Bloodmoney (21 page)

“It is a dining club, madam. It is called Edward’s.” The hostess softened when Marx said that she was a guest of Thomas Perkins and asked to be shown to his table.

Heads turned as she made her way down the long aisle toward Perkins’s table in the back of the room. It wasn’t just that she was attractive—that was true of most of the women here—but that she had a physical bearing and authority. The men and women scanning her lithe body might have guessed that it came from show-jumping or tennis. They would not have imagined that she had been trained to shoot automatic weapons and jump from airplanes.

There was a buzz in the place, everyone talking as they pounded down their drinks. It had the energy of a trading floor, which was where most of them had been an hour before, closing out that day’s bets of fifty million or a hundred million dollars, or in a few cases far more. Mayfair had found its legs again; even the people who had been wrecked pretended that they hadn’t, and nobody really knew, except from the size of their order flow. The one thing that everyone in the room thought they knew was that Thomas Perkins was on top of the world, especially as the elegant woman in the black sheath sat down at his table.

Perkins was reading a summary of that day’s trading, so he didn’t see her approach. When she reached his table, he looked up with surprise. It was like a blind date. When Anthony Cronin had called and asked him to meet a woman who was a colleague of Howard Egan’s, he had not imagined that she would arrive in quite this package. And she, in her own way, was also pleased: She had expected someone with a hard edge, but Perkins just looked intelligent. He was dressed in the clothes that rich men wear, hand-tailored and of finer fabric than is found on any rack. He looked studious in his glasses and also youthful, with that unlikely curl of blond hair.

People were still watching. This was too much attention. She leaned toward him and said that her name was Sophie.

“I read once that a spy should have a face that a waiter forgets,” Perkins said. “I think you flunk.”

“Thank you, if that’s a compliment.” She smiled, but it vanished in an instant. She leaned toward him and spoke in his ear.

“We are sorry about Howard Egan’s disappearance. It must be a shock for your people. We are grateful that you have been so helpful.”

“I didn’t realize that his work was so dangerous.”

“Neither did we. That’s why I’m here.”

Perkins pulled his chair closer. This was a noisy place, with more traders bursting in the door every few minutes from South Audley Street. They were pumped with testosterone—loud and vulgar, boasting of their big trades. They tried to hide their anxiety, but this was a world where people got destroyed in a day: A trader made bets that went sour, borrowed money to cover yesterday’s mistakes, and then more for today’s, and then, pow—the risk manager walked over to his screen and closed him down. And then he went to Edward’s to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Are these people all billionaires?” asked Marx, looking around the room.

Perkins shook his head. “They all want to be, and some of them will be, but nobody knows which ones will get lucky. That’s what keeps the juice flowing.”

They drank some wine, making small talk, and then ordered food. She asked what “dressed crab” was, and he answered that it was the opposite of undressed crab. She ordered that, and risotto with white truffles. He ordered the same thing, to make it simple, and bottle of a 1990 Cheval Blanc, a first growth from Saint-Émilion, which at over five thousand dollars was the most expensive wine on the list.

Eventually they got around to business. He asked why she had wanted to see him. She told him the truth, more or less: She worked for the same part of the CIA as Howard Egan, and had been asked to conduct an investigation into his disappearance. She hoped she could spend some time at Alphabet Capital, reviewing Egan’s trading files and communications, and spending time with his colleagues.

“What are you looking for?” asked Perkins.

“I don’t know yet. But somehow Howard’s cover was blown. The people who kidnapped him knew he wasn’t just working for a hedge fund. I need to find out whether there was a leak.”

“There’s always a leak,” said Perkins, taking off his glasses and looking into her eyes, a few inches away. “Half the people in this room are trying to get inside my computer system right now, trying to figure out whether I am long Argentine government debt or short, or buying Hong Kong equities or selling.”

“This leak is dangerous, Mr. Perkins. We need help. We have to find it and turn it off.”

Perkins nodded, trying to match her seriousness. His forelock fell across his forehead, making him look improbably young.

“I’m game. What am I going to tell my people about you? I mean, if you’re going to spend time on our trading floor, they’re going to wonder what the hell is going on.”

“Tell them I’m a tryout,” said Marx perkily. “Tell them you’re thinking of hiring me as an analyst. I couldn’t pass as a trader, but anyone can be an analyst, right?”

“What are you going to analyze? This work isn’t completely mindless, you know.”

“I used to work in Beirut. I know about oil. So tell people that’s what I’m doing. I’m on a tryout as an energy analyst. Then you can fire me when I’m done.”

“Well, you can’t have too many energy analysts, right? What did you do in Beirut?”

“I don’t know you well enough to answer that,” she said, with a look halfway between shy and sly. “Let’s just say you would have found me entertaining. Spectator sport, except you wouldn’t have understood the game.”

“That’s tantalizing.”

“It’s all you’re going to get.”

Sophie Marx couldn’t have explained why she was flirting with him. Perhaps it was the wine, or the fact that he was better-looking than she had expected. Maybe it was that he was so rich. Sophie had grown up poor with her screwball parents, moving from beach shanty to boat to day hotel, one of them always running off with someone else. There was something inescapably pleasurable about money.

As they were eating dessert, a big, drunken Irishman stumbled toward the table. Sophie had seen him at the bar when she arrived, already inebriated and making too much noise. As he neared Perkins’s chair, he plopped his large bottom on Perkins’s lap and began to moan.

“Oh, it feels so good. Oh, it’s getting hard.” He was trying to be funny.

“Hello, Seamus. Get off my fucking lap.” Perkins gave him a shove.

The big man stood up and bowed unsteadily in Sophie’s direction.

“Sorry, miss. Inside joke.”

“Get lost, Seamus, now. Don’t embarrass yourself any more than you already have.”

“You know, Perkins, you really are an ungrateful cunt. Did you know that?”

Perkins stood up. The bartender and a burly waiter had arrived by now, to escort the loudmouth to the door.

“Go home, Seamus. Stop making an ass of yourself. Come back tomorrow and try to make some money.”

The Irishman wobbled off, flanked by the bouncers. “You are a
cunt
,” he said again loudly. “A selfish, ungrateful cunt.”

Perkins shook his head. “I’m sorry about that.”

Sophie leaned toward him and put her hand on his arm.

“What was that all about?” she said. “Why did he use that language?”

“He’s just a loser, that’s all. He’s ruined. His fund is shutting down. Nobody will lend him any more money. He thinks it’s my fault.”

“Why does he think that?”

“Who knows? Because I’m still solvent and he isn’t. We were on opposing sides in some trades. I won and he lost. He asked for a loan, and I said no. His problem is that he is untalented and unlucky, in that order.”

“Well, I must say, that was entertaining: a floor show. You didn’t really get hard when he sat on you, did you?”

Perkins laughed out loud, to Sophie’s relief. He ordered a bottle of Château d’Yquem to drink with dessert.

Toward the end of the evening, she got serious. She didn’t want to break the mood, but she had to give him some news so that he could begin making plans.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.

“Something nice?”

She shook her head.

“Howard Egan is dead,” she said quietly. “The Pakistani police are issuing a statement. They’re saying he died in a hiking accident. They will send the coffin here, and we’ll take care of the rest. You’ll want to tell your people. There will be stories in the newspapers, probably. We need to get ready for that.”

She removed a piece of paper from her purse and handed it to him. It was the text of the statement that the Pakistanis would be issuing.

Perkins glanced at it and lowered his head. When he looked up, Marx could see that his eyes were moist, not quite tears.

“I really liked Howard. You know, he didn’t want to do your job anymore. He wanted to stop. He told me that the last time I saw him. He asked me if he could have a real job at Alphabet Capital, instead of a fake job.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said he would be bored. I told him that all we did at Alphabet Capital was make money.”

Perkins’s car and driver were waiting outside. He invited her to come back to his townhouse in Ennismore Gardens for a nightcap, or visit Annabel’s in Berkeley Square. She was tempted, even though she had just flown across the ocean and knew for a certainty that it was a
bad idea
. She said she would take a rain check.

Perkins insisted on driving her to her hotel. It was an old pile near Marble Arch that had been remodeled by an American hotel chain. Its virtue for Marx was that it wouldn’t bust her per diem. Perkins feigned shock when the driver opened the door at this most ordinary address.

“This won’t do. Not for you. Tell your boss that I won’t talk to you anymore unless you move to someplace more appropriate. This place is insecure: Nobody working for me in real life would ever stay here. It’s a dead giveaway. I suggest the Dorchester. It’s near my office, and it’s where you would stay.”

She moved to the Dorchester first thing the next morning. They gave her a grand room overlooking Hyde Park. Mr. Perkins had called ahead.

LONDON

The trading room at
Alphabet Capital was a hedgerow of computer screens, two and sometimes three to a desk. It wasn’t a tidy office. Nobody on the floor wore a tie, one man was dressed in shorts and sandals, and several of the men had ponytails longer than Sophie Marx’s. It didn’t matter what you looked like, evidently, so long as you made money. There were a lot of Asian faces on the trading floor, many Indians and some Pakistanis, it appeared. That was a worry now.

Marx arrived at nine-thirty dressed in a blue suit and a white blouse, much too sensible an outfit for the trading floor. Perkins’s secretary, whose name was Mona, walked her over to see the director of Human Resources. He found her a desk at the far end of the floor where the analysts sat. It had just one computer screen. The morning was spent in tutorials on the Bloomberg Terminal.

Perkins sent out a system-wide message in midmorning asking everyone to gather on the trading floor. He emerged from his office in shirtsleeves, head bowed. It was obvious to everyone that something bad had happened.

Perkins said he had just received a call from the U.S. consulate in Karachi. Howard Egan, their missing colleague, was dead. He had fallen during a trek in the mountains near Karachi, and the Pakistanis had finally discovered his body. He read the police statement. He said that Egan’s remains would be returned to the States, where the family would hold a memorial service. He was about to head back into his office, somber business done, but he stopped and turned toward the dozens of employees, most of whom had known the deceased only slightly, if at all.

“Howard Egan was a decent man; much too nice for our business. He loved his work. He was a risk-taker, always. In this case, he took a bigger risk than he could handle.”

He paused for a time, looking at the floor, as if he were going to say more. But the words didn’t come, and he turned abruptly and retreated to his Bloomberg screens.

They stood there for a moment, trying to take in the news. Someone in the back said, “Hear, hear,” as if Perkins had given a toast rather than a eulogy. People slowly dispersed back to their desks to begin once more the roar of trading, which didn’t take a break for anyone.

Shortly after his little speech, Perkins called Sophie Marx in the HR training room and invited her to lunch. He proposed to meet her at a restaurant called L’Oranger in St. James’s Street at one. That sounded reasonably discreet, so she said yes.

She felt mildly guilty about having a good time in London when her colleagues were in danger, so she emailed Gertz telling him that everything was going according to plan and that she hoped to have some answers for him soon. Gertz responded promptly. She wondered why he was still up; it was nearly three a.m. in Los Angeles. He told her to go someplace where she wouldn’t be overheard, so he could call her cell phone.

“Perkins likes you.” That was the first thing he said. She wasn’t sure from his tone whether he was pleased about it. She asked how he knew that so quickly, and he explained that Perkins had messaged his agency contact, Anthony Cronin, and that Cronin had told him.

“We have a delicate relationship with this guy,” Gertz continued. “I’m glad he’s opening the door, but be careful. This is a china shop. You touch the stuff and you’re going to break some of it. And then you’re screwed. We’re all screwed. So walk softly. Be professional. And don’t take too much frigging time. I need something to give to Headquarters soon, or we’re all going to be sitting on the crapper full-time.”

“How much time do I have?”

“A week, two weeks at the outside.”

“That may not be enough. This is complicated. And if I find a lead, I’m going to need to follow it. Don’t you think?”

“Sure, sure. Just get it done in two weeks. I’ve told Cyril Hoffman that you’re working on this. You, personally. You know what that means?”

“That it’s my ass.”

“Precisely.” He told her to have fun in London, and not to run up too big a bill at the Dorchester. Apparently Perkins had confided that to Anthony Cronin, as well.