Man in the Middle (29 page)

When he finished with the
rupiah
in London’s panicked marketplace, several hours later, Peter reached a decision: he was happy. His former life was a million miles away. He had participated in bringing down a country’s central bank, and watched his employer make two billion dollars. Two billion was two thousand million dollars. Two million thousand dollars. He no longer had debts. Had money in the bank. He had made good in a tough world. His career would soon whiz past his friend Stuart’s, and maybe soon he would be out from under Howard Muller’s control. Agent Dawson was a clown. No longer a concern. All was good. Very, very good. It couldn’t get any better than this. Soon,
he’d
be making some of these decisions. Have important people afraid of what was on
his
mind.

Peter couldn’t help himself. He grinned until his face hurt.

“Adrenaline ought to be sold in bottles,” Peter said to Stuart as he folded himself into his desk chair at six a.m., having come straight from Morgan’s office. “Best damn drug in the world.”

The euphoria had yet to subside, and Peter fidgeted with the aftereffects.

“Where you been?” Stuart asked.

“Making history. You hear about Indonesia, overnight?”

“Do I look deaf, dumb, and blind? Of course I heard, dude—it’s got the world topsy-turvy. Latin American markets are going to get crushed— the usual ripple effect. The Crash of ’87 is going to be a pancake breakfast in comparison. By the by, we’re short those markets: lucky, eh?” He meant his grin to be conspiratorial. “Everyone’s assuming that the domino effect will force other developing markets to devalue. U.S. Treasuries: up two points in a flight to quality. Fortunately,” Stuart winked, “we were also long Treasury futures up our assholes.”

The statement reminded Peter of Oliver Dawson’s comments. He’d made a similar reference to Treasuries when describing his aborted investigation of Stenman.

“Whatta you know about the
rupiah
situation?” Stuart asked.

“Nothing,” Peter lied. “I reckon Stenman Partners might be a player, is all.”

“Already on the news wires, Sherlock. Everybody’s calling this another of Morgan’s brilliant plays. A few politicians are crying rivers, though.”

“Why should they care?”

“These flaming liberal a-holes say that with unemployment and flight of capital out of these countries after they devalue, their economies are going to circle the drain and the poor people will get poorer, blah, blah, blah. It’s bullshit. All Morgan does—at least this is the party line—is speed up the inevitable. Push governments to do what they should have done in the first place.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“Sure, Petey. Truth. We’re a bastion of truth, justice, and the American way.” Stuart swiped his nose.

“You’re getting an earlier and earlier start with that shit, Stuart. Market’s not even open yet.”

“An appetizer. Enough to give me a mental edge. Look . . .”

He pointed to a news story indicating that market rumors suggested that Brazil would devalue the
real
against the U.S. dollar within forty-eight hours. Their debt, according to the text, had traded down to forty cents on the dollar, and they had applied to the U.S. Treasury and the IMF for loans to support their currency. According to the wire service reporter who wrote the story, receiving aid was unlikely.

“This’ll be interesting,” Stuart said. “Guy advising the Brazilian government used to work for Morgan as an economist.”

“Stenman and Muller—they seem to be connected everywhere. Or am I overstating things?” Peter asked.

“Nope. The answer is: everywhere. And I mean, everywhere. By the way, we should have the Uhlander Pharm thing covered by end of day. You want me to handle your end?”

“Sure. Makes more sense to consolidate our order.” Peter stamped and filled out a buy-ticket. He handed it to Stuart. “Thanks. I shouldn’t have gotten so hot yesterday when you mentioned the takeover. You saved me some significant money.”

“Not that you need it after all the money you made on the PC play. Maybe in an hour or two—you know, as a little payback for my looking after you all the time—you could cover for me while I take a conference room recess.”

Peter agreed, but not before advising Stuart again to take it easy. “You’re going overboard with that shit.”

“No such thing, dude.”

By two in the afternoon, Peter’s all-nighter had caught up with him. He headed home with jelly-legged exhaustion one hour after the market closed. He zipped past the state park and the stretch of beach heading north from Stenman Partners’ La Jolla location. Although mentally burned-out, he purposely passed the turn to his co-op and made the decision to continue up the coast. Fifteen minutes later, he reached the mail depot where his mother had an address. What was her box number? Four hundred and something—405 or 406? For reasons he didn’t understand, his fatigue had vanished.

Once inside the mailroom, he looked for the larger rental boxes. He spotted them along a bottom row, near an exit. He stooped and tried 405. The key didn’t fit. He worked his way down. When he got to 408, the key slid in and spun. He pulled the door open, listening to the chirping of hidden hinges. The narrowness of the mailbox had bowed the two registered envelopes—sent
to
Hannah Neil
from
Hannah Neil—requiring Peter to tug hard to free them from their home. Flattening them out, he hesitated to read the handwriting on the envelopes.

What were you up to, Mom? he thought.

Peter then grabbed the scrunched-up wad of junk mail that bunched half-in and half-out of the box. He carried the handful to the trashcans, but went through the sheets one at a time, making certain he discarded nothing significant in the tangled mass. He separated out the mail he’d come for and tossed the rest.

Closing the mailbox, Peter paid the bill and prepaid, in cash, for another six months.

He went to a corner of the office and set the mail on a countertop. He began with the letter to him, from his mother. His hands trembled as he unfolded the typed page and read:

Dearest Peter,
I do not expect you will ever read this, and I don’t know why I am writing you. Only that I am nervous. When I heard about . . .

At this point in the letter, his mother had written
Jackson Securities
and crossed it out, not quite enough to hide the words. She continued:

 . . .
certain recent events, I knew I was responsible. I sent some things to a man at the SEC, someone I thought I could trust. He must have leaked the information. I want to believe it is all an unfortunate coincidence, but I cannot.

In these registered envelopes are documents that would implicate certain people in a massive conspiracy. I have breached legal ethics by making copies of these confidential papers. I do not know what to do with what I know.

Do not open the registered envelopes. The date and seal will prove to any interested party that you have not made copies of the contents.

If you are threatened, you must return the envelopes to Jason Ayers, in their current sealed condition. He loves us and will protect you, just as he has provided for me over the years.

I wish I had not embarked on this insane crusade. It has already brought so much misery, and I now realize there is no way to win. These people are too powerful.

Love always,
Mom

Against his cheek, the pages felt warm, and his mother seemed alive.

Momentarily distracting him, a thick man in a brown suit pushed his way past, nearly brushing against Peter’s shoulder. The man stopped and stared less than five feet from where Peter stood. Had he been followed? Peter felt a wave of panic flush his face. He thought about his next move— flight or fight?

In the midst of Peter’s confusion, the other man’s face suddenly turned soft. “You look upset,” he said. “You okay, mister?”

With those words, Peter realized that tears had rolled down his cheek. He wiped them with a sleeve and answered, “Yeah. Just a letter from someone I love . . .”

The man nodded like he understood. “Love can be a bitch,” he said, and exited the mailroom.

As he recomposed himself, Peter debated whether to take the personal letter home with him, but decided not to. He placed everything back into the mailbox and re-locked it. His mother’s hiding place had proven effective for this long. Why not a while longer? The temptation to open the registered mail quickly passed. His mother emphasized he should not. Filtered through his taut nerves, her advice seemed brilliant. Sometimes, he convinced himself, ignorance
was
bliss—at least relatively speaking.

When he arrived home half an hour later, Peter had two phone messages. The first was from Drew Franklin: “White Bread. Long time no hear. Baby’s due soon and she’s gonna be a girl. Yippy. Monica and I want to name her Hannah. I hope that’s okay with you? Don’t forget your friends. I’ve left a couple messages and not heard back from you. We still love ya, guy.”

Henry jumped into Peter’s lap as he pressed the play button for the next message. Peter’s smile disappeared the moment the man’s words filled the room.

“I was fired from the SEC yesterday. My investigation was unsanctioned, as you know by now. I will leave you alone, of course, since I am no longer a government employee. All I can do is wish you luck. You’re gonna need it.”

For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Peter felt a fresh bout of anxiety coming on.
Dawson fired?
He disliked Dawson. Or did he? He didn’t believe anything the agent had told him. Or did he?

“How much does it cost to bribe a dirty cop?” the agent had asked. With the information in the letter from his mother, Peter fought against the feeling that fresh meat hung on the carcass of Dawson’s arguments. It had all turned into a confusing mess.

“Dawson got what he deserved,” Peter said to Henry. “The man is dangerously misguided.”

One thing, however, stabbed at Peter’s rationalization. If only former Agent Oliver Dawson had never asked: “How much does it cost?”

 
“O
H
, O
LIVER
. W
HAT HAPPENED
?”