Man in the Middle

“Yes. Jack. Just that way,” he replied, wondering how she knew. He accepted the drink, sipped, and watched Sarah deliver Stenman’s water. He sipped again.

“As I said,” he began, “I’m pleased you listened to my analysis. Better lucky than smart, I guess.”

“You are too modest, Peter, and it is we who are grateful,” Sarah said. “Never before has someone so new to our organization contributed so much.”

Morgan Stenman only nodded. In all the time Peter had known her, Stenman never said much. He marveled at how she seemed a master at having others speak on her behalf, as if telepathically directing the show. When Stenman blinked twice in rapid succession, Sarah continued: “This will be a multiple hundred million-dollar swing to the partnership. Tomorrow, Howard Muller will commence covering his short position. Once he has done so, you are free to initiate a long position. Morgan has authorized two hundred million additional to your trading book.”

Peter gulped more bourbon. “But I’ve never taken a position over thirty million,” he said.

Stenman spoke: “Do you know what the average bonus will be this year, for those in your trading room?”

Peter shook his head.

“It will average over a million.” With that statement, Stenman went back to sipping water.

“I had no . . .” Peter’s head shook, and his Adam’s apple danced in his throat.

“Bonuses always have a component of seniority,” Sarah said, picking up where Stenman left off. “Loyalty pays dividends. But with this PC transaction of yours, and a few other projects Morgan intends to put you on, you will be up there.”

While Peter stood in stunned silence, Sarah Guzman reached for an envelope lying on the dining table. She opened it. “Having said that,” she began as if given a self-delivered cue, “this is a convenient time to discuss another matter.”

Peter tried to force a pleasant face. Looking at her made his pulse race so fast he felt winded.

“You are loyal, correct?” she asked.

“Yes,” Peter said without hesitation.

Sarah’s short brown skirt hiked as she moved towards him with slow, fine steps. She had white legs. Light glanced off one knee and highlighted a dark freckle that caught Peter’s attention for a split second. When she stood beside him, she seemed a foot taller than her four-foot-eleven inch-es—she had a way of cocking and swaying her head so that she drew a man’s attention down. In her hand she held an enlarged photo, but the image was turned away from Peter. Drops of sweat confirmed to him that something about this situation had activated his autonomous nervous system.

Stenman made her way to the dining table. She picked up a miniature toasted cracker—Beluga caviar was painted across its face in a heavy mound. Sarah waited for her to turn around before continuing. “We have had so much unwarranted attention over the years. The President of the United States calls Morgan Stenman the ‘epitome of the American Dream.’ He phones to ask for advice on economic and foreign affairs, even while the SEC harasses her.”

“I understand,” Peter lied.

“Then please, explain this to me . . . to us.” Sarah waved the flopping photograph like a fan.

As Peter looked down at the outstretched hand—the faces on the photo damnably visible—his heart froze.

“This man spends his life attempting to ruin us. He works without agency sanction. Perhaps,” Sarah said, “you could help us understand what he thinks he is after.”

Peter attempted to respond, but first needed another sip of whiskey. While his brain unscrambled the implications, he stared at the man in the photo, standing over his table.

You filthy SOB, he silently swore.

Carlos Nunoz, in room 203, watched Peter’s expressions on the closed circuit television and listened, not so much to his words, as to the way he said them. When Peter left, a half-hour’s explanation later, Carlos entered the room where the two women waited.

“Nada. He knows nothing,” Carlos said. “At least not yet. Dawson’s visit was a fishing expedition—no contact between the two since.”

Stenman nodded.

“I also agree,” Sarah said. “But if he ever learns anything, this could become a serious matter. Two of your operatives had to be dealt with because of what Hannah Neil provided the SEC.”

“Fortunately not a material loss,” Stenman said.

Carlos traced the scar lining his face, fingering the thickened skin as if it were a prize instead of a hideous wound. He remained silent, not yet contributing additional analysis.

“But Dawson,” Sarah Guzman said, simultaneously looking at both Stenman and Carlos, “is kicking around because he believes more information exists and that Peter Neil might be a source.”

Stenman exhaled a stream of smoke.

Sarah took a seat and crossed her legs. “It is possible Hannah Neil had more documents to implicate a wider network of your contacts. That would translate into serious disruptions. She might even have had documents implicating us directly. It is the unknowns I find troubling.”

“What have you discovered about Agent Dawson’s visit?” Stenman asked.

“He acted on his own,” Sarah said. “Took time off, paid his own way. But it is clear he has identified Hannah Neil as the one who sent him those papers. Once we realized Dawson had requested and received his copies from the lab, we anticipated this development.”

“Have you given any thought to taking care of this agent?” asked Stenman. It was clearly Carlos’ question to answer.

Carlos glanced at Sarah without moving his head or blinking his eyes. She nodded, and Carlos redirected his attention to Stenman.

“Si, senora,” Carlos said, measuring his words, “but it would be a mistake. We cannot simply eliminate a man in his position, for the same reasons we did not make an example of Senora Neil. Atencion. We do not crave unwarranted atencion.”

“Atencion?” Stenman asked.

Carlos looked to Sarah. “Carlos is saying that people like Dawson cannot be dealt with in the same manner as others because of his visibility. He is now contained, and we do not wish to put a spotlight on him by eliminating him. It is best to give him a little more rope and let him hang himself.”

“Continue,” Stenman instructed.

“The Director of Enforcement will be made aware of the man’s numerous departmental violations,” Carlos said. “That should put him in a most uncomfortable position. It is Senor Neil we need to concentrate on now. If they prove necessary, we have backup plans. I give the credit to my uncle’s wife.” Carlos bowed to Sarah.

“Let’s just say that if need be, we will turn sympathy away from Peter Neil,” Sarah said.

“The details are not my concern,” Stenman said, sipping her beverage. “Let’s see how Peter reacts over the coming days. He will be made to decide if he is in, or if he is out.”

“And don’t forget Freeman Ranson,” Sarah added. “He swears Dawson is at a dead end. When the director learns of his renegade activities, according to Ranson, he will be suspended or dismissed.”

“Maybe,” Carlos said.

“You are skeptical,” Stenman said.

“It is my nature,” Carlos replied. “I do believe Senor Neil has nothing now, but that may change one day.”

“Let’s see what happens,” Stenman again suggested. “In the meantime, he seems close to Jason Ayers. I will encourage Jason to monitor the boy.”

Carlos rose, went to stand behind Sarah, and put a hand on the back of her chair. “Now,” he said, “I wish to discuss another important matter: Senor Muller. I believe your CIO is a risk.”

Sarah nodded in Stenman’s direction, an indication that she agreed with Carlos. She then stood, withdrew to the bar, poured a second glass of wine, sipped, and watched.