The Last Trade (26 page)

7

New York City

“S
o, where is your husband, anyway?”

“I don't know. I'm waiting to hear from him.” Miranda Havens rubs her arms with her hands. The rooftop of the Gansevoort is gorgeous, but out of the sun this late in the day in October it can be chilly.

“He might be better off getting himself arrested,” Deborah Salvado says. “You know, safer.”

“You're probably right. But he's more interested in . . . preventing whatever's about to happen than self-preservation.”

“What do you think is in the works?”

Miranda takes a sip of Pinot Noir. She wasn't planning on drinking, but once Deb ordered a Bloody, she couldn't resist. “I don't know. From what I've heard from Drew, from what I've read, I'd have to say some kind of major market fraud; gaming it at the very least.”

“What has Drew found out?”

Miranda pauses. “Deb, yesterday you practically threw me out of your house for asking too many questions, and now you're grilling me . . .”

“I was wrong. I was trying to protect my money. I gave him everything, so many years, loveless, friendless, childless. Wealth became my child, the thing to which I paid the most attention and felt the most loyalty. It defined me, Mir, because nothing else did, and I was determined to walk away from it with something, even if it meant looking the other way when he did something to some other greedy bastard. . . .”

“Why the change?”

“Because this is different. He's different. I know you and Drew and you're not bad. I knew that young man, Weiss. He danced with me last year at the holiday party, and you could tell that the job was just part of a much larger life; he made me laugh.”

“He was a good kid. Drew never spoke as fondly about anyone else his entire time at the fund. But still, you knew this all yesterday.”

Deb nods. “I did. And a lot more than that. But yesterday I didn't think he would kill me.”

“Today?”

She nods. “Today, I know he will. I could hear it in his voice. This morning. I told him you visited. It was a mistake. I did it as a ploy, because I was rattled by what you had said and I realized I could lose everything. But his reaction . . . I know how he gets.”

Miranda takes another sip of wine. “We think he had Weiss killed because he discovered something he wasn't supposed to. Drew is twisted up over this because he hired Weiss and put him up to it. Not to uncover any crime, but because he couldn't understand what was happening with the fund. He never could have imagined what Weiss would find.”

“What?”

“Bare minimum, Rick's had traders killed in at least four other cities around the world, all after executing trades he's linked to.”

“Why?”

“As a lead-up to something bigger. That's the working model.”

“Why not come forward?”

“You already said it. Rick's untouchable right now. Drew is wanted for murder. No one will believe him, unless he has all the answers.”

Deborah Salvado looks for sun in the overcast sky ahead. Maybe the rooftop in mid-October was a bad idea after all. “You know, after all he's been through, he'll have us killed. Whatever he's up to, he will kill, or at least have someone do it for him, to protect his money and his legacy.”

“I know.” Miranda leans across the table. Her hands are trembling and her eyes shine on the verge of tears. “This is insane, Deb. What is he up to with these trades, these murders?”

Deborah Salvado takes a gray 8½-by-11 envelope out of her bag and lays it on the white tablecloth. “When I finally had enough, when he had hit me a second time after a goddamn whore barely out of high school came to my home looking for him, telling me that she loved him, I threw him out. After that, I ransacked his drawers, his office, his safe. I hacked into his e-mail, his phone accounts . . . fifteen hundred texts to this one bimbo alone! Then, in a box in a closet, next to his childhood belongings, photo albums and scrapbooks and newspaper clippings about the alleged traumatic collapse of his family, I found things.”

Miranda looks at the envelope but doesn't reach for it. “Things?”

“Travel documents to Russia. The northern Caucasus. Chechnya. Dagestan. In addition to his real passport, he has a second, under his mother's maiden name.”

“How long ago did it start?”

“The trips began in 2002, just before he began The Rising. Once a year or so. Twice after he cashed in 2008. As you know, he made a fortune. I'm talking
billions,
Mir.”

“Thanks to my husband.”

“This is true. Drew created the model that uncovered the opportunity, but my husband put up the money. Anyway, in '02 someone stepped up and fronted him the liquidity to start over. He always said it was former clients, but based on this it looks like he struck up some kind of deal with these Russian . . . whatever they are. Anyway, after 2008, you'd think he'd have been at an all-time high. Fulfilled. Satisfied with his life. But if anything he became angrier, more hateful. At least privately. It's like he used his mind-blowing success as the jumping off point to . . . to destroy everything.”

“Do you think he would have tried this if he hadn't made billions?”

She stares into Miranda's eyes while she considers the question. “I don't know. Maybe he didn't expect to make billions in 2008. Maybe the money and glory made it that much more difficult to cash out on his deal because, you now, he's an egomaniac. Because he became addicted to the attention.” After another pause, eyes still fixed on Miranda's, Deborah Salvado says, “And of course he'd never have been able to operate on this scale, and had so much at his disposal, if your husband hadn't figured out a way to get those billions into his hands, to turn him into a superstar.”

“So, do you think he's a terrorist, Deb?”

Deborah Salvado draws a long breath, then drinks deeply from the Bloody Mary glass. “It's semantics, but no, I don't,” she says, stirring up the horseradish at the bottom with a celery stalk. “A terrorist acts for some kind of political or ideological gain, right? But Rick, he could care less about politics or policy, ideology or religion. Now, revenge? Vengeance? Hatred? That's what obsesses him. Always. His successes big or small were never about achievement or fulfillment; they were all about vindication and vengeance for something that he's permitted to fester in his brain, to twist him up and consume him.

“So, no, I don't think he's a terrorist.” With a trembling hand she moves the envelope closer to Miranda and finishes. “What my husband is, is a sociopath.”

8

Newark

T
hey lead her through the main terminal and into a white unmarked room adjacent to a Hudson News stand. Two TSA agents. Low-level, from the looks of it. A man and a woman. The man directs her to sit on a plastic chair with aluminum legs. There are three chairs in the room and nothing else. “Not sure if they told you, but I'm a federal agent,” Sobieski says.

“We know,” replies the woman, a stout redhead even younger than Sobieski. Unspoken: Big friggin' deal. Who isn't? “Our job is to do what they say and—”

“It's just that—”

The woman holds up her hand, interrupts right back. “Someone's getting in touch with someone about next steps. Overseas person, I think. So bear with us if it takes a bit.”

“Do you know why they've decided to . . . ?”

“No. Your name came up and, well . . . here we are.”

No one speaks for another fifteen minutes, until the man, a thin African-American who appears to be the redhead's supervisor, checks his watch, pronounces “Oh, shoot,” and leaves. Transfixed by some mindless game on her smart phone, the woman barely acknowledges his departure.

While she waits, Sobieski wonders what will become of Havens. Will he hang around? Have they detained him as well? How will her failure to meet him change things? Maybe it's for the best, she thinks. Maybe this isn't worth throwing away what's left of her career. If she comes clean now, Michaud will understand. She shifts in her seat, stands. Not being allowed to move or act is killing her.

Her duffel bag, her phone, and her laptop are at the woman's feet. “Can I check my messages? I just got off a transatlantic flight.”

The woman looks up. “Sorry. I'm not cleared for that.”

Another forty minutes pass before the man returns. “They got her guy,” he says to his partner. Then to Sobieski: “You got your phone?”

She points to her duffel at the woman's feet. The man sighs. More work. He walks across the room, picks the bag up with a grunt, and walks it over to her, pitched to one side as if the bag were filled with a bowling ball. Placing it at her feet, he says. “Your boss is gonna call . . . wants to talk to you.” To his partner, he adds, “Hong Kong.”

Sobieski reaches into the side pocket and removes the phone. She glances at her inbox while she waits for Michaud's call. Havens has left four messages. After she clicks on the first, the phone rings.

She answers, but keeps the text message on screen. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I'm sorry. I was about to get on a plane when I got a message from Luhabe. She said—”

“Stop. Sorry doesn't work with TFI. With disobeying orders. With a body turning up on a Berlin sidewalk where the deceased has your fucking badge in his back pocket.”

She rocks her head back and closes her eyes. She'd forgotten about the badge.

“He took it while I was—”

“I've been on the phone with Berlin for the last five hours. Things like this, they end careers, Sobes.”

She watches the male agent head back out into the terminal. She thinks about saying sorry, but sorry sounds weak, and would not be entirely true. “I had no time. Sawa Luhabe, she knows about Siren. And Ithaka. And Dublin . . . did you hear what happened in—”

“I knew about Dublin before Dublin knew about Dublin,” Michaud says.

“Right. Of course you did . . . but the thing is, why I came, is she told me, late—
late
-late, while I was just about to board—she told me about this guy, here in New York, an analyst who she says thinks—no,
belieeeves
—that something big is about to go down.”

“Why didn't you pass it my way?”

“Luhabe's note? I told you, I got it at the airport. She says this guy—”

“Send me the note.”

“But—”

“Send the note.”

“Okay.”

“What happened with Nello?”

She grimaces. Of course he knows about Nello. She wonders how much. “He was a mistake. Too good to be true.”

“That's it?”

She pauses, can't bring herself to mention the gambling and the breach. “Yeah, Boss. That's it.”

“You're done, Sobes. You screwed up and I know this is killing you, but you're just making it worse, desperately trying to fix it.” She rocks her head back, looks at the ceiling, then at the female agent staring at the game on her phone. “Come back and we'll see what happens next, but my word only goes so far. Sit tight. They're gonna put you on the next plane.”

“Then what?”

“
Then
someone will meet you at the airport, take you to the office, and we'll go from there.”

“What about my lead . . . this information?”

“Believe it or not, there are agents in New York, too. And D.C. And they don't disobey their boss. Send it. Then get on a fucking plane.” Michaud hangs up.

Sobieski glances at the distracted agent.

“Twenty-four hours is all I need, Boss,” she says, to no one, already changing her tone from defiant and desperate to compromising and conciliatory. “Then it's right back to Hong Kong.”

She reads Drew Havens's latest text while continuing the fake conversation with Michaud.

Where R U?
she reads.

“Uh, huh . . . Okay . . . I can do that . . . ,” she fake says to fake Michaud, loud enough for the red-haired agent to hear.

Detained,
she writes to Havens
. Want to send me back.

U can't.
Havens replies
. Tomorrow!

“Good,” she says out loud to no one. “I'm so glad you agree.” Then she looks at the TSA agent, who's finally beginning to pay attention to her performance.

Havens continues with two quick bursts:

Friday—Last of 7 Trades . . .

1st six = murder . . . 7th
= tragedy.

She looks at the guard, who is checking her watch, the door. “Of course I will,” Sobieski says into the phone. “Is there anything else I can do for you while I'm here?”

Then she texts this to Havens:
OK . . . Meet me . . . where?

Outside door 2,
Havens texts
. Taxi stand. When?

“Okay . . . I will. I promise.”

Another look at the agent, who is standing, shifting her weight from foot to foot, impatiently rolling her neck.
Soon?

“So wait . . . I can stay? Excellent,” she shouts, standing. This time the agent turns and looks. “Cool,” she continues, finishing her fake conversation. “I'll call when I get into midtown.”

She makes a show of pushing off and putting her phone back into her pocket and then zipping her bag closed. Then she sits back straight in her chair with a thin smile, feigning excitement, but not excited enough to share. The agent bites:

“What's up?”

“Oh, there was a misunderstanding. My boss is fixing it as we speak. He wanted me to go to Philly first, but now I'll hit that on the way home.”

“Huh.” The agent looks down, ready to go back to her game.

“Hey,” Sobieski says, “we're federal agents, right? It wouldn't be an assignment if they didn't screw at least one thing up.”

The agent laughs under her breath. Says to her game screen, “You got that right.”

Sobieski lets another minute pass before playing her card: “Listen, I haven't peed in like six hours. Is there a bathroom in here?”

The agent, fingers working the keyboard, shakes her head. “In the terminal.”

“Shit. Would you mind . . . or I can . . . I'll leave my bag . . . my stuff if you promise to keep an eye on it.”

The agent hits pause, looks up, and gives Sobieski a look.

“I'd really appreciate it.”

She lifts her chin toward the door. “On the right, like ten feet down.”

Sobieski stands, hops from foot to foot, says, “
Thank you
,” then, “You want anything from Starbucks?”