Man in the Middle

“One point two U.S.,” he said.

“Offer it all. We break the bank, now.”

A minute later, Hans turned, flashing bright yellow teeth. “They no longer pay the support—the rupiah is bullshit. Look,” he said, pointing to his currency screen, “chaos. It has happened.”

A little later, Peter studied his Reuters. The headlines read:

INDONESIA DEVALUES RUPIAH

INDONESIA TO ANNOUNCE CUTBACKS IN

GOVERNMENT-SPONSORED PROGRAMS—

INCLUDING LAYOFFS

CAPITAL FLEES INDONESIA

“That’s it,” Stenman celebrated. She then said something in German.

Hans laughed at her words while Peter smiled and nodded and played along as if he too spoke German and understood. Maybe he didn’t get the literal meaning of things, but he did understand, and he did share in the joy of the moment. He had arrived, finally, at the top of the mountain and, he discovered, the mountain was made of piles and piles of U.S. greenbacks.

As Peter continued to watch and listen to Hans, he put the mathematical side of his brain to work. He had overheard Hans mention they had borrowed a total of eight billion dollars in rupiah over the past two weeks. With now-current levels of devaluation, that meant Stenman Partners stood to clear something like $2 billion in profit by buying the Indonesian currency back at discounted prices and repaying the loan. Good work if you can get it, he mused.

Half the night later, Stenman said, “Peter, pick up the phone. Hans will feed you the words—you will learn new lessons.”

Hans looked at Peter as if he were toilet throw-up. “You,” he said to Peter, “call Bank of . . .”

For the remainder of the night, Peter learned his new lessons. He sat, spoke, yelled, and did everything they told him to do within the rarified confines of Morgan Stenman’s office. He learned the meaning of previously nonsensical words like “pips” and “cross-rates” and “interest-rate differentials.” He bought, then sold, then bought back currency at lower prices. Nobody in the markets understood what Stenman and her traders— including a new guy, Peter Neil—were up to. Stuart had said that they used smoke and mirrors in every major transaction. It now made complete sense to Peter. He was a magician confounding the masses.

When he finished with the rupiah in London’s panicked marketplace, several hours later, Peter reached a decision: he was happy. His former life was a million miles away. He had participated in bringing down a country’s central bank, and watched his employer make two billion dollars. Two billion was two thousand million dollars. Two million thousand dollars. He no longer had debts. Had money in the bank. He had made good in a tough world. His career would soon whiz past his friend Stuart’s, and maybe soon he would be out from under Howard Muller’s control. Agent Dawson was a clown. No longer a concern. All was good. Very, very good. It couldn’t get any better than this. Soon, he’d be making some of these decisions. Have important people afraid of what was on his mind.

Peter couldn’t help himself. He grinned until his face hurt.

“Adrenaline ought to be sold in bottles,” Peter said to Stuart as he folded himself into his desk chair at six a.m., having come straight from Morgan’s office. “Best damn drug in the world.”

The euphoria had yet to subside, and Peter fidgeted with the aftereffects.

“Where you been?” Stuart asked.

“Making history. You hear about Indonesia, overnight?”

“Do I look deaf, dumb, and blind? Of course I heard, dude—it’s got the world topsy-turvy. Latin American markets are going to get crushed— the usual ripple effect. The Crash of ’87 is going to be a pancake breakfast in comparison. By the by, we’re short those markets: lucky, eh?” He meant his grin to be conspiratorial. “Everyone’s assuming that the domino effect will force other developing markets to devalue. U.S. Treasuries: up two points in a flight to quality. Fortunately,” Stuart winked, “we were also long Treasury futures up our assholes.”

The statement reminded Peter of Oliver Dawson’s comments. He’d made a similar reference to Treasuries when describing his aborted investigation of Stenman.

“Whatta you know about the rupiah situation?” Stuart asked.

“Nothing,” Peter lied. “I reckon Stenman Partners might be a player, is all.”

“Already on the news wires, Sherlock. Everybody’s calling this another of Morgan’s brilliant plays. A few politicians are crying rivers, though.”

“Why should they care?”

“These flaming liberal a-holes say that with unemployment and flight of capital out of these countries after they devalue, their economies are going to circle the drain and the poor people will get poorer, blah, blah, blah. It’s bullshit. All Morgan does—at least this is the party line—is speed up the inevitable. Push governments to do what they should have done in the first place.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“Sure, Petey. Truth. We’re a bastion of truth, justice, and the American way.” Stuart swiped his nose.

“You’re getting an earlier and earlier start with that shit, Stuart. Market’s not even open yet.”

“An appetizer. Enough to give me a mental edge. Look . . .”

He pointed to a news story indicating that market rumors suggested that Brazil would devalue the real against the U.S. dollar within forty-eight hours. Their debt, according to the text, had traded down to forty cents on the dollar, and they had applied to the U.S. Treasury and the IMF for loans to support their currency. According to the wire service reporter who wrote the story, receiving aid was unlikely.

“This’ll be interesting,” Stuart said. “Guy advising the Brazilian government used to work for Morgan as an economist.”

“Stenman and Muller—they seem to be connected everywhere. Or am I overstating things?” Peter asked.

“Nope. The answer is: everywhere. And I mean, everywhere. By the way, we should have the Uhlander Pharm thing covered by end of day. You want me to handle your end?”

“Sure. Makes more sense to consolidate our order.” Peter stamped and filled out a buy-ticket. He handed it to Stuart. “Thanks. I shouldn’t have gotten so hot yesterday when you mentioned the takeover. You saved me some significant money.”

“Not that you need it after all the money you made on the PC play. Maybe in an hour or two—you know, as a little payback for my looking after you all the time—you could cover for me while I take a conference room recess.”

Peter agreed, but not before advising Stuart again to take it easy. “You’re going overboard with that shit.”

“No such thing, dude.”

By two in the afternoon, Peter’s all-nighter had caught up with him. He headed home with jelly-legged exhaustion one hour after the market closed. He zipped past the state park and the stretch of beach heading north from Stenman Partners’ La Jolla location. Although mentally burned-out, he purposely passed the turn to his co-op and made the decision to continue up the coast. Fifteen minutes later, he reached the mail depot where his mother had an address. What was her box number? Four hundred and something—405 or 406? For reasons he didn’t understand, his fatigue had vanished.

Once inside the mailroom, he looked for the larger rental boxes. He spotted them along a bottom row, near an exit. He stooped and tried 405. The key didn’t fit. He worked his way down. When he got to 408, the key slid in and spun. He pulled the door open, listening to the chirping of hidden hinges. The narrowness of the mailbox had bowed the two registered envelopes—sent to Hannah Neil from Hannah Neil—requiring Peter to tug hard to free them from their home. Flattening them out, he hesitated to read