Hatched (38 page)

“Jude,” Tom had reportedly said, “you are now part of the plan. This generation offers sacrifices to false gods, who we will bring down!”

“False gods?” Ted asked Judas to repeat the phrase in a phone conversation with Jude. “False gods? What the hell was he on?”

“I swear, Ted, I don’t know,” said Jude. “He said that the plan was to bring down everything that was evil. Everything! I don’t even know what that means!”

“Nor did he,” said Ted.

“It’s, well . . .,” started Jude. “It’s not just the crazy talk. He also, um, he also seemed to be almost coming on to me.”

“You?” asked Ted in disbelief.

“Well, I don’t really mean it like that. Um, it’s not like he touched me or anything, but, well, he stared at me with really crazy eyes. It was as though he knew that something really terrible was going to happen.” There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“How do you mean?” The line sounded dead. “Hold on a second, Jude.” Jude could hear that Ted was relaying information to somebody else, nearby, probably Steve.

“Jude said that he was agitated, like he knew something was going on.” Another pause.

“You still there?” asked Ted.

Jude was in the lobby of his hotel, seated on one of the fancy sofas. His truck was packed and ready to go, and he was now held up by the proceedings in light of the shooting. He had been released from the clutches of the police questioning, but now he felt subjected to new levels of inquiry. He just wanted to go home.

“Ted, can we speak about this when I get back?”

“No, no, sorry, Jude. We need to, um, we just need to know where to go from here.”

“I understand, I’m sorry.”

“For what? Don’t be sorry, this isn’t your fault.”

“It is. I brought him here.”

“He paid you!”

There was another pause, as the frustration of being in the middle of some incomprehensible transaction bore down upon Jude. Nonetheless, there was still that previously absent bulge in the front pocket of his pants, still substantial even after a night of ostensibly pissing as much of it away as he possibly could.

“There were other strange things he said . . .,” began Jude.

“I’m listening,” said Ted. “We are listening, in fact.” Steve had joined in the conversation through speakerphone.

“He told me to, um, tell someone.”

“Tell someone what?”

“Tell someone, um, what was in the bags.”

“Jesus!” That was clearly Steve’s voice, Steve who was always so resolutely effaced in contrast to Ted.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Ted, I don’t, I swear. He said that I was part of a great deed, and that I would exceed everyone else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, I swear, but then he said that I needed to sacrifice the man that clothes me.”

“That whats you?”

“That clothes me. Clothes. Clothing.”

“He was asking you to . . .”

Jude paused. “Yes, that’s what I think he was saying. He was asking me to sacrifice him. He wanted me to, um, give him away. He said, um, this is going to sound crazy.”

“I’m listening, Jude, take it easy. What did he say?”

“He said that he needed to tell me everything, and that in the name of his father he had to act, but that his task would be done today. He said that I should behold the skies, for I was freeing them of the clouds, and that the star revealed in the wake of the clearing would lead the way.”

“He lost his fucking mind,” murmured Ted.

“He then left me there like that, in my truck. And walking back towards the community center, he—” Jude began to sob. “Walking back, he, he, walking, there were these pops, this sound, and he grabbed his stomach, and then covered his face, and fell down. Right there. He . . . he fell down. . . .”

Chapter 10

Americans were set to vote to return their president to office on November 8. One week before that election, two men wearing dark suits and carrying black umbrellas passed through the front door of the headquarters of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, a few blocks north of Wall Street. Preceding them through that door and into those hallowed halls were reports of an upward tick in consumer spending, an as-yet unheeded warning of unusual movement in the rare earth metals commodity futures, and an e-mail, still unread by any official likely to care, that the murder of a wealthy Wall Street investor may be connected to some larger intrigue. Intrigues, in the financial world, arrive by the truckload, as it were, and most will be discounted before ever being investigated. Tom’s death might have qualified for such an ignominious fate, but the presence of Ted and Steve assured otherwise.

Once they’d cleared the metal detector a visibly shaken Ted turned to Steve, and for the first time since the news of the murder, he showed signs of his habitual humor. There was that grin, a grin of confidence, a grin that to Steve conveyed the fact that they were inside the treasury building, and that thus far there were no handcuffs, no armed soldiers, no assault. They had encountered uniformed officers at the door, but they were from some private firm with a name like Secur or Proteck or Investigatio, and were thus not to be taken very seriously. Ted and Steve followed their instructions through the metal-detecting station, past the pile of plastic bins, and into the inner sanctum of American capitalism. Even if fiscal policy is made in Washington, the actual machinations of the American financial world are put into play in this building. The US economy, and economies all around the world, had been bolstered, and, much more often wrecked, by decisions taken here, decisions with such far-reaching consequences that even the half-million gold bars stored in the basement were considered to be symbolic rather than reassuring.

A brunette secretary sporting a formal, red dress and a collection of golden rings and bracelets invited the two men to sit down on the purple, leather couch. The bracelets adorned her wrists and the rings were on eight out of her ten fingers, and, upon closer examination effected by Steve’s discerning eye, could also be found to be looped into almost every possible ear piercing including, as he knew from a former girlfriend, her lobes, orbitals, auricles, daiths, conches, traguses, and rooks. As he pulled the fabric up on his silk, black pants in order to sit down, Steve discretely motioned to Ted with a flick of his head in the direction of this armored, golden goddess. Ted looked over at her, indiscreetly, and then once he had settled into his seat motioned towards his crotch, where he drew a small circle in the air with his index finger, as though inquiring as to whether her vulva was similarly adorned. Steve smirked. America had clearly taken a rather radical direction of late, it seemed.

Suddenly a young man, far too young for the role, arrived in the waiting area. A slight, bespectacled, pale, nerdy-looking type quietly put forth his small, clammy palm, and shook hands with both men before leading them to an elevator. He inserted a key that brought them up to an unmarked floor, to what was known quite simply as the “Operations Room,” a huge space that resembled a trading floor. It was an unexpected scene. There were no traders on the floor, no hustle and bustle, no hand signals, and almost no sound, except for the clicking of keyboards. This wasn’t the riotous zoo that Ted and Steve knew well from their work; this was simply a huge room filled with hoards of informally dressed traders manning computer screens.

“Pretty casual, huh?” asked their guide.

“Casual, indeed!” replied Ted. “A lot quieter than my office.”

“That’s what everyone says. By the way, I’m Mike.”

“Hey, Mike,” continued Ted. “Do you get lots of visitors?”

Mike, wiser apparently beyond his years, didn’t reply. “The real action is in the conference rooms. I’ve heard yelling from inside them on more than one occasion.” Mike paused for a moment, and then looked into Ted’s eyes as they walked towards one of the conference rooms. “And crying.”

“That’s reassuring!”

Just as Ted uttered those words, there emerged a large, puffy, pink-faced man with a Yasser Arafat-style beard. His round, red face bore patches of uneven bristles that looked to have been trimmed with some version of a weed-eater. Mike didn’t stay for the introductions, but instead just faded away into the endless expanses around them.

“Steven Fraser,” said the monument of a man who usurped this young assistant. “You must be Ted.”

Steven Fraser shook Ted’s hand with his plump paw and a firm grip, and then turned to Steve.

“Steve? Steven.” Steve looked at him as though he were meeting his adversary for the semi-final match at Wimbledon. As though in search of a warmer connection, Steven Fraser held onto Steve’s hand and repeated himself. “Good afternoon, Steve, Steven Fraser.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed further, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Steven Fraser indicated the way into the room, and then led them, with a dexterous wobble of his huge stomach, as though he was working to avoid scraping the doorframe.

Before them lay one of the principle control rooms that hovered at the very epicenter of the contemporary, material world. It was appropriately business-like, cold, and, amazingly, empty. Ted and Steve had imagined various scenarios for this meeting, including discussions with the president himself, surrounded by a host of advisors. In none of these scenarios were they alone with a six-foot-five, obese, somewhat-bearded man inside of a conference room, on a floor of a building occupied solely by young people staring intently into cyberspace while dexterously playing on their keyboards, like so many travel agents inside of an airport.

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Fraser folded his hands in front of him on the desk and looked at the two men.

Steve looked over at Ted, who was staring intently forward, looking increasingly ominous. “Was this the guy?” His eyes seemed to inquire.

The play in this room was obvious. They needed to assess if Steven Fraser would, or even could, send the right message to the head of the treasury and the feds. On the trading floor they now occupied, the US government purchased thirty to forty billion dollars of long-term US government bonds, and another twenty to thirty billion dollars of mortgage-backed securities
every single month
, for a total of around six hundred billion dollars per year. Even the slightest shift in spending, enacted as White House policy, could redirect resources in ways that could change outcomes in markets around the world.

In fact, the effects of actions taken in this room affected the value of the dollar, the rise and fall of interest rates, the amount of subsidies paid to bank and other private institutions, and, by extension, the movement of the entire stock market. Any shift in their actions were recognized, felt, and acted upon, in regards to US government assets totaling more than five trillion dollars. The amount is so staggering relative to the overall world economy that the last time the head of the treasury department had whispered, possibly to test the waters, that they would need to wind down this stimulus program in order to return the treasury to its traditional role, the stock market had dropped 550 points in thirty-six minutes.

“I’m really sorry about your friend.” Steven Fraser seemed intent upon penetrating Steve’s armor, in order to start the conversation. Steve had no intention of relaxing his guard, and so, as Ted drew Fraser’s gaze to him, the scene took on a distinct good cop / bad cop feel.

“We are still reeling,” started Ted. “Senseless.”

Fraser turned to Ted. “You think so?”

It was Ted’s turn to adopt a statuesque pose, a powerful tool in an arsenal that had served him well over the years of negotiating financial settlements.

“Yes,” he uttered finally. “Random. That’s what the Metro guy said.”

“Police?”

“Yah.” Ted looked over at Steve, waiting for his move, but he was stock-still.

“Anything else? Where’s the body?” Fraser seemed to be just feigning interest, still assessing.

“They won’t release it,” said Ted. “I’m heading to Nashville tomorrow.”

“Next of kin?”

“He was pretty much alone in the world. Some distant family in the Philippines, nobody here, and his parents are both dead.”

“Hm.” Fraser added this to the list of details, this being clearly something he didn’t know. Since it appeared to be significant, it must have been related to the treasury’s sense of Tom’s motive. “And so you wanted me to address, what shall we call it, this stimulus?” Fraser looked over at Steve, since a one-syllable answer might start the conversation.

Ted, of course, answered the call, in order to save Steve for a more perspicacious moment. “That’s right, right, exactly. That’s actually what we called it.”

“Is it still going on?”

“Manufacturing you mean?” asked Ted.

“Manufacturing, yes, and distributing.”

“No. Unless you want us to continue.” The question of how humor might work here was unclear, and if it flew, Ted would have a much stronger set of cards to play.

Steven Fraser moved his large body forward into the table, confident, apparently, that he now possessed what he needed. “No, that won’t be necessary. And doing so would complicate matters. Further, complicate matters further.”

“That was the plan,” said Steve.

Fraser turned abruptly towards Steve in the face of this reply. “Okay. Done. Now what?”

Steve calmly moved his left hand towards his right breast pocket and pulled out a small pocketbook, bound in leather and tied. He dexterously untied the leather strands and ceremoniously opened the little book, as though his own Native-American tribe had sent him as a messenger to a divine task. “This is the list. You don’t need to change the quantity of your investments, you just need to change the recipients.”

Fraser smiled, snidely. “Is that all? Let’s see it.” Steve slid the list over to him, and looked to catch Ted’s eye. Ted raised his eyebrows and looked to Fraser’s gaze.

With his rather nasal voice and cocky demeanor, Fraser scanned the list quickly. “Are you making these suggestions as a voter?”

Steve resumed his steely gaze.

Fraser looked from one to the other. “This is why you are here? This is the product of your labor? For this you risk a lifetime as a guest to the US prison system? I’m not so sure I understand.”