Armageddon Conspiracy (3 page)

Simmons’s harsh expression softened a little. “I know I tend to get impatient. Don’t push too hard. Give it time.” A sardonic smile flickered across her lips. “After all, you
are
being paid quite well for your patriotic duty,” she said, referring to Brent’s three million dollar a year salary, paid bi-weekly in installments of a hundred fifteen thousand dollars before withholding. It was a staggering sum that was going to allow him to pay off his mountains of debt in only a few months. “Or maybe you’d prefer to trade that for a government paycheck.”

“Unlikely,” Brent said, wondering if bitterness over his salary was what made her seem so contradictory.

Simmons interrupted his thoughts by holding out her hand. “By the way, give me your cell phone.”

Brent blinked in surprise but did as she asked. She put his phone in the pocket of her jacket then pulled another phone out of the opposite pocket and handed it across. “Use this one from now on. The first number on speed dial will reach me twenty-four hours a day,” she said. “If you ever feel threatened or in danger, call me.”

“In danger?” Brent smiled.

Simmons leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re going to take their business down.”

“These guys are money managers, not drug dealers. They’re not going to pull something stupid.”

“If your cover gets blown, I wouldn’t assume anything.”

Brent thought her warning was melodramatic. Everything he’d seen so far told him the Justice Department had the situation wired, starting with how easily they’d maneuvered him into the firm. Even though his resume was rock-solid, there had to have been other strong candidates. But then Simmons had sent a twenty-five thousand dollar donation in his name to Prescott Biddle’s church, some kind of evangelical denomination called the New Jerusalem Fellowship. They believed in the literal interpretation of the Bible, but apparently they also believed in money because once the check had been cashed he’d been the only candidate that mattered.

Minutes later as he walked the remaining blocks to his apartment, he glanced over and imagined his brother walking beside him, Harry’s
cheeks permanently chapped from flames and heat, the sleeves of his tee shirt rolled up to display the NYFD tattoo on his thick bicep.

Harry had his head thrown back. He was laughing.
My little brother, the secret good guy!

Brent scowled.

So, what’s your beef?

“Even if these are bad guys, I feel like a traitor.”

You just hate taking crap from Uncle Fred.

Brent nodded. “I almost told him.”

About working undercover? Good call that you didn’t. Fred hasn’t kept a secret in his life.

“I know.”

Just remember, where there’s smoke there’s fire, little bro.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

We’re the guys who put out the fires.

“That was your life, not mine.”

You sure about that?

“I’m not too sure about anything.”

If Harry were still alive, he would have responded by slapping the back of Brent’s head or popping his shoulder with an elbow. Of course, nothing came. There was only the noise of the city all around and the echo of Brent’s footsteps as he walked the avenue alone.

FRED WOFFORD’S PHONE JERKED HIM
from a deep sleep. He felt his wife shift beside him as he opened his eyes in the darkened bedroom, checked the bedside clock then fumbled for the receiver. It was nearly five thirty, time to be getting up anyway.

He put the phone to his ear and listened as a disembodied voice in the background announced a train, the sound echoing off a cavernous ceiling. He knew it was the sound of Union Station in Washington, D.C.

“Up two hundred thousand,” the caller said.

“Two hundred thousand,” Wofford repeated. “Go with God.”

“Go with God,” the man said.

IN CENTRAL PARK BRENT PRACTICED
his taekwondo katas on the East Meadow as the day’s first light began to pierce the dark, early morning sky. As a third degree black belt, running through all of them took well over an hour. The air was cool and the mist drifted from the wet grass like smoke. Slick with sweat, he ran hard around the reservoir as the apartments on the West Side began to glow with the dawn light, striking a hard contrast on a pale sky. Through it all he tried to keep his mind blank and surrender to the joy of physical exertion, to the insistent beating of his heart, the in and out of his respirations.

He had planned his workout in hopes that it would help him burn off some of his confusion about his current assignment. Only the moment he finished and started walking home, it came racing back.

If the GA partners were using inside information, he was doing
the right thing if he helped bust them. He thought about the firm’s client list, the eleven billion dollars they managed. It seemed preposterous, maybe even impossible, that the firm’s senior partners would break the law. They were making tens of millions of dollars, so why risk it?

Even if Biddle occasionally overruled the rest of his partners, it was probably because he was an egomaniac. Nothing illegal about that—egomania was as common as pigeons on Wall Street. Brent shook his head, unable to stave off his doubts. What if the Justice Department was wrong and overzealous? It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe rather than doing a good thing, Brent was about to ruin the reputation of a brilliant man.

An hour later in the morning meeting, his uncertainty continued to nag as he looked around at the other members of the firm. It was a boys’ club for sure. The partners were all Caucasian, and other than Owen Smythe, who appeared to be in his midthirties, they were all late forties to early sixties. Their hair was uniformly short, their shirts white. They looked as similar as members of some WASP fraternity, and he wondered how their investment style could be so much more aggressive and edgy than their appearance.

He heard little that appeared noteworthy, and it seemed like the meeting was starting to wrap up. Brent pushed away from the table and was halfway out of his chair when the room fell silent. At the head of the table, Wofford had folded his hands. “Let us give thanks,” he said.

The others were still seated. They all bowed their heads, and Brent felt a wave of hungry expectation wash over the room. Instinctively, he put his hand in his pocket, found the recorder, and pressed the on
button.

“Lord Jesus,” Wofford intoned, “we give You thanks for making our minds keen so we may build wealth for our clients and Your church. Make our hearts true as we prepare the world for Your return. In Your name we offer our obedience, Amen.”

Brent glanced around. The prayer was over, but no one moved. Wofford let the silence build. “Biddle called early this morning from Europe,” he said suddenly. “The Lord spoke to him last night. He is blessing us with prosperity, and the economy is strong. So speaketh the Lord.”

The others began to stir. They exchanged knowing looks and brief nods as if important information had just been communicated. Several mumbled, “Amen.” As they filed out of the room, Brent remained frozen, wondering whether to risk a question. “Excuse me,” he said.

Wofford raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“The unemployment report is supposed to be announced at ten this morning.” Brent noticed that several of the portfolio managers had stopped and turned. “The market expects employment to be down by maybe a hundred thousand.”

Wofford nodded.

“Are you saying it’s going to go the other way?”

“I think
God
is saying it’s going to go the other way,” Wofford corrected.

Brent looked at him for a moment. “Okay,” he said.

From the hallway outside his office, Brent looked through Smythe’s open door and saw him hunched over his computer keyboard. “Got a second?” he said.

Smythe glanced up then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He was probably six-five, maybe an inch taller than Brent, but he had narrow shoulders, bad posture, and the tallowy skin of a non-athlete. “Just checking my cash position.”

“Was Wofford’s announcement supposed to be a buy signal?” If the employment report were up sharply, the market would explode to the upside.

Smythe nodded. He had a slight double chin and receding brown hair. “Better believe it.”

“Sounds like God tells Biddle what the market’s going to do?”

Smythe shrugged. “Whatever works.”

Back in his own office, Brent turned off the recorder. What he had on tape wouldn’t constitute evidence, but he understood its importance. Several large “short funds” as well as a number of hedge funds had made recent, highly publicized bets against cyclical stocks. The sudden perception of a strengthening economy would cause those stocks to shoot up, forcing the funds to cover their positions at significant losses, and that would push prices even higher.

Suddenly, his phone rang and he answered. It was Joe Steward, the head trader. “I’m waiting for your buy orders,” he said.

“I’ll get right back.”

Brent quickly scanned the cash balances in the accounts he’d been assigned, checked his buy list against current positions, and then called the trading desk. He invested fifty million dollars before the Commerce Department announced the much stronger than expected employment number, and then he sat back and watched the market soar nearly two hundred points.

THE FOLLOWING WEEK THE MARKET
rally seemed to be holding and even extending, and the firm buzzed with the kind of confidence people show when they know they’ve got things figured out. A few minutes before eight on Tuesday night, Owen Smythe breezed into Brent’s office with a bulging accordion file. “Fred asked me to bring this,” he said.

Brent raised his eyebrows at the phonebook-size thickness. “Another account?”

Smythe winked as he dropped the file on Brent’s desk. “Don’t screw it up.”

Smythe turned to leave, but Brent flicked on his tape recorder and said, “I have a question.”

Smythe was almost out the door, but he stopped. “About?” he asked.

“The unemployment number.”

Smythe studied Brent a few seconds.

“It seems like somebody’s got a crystal ball.”

Smythe raised his eyebrows. “I assume you belong to the same church as all these other guys. Maybe you ought to ask one of them.”

“I’m a new member.”

“Yeah, right.” Smythe closed Brent’s door and leaned against it. “Just between us girls, I think you’re full of shit.”

Brent sat perfectly still, but his pulse began to kick. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m probably the only guy in this firm who’s not a member of the New Jerusalem Fellowship, but they keep me around because I’m smart. I don’t know how the hell Biddle and Wofford get their information, whether it’s God or something else—but I don’t stick my nose in it.”

“You’re telling me this for a reason.”

Smythe nodded. “I checked you out with a couple buddies in Boston, and I know what you did at your old firm. Wofford and Biddle certainly ought to know if they did their homework, but they don’t seem to give a crap. I don’t know why you’re really here, but whatever’s going on, you stay out of my backyard, cause I’m clean.” He nodded once then turned and walked out.

Brent waited a few seconds then picked up his cell phone and called Simmons in Boston. Without preamble he reported the conversation.

“What do you want to do about it?” she asked.

“Nothing. He’s not one of the insiders. Now that he’s said his piece and covered his ass, I think he’ll keep quiet. Still, the fact that he came in and said something suggests that we’re on the right track.”

Simmons was quiet for another few seconds. Finally, she said, “Just keep that cell phone with you.”

Brent hung up then sat for a few seconds trying to shake off the feeling that Simmons wasn’t telling him the whole story. Did she really believe these guys might come after him? He thought about Wofford—a fat, lumbering guy. Biddle was too much like a professor, and Smythe was just trying to keep himself out of it. Very unlikely, he decided.

He reached for the folder Smythe had brought and read the name on the cover, Dr. Khaled Faisal. His eyes widened in recognition. Dr. Faisal was an Egyptian billionaire, famous for having spent millions in efforts to promote peace in the Mideast.

Brent opened the file and let out a low whistle. His other accounts were between five and fifteen million—average-sized for the firm—but this one was huge. Suspecting a mistake, he pulled it up on the computer and saw that, indeed, it was one of the largest accounts in the entire firm, some seven hundred fifty million dollars. His name appeared beside it as the manager of record.

The correspondence folder accounted for much of the file’s thickness. In testimony to Faisal’s philanthropy, there were perhaps a hundred letters directing the firm to send money to various universities, hospitals, and health care organizations. Brent shook his head as he read. It didn’t make sense to assign such an enormous account to a “new guy.”

He sat back and checked his watch. It was getting late. Deciding not to waste time on an account somebody would undoubtedly take away first thing tomorrow, he tossed some research into his briefcase and walked into the hall. A light glimmered under Owen Smythe’s door, and on a whim he knocked and stuck his head inside.

Fred Wofford was leaning on one of the visitor’s chairs talking with Smythe. “Sorry,” Brent said, as both men looked in his direction.

“No problem,” Wofford said as he turned and moved toward the door, almost rushing. “We were just killing time.” He pulled Brent inside and went out. “You fellows chat or go out for a beer,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Brent listened as Wofford’s heavy footsteps faded down the hall then he turned and studied Smythe.

“Don’t worry,” Smythe said after several seconds. “We weren’t talking about you.”