Man in the Middle (28 page)

“Would you do me another favor?” Peter asked.

“If I can, though I hope this means you will pay the overdue bill.”

“Yes. I’ll pay. Can you check the date of the postmark on the letter addressed to me? Also the return address on the envelope.”

It took a few minutes for the singsong voice to return. “It has a postmark of May the twenty-five. The return address is Clairemont.” She recited his mother’s address.

Peter hung up.

Thursday, May the twenty-fifth?

That would be the same May twenty-fifth stamped on Hannah Neil’s death certificate.

Peter prepared for his nine p.m. trading rendezvous with Morgan with as much of a nap as he could manage. When he woke at eight o’clock, he had just enough time to get ready. He felt better, but still had nagging concerns. His mother had sent him a letter the same morning she met him outside his workplace, to a mailbox he had no knowledge of until today. And registered letters, tucked away for months. Why? None of it made any sense.

It was dark outside and, with the window open, Peter’s room felt clammy cold. His boxers and tee-shirt provided him marginal insulation as he lurched out of bed, feet hurting as if he’d wandered an entire day and night in search of something lost. His hands shook and his jaw vibrated in a futile attempt to generate enough energy to ward off the chill. A few moments later, steam filled the shower. Peter slapped his forehead into the palms of his hands, using the heel of each hand to grind his temples.

Thoughts of the letters brought to mind Charles Jefferson, and the image haunted Peter. It disturbed him that this kind man had so much enthusiasm for every small blessing—happy for a shitty part-time job, and excited about working on someone else’s house. On top of that, he had a
God is Great
sticker plastered to his decrepit car bumper. What great things had God done for Charles Jefferson and his impoverished family lately?
None
, was the answer. Poor, ignorant man didn’t even know enough to be miserable.

“Stop it.” Peter lifted his head in time to see Henry arch his back in reaction to those echoing words. “Sorry, Henry. I was scolding myself. Charles Jefferson isn’t the stupid one.”

Henry left the bathroom humidity. Peter kicked the door closed, pulled his shirt over his head, removed his slippers, and stood, facing the steamed mirror. He smeared the condensation with the ball of his fist. Through the streaks, he barely recognized the reflection staring back.

Forty-five minutes later, Peter grabbed his keys and started to bound out. He felt better. Refreshed.

“Melancholy gone,” he said to Henry. “A blue funk brought on by . . . nothing. See you tomorrow, old man.”

For the thousandth time since someone stole it, Peter rubbed his finger and thumb together, imagining he still possessed his father’s gift. When he got close enough to his car, he pressed the button on his key chain. It produced the beep that locked and unlocked the door: lock, unlock, lock, unlock. The action triggered something in the underbelly of his subconscious. What was it? He bounced and jangled the six keys up and down. He climbed into his car, shut the door, and felt for the ignition key.

“Not that one,” he said, working to the next key. “Not this small one, either . . .”

Suddenly, the ripples of an obscure memory spread, reaching finally to a specific time and place: his mother’s kitchen, next to the answering machine, the afternoon of the day he learned of her death. He had discovered two keys—one to her destroyed car, the other smaller. At the time, Peter had assumed the second key unlocked a drawer or box somewhere in her house. Turning on the car light, he ran his finger along the jagged edge, recalling his conversation with the Carlsbad mailbox woman. She had said, “Not a combination, but a key” opened the mailbox. Inside was some registered mail and a letter addressed to him.

Needing to hurry, Peter put his curiosity on hold as he inserted the car key and listened to the low hum of his precision engine. Fifteen minutes later, he parked under the bright lights and cameras at Stenman’s offices. Two minutes after that, he signed in. Another forty-five seconds and he entered the hallway leading to Morgan Stenman’s office. As unobtrusively as possible, he walked in. There, a series of pulsating lights from an endless row of machines—each one tied into some important event, somewhere in the world—greeted him. The show both dizzied and captivated his imagination.

Within the hour, he had dismissed the relevance of his mailbox discovery. He was too busy making history.

In her office, Stenman had one other trader present. An old guy, looking maybe seventy, and skinny as a skeleton, sat in a corner. The man’s name was Hans. He handled currency trades.

Hans had no social graces.

Before tonight, Peter hadn’t even realized that Indonesia’s currency was the
rupiah.
Since he’d arrived two hours ago, Stenman and her trader had bought and sold
rupiah
in mind-numbing quantities—over a billion dollars’ worth. It seemed hectic, but this was nothing compared to what she expected later, Stenman explained.

“We’ve only trickled the marketplace—we will shortly flood the worthless piece of shit currency—when it serves our purposes. We are toying with, testing, the Indonesian Central Bank’s moronic resolve.”

It was as long an explanation of anything he had ever gotten from Stenman, and he doubted she was even aware of speaking to him. When phone extension 4666 flashed, Peter punched the button before the second flash. Stenman’s earlier instructions filled his head: “Answer the phone, listen, then repeat everything back to me. Exactly as said.”

The accented voice whispered rapidly against his ear, “They are near panic. They’ve used a billion in hard. U.S., Euro, and Yen—two hundred of each left. Gold sales completed two hours ago. Our meeting set to begin in ten.”

The line went dead. Peter feared he hadn’t been able to listen and note-take as fast as the man had spoken. It was as if he were listening to a non-stop message left on an answering machine, but without the luxury of a replay button.

“Let’s have it, Neil,” Stenman barked, her features screwed in a tight ball. “Exactly as said. Do not miss a word.”

Peter had scribbled the confusing parts on a slip of paper:
billion in hard, U.S. and Yen and Eur under two hundred each.

He began: “The man said: ‘They’re panicked. They’ve spent . . .’ no, he said: ‘they’ve
used
a billion in hard.’” He studied Stenman, hoping this made sense. It seemed to, so he continued, “U.S. and Yen and . . .” he hesitated, unable to decipher his own handwriting. Guessing, he continued, “and Euro under two hundred. I mean, under two hundred each. Definitely
each
.”

He filled his lungs. It was two hundred
each,
he prayed.

“Anything else?” Stenman asked, her impatience a guillotine hanging over his head.

“Yes. Gold sales completed two hours ago . . . the man then said: ‘We have a meeting set to begin in ten.’”

“That is all?” Stenman asked, her voice intolerant.

That
was
all.
Right?
He asked himself.

“Yes. Nothing else,” he answered.

“Good. Hans, offer five hundred U.S. equivalents. Let’s see how that affects their thought process.” Stenman licked her crusty lips, then put the filter tip to her mouth. She inhaled, then exhaled in several tiny bites, filling the room with nicotine vapor.

Peter continued to stare at 4666.

A moment later, Hans said, “They bought. Man unhappy.” Dutchman Hans, on the other hand, laughed like a hyena picking on antelope bones.

“Unhappy? Yes, I think the poor man is filled with nuclear angst,” Stenman said with a voice soaked in manic hyperbole. “After eating your offering, that leaves less than half a billion hard,” she continued. “They have just flatlined.”

Hans nodded. “No IMF. No U.S. Treasury. No bailout. Maybe they call you to ask for advice.”

“They aren’t going to need me. Devaluation, austerity, fiscal responsibility, economic upheaval. Shit happens.”

Hans nodded. “We make money from the inevitable,” he said.

Fifteen minutes passed. Extension 4666 flashed a second time. Peter pounced.

The same mysterious voice whispered, “One last request to the IMF for ten billion. Treasury already no. If not, a big, big percent.” Again, the line went dead and again the man had set a world record for fast-talk.

“Goddammit, Peter! Spit it out!” Stenman yelled.

Peter had yet to put the phone down. In a rapid run-on, he blurted, “A last request to the IMF. Requesting ten billion. The Treasury said no . . .”

Peter hesitated for a long second. He had misspoken. It wasn’t “The Treasury said no,” it was “Treasury
already
no.”

“If not—” he concluded, praying to God the slight error had not been meaningful “—a big, big percent.”

Stenman picked up an outgoing line, and dialed. “Transfer me to Mauritius.” Fifteen seconds passed. Then she said, “Scramble this line.” Another few seconds. “Patch me through to . . .” she recited a lengthy international number. Finally, she said, “They received the request?” She listened, then continued, “Just as you promised. Good. Nothing.”

Stenman hung up and asked Hans: “How much
rupiah
do we have left on this loan?”

“One point two U.S.,” he said.

“Offer it all. We break the bank, now.”

A minute later, Hans turned, flashing bright yellow teeth. “They no longer pay the support—the
rupiah
is bullshit. Look,” he said, pointing to his currency screen, “chaos. It has happened.”

A little later, Peter studied his Reuters. The headlines read:

INDONESIA DEVALUES RUPIAH

INDONESIA TO ANNOUNCE CUTBACKS IN
GOVERNMENT-SPONSORED PROGRAMS—
INCLUDING LAYOFFS

CAPITAL FLEES INDONESIA

“That’s it,” Stenman celebrated. She then said something in German.

Hans laughed at her words while Peter smiled and nodded and played along as if he too spoke German and understood. Maybe he
didn’t
get the literal meaning of things, but he
did
understand, and he did share in the joy of the moment. He had arrived, finally, at the top of the mountain and, he discovered, the mountain was made of piles and piles of U.S. greenbacks.

As Peter continued to watch and listen to Hans, he put the mathematical side of his brain to work. He had overheard Hans mention they had borrowed a total of eight billion dollars in
rupiah
over the past two weeks. With now-current levels of devaluation, that meant Stenman Partners stood to clear something like $2 billion in profit by buying the Indonesian currency back at discounted prices and repaying the loan. Good work if you can get it, he mused.

Half the night later, Stenman said, “Peter, pick up the phone. Hans will feed you the words—you will learn new lessons.”

Hans looked at Peter as if he were toilet throw-up. “You,” he said to Peter, “call Bank of . . .”

For the remainder of the night, Peter learned his new lessons. He sat, spoke, yelled, and did everything they told him to do within the rarified confines of Morgan Stenman’s office. He learned the meaning of previously nonsensical words like “pips” and “cross-rates” and “interest-rate differentials.” He bought, then sold, then bought back currency at lower prices. Nobody in the markets understood what Stenman and her traders— including a new guy, Peter Neil—were up to. Stuart had said that they used smoke and mirrors in every major transaction. It now made complete sense to Peter. He was a magician confounding the masses.