Stuart sprang erect, then put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “She’s dead.”
The clarity of Stuart’s words startled Peter. “I, uh, found it yesterday. Written a long time ago.”
“What’d it say?”
“Mom was worried over ethics, I think. Law firms representing evil. That’s why, when you said that thing about the newspaper guy, I needed to ask.”
“I told you, it meant squat. What else’s bugging you?”
“You and I both know that if Morgan and Muller bought Brazilian bonds, they knew damn well the IMF would initiate a bail-out.”
Stuart shook his head. “You’ve lost all perspective. If you’re worried, talk to Ayers. He’s our attorney and a friend of yours. Anything else that’s got this bee buzzing up your butt?”
“You remember Jackson Securities?”
“Jackson?” Stuart asked. “Sure. You and I talked about them before. So?”
Peter realized he had nothing to gain by floating unfounded theories past Stuart, especially those originating from Dawson. Even what his mother said didn’t make any sense. “Nothing. I don’t know why they popped into my head. Flustered, I guess.”
“Your mother. Did she say anything else?” Stuart asked, his voice cracking with what sounded like excitement.
With a head-shake meant to detach mental cobwebs, Peter said, “Never mind. I need you to explain something to me.”
“Go ahead, dude. Shoot.”
“How does backtrading work?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Stu. When you and I went into Muller’s office to reverse those buys and sells, you said it was backtrading. I saw Muller do something similar that resulted in millions of dollars in profit the first day I went to see him. What is backtrading?”
“You don’t want to know, Petey.”
“Thanks to you, I’ve participated. I might as well understand how it works.”
“I said no.” Stuart pushed himself back. “Let’s end this—”
“Let’s not.” Peter grabbed his friend’s hand from across the table and pulled. “What am I going to do? Turn someone in? I’m not stupid. I know I’ve bent the laws—broken a few with this Uhlander Pharmaceutical trade.”
Stuart grinned. “That’s true. No exceptions for profiting from material non-public info—doesn’t matter that you shorted stock and covered. But ain’t ever gonna be anyone who can prove anything. So I wouldn’t worry if I was you.”
“I’m not worried. I know you’re a pro. Same as the others in this room. No footprints.”
“That’s right, dude. Walking on air.”
“If I’m in, then I’m in. Backtrading. You haven’t answered my question. What is it?”
Stuart hiked his shoulders into his neck. “You didn’t hear it from me.
“Agreed.”
“Last chance. You sure you want to know? Kind of like losing your cherry. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”
“I’m no virgin.”
“Ask and you shall receive,” Stuart said, setting up his pharmacy for another dose of enlightenment. “Backtrading is pretty simple. Someone, let’s say Boris Yeltsin’s bum-fuck girlfriend, is part of a syndicate—you know, Russian Mob, say. She’s smart and wants to get a few hundred million out of that piece-of-shit country. How? She does these trades with a bank—a bank that knows how to keep secrets. Say a Swiss bank. She loses everything in the trades. Every ruble.”
“How and why?” Peter pressed.
“Booking trades after-the-fact guarantees loss. Yesterday, the price of manure went down fifty percent. Today, Joe-on-the-take books trades as-of yesterday, getting Bum-Fuck long manure. She then simultaneously sells out for a huge loss. The bank she lost all her money to does another series of similar trades with a second bank, maybe off the coast of Africa. That’s what we call a two-trade.”
“Another layer of security?” Peter asked.
“Very good, dude. That second bank then trades with Howie-Boy, or Morgan, or me, or you. We make back all that money lost by Bum-Fuck a day or a week earlier. Bum-Fuck’s got a tiny account with us or with one of our outside managers. Maybe offshore, maybe not. Depends on her pedigree. Suddenly she has a tiny investment that trades into a great big ol’ giant one. All legit as far as the eye can see. Everyone takes some vig along the way, but Bum-Fuck ends up with clean money. Eventually she can buy a building if she wants to.”
“The trades are bogus,” Peter said. “All we do is shuffle paper, create paper losses in the home country, then create a gain somewhere else, later. Once classified as trading profit, everything’s untraceable?”
“Congrats. Like the former First Lady making a hundred grand on commodity trades with squat as an initial investment—difference is: we’re dealing in tens of millions, and we don’t leave paper trails that can be followed. Adds up to billions in no time. That said, I’m outta here.”
Stuart stood, saluted, then exited the conference room.
“Sweet,” Peter had to admit. “Not my problem, but still sweet. No wonder there’s so much damn money floating around this place.”
The walk from the conference room was thirty feet. Peter crumpled into his seat and turned on his computer. An incoming phone line flashed. He picked up.
“Hello. Neil, here.”
“Morning, Peter. It’s . . .”
Peter scanned the scene still underway in Muller’s office. Muller’s was the only back not turned. His big mouth widened in Peter’s direction— leering, it seemed, like a fox cornering an injured rabbit.
“Hello, Peter? You still there?” the phone voice asked.
“Huh. Oh yeah. I’m here. Who’s this?”
“You weren’t listening? I told you. We’re going to raise our rating on . . .”
Peter again tuned out and watched Muller’s distant head nod against a phone, pressed to his ear.
A moment later, Muller said something to the other two. Ayers spun and looked at Peter. Stenman didn’t move.
The insistent broker speaking at Peter continued. “Peter? What’s going on? You okay?”
“Raising your rating?” Peter mumbled into the mouthpiece.
“Yes. This is big. If you can get some stock overseas, you’ll make some quick cash.”
“Thanks.” Peter hung up.
When the meeting in Muller’s office broke half an hour later, Peter was engaged in exaggerated activity. He punched out quotations and read lines of data, all the while working into and out of ten equity positions.
Ayers exited first. He came by the desk. “Peter,” he asked, “you have time for lunch? After the close. Around two. Won’t take long.”
“I’m busy—”
“It’ll take less than an hour. Please.”
Peter reluctantly agreed to meet.
Ayers’ Lincoln Town Car was waiting when Peter made it downstairs shortly after two o’clock. A uniformed driver opened the rear door and Peter slid in, next to Ayers. The attorney reached across and shook hands. Ayers’ fingers still felt like thick, pliant noodles.
“Thanks for coming, Peter. I wanted to get caught up. After all, I’m the one who got you this job. How’s it going?”
“I love trading. By far the best job I’ve ever had.”
“Morgan’s happy with your development.”
