Man in the Middle (23 page)

Peter tried and failed to control his mounting anger. “Who are you after? Leeman, Johnston, Ayers? Maybe Morgan Stenman? Some other hedge funds? Who? And why?”

Dawson’s flattened palm slammed on the table. “Isn’t it obvious? The bad guys. And that’s
bad
in capital letters.”

Dawson took a swig of cola. The pause had no effect on his passion. “Originally the bastards were just plain old crooks,” he continued with mounting zeal, “bending laws, trading off inside information. You know, doing all that stuff everybody knows is rampant—stuff we wink at in the locker rooms of our swank country clubs before a round of golf. Well, Mr. Great Expectations, I don’t play fucking golf, and these guys I’m chasing aren’t doing garden-variety lawbreaking any more. They’ve gone big-time on me. Financial titans have married their operations with thugs, using the time-proven tactics of intimidation, elimination, deterrence. Call it whatever you want. And like it or not, you’re the man who’s smack dab in the middle of it all. And that’s likely to make being stuck between a rock and a hard place look like Fiji.”

Peter’s fist clenched. “You tell a good story, Agent Dawson, but it doesn’t wash. The Russian guy who bombed Jackson was a day-trader with documented losses. He blew himself up. There’s not enough jack in the world to pay a guy to do that. That drunk money manager was a loser who simply snapped. I saw that one on television. My mother was an accident. An off-duty cop was a witness.”

Peter rose and took a couple of steps towards the exit.

“Neil!”

Peter turned his head.

“You remember those guys in the savings and loan industry who bought all those crappy junk bonds back in the eighties—many in violation of their charters?” Dawson paused to let the question sink in.

Peter recalled Aimie St. Claire’s stories about Drexel, Burnham, Mike Milken, junk bonds, and the collapse of the savings and loan industry. Only now, nothing about what she had said struck him as funny.

Dawson nodded, as if he heard Peter’s thoughts. “These guys—these crooks—got paid in cash, hot deals, prostitutes, and inside information. All of that for swindling investors and causing the loss of hundreds of billions of dollars. You hear about the New York and LA cop scandals? Undercover agents killing informants, stealing drugs, taking payoffs?

“Yeah. You’ve heard. I ask you: how much does it take to bribe a bad cop to fabricate a story about a widow, crashing into a piling, her car bursting into flames? Ten grand? A hundred grand? A million? Is that a lot of money in your world of high-powered investment? Stenman and her cronies have more millions than most of us have brain cells. No sir, it’s not a lot to spend to squash a threat. And oh yeah, whatever you do, don’t call the SEC without clearing it with me first—we’ve got at least one guy who’s crossed the line. And the longer you wait,” Dawson continued, “the harder it’ll be to get you out safely. Have a nice night, Neil.”

Five minutes later—and just twenty-two minutes after leaving the sports bar—Peter was back. Drinking champagne with Kat, he wondered why she kept asking so many questions about the diminutive insurance agent who had accosted him earlier that evening.

 
F
OR THREE DAYS
, A
GENT
D
AWSON STUMBLED OVER TORN CARPET
, watched non-cable television, ate vending machine sandwiches, chewed cinnamon buns with sticky icing glued to cellophane, and drank burnt coffee and warm Diet Coke. He had hoped to hear from Peter Neil before having to return to Washington. It was now clear that such luck wasn’t in the cards. But he had planted a seed, he assured himself. Would it take root in fertile soil? Neil was a bright boy—he’d begin to put the pieces together. The question remained, though: would Neil care? Few people risked everything for principle. Look what happened to his mother. If Neil didn’t come around, could he be blamed?

Such were the thoughts mucking around Dawson’s tired brain during three days of doing just one thing—waiting. Better to leave, he decided. Go back to work as if nothing happened, and be ready to drop everything if and when he got his break.

On the evening of the fourth day, back in D.C., Oliver Dawson wriggled across his kitchen table to hold Angela Newman’s hand. Now that he had made contact with Peter Neil, he needed to ask for her help. Afraid to break the news, he began by beating around the bush.

When Angela couldn’t take any more of his rambling, she said, “Oliver, you have something on your mind. You still like me, don’t you?”

“Yes. Of course. This has nothing . . . It’s just a good thing that . . .”

“Good thing
what
?”

“A good thing you no longer work for me.”

“I agree, though I suspect you have a new reason.”

“You’re smart, Angie. I need you to be my conduit to Ackerman. Now that this case is heating up, he needs to be updated. We’ll pretend you’re contacting him on behalf of your new boss, Jonathan Tinker. You and I can then meet once a week. You pass on instructions from the Director. I’ll give you an update from my end.”

Angela’s eyebrows looked as if they might slide from her face. “We’ll meet once a week? We see each other every day.”

Oliver looked down at their hands. He intertwined his fingers with hers. “This is important. People are dead. I’m certain Ranson will be monitoring my activities. He must know by now that I received the report from the FBI. Hopefully he doesn’t suspect I put two and two together and fingered him as the asshole who misrepresented the lab findings. I don’t think anyone in San Diego knows I contacted Neil.”

“This is a long-winded explanation for something. Spit it out, Oliver.”

“We can’t see each other until this is over. Nobody in the office knows for sure about our relationship. If you are to be my back-door to Ackerman, and you’re to stay safe, you must stay away from me most of the time.”

“No!” she said. “Drop the case. That’s asking too much.”

“Please. Here.” Dawson reached into his pocket, removing an item he smothered in his balled fist. “I want to ask you something, Angie.” He got down on one knee, then took her left hand in his. “Will you marry me?”

Inside his now opened hand, he held out an engagement ring.

Angela gasped. Her hand shook as she reached for the diamond, but said nothing. Dawson listened for what seemed a silent eternity. Finally her tender sobs drew his gaze from his shoelaces to her face. Her head bounced up and down, causing her glasses to slide along the bridge of her nose.

“That means yes? Right?” Dawson asked, biting at a snip of air.

“Yes. But this is one heck of a way to get me to agree to do what you ask.”

“Thank you . . . Darling.” The endearment sounded new and strange. “Only one other thing,” he continued.

“Yes, Oliver?”

“Uh, I don’t know quite how to say this . . .”

“What?”

“Well, until this matter is settled . . .”

“Yes?” Angela slipped the ring over her finger.

“Until we are no longer an undercover team, you can’t wear the ring or tell anyone we’re engaged.”

“You have got to be joking.”

“Ranson finds out you and I are—”

“I get it, Oliver. All I have to say is, you better get this case cracked and send the bad guys to jail, soon. Real soon.”

 
P
ETER DIDN
’
T QUITE UNDERSTAND WHY HE HADN
’
T MENTIONED HIS
Dawson run-in to Ayers or anyone at Stenman Partners. It wasn’t as if he believed any of the ridiculous accusations tossed around by the agent. And he hoped nothing more would happen if he ignored the whole episode. As it turned out, his anxiety over Dawson’s visit did begin to subside. To placate himself, Peter even phoned Dawson’s D.C. number. When the agent picked up, Peter disconnected, relieved that his tormentor no longer haunted Southern California.

Despite the unpleasantness at Sammy’s Restaurant, Peter passionately loved his job, especially the daily adrenaline rush. That everyone measured their worth by the money they made put them all on an equal footing. Make it or fail. Period. He also appreciated the fact that everyone minded their own business and kept their activities a well-guarded secret. The most successful people on Wall Street had built their personal dynasties on this simple formula. One day he might be placed on one of the pedestals reserved for Wall Street’s legends, if only he stayed the course. And I will, he silently swore to God, stay the course.

Things progressed uneventfully until the end of October. On a Saturday, Peter stumbled onto an opportunity. He decided to buy a personal computer. He went to three separate stores, only to discover PC’s to be in short supply. His frustration sparked a trading idea.

Arriving at the Stenman offices on Monday, he began to work the phones. He made calls to a number of PC manufacturers, assessing inventory levels and accounts payable and receivable. He confirmed that sales had very recently exploded. This revelation flew in the face of dire headlines and a severe price decline in computer makers’ stocks. By midday, he felt confident. He ran his idea by Stuart.

“Just a few weeks ago, PC manufacturers pre-announced lousy earnings for this quarter. Their inventories grew bloated when retailers began returning units right and left. These companies initiated discounts, and planned to reserve against unsold product—most earnings estimates had these companies losing money over the next four or five quarters.”