Man in the Middle

“Because you are a dedicated government agent.”

“And supposedly so is Freeman Ranson. So are all those other people who are part of the network that sells information to the highest bidder. No. I need to do something to prove he can trust me.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“When he gets in trouble, and I’m certain he will, I’ll have to go to the mat for him. Hopefully Director Ackerman will pull the necessary strings.”

“You think Ackerman will help when the time comes?”

“If he doesn’t, then I hope you don’t mind being married to an unemployed lawyer.”

“I would live in a hole with you.”

“Good. A deep hole, just the two of us.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to. You go do your job. Get rehired. Now, if I don’t go, I’ll be late. I am, after all, the breadwinner.”

“So true. Go win a loaf for us. I’m airport bound.”

“So soon?” she asked, surprised.

“No time to waste. I intend to begin building my friendship with young Peter Neil tomorrow.”

Two hours later, Oliver Dawson sat in the last row of an American Airlines jet. With no delays, he would begin his work in earnest in less than six hours.

When Peter arrived at work a few minutes after five on Friday morning, a crescendo had already been reached and sustained. He noticed that Morgan Stenman was in Howard Muller’s office. Jason Ayers, also in Muller’s office, gesticulated between their frantic bodies as if he were the referee at a main event.

“What the hell’s going on?” Peter asked Stuart.

“You read the IED yet?” Stuart asked.

Peter looked down at the salmon-colored pages of the International Economic Daily, folded on top of his desk. He shook his head. “That looks like some pow-wow,” he said.

“I love this shit. I wish I could hear through those walls. Hope Balloon-Head doesn’t think to close his drapes.”

“You’re sick, Stu. What’s the story?”

“Morgan’s apeshit. She’s got our law firm ready to file for libel.”

“I’m not a mind-reader. Sue who?”

“Everybody knows we went long Brazilian debt yesterday—huge, despite the risk of devaluation after Indonesia spun the drain. Word was that the Brazilian government would put a moratorium on interest and principal repayment.”

“Default on their debt?”

“Essentially, yes. Then, late last night, out of the blue, the IMF and U.S. Treasury come through with a thirty billion-dollar loan. I’m talking thirty-fucking-billion U.S. dollars. The President of Brazil then announces he’s going to defend the currency to the bitter end.”

“The shorts must have gotten squeezed big-time,” Peter said, unable to hide the awe in his voice.

“Killed is more like it,” Stuart confirmed. “The bonds we bought at a sixty-percent discount to par are now trading at eighty cents on the dollar. Since we borrowed to buy the bonds in the first place, we generated a one-day return of three hundred plus percent. But some noses are bent. You know Josh Robinson’s hedge fund?”

“Yeah. His performance is always being compared with Morgan’s. You suggesting he went the other way?”

“He’s rumored to have lost three billion.”

Peter whistled. “Okay, but. I’m still in the dark. What’s this got to do with the IED and a libel suit?”

“Some bright reporter with IED suggested Morgan profited from information she got from her former employee. The guy who used to work for her and now’s an advisor to the Brazilian government.”

“Shit. Surely she expected someone to catch on.”

“What’re you talking about?” Stuart asked, pulling his head back in pretended shock. “She denies having information. The reporter’s already been fired, and the paper has promised to print a retraction. She’s still going after blood, though. What a Bozo. Morgan’s got a net worth a thousand times greater than the value of his entire friggin’ newspaper. He should’ve known he couldn’t expect to win. After this, nobody’s gonna make that mistake again.”

“Hard to believe we’d never use that kind of information, isn’t it?”

Stuart shrugged. “I didn’t say these things don’t happen. I’m saying only a mutant-brain dares speculate about it in print. Guy might end up worse than fired one of these days.”

The last sentence smashed straight into Peter’s brain.

“Stuart. I’m worried about a couple of things.”

“You look like someone killed your dog . . . no, make that your cat. What’s got you ready to wet your pants, Boopy?” Stuart sniffed.

“That damn drug habit of yours for one. Some of the trading practices at this place for another.”

Stuart stood and beckoned Peter to follow. While he trailed Stuart to the conference room, Peter stared at the chaos continuing in Muller’s office. Morgan Stenman waved her filter-tip like a sword at Howard Muller. Ayers, his head shaking like a bobbing-head doll, looked trapped in a conflagration that could melt his flesh at any moment. Every few seconds, one or another leaned into a speakerphone and screamed something. Just before Peter and Stuart entered the conference room, Muller looked at Peter. Their heads locked. Muller narrowed his eyes and drilled malevolent tunnels through Peter’s skull. The curious part of Peter wished to observe the meeting. The fear part of him sent out instructions to avert his attention and shut the door and curtains to the conference room. He went with fear.

A minute later, Stuart had his customary lines of white drawn on the table. The room was dark, the door locked, the curtains drawn. First right, then left, the powder traveled up Ben Franklin’s printed face, invaded Stuart’s nostrils, passed to his lungs, soaked through membrane, swam into the blood stream, and got distributed to wherever it would create its wonderment. Independence Hall curled around the outside of that hundred-dollar tube, nestled between a thumb and all but the little finger.

Wired, Stuart said, “Okay, dude. Whatta y’wanna discuss?”

“We’re friends, right, Stu?”

“The best of.” Tightly upturned corners of his mouth fed the words.

“You said something that has got me . . .” Peter struggled for the right word. “I guess worried sums it up.”

“I’m wracking my fried brain, but I don’t recall saying anything scary.”

“The reporter. You said he might end up worse than fired. What’s that mean?”

Stuart did a darting dissection of Peter’s face. “A joke,” he said. “What’s wrong with you, dude?”

“This Brazilian thing. Breaking the Indonesian bank. I’ve been thinking about the social consequences of some of the things we’ve been doing as a firm.”

“Get a grip. This ain’t no petting zoo we’re running here. Everybody’s nailing everybody, right and left. We’re just the best at doing it. So stop whining like a pussy.”

“I don’t know,” Peter said, sounding confused.

“You getting into some kind of complicated self-loathing thing all of a sudden? We’re doing what we’re supposed to do. And you—as much as I hate to admit it—are the fastest damn study I’ve ever seen. You’re good . . . better than good. That PC thing was straight-up, too. Nobody in this shop, including Muller, including Morgan Stenman, can do . . .” The words faded.

“What, Stu?”

“Nothing. The coke’s talking too much. Anyway, keep your chin up. When you get a few hundred K after-tax in January as a bonus, you’ll go back to seeing the world the right way.”

“I got a letter that has me thinking.”

“Thinking is dangerous. Who sent you this missive?”

“My mother.”