The Last Trade (16 page)

7

Berlin

S
obieski can't sleep.

Combine a type-A federal agent with a life-or-death criminal case, a seriously blown opportunity with a potentially fantastic man, a gambling/debt problem, and the opposite of jet lag, and this is what you get. This is how you feel.

The cabbie dropped her off in front of the Spielbank Berlin in Potsdamer Platz in Center City. She checked her suitcase in the lobby and walked past the slots and roulette screens of the first floor toward the elevator. On the third floor she scoped out the poker tables, observed two games for fifteen minutes, then purchased one thousand euros' worth of chips. After fifteen additional minutes a seat opened at the first table, which was filled with Chinese men. A half hour later she had lost all but fifty euros and handed over her card for another five hundred in chips. A half hour after that she had won back her losses plus another seventeen hundred euro. During a dealer change she checked her watch. Two
A.M.
, Berlin time. Three more hours of action if she wanted. She stood up and stretched her hands over her head. One of the Chinese men said something about her to another and they laughed. She stared at them until they stopped smiling. Then, in their Cantonese dialect, she said, “I wonder how your wives would feel about your opinion of my ass.” They looked away, but she didn't stop. “Now shut up and fucking play.” As she began to sit back down, her head grew light and a wave of nausea fluttered from her abdomen through her chest. Heart attack? she wondered, but only for a second. Anxiety attack, coupled with a bout of acute self-loathing? More likely. Usually this sort of feeling came when she was losing. The fact that it's on the heels of winning an eleven-hundred-euro pot convinced her that she had to get out of there.

In her room, which is nicer than she'd imagined, she's stretched out on the bed, propped up on two comfortable white pillows with a serious thread count, working the keys of her laptop. Next to her right hip is a yellow legal pad on which she's written in Sharpie the names of the three traders, the cities in which the trades occurred, and the names of the securities involved.

She looks for coincidences, common denominators, some kind of human or cultural significance or sequence, rather than the purely numerical. All the while consumed by two questions: Who's responsible? And who's next?

But as she works, as she asks the hard questions, she also asks questions of herself: Why didn't you share that cab? Why didn't you call him later to say that your night just opened up and you'd love to have that drink? Instead of the casino.
Why?

The easy answer, the easiest lie, she knows, is the job. Duty calls. Lives and more are at stake. Etcetera. Etcetera.

Bullshit.

Sobieski knows that lives will always be at stake. Or at least livelihoods. Someone will always be manipulating the markets, bending the rules, and committing crimes, often at the expense of the innocent. She also knows that there's a big difference between dedicating your career and dedicating your life to a thing, and she crossed that line a long time ago. And the farther she gets from that line, the more she hates herself. And the more she hates herself, the more she's compelled to ruin what good remains of Jan Sobieski's daughter.

Jan Sobieski is why she majored in finance and economics with a minor in criminal justice. Jan Sobieski is why she and her mother and her younger brother lived in one of the finest houses in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, had a beach house in Cape May, and just about everything a family could ever want. He called himself King Jan, and she worshipped him and was more than happy to follow his rules, because if they worked for a self-made, handsome success like him, why not?

King Jan pushed her to get perfect grades and perfect attendance. He pushed her to compete in soccer and softball and martial arts, where she truly excelled. At times she resented his rules, his strict regimen, but she also appreciated the results. So she went along with it, and by the time she was twelve they were best friends and she, much more than her rebellious, disinterested brother Luke, was considered the heir apparent to the family business, which was all about making money for others, and themselves.

Only in retrospect, with the accumulated wisdom of a federal financial terrorism agent and the resentful heart of a child, could she begin to fathom how it all blew up.

Soon after she turned thirteen, King Jan's demeanor began to change. He still challenged her to be better, but unreasonably so. He began to accuse her of lying and seeking the easy way out. At fourteen, she witnessed him in the throes of a seemingly constant argument with her mother. That was when he hit her for the first time, a slap to the cheek. Because of her training she could have deflected or avoided the blow. In some ways she had seen it coming for months. But if he wanted to hit her, she wanted the blow to land. It would make it easier to abandon him. That was also around the time when he began to go away on long and frequent “business trips.”

The end came in a disorienting rush. Just before her fifteenth birthday, a guidance counselor pulled her out of second period sophomore English class.
Lord of the Flies
. In the hallway the counselor told her that she had to go to a doctor's appointment. But by the time they reached her office, the counselor had said that something had happened with her father, who was not in any physical danger, and that her mother would soon be coming to pick her up.

But her mother never picked her up.

For three hours she sat in the guidance office, with no further updates from a teacher, counselor, or administrator. Classmates she had grown up with and would never see again passed on their way to third, fourth, fifth, and sixth period destinations. She thought of the work she was supposed to submit, the tests she was missing. Then she realized it didn't matter. She knew by the looks on the faces of the teachers who passed that what was happening to her transcended grades and test scores.

Finally she thought about her little brother, Luke, probably in a similar office nearby in the junior high, and she wondered what he was thinking. Sitting there, she was filled with anxious love and a concern for him that she'd never forget.

Jan, like the king, her father used to say. But even that, even his first name, turned out to be a lie.

Sobieski returns to her notes with renewed intensity.

The traders were killed with different weapons in different cities. While the plays and the way they were executed were similar, the securities themselves were completely different.

Also, the firms at which the traders worked were all legitimate, to the extent that anyone working longs and shorts can be legit. All were small – to medium-sized. And all had some kind of contact with a client or clients here in Berlin, though using the word “client” in this regard doesn't exactly ring true. More like an accomplice. What else? While Patrick Lau in Hong Kong had significant financial woes, according to Michaud the others, though far from trading superstars, were liquid and made a decent enough living.

While she's staring at the list of securities, it occurs to her that they're almost all American companies. Which means by law the trades had to have originated from a U.S.-based account. If they're killing traders to eliminate links, it's unlikely that the U.S. account would track back to an actual person, but you never know. The mere fact that she's aware of the trades and killings demonstrates that they are not as efficient or discreet as they hoped to be.

Finally, she types the name “Sawa Luhabe” into her search box. The digital dossier Michaud compiled on the young South African trader is impressive, but Sobieski wants more. She knows that Luhabe's not at work, that her bullet-pocked car was discovered on an Alexandra side street, that her corporate e-mail is frozen, and that her mobile phone is either off or she's not picking up. Which is why, on a hunch, she checks to see if Luhabe has a Facebook account. Or Twitter. Nothing, but she does have a professional profile on the LinkedIn site. Sobieski sends her a message.

 

I am an agent for the United States Terrorism and Financial Intelligence task force investigating the circumstances surrounding the recent attempt on your life.

 

I would very much like to talk with you, and to help you.

 

We believe that other lives, perhaps many more lives, are at stake, and that your cooperation may help to prevent a tragedy.

 

Please contact me as soon as possible at any time. If you can tell me anything about what has happened, from the description of the shooter to the name of the man who initiated the trades, please let me know, in the strictest of confidence.

 

Sincerely,

Cara Sobieski

United States Dept. of Terrorism and Financial Intelligence

Soon after she hits send, an alert appears on her screen. Malware alert. While she's been tracking the moves of the dead, the presumably dead, and everyone affiliated with them, someone has been tracking her. The tech guys in TFI call it doppelgänger software. A program that, once it picks up a certain move coming from a certain source, begins to shadow and mimic every move that source makes, all the while dispatching bots into the host system, plundering and copying files until they've chronicled every move the source has ever made.

Sobieski captures the alert with a screen grab, then e-mails it to a secure and isolated holding bin for an encryption specialist at TFI to explore. Then she shuts down her computer.

Staring out the hotel window, the lights of the Brandenburg Gate shining a dull gold in the distance, she wonders, Who is tracking you this time? Who's your doppelgänger?

She's in a deep guilt-plagued sleep when Sawa Luhabe's reply alights in her inbox.

8

Darien, Connecticut

T
he house, like their lives, is surrounded by a hedge.

In many ways, Miranda Havens tells herself, this entire town is. Towering green manicured hedges whose shining oval leaves constitute a unique and proprietary form of currency.

She's only been to Rick Salvado's country estate twice. Once for a full-blown corporate family outing and once for a luncheon with “the wives.” It's hard for her to say which event was more outrageous.

The corporate family gig was all about large-scale excess: a genuine Cirque du Soleil show under a backyard big top, Arabian pony rides, a vintage carousel for the kids, and a private concert by one of that year's
American Idol
finalists.

Miranda remembers whispering to Drew in front of a giant ice sculpture replica of the Salvado estate, “What next, an ice sculpture of his manhood?” To which Drew replied, “This entire party is a tribute to his manhood.” They kept telling each other that they'd soon leave, that they
should
leave. But Erin was with them and she was enjoying it. Miranda was conflicted about the possibility that the little girl might grow accustomed to the excess, but they stayed until the very end, if only to gape at the next exhibit of mercenary extravagance rolled out for their pleasure, and because it made Erin laugh. At one point near the end the three of them walked away from the rides and tents and music. At the far end of an open expanse of lawn just before the outer hedge they stopped past an herb garden and watched an elderly white man pruning an island of clustered roses. Erin pointed and said, “Flowers!” When they approached, the man smiled. “They're American Beauties,” the man said by way of introduction. “Mr. Salvado's favorite.” He plucked a bright red rose and gave it to Erin.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You want to see a secret place?” he said to the three of them.

“Okay,” said Erin.

He knelt down and ran his hand along the grass. After a moment he pulled upward and a two – by three-foot rectangular patch of grass rose up, revealing a hatch and passage to a subterranean chamber. “It's from the Civil War era,” the man said. “Part of the Underground Railroad.”

“Wow,” Havens said as they bent to get a better look inside. “You know what the Underground Railroad is, sweetie?” he asked Erin.

“It was a hiding place to help good people stay away from bad ones,” Miranda explained.

“Our hiding place,” the girl replied.

The luncheon with the wives, on the other hand, was every bit the showcase of passive-aggressive, elitist, post-sorority posturing she'd anticipated. The six women, all spouses of the top earners and players at the fund, passionately discussed schools and restaurants, Pilates instructors and fashion, only deferring to the opinion of the queen, Deborah Salvado. At one point Tommy Rourke's wife actually asked Miranda, “Who are you wearing?” As if she were Joan Rivers interviewing her on the Academy Awards red carpet. As if Miranda gave a shit. She dreaded the luncheon, but because she'd seen it coming, and because she'd promised Drew that she would behave, she played along. Drew had told her about some of the wives who had preceded her and had not done so well at similar events, and the fates that soon after befell their husbands.

Despite the unnerving fog of pretense that hung over the wives' luncheon, there was an aspect of it that Miranda, to her surprise, enjoyed: Salvado's beautiful forty-five-year-old wife, Deborah. They barely exchanged words at the corporate family function, but at the wives' luncheon, they spoke quite a bit. At one point Miranda commented about how much she enjoyed a quiche recipe, and a moment later she was being led to the kitchen for an audience with the chef. While Miranda asked the chef questions, Deborah Salvado was transfixed by the industrious inquisitiveness of her guest.

Afterward, Deborah looked at Miranda and said, “You know, I've become a robot. By giving me so much, he's taken away everything. I used to love to cook, to make my mother's and grandmother's recipes: eggplant, or even something I happened to see on the Food Network. But now . . .”

Miranda tried to make her feel better. “But now you have much more important responsibilities than to—”

“Bullshit. Being Mrs. Rick Salvado may come with its responsibilities, but rarely is it accompanied by, no offense, the least amount of pleasure or fulfillment.”

“Then do it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you really think Rick would stop you from cooking something? Just go ahead and do it.”

Deborah Salvado stared at Miranda for several moments before smiling. She put her arm around Miranda and led her back to the table. En route she said, “You never did say where you really got this jacket.”

Miranda looked down. It was a cream-colored linen blend cut at the waist. Delicately stitched into the lapels in light pink thread were her favorite flowers, lilies. She shrugged. “I made it.”

“I knew it,” Deborah Salvado said, giving her a mock punch in the shoulder. “One more reason to secretly hate you.”

Over the next few years they met several times outside the company circle of wives. Once they visited galleries and had lunch in a small hipster café in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Once they went to a reading by Deborah's favorite writer at McNally Jackson and had dinner afterward on Mulberry Street. And once they even got drunk on the roof of the Hotel Gansevoort. That was the night that Deborah confided to her about her husband's chronic indiscretions with prostitutes and hostesses, young employees, and even the wife of a prominent trader at the fund.

“Did I sign up for that?” she asked, raising her cosmopolitan to her lips.

“You did not,” Miranda answered.

“When I confronted him, he said, ‘What did you expect? Everything I give you, would it be so hard to look the other way once in a while? There's no feeling involved with this other stuff . . .'”

“Purely transactional.”

“Exactly.” Deborah Salvado continued. “So I said, ‘I can look away.' But only after I laid out the specifics of
my
end of the transaction. Even so, the more you look away, the less you can look in the mirror.”

Miranda remembers staring out beyond the hotel rooftop that night, toward the Hudson, her own head buzzing with mojitos and selfdoubt, and concern about the behavior of her own absentee hedge fund husband. They were rich by then, too. Not anywhere near as rich as the Salvados, but they had made more money than she'd ever imagined they would, and while she and Drew enjoyed it, it had changed them. They were no longer as comfortable in their own skin, or with each other. As if reading her mind, Deborah Salvado said, “He told me the women meant nothing and that they all did it. Clients. Employees. Traders and quants. And when I said, ‘Even Drew Havens?' he looked down, then mumbled, ‘Oh, no. Havens is different.'”

Within a month, Deborah Salvado would throw her husband out of the Darien estate, banishing him to the Central Park West co-op, apparently for breaking even the most permissive bonds of their agreement. Soon after that, Erin died, and Miranda stopped having anything to do with anyone from the Rising Fund, including her sometime friend Deborah Salvado and then, of course, Drew.

At the massive iron gates decorated with scenes from American history—the flag raising at Iwo Jima and Washington crossing the Delaware—Miranda reaches out of the driver's side window of her Prius and pushes call. To her surprise, Deborah Salvado, not a servant or security guard, answers. “Who is it?”

“Deb. It's Miranda. Miranda . . . Havens.”