Authors: Andrew Gross
Reckless (20 page)
Whyte nodded. “Yes, in March, sir.”
“So clearly there were no ‘planes.’” The treasury secretary exhaled. “At least in the most ominous sense, thank God.”
Naomi cleared her throat. “I’m not so sure.”
Keaton looked back at her. “Go on.”
“February eighth was a Sunday,” Naomi said, drawing their attention to the next exhibit. “Beginning the following Monday, February ninth, our analysts who track this sort of thing indicate the Royal Saudi Partnership began to systematically divest itself of its positions in U.S. stocks, starting with its positions in the financial sector—which, as you can imagine, were quite sizable—and this had the effect of driving these stocks down. I won’t waste your time on it here”—Naomi flipped over a page—“but I can chart how the decline in these stocks originated from this particular point and how it weighed on the market as a whole. What it started was a worldwide sell-off in stocks.”
“Helped along, I could add,” Hastings, the secretary’s counsel, countered, “by a wide array of factors.”
“Yes, sir,” Naomi said, “no doubt. That’s precisely what I came here to discuss.”
She opened another file and got up, placing hastily made copies in front of the two Treasury figures. She explained that it was nothing she could be 100 percent firm on yet, just the most circumstantial links between Thibault, as mapped out by the person she had interviewed, Ty Hauck, and the two traders who had suspiciously died. Traders whose concealed losses were of such a size they were the death knells of Wertheimer Grant and Beeston Holloway, dragging the rest of the financial markets to the edge.
“And we all know where that has led,” Naomi finished up.
“You’re suggesting there’s a possible criminal connection between these two investment managers’ deaths?” Keaton drew in a hesitant breath, paging through Naomi’s exhibits.
“I’m saying that’s possible, sir,” Naomi said.
“And that it’s somehow tied back to this Mashhur al-Bashir. Through this figure Thibault? Why?”
“I’m just forwarding a theory, sir. One of our jobs is to put together possible unmaterialized threats and anticipate what might happen next.”
“Yes, yes.” Keaton rolled his hand, fast-forwarding. “Go on.”
“Okay.” Naomi took a breath.
Here goes
…“What if there were people on an organized basis, people of influence,” she suggested, “who wanted to do our country systemic harm, using a new strategy, a ‘change in direction,’ as they referred to it.” She steeled herself. “Not by flying a plane through our tallest buildings, like before, but by driving one,
figuratively,
sir, through the heart of our most vital national asset. The root of everything we stand for.”
Keaton narrowed his eyes at her. Naomi had no idea if he was buying it.
“The economy, sir,” she said. “The amount of economic wealth we have lost since the downturn, not to mention the unrest of our citizens, is impossible to measure. One could trace the start of the slide, I believe, to these two Wall Street investment houses going down.”
The treasury secretary’s face began to whiten, almost matching his hair. He nodded soberly, glancing at his chief counsel, and seemed to draw his words with care. “But who would possibly gain? We are in a global economy. Every stock exchange around the world is reeling from the decline. Oil is selling at less than half what it once was. It would be economic suicide.”
Naomi shrugged, anticipating the question. “I don’t know that yet.”
“And you think there’s a chance this Thibault person might be somehow at the heart of this scheme?”
“I’m saying it’s possible, sir, yes.”
Keaton leaned back in his seat. “What do we know about him?”
“His past is a bit vague, sir. He has a Dutch passport. It’s entirely possible he holds multiple passports. This ex-detective I mentioned, Hauck, he’s done some preliminary investigation through his firm and he seems to think he may, in fact, be Serbian.”
“Serbian?”
The secretary’s eyes widened. He leafed through Naomi’s exhibits. “Do we have the findings of this firm?”
“No, sir, I don’t think we can go there, at least not right now. It seems someone has been trying to push Hauck off his investigation. And it’s possible, I only say
possible,
” Naomi added, knowing she was rolling the dice here, “his own firm may be somehow complicit in this.”
Keaton looked up. “Run that one by me again.”
“It seems they represent other parties,” Naomi said, “who might have a vested interest in this story not coming to light.”
“Other parties?”
Now the treasury secretary’s gaze grew heated. “Other parties such as
whom,
Ms. Blum?”
“Such as Reynolds Reid, sir. I’m told they’re seeking to pick up some of Wertheimer Grant’s operations…”
“Yes, we’re involved in those negotiations. For Christ’s sake, what’s the name of this security firm?”
“The Talon Group,” answered Naomi.
“Talon?”
Keaton swallowed, concerned. “You must be kidding. They’re all over this fucking town.”
Keaton stared blankly back at her and pushed back his chair. His eyes flicked to his watch. He gritted his teeth.
Naomi glanced at Whyte, wondering if he was asking himself the same thing—whether they should both be making their reservations to Missoula around now.
“This doesn’t get out!” The head of the Treasury looked at Hastings peremptorily. “Not to the FBI, not to Justice. And for God’s sake, not to the press. Until we have more. Agent Blum, you’ve done a creditable job on this. You can engage whatever means necessary with respect to these two traders’ untimely deaths to find out whatever you can on this Thibault figure.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll authorize a probe by NSA. Maybe there’s been some direct contact between him and this Marty figure, the Saudi fund manager. Or that Bahraini, Hassani…”
Naomi looked toward her boss, pleased. “I’m already on that, sir.”
“And maybe this Hauck might prove useful. You say he’s an ex-detective. How the hell did he ever get himself involved in this situation in the first place?”
“Marc Glassman’s wife, who was killed along with her husband at their house in Greenwich…” Naomi shrugged. “Apparently, she was a friend of his. He was looking into her death on the side and became doubtful it was part of a burglary break-in. It was simply a coincidence that his security firm got him involved in probing into Thibault on a personal matter.”
“A personal matter?” The treasury secretary pushed back his chair, standing up. “Well, it seems we’re damn lucky if you ask me. Just following up on the death of a friend…What is the man, some kind of white knight?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Naomi said, suppressing a slight smile.
“Well, he’s about to get his armor dinged a bit if this turns out to be true. Give me something to go on, Agent Blum. Find out who Thibault is. Just keep it, for now, under the radar. I don’t want this out.” He headed around to his desk. Naomi assembled her files to leave. “And Agent Blum…”
“Sir?” Naomi turned.
The treasury secretary smiled. “Good job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A rush of relief mixed with exhilaration followed Naomi all the way back to her office. She almost felt lifted off her heels.
“Good job,” Rob Whyte said, exhaling, as they crossed M Street to their building.
“Cancel that reservation then?” she replied playfully. “To northern Montana?”
He patted her on the shoulder. “Why don’t we just see how it goes?”
When she got back to her office, Naomi stepped behind her desk. Files on various cases she was looking into were piled high. Thick, bound reports as high as the slit in the basement wall they called a half window.
Maybe she’d work her way up to a full window soon.
Her assistant, Talia, came in after her expectantly. “So how did it go?”
“Well”—Naomi blew out her cheeks in mock relief—“I’m still here!” Of course, she hadn’t told Talia what her meeting had been about.
“This came for you while you were out.” Talia dropped a FedEx carton on her desk.
The sender’s address read Greenwich, Connecticut.
“Thanks.”
Naomi waited for her to leave, then slit open the top of the heavily taped carton. She took out a large plastic bag, and sealed in it, protected carefully in bubble wrap, was a clear drinking glass, like a lowball glass.
There was a note attached. Naomi opened it.
Compliments of Dani Thibault,
it was signed. Then underlined:
Go to town!
Naomi smiled.
She knew exactly who it was from. This would get the ball rolling.
And underneath, the white knight had written, underlined again,
Have you thought it over yet?
T
hat Saturday night, at the Hamill rink in Greenwich, the twelve-and-under Trident-Allen Value Fund Bruins took it to the Commack, Long Island, Ducks by the score of six to one.
As the final buzzer sounded, Hauck stepped onto the ice and gave a handshake to the opposing coach as his players raised their sticks in the air and high-fived their opponents. Jared, whom Hauck had brought along, went onto the ice as well, going, “Good game, Kyle! Good game, Tony.”
Some of them skated by, knocking elbows with him, saying, “Thanks for getting us ready, dude!”
As they headed out, Hauck rallied the kids around him for a couple of minutes. “Solid game. Way to play defense, guys.” He clapped. “Okay, remember, we have practice Wednesday at eight. No absentees! Good game, everyone! And remember to collect your gear.”
As the team filed off the ice, one or two of the parents came over to say hi and congratulate him on the game. While they did, Jared grabbed a stick and took the chance to shoot a few stray pucks into the sideboards. Ted, the rink manager, got in the Zamboni and started to smooth out the ice. It was almost ten—theirs was the last match of the night. Annie was at her café until around eleven. Hauck had said he’d drop Jared off, hang out at the bar, and have dessert. Celebrate the win.
Within minutes, the place was virtually empty. Elated kids piled into their parents’ cars. The Zamboni finished up on the ice. Ted dimmed the lights.
Hauck noticed a guy in a black nylon jacket he had never seen before just watching from the other end of the rink.
“Hey, Ted, you got a minute!”
Hauck went over and chatted with the manager, whom he knew from when he was on the force, proposing the idea of a fund-raiser for an assistant coach of one of the other teams who had lost his job and was in need of a kidney transplant. Hauck thought maybe he could get the police and firemen to spar off in an exhibition.
“Jared,” he yelled, “you mind going into the locker room and grabbing me the team bag?” The duffel held a bunch of practice pucks and rolls of tape, some extra equipment. Hauck had tossed his own gear in there after the skate-around.
Jared waved. “Sure, Ty.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” the manager said. “Lemme check the schedule and see what’s free.”
“That would be great, Ted.”
“Solid game tonight,” Ted called, parking the Zamboni.
Hauck tossed him a thumbs-up. “Yeah, guess they listen every once in a while!”
He made his way back across the ice. He grabbed his jacket from off the bench. He waited for Jared to come out with the bag. He’d been in there a long time.
Something wasn’t feeling right to him. Call it twenty years on the job, his antennae buzzing. He glanced to the far end of the ice.
The man in the Windbreaker wasn’t there.
R
ed O’Toole pulled the van into the crowded lot a little before nine thirty and waited outside the rink.
Sonny Merced hunched beside him in the passenger seat. They’d been together before, on the Glassman job. They’d served together back in the Sandbox. But Sonny’s tale was just a bit different than his. He was an expert with a knife, could skin a cat with one, not to mention a man—and O’Toole had seen him. At Camp Victory, he’d been accused of rape three times. But getting female grunts to testify was another tale and each time they backed down. The third time, he got bounced home. Sonny was a liability the army didn’t need. He kicked around with a couple of private security firms, came home, got a job digging pools in Michigan, no chance of a real job. Then he fell into drugs and had to support his habit.
O’Toole looked at what he did as a job, the only one he was qualified for. Sonny looked at it as a thrill.
The parking lot was filled. Some kind of game was obviously going on. A half hour ago, he had gone and stuck his head in the rink and saw the match still in progress. Parents cheering. The scoreboard ticking down. Now, he looked at his watch and nudged Sonny. “Mount up. It’s showtime, man.”
People finally started coming out of the rink. Parents starting up their cars, kids yelping, whooping it up, sticks held high. In a couple of minutes, the parking lot grew empty, except for a couple of cars.
They didn’t see Hauck or the kid.
O’Toole told Sonny, “Go in and see what’s going on.”
Sonny zipped up his black nylon Windbreaker and crawled out of the van.
A few minutes passed. O’Toole put on the radio. He didn’t entirely trust Sonny. The dude was reckless, a little crazed. It always got him into trouble. But O’Toole always knew how to calm him down.
Suddenly his throwaway cell phone rang. “What the hell is going on? I told you to check it out, not go for a goddamn skate.”
“Relax,” Sonny Merced said, “start the car. I’m doing it now.”
J
ared!”
Hauck shouted toward the locker room and waited for a reply.
None came.
The whole rink was dark now. Ted was somewhere in the back. The stranger who he’d seen standing at the opposite end of the rink was nowhere to be found. The antennae for trouble Hauck had built up over the years was buzzing like crazy.
