Drummer In the Dark (17 page)

Then he realized that the night had already presented him with the answer. Hayek tossed a laugh to the garish scene and punched in Burke’s number. Hayek informed him, “Our opposition must be pounded and ground and milled to the fineness of Caribbean sand.”

“A tough thing to do,” Burke replied, “considering who they are.”

“Not if the work is done for us and cannot be traced back.” Hayek then outlined his plan.

Burke’s reply was instantaneous. “They’ll fail.”

“Then they seal their own fate.” He cut the connection but remained at the balcony’s railing until he had fully repressed the flush of triumph.

Only then did Hayek return inside. He followed the waiting usher back to the director’s box, utterly content with how events were developing. The Brazilian’s men would botch at least one of these new jobs. Of course they would. The resulting chaos was the perfect weapon to free him from their menacing presence. Hayek was under no illusions as to why the gray-suited dolts had been sent. They were not there to guard the Brazilian’s money. They were there to remind him of what would happen were he to fail. A constant reminder, and a means by which Hayek’s mind would be kept from searching out the Brazilian’s
other
mole. The one who would send word back so the Brazilian could mimic Hayek’s actions, and win double.

Hayek slid into his seat just as the curtain was rising. He tried to check his program, but the light was too dim. Then the orchestra played the first faint strains, and Hayek smiled his satisfaction. Stravinsky’s
Firebird Suite.
His mother’s favorite piece. Even the Russians danced to his tune this night, signifying to all the world that the phoenix was about to rise.

25

Wednesday

W
HEN JACKIE ARRIVED downstairs the next morning, a trio of impossibly elegant women were doing coffee in the Hassler lounge. Several groups of businessmen watched her passage like lazy predators. The doorman gave her the sort of good morning that came with a five hundred dollar room, and ushered her into the sunlight. She crossed the cobblestone plaza and sought breakfast and a dose of reality in a corner café. Even if by some fluke she was ever granted the money and the ease, she would never become a Hassler type of gal. Her view of reality had come at too high a price to ever put her nose that far in the air.

Twice during the taxi ride to Sant’Egidio she glanced behind her, but the only things tracking her progress were sunlight and pigeons. The church was empty save for an old couple polishing the pews and four women kneeling before a side altar. The air smelled of dust and cold incense. Jackie pursued the sound of quiet chatter to a hallway leading off between two chapels. At the end, four Gypsy children sat sentinel outside a closed door. As soon as they spotted her, they rose and adopted the tragic whining cadence of professional beggars. Jackie did as she had seen the locals do the previous evening, touching their heads and outstretched palms, wishing she had an accompanying blessing to offer as well.

Her knock was answered by a musical protest in Italian. Jackie opened the door and inquired, “Was that a hello or get lost?”

“Jackie, hello, please forgive me.” When Anna rose from the chair behind the desk, she grew shorter. “I thought it was the children. Some days . . . Come in, please. No, no,
va via!
” This to the children crowding in behind her. “Shut the door, quickly now. Good. Sit, sit. Will you have coffee?”

“No thanks.”

“Please take something. It will delight the children no end to have me assign them something to do.”

“All right.”

“A
spremuta
, perhaps? Orange juice?”

“Anything.”

“Excellent.” The children greeted her reappearance by jostling for position. There was an argument over who was to go, settled only by Anna handing lire to the middle one and shutting the door once more. “Forgive them. They are starved for more than food and a bath.” She returned to her desk. “Mr. Bryant has departed safely?”

“As far as I know.” Jackie waited until the small woman was seated to say, “We need to hire a detective.”

Anna inspected her for a somber moment. “This request. It has to do with your visit here in Rome?”

“Yes.”

“Then the enemy has tracked you here?”

“Wynn thinks so.”

Anna cocked her head to one side. “Do I wish to know more, Ms. Havilland?”

“Probably not.”

“
Bene
.” Anna rose from the chair and gave what was perhaps her first false smile. “Please wait here.”

The children returned soon after Anna’s departure, proudly bearing a tray with a frothy glass. Jackie sipped the juice and enjoyed their company. The room suited them perfectly, unadorned save for the cross behind the desk and the furniture worn to bare bones. Once the children accepted that she neither understood them nor would give them money, they made a game of one-way conversation. Jackie responded with smiles, delighting in their dark-eyed frivolity.

When Anna returned, she let the children remain clustered about Jackie, as though seeking a witness, however flimsy. “Sadly I cannot help.”

The flat turndown was unexpected. “Do you have any idea where I could go?”

“Perhaps one thought. Do you travel with a computer?”

“Yes.”

“You know our website?”

Jackie thought of the blank screen and the unanswered message. “I’m not sure.”

“Not the official Sant’Egidio address. I mean the other.” Anna waited, examining her closely.

“Trastevere?”

“Ah. Excellent.” This time the smile was very real. “That was the gift of one of our young members. An American like yourself. The work was done by a friend of hers. But that is unimportant now.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Oh yes, of course, the single word can be most confusing. The one choice, to go or not.” Anna raised Jackie with a gesture, and led her toward the door. “Make your request again there. Our friends can hear and remain hidden. Most important.”

“Why is that?”

The long stone hallway turned Anna’s words into a litany, the children into a cluster of filthy acolytes at her heels. “This other young woman worked in your Library of Congress. She was a dear friend. She loved life, Ms. Havilland. She loved God. And now she is gone.”

The final word drifted up and away as they reentered the church. Jackie recalled an earlier conversation and wondered where Nabil was at that moment. “She was killed!”

“The police claim she died by her own choice. Leaping from a building. During a protest she helped organize. Please, you will return tonight and tell me what you have discovered?”

“Yes, all right.”

“Where are you staying, may I ask?”

“The Hassler.”

“A lovely hotel.” Anna offered a parting smile. “Go with God, Ms. Havilland. And take great care.”

B
Y THE TIME Jackie returned to her hotel and e-mailed her request, she was ready for lunch. She returned to the tiny coffee shop crammed between the intersection of two streets, across the cobblestone piazza from the Spanish Steps. The two old gentlemen seated by the doorway greeted her with the solemn nods of men who had learned the Italian etiquette of charm early and well. She felt the eyes of the young men tending bar even before she passed through the doorway, but in this time and place she did not mind. She ordered another
spremuta
and looked over the sandwiches arrayed in disciplined ranks beneath the glass. The older bar owner left his place by the cash register and shooed off the young man making famished eyes at her. He scooped up a spoonful of cream cheese and fresh herbs, spoke with the fluid arrogance of the native Roman, and gestured for her to smell. She did so, inhaling all the fragrances of a fresh-cut field. He grinned at her response, and pointed her to an outside table. Again the old men nodded and welcomed her with murmured flirtations. She sat and sipped her orange juice until the café owner appeared and set down the plate with an impossible flourish. The entire café watched as she tasted. Toasted black-olive
ciabatta
with fresh tomatoes, cream cheese, and prosciutto. Roman sun, a host of men watching her eat. All the world eager to see her smile. It was very hard not to be blinded by the day.

After lunch she returned to her room to check the electronic message board. She logged onto the Trastevere site, stared at the enigmatic command, then hit the key for
Go
. The screen instantly revealed the query,
Incoming direct coded signal. Will you accept? Go/NoGo
.

She studied the message as she would an alien life-form. There was no reference to anything she understood. But she hit the key for
Go
.

The message board dissolved, then filtered back again. This time there was the query,
Payment?

She typed out,
Who are you?
Hit ’send’. The message slip folded itself into smoke and evanesced. The reply was swift in coming:
You made a request for assistance in tracking an individual from Rome. I am a detective and a friend of a small lady known for strong prayers
.

Jackie stared at the screen long enough to realize this was all the response she would ever receive. So when the incoming slip returned with the payment query repeated, she typed in Wynn’s credit card number and a query of her own,
How can I know this is confidential?

All Trastevere messages are automatically anonymized.

“What choice do I have,” she asked the empty room.
When will you have the requested info?

Soon.

This is urgent. How can I contact you?

But the screen remained blank.

J
ACKIE DECIDED IT was necessary to call Esther, despite the hour in Washington. “I know it’s too early.”

“It’s fine. Really. I was just leaving for the hospital. Graham is coming home.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

“He spoke my name yesterday.” She sounded close to singing. “What do you need?”

“I just wanted to pass on what’s happened.” She related the events, or at least some of them. She spoke only of the church and Wynn’s departure and Valerie’s arrival and Anna’s warning. Leaving out the images that floated about as she spoke. Saying nothing of their dinner, their talk, their leave-taking in the lobby. Or the way she had felt as Wynn left her room the night before, the sudden desire to walk down the hall, speak his name again, holding him as she did. The first time in over two years she had felt anything more than warning.

Esther must have heard the slight tremor that escaped, and understood. For her voice flattened when she said, “Wynn Bryant is a handsome, dangerous man.”

Jackie swallowed. It was so hard to speak up on behalf of any male. “I don’t think he’s the enemy, Esther.”

“No? You’ve spent, what, two days in his company and you know him that well?”

“People change. They learn, they grow. Not often. But it happens.”

She waited for the bitter retort, but to her surprise all the older woman did was sigh the one word. “Cairo.”

“Should I have gone with him?”

“No. I suppose you might as well follow your instincts. Let me know what the detective says. And remember what that woman told you. Be careful.”

26

Wednesday

I
F YOU HAVE THE security right, you can do just about anything and do it safely. My task this morning is to be an enabler, and to help you protect your data and maintain the integrity of your sources.”

Colin was two-thirds through his standard monthly spiel to the corporate fresh meat. All but three of the newly hired were finding it hard to stay awake. Which was very good, since he had designed the little talk to bore them senseless. It was his very own introductory course in corporate drivel. After this half hour, they’d do a moondance in feathers and warpaint in Hayek’s front office before ever seeking Colin out again.

“The next step in data service is authentication, which is your way of ensuring the system that you are who you say you are.” He walked around the room handing out plastic blanks like unfinished credit cards. “These are your very own scratch-and-sniffs. Scratch the silver line there, then memorize your ID number. Don’t write it down. Don’t forget it. There is a five hundred dollar penalty for losing your number, and a five hundred dollar reward for finding someone else’s. You will receive a new one every quarter.”

In his early days, Colin had found the nine-digit numbers scrawled in every imaginable place. He had used the rewards to finance the down payment on a new car. Since then people had wised up. “Access control is the other side of the coin. The Hayek Group uses a program known as Resource Access Control Facilitator, or RAC/F. This is a standard roll-base enabler and monitors all departments on an independent system. You will be permitted entry only to your designated portions of the mainframe’s data bank. Those sections you will find outlined on pages six and seven of your personalized folder.” Only one of them bothered to look. “If you require anything outside those areas, you will need to speak to someone with dedicated access.”

The final pair of eyes glazed over. Total oblivion had set in. Proof that Dilbert clones were not born, but molded. “Today’s final point deals with data confidentiality, which is the system’s way of ensuring anything you write or, for you traders, any deal you make, remains hidden from all except those with . . .”

His pager was set for silent alarm and vibrated against his belt. He glanced down and saw it was a call from Eric on the trading-room floor. Anything from the floor during office hours was to be treated as critically urgent. Colin looked out over the room. Not a single face showed any awareness that he had even stopped talking. He was momentarily tempted to just walk out in mid-sentence, see how long they would remain caught in soporific stasis. “To finish up, our internal corporate data system must be treated as a secure world. Our electronic premises must have each and every one of you acting as vigilant guards at all times. Any questions? All right then. Welcome to the Hayek Group.”

Colin flew down the outer corridor. If it was a true emergency, seconds might mean millions. He slipped into the back of the trading room and waited to be noticed. Dealers raced and shouted their way through a normally frantic day. Eric caught his eye, lifted one finger, used it as an arrow to plant Colin where he was. Eric juggled two telephones as he went back to punching numbers into his board. Then he called over to his senior trader, “I’ve got a broker on the line from London. Looks like we might have an arbitrage opening up here.”

That caught everyone’s attention in the spot trade section. The word meant different things to different kinds of traders. For currency hounds, an arbitrage was basically a gap between one group’s offer and another active bid. With e-trading, arbitrages grew smaller and flashed out quicker. But canny traders still found them. And grabbed them with iron teeth of greed.

Alex, the senior spot trader, scooted his chair out far enough to see the trio of aisles that made up his world. “Who’s the shop?”

“Won’t say,” Eric replied. “But Rawls is the broker. A troll might be at work here.”

This meant Eric was probably up against a minor Swiss player who was keeping his sale confidential by acting through a currency broker. It had taken Colin months to understand both the lingo and the action. The study had become a hobby, something tied to his e-world but beyond it, another linked universe that amplified the high. The “shop” was either a bank or fund active in currency trading. These days there were two classes of shops operating out of Switzerland. The gnomes were the top-league traders, biggest of the big. Credit Suisse alone handled over six hundred billion in assets. Contests with gnomes usually turned into scalding experiences. It was critical when trying to play an arbitrage to make sure a gnome was not involved.

Trolls were something different. Trolls were would-be gnomes. they operated in regional Swiss banks and pretended to a knowledge they often did not have. A true gnome would not allow a troll to open his car door, much less have access to a gnome-type lead. Which meant occasionally trolls would open arbitrage pockets big enough to hold a truckful of profit. Eric handled dollar-euro, and the euro had been on a wild and woolly ride since its introduction. Instability like this bred occasional chances for big profit. And bigger losses.

“They’ve put up a bid for eighty million dollars at fifty.” Eric spoke in hushed tones, even though his phone mikes were muted.

“What’s the market say?”

“Stable at thirty points higher.”

Thirty points was a spread of one-third of a cent, a huge difference for a relatively calm day. The senior trader rose to his feet. Alex quietly addressed his cadre, who waited poised at the cliff’s edge, every one of them ready to leap. “Call one friend each. See if there’s something out there we don’t know about.” The traders scattered.

Eric said, “I’ve found a bid on-line for fifty at ten higher.” This meant he already had a buyer for fifty million of the anonymous seller’s eighty million, at ten points above the offered price. After commission it represented a marginal profit, less than a quarter-million dollars, but not bad for a sixty-second play.

“Buy eighty, sell fifty,” the senior man ordered. “And put your broker on the horn.”

Eric routed one of his phones through the speaker above his central screen. He shut off his mute button and said, “I buy your eighty at one-fifty.”

“Sold at one-fifty,” intoned the dull voice over the speaker. “You in the market for more?”

All brokers spoke like they were coming off a ten-week drunk, the effects of living on the knife’s edge of spot trading. One-fifty was a reference to the final cent and points, or hundredths of a cent. The rest of the exchange rate was not mentioned unless the shifts came in violent increments. Then the rates were not spoken but screamed. Colin had seen it happen twice, and both times the trading floor had become a battle zone.

Eric was already flashing the sell order on his keyboard. He covered his phone mike. “Bought and sold.”

“Right.” The senior trader rose up and hissed to his team, “What have you got?”

He received a chorus of head shakes. One woman muttered, “According to Lehman, dollar-euro is holding stable.”

Alex dropped back into the saddle. Said to Eric, “Tell the guy we’re in for more.”

“How much?”

“Go for a quarter. See what he says.”

Eric tried vainly to hold to his calm. But the bug eyes gave him away. A quarter billion dollars was twice his limit and the biggest trade he had ever made. His voice was slightly strangled as he uncovered his mike and said, “Back to you with second query.”

“Go.”

“What’s your posit for more dollar-euro?”

“Give me a size.”

A nervous glance at Alex, who nodded sharply. Go. “Two hundred and fifty either way.”

A fractional pause, then, “This is an authorized trade?”

An authorized trade meant the query was backed by an actual right to deal. “Affirmative.”

“Hold one.”

The senior trader raised his hand like a conductor ready to lead the band into frantic song. The broker came back, “Two hundred fifty at one-fifty-sixty.”

Either-way trade offers included both buy and sell prices. One-fifty-sixty meant the unnamed source was willing to either sell euros at eighty-one and fifty hundredths U.S. cents, or buy at ten hundredths higher. This buy-sell difference also included the broker’s minuscule cut.

The senior trader’s upraised hand pumped violently. Nineteen traders went into hyperdrive. The first response came from across the aisle at, “Buy fifty at one-seventy!”

Another, “Seventy at one-sixty-nine!”

The senior trader’s arm pumped harder. Over the speaker the broker demanded, “Are we trading or am I walking?”

Eric uncovered his mike but could not keep the tremble from either his voice or his hand. “Hold one.”

“I don’t hold for nobody, boyo. Especially not some schmuck trading out of his league. You drop this, you don’t ever call me again.”

A voice from across the room shouted, “Sixty-five at one-sixty-one!”

The senior trader snapped, “Buy it all.”

Eric’s voice raised an octave as he shouted, “Buy two-fifty at one-fifty!”

“Done and good-bye.” The broker cut the connection.

The senior trader shouted, “We’re still holding twenty-five. Find me
anything
over one-fifty!”

“Twenty-five at one-fifty-six!”

Eric stabbed his screen and managed, “Euro-dollar’s going south. The market’s gapping down!”

The senior trader walked over to clap Eric on the shoulder. “Add fifty to your limit and a half-bill to your bonus.” He said more loudly, “Way to go, team!” Then he headed toward Colin.

Colin said in greeting, “Eric buzzed me.”

“I asked him to.” Up close Alex had the stretched-mask face of a trauma victim and a voice to match. He pointed to the balcony. “You see the new guys?”

“I do now.” The glassed-in parapet was alive with activity. Upstairs traders went through a normal trading day. Only they were cut off by a glass wall and gave scant indication they were aware of anything down below.

“Can you tap in and find out what’s going on?”

“No. They’re using a secure line.”

“Independent of the group’s computers?”

“Independent of everything.”

The senior trader looked very worried. “This is a bad idea, putting them up there. Traders deal in rumors, and I’m stamping out a dozen at a time. Half my guys have feelers out for new jobs. They can’t work in a place where they’re getting secondhand reports.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t know anything. Hayek’s just getting back from Miami, the Unabomber’s not available, and I’ve got twenty new faces standing on top of my head. And I don’t know why.” The senior trader’s attention was caught by arm-waving from one of his cadre. Alex was a man who lived in twenty-second bursts. Colin’s time was up. “You hear anything, you let me know, right?”

“Absolutely.” Colin watched him move away, grateful for this public connection. Alex had not met him today to ask about the new scene overhead. He wanted to show all the members of his eighty-by-eighty world that Colin was one of the good guys. His place was swiftly taken by Eric. Colin told him, “You did good out there.”

“Today, maybe.” Eric’s high was gone, the fizz now flat. “You know what they say about the higher you climb.”

“Yeah,” Colin replied. “The more money you put in your pocket.”

“If that’s so, how come I’m the one always in debt?” Eric headed back to his desk.

Colin searched the upstairs glass cage for the deadhead in Armani, but all the faces were fleeting blurs backlit by a hundred monitors. Colin turned from all the unanswered questions and headed back to his safe little hole.

But he was halted at his cubicle’s entrance by the sight of a well-dressed foe perched on the edge of his seat. The usurper’s ivory linen jacket was pulled up his arms to reveal a gold Rolex. Super-dude shades sat on top of his spiky waxed hair. Colin could not believe his eyes.
Nobody
entered someone else’s cubicle without permission. It was one of the backroom’s unbreakable codes. “What are you
doing?
”

The guy knew he had gone too far. He tried for cool, but the jerky way he snapped about, then flashed back to kill the screens convicted him. “Easy there. Just hanging around, playing the odd game.”

But Colin was no longer listening. He seldom felt rage, even less often acted upon it. But to find this man seated in
his
space working on
his
system pushed him way beyond redline.

“Chill, dude. It’s all part of a day’s play. I mean, it’s not like you’ve got anything worth hiding, am I right?”

A weapon. Colin found nothing to hand except the ficus tree guarding the cubicle opposite his. He raced over and hefted it, bucket and all.

“Hey!” A voice from inside cried, “You can’t—”

But Colin was already hurtling back across the narrow aisle, gathering what speed he could. He hefted the tree, bucket first, aiming straight for the deadhead’s slack-jawed face.

It was a lousy shot. The guy ducked in time, and Colin managed only to graze the top of his head. But it was enough to dislodge the bug-eyed shades and dump a ton of dirt down the back of the guy’s shirt.

“
Help!
” The guy was down on all fours now, or at least threes, with one hand wrapped over his head. “This idiot’s gone berserk!”

“You miserable cretin!” Colin flipped the empty bucket to one side, gripped the tree by its branches, and whipped the roots down on the guy’s back and shoulders. Leaving filthy stripes across the guy’s jacket. Feeling the shades crunch under his foot. “You ever come in here again I’ll
kill
you.”

The worst blow came not from Colin at all, but rather from the guy catapulting out of the cubicle still blinded by the hand covering his head, and ramming straight into the opposite wall. He went down hard, which gave Colin time to get in another two swipes across his back and one solid kick to the ribs. The guy shrilled a noise too high for human vocal cords and fled, leaving a trail of dirt and leaves in his wake.

Chest heaving, Colin stood staring down the corridor. Then he realized he was not alone. He turned to find the aisle behind him jammed with round-eyed spectators.