the last few minutes, the fog blanketing his new business began to lift. This game, he thought, just got easier to understand.

Oliver Dawson glanced at his watch: 11:04 a.m. For two frustrating hours, he had been reviewing a stack of option trades done in advance of a recent takeover. Despite suspecting people had bought on inside information— the call option volume just ahead of the announcement was triple the normal activity—he also guessed most of these crooks had parked their gains in offshore accounts. Too many countries had banking secrecy laws: Cayman Islands, Switzerland, and more recently, Mauritius Island, off the coast of Africa, to which hedge funds had taken a recent fancy. The more sophisticated funds moved money through dummy accounts from one place to another, making the already difficult trail impossible to follow.

It was the same old story. The only ones ever nailed for insider trading had the brains of a lead-eater—like a mid-level manager using a mother-in-law to buy stock or options, figuring that because she had a different last name than his, he wouldn’t get busted.

“What’s the point?” he said to himself.

Angela Newman interrupted his frustration. “Sir, I need to speak with you.”

He took a sip of Diet Coke. “Certainly, Angela.”

“Is this a good time?”

“As good as any,” he said, anxious because his secretary’s voice wavered.

A moment later, Angela fidgeted in a straight-backed chair as Dawson locked on her expression.

“I have been your secretary for over two years,” she said through a stammer.

“And you’ve been outstanding,” Dawson replied with over-the-top enthusiasm. “I hope I’ve let you know that.”

“Yes, sir . . . yes, Oliver, you have.”

He exhaled. He didn’t care that others couldn’t appreciate her.

“But . . . but I have . . .” She turned away.

“But what, Angela? Did I do something wrong?”

She inhaled, then exhaled in a rush. “I have asked for and received a transfer to another department.”

“Why? You’re tired of my swearing, aren’t you? You must hate me.”

Angela looked surprised. “How can you say such a thing, Oliver? You do swear too much, but hate you? You are such a stupid man.”

Is that why she’s leaving? he wondered. I’m stupid? “I can change. Please don’t leave.”

“I have to.”

“Why?” he asked.

“How could you not know? I’m leaving because—” Dawson leaned on the edge of his seat, ready for a double-barrel of bad news “—because I care for you, personally, and all you do is ignore me. Being around you makes me sad.”

For the first time in his life, he felt a rush from unbelievably good news. With rare confidence, he asked, “Will you have dinner with me? Tonight?”

The tables turned. Now it was Angela Newman’s jaw that dropped.

CHAPTER NINE

 AT WAR WITH THE FIREPLACE’S SIX-FOOT FLAMES, A STIFF BREEZE FILLED the room, bringing with it a hint of seaweed and salt. Gulls barked and swooped, visible through the open window making up half the west wall. The echoes of the violent Baja surf contributed a low rumble, more soothing to Sarah Guzman than music. She manufactured a smile as her guests entered her office.

“Fernando,” she began, “we were shocked to hear of the torture you endured. Unimaginable: trapped in a box, expecting to die, choking— barely enough air to breathe. Praise God for the accident of discovering you before you died.”

Carlos Nunoz had wheeled the sixty-year old Fernando Guzman, two days rescued, into Sarah Guzman’s office, the old man’s hands already strapped to the arms of a wheelchair. His features had decomposed—the eyes reflected nothing, olive skin hung like bloated bags, and bones bent like saplings, barely holding him erect. His head rocked.

“Unfortunately,” Carlos explained, “Tio Fernando has had a break-down—perhaps a small stroke. Even the joy of salvation has not yet overcome the agony of what happened. He listens and understands, but he seems so distraught that I fear he might do something irrational to himself or to others. It is sad. We are searching for those who did this dreadful deed. Former enemies of your husband’s, we suspect.”

Sarah nodded, expressionless.

“What shall we do with your husband’s brother?” Carlos asked.

“He shall live here, with me. Nurses will attend to him until he is better. Guards will surround him at all times, for his protection, of course. I will take a personal interest in his welfare. Tell the family I love my Fernando. I will take care of my Fernando. I will take care of any of my family, if necessary. Tell them for me, Carlos.”

“I shall.”

“Now, if you could wheel poor Fernando to the kitchen, the maid will feed him flan. Perhaps a cup of tortilla soup.”

“Ciertamente.”

The wheelchair’s rubber wheels rolled silently across the tiled floor, their suspension absorbing the tiny indentations between the clay squares, then handling the trip’s remainder over thick area rugs. Before Fernando vanished, Sarah Guzman imagined a small spark in his eye.

“Good,” she said to herself. “That will save so much time in the future.”

At the end of his first month, Peter graduated from probationary status. Stenman personally called to inform him that he had an impressive report card. His salary jumped not to one hundred thousand, but one hundred twenty thousand.