The Warning (28 page)
“Doesn't matter. There's too much chance he'll push back the date a week or so. That'd just give the cycle more time to build.” Fleiss glanced at the paper in front of him. “Next Thursday Korda's one of the scheduled speakers at this rally in Richmond.”
Thad rose to his feet, reached for the paper, and said, “I'll get started on the changes around here and then go take care of Korda personally.”
“Stay well back. You're there only to make sure things get done right this time. I want to get Korda out of the picture, not to lose my number-one trader.” Fleiss's flat gaze followed him to the door. “âJust make sure the man disappears.' Those were Turner's exact words. The man is to vanish from the face of this earth.”
There was no way he was going to sit this one out. “Don't worry. In a week's time Korda is history.”
Five Days . . .
Thursday morning Buddy gave what he hoped would be his last press conference of the week. He spent the time between breakfast and the conference reviewing the whirlwind that his life had become. Their Friday and Saturday itinerary had called for St. Louis to Dallas, Oklahoma City, and Wichita, and then a long leap to Omaha and Des Moines. On and on, pushing harder and harder, moving farther and farther from home. Television lights and reporters had begun meeting them at the airports, and with each stop their questions became more mocking. Yet the crowds had grown ever larger, and the message's power had continued to resound.
Sunday had been Seattle and Portland; Monday, San Francisco and Sacramento and San Diego; Tuesday, a flight halfway across the nation to Little Rock. In his daily conversations with the home office, Alex and Agatha had sounded increasingly like robots. Every day Buddy heard more voices in the background, more telephones and excited chatter filling the spaces between words with his brother. Buddy had known better than to even ask what was going on. Wednesday had been Atlanta and Charlotte, and that night the drive to Richmond. The entire way up Clarke and Wesley had chattered excitedly over the Richmond rally scheduled for the following afternoon. Buddy had spent the hours drifting in and out of a strange half doze, never really connecting with anything that had been said. In their nightly conversation the previous evening, Molly had offered to join him for the final push. Buddy had told her not to bother. He missed her, but he could not ask her to endure the road. Besides, it would not be long now.
When Buddy arrived at the hotel's grand ballroom that morning, he discovered waiting for him a crowd of journalists larger than the first few groups who had gathered to hear his message. He did not mind the number. He scarcely saw them. All he could think about was that the countdown continued. Tomorrow was the final chance for people to make their investments. He wanted to pound the podium and scream the words with every shred of energy he had left.
Instead, Buddy found the words were there waiting for him when the television lights flashed on. He began without preamble, “Analysts are now saying that there is every reason for the market to sustain its climb for years to come.” Buddy shook his head. “I have been a banker for more than thirty years. I can still remember the late seventies, when the Dow was stuck below a thousand for over three years. That particular generation of analysts claimed that the market had permanently anchored itself. That was the expression of the time. It was permanently anchored, and there was no reason to believe that it would ever rise again.
“Now we are looking at a Dow that has broken every record a dozen times over. Now we in our wisdom can look down our noses and say how wrong they were.” Buddy gripped the podium, leaned forward, and said, “But how will the next generation of analysts view our confident assessment that this unprecedented rise in the market will continue for years to come?”
He gave them a moment, hoping and praying that the message would get through. But there was no response from the field of faces, just a sense of staring out at silhouettes rather than people. “No nation on earth has ever experienced growth without downward slides. Never, in all of history. Why? Because there are too many factors underpinning any economic rise. We tend to forget them when all is going well. But the truth is, if two or three of these structural factors fall in tandem, there is every likelihood that the entire economy will decline as well.
“Let us talk about one of these vital unseen factors that help to hold up our economyâour nation's banking structure. Never in recent memory has the banking system been as unstable as it is now. And the reason for this is the current trading craze. It is, in my opinion, a cancer eating at the heart of our nation's financial system.
“Before I explain why trading is so hazardous, let us take a look back at the Great Depression. After the Crash of 1929 on Wall Street, the world's economies crumbled like a house of cards. Poverty struck like a worldwide plague. Nobody thought it could happen. But it did. Wall Street's collapse was caused by gambling, pure and simple. People borrowed to gamble, because the returns were great. The more they made, the more they gambled. Their debts rose just as fast as their incomes, sometimes even faster.
“After the Crash of 1929, the government instituted financial reforms that were supposed to make this gambling impossible. And it stopped things for a while, or at least slowed things down. But now two related markets are sidestepping these laws. These are the new trading markets that I say hold a disastrous level of risk for all of us. One is called
futures
, the other
derivatives
. Ten years ago, the market in financial futures barely existed. This year, the Chicago financial futures market will have a turnover in excess of
fifty trillion dollars
.”
Finally, finally, he saw a few of them stirring. A few were leaning toward their neighbors, a few were making notes. Buddy felt a note of desperation enter his voice. He pleaded, “These modern-day traders dress their actions in fancy jargons and glossy brochures, but the bare truth is that they are simply buying and selling
risk
. The world's financial underpinning is based on a gambling pit unlike anything seen since 1929.
“America's top five banks hold on average three trillion dollars in derivatives on their books, and from this obtain almost half their total profits. This means they hold
ten times
more in high-risk paper than they have in total equity capital. Ten times. These banks have no choice but to ride the tiger.
“The biggest worry for the banks is not that they might have gotten things wrong. No. The biggest danger is that they have customers who will lose big and then not be able to cover their losses. One such major loss would be enough to wipe out a bank's total cash reserves. That could happen in the space of just one day. The bank would be insolvent. Everyone who has placed their money in one of these banks, everyone who is relying on these banks to meet their own financial obligations, would lose every cent.
“Worse than that, the big banks do an enormous amount of business with each other. When it comes to derivatives, all of the world's major banks are holding hands. So if one starts to sneeze, they could all catch colds.
“If one major dealer could not make good on its commitments, a dozen others could be threatened. Another participant might then withhold payments. If that happened with a dozen, the system would enter meltdown.
“And the eruption could take place in three or four hours. This situation becomes much more serious because of how concentrated the wealth and this risk have become. One third of the world's total monetary wealth is controlled by just two hundred funds.
“In offices around the world, twenty-four hours a day, these fund managers hear the same news, hedge their bets with new risk derivatives, and prepare to jump at a moment's notice. Everyone is trying to catch the market swing and move in the right direction. Everyone is watching the other. Two hundred players is not so many that one can move with much secrecy. This means that if one jumps, chances are others will too.
“To have this much money all jump at once means that whatever swing the market begins to make will be amplified beyond all logic. A relatively small number of investors, mutual funds, investment banks, and Wall Street firms might see a new risk develop, and so they move together. The market reacts with a big dip. This notifies others of a move. The others rush out. The market dives. Panic ensues.”
Buddy stopped. For once, the gathering of press and media seemed genuinely attentive. A voice from the back said, “Then what, Mr. Korda?”
“Go look at the newsreels from the thirties,” Buddy said, wanting to weep with a sudden wave of frustration over his inability to do anything about it all. “Look at men selling apples on every street corner. Watch ten thousand people riot when fifteen jobs become available. See people harnessed to horse carts because working a man to death is cheaper than paying for hay or gas. Ask an old-timer to describe what it was like trying to feed a family. Then try to imagine what it might be like doing the same for your own loved ones.”
Thaddeus Dorsett slipped the leather thong down tighter on his wrist. He had never held a cush before. That's what the guard had called it. A strange, soft-sounding word for something so deadly. The instrument was about a foot long, with a springy handle ending in a bulbous, fist-size club of steel and lead, all bound in leather to make it easier to hold and quieter to wield. Thad's other hand still burned from where he had slapped the weight down a little too hard. He whipped the handle and heard the humming sound as it sprang back, hungry and vicious.
The guards had orders not to use guns. Too much noise, and not personal enough. He wanted Buddy Korda to see who was doing this. He wanted the man to see what it meant to cross Thaddeus Dorsett. He wanted Buddy's last few minutes to be full of terrifying regret.
The alley was perfect. Thad could not have asked for a better place to spring their surprise. There was only one route for Korda to walk the three blocks from his hotel to the Richmond stadium. One narrow road. What was more, the entire downtown sector was strangely subdued this Thursday afternoon. As though the entire city's attention was focused on the nearby stadium.
The stadium crowd had been loud and quiet in strange turns. Occasionally faint snatches of song or voices could be heard. Thad had watched the guards exchange nervous glances over this. Which was very strange. He would have thought those goons could be bothered by nothing at all.
A guard came sprinting back from the hotel, confirming that Buddy had not left his room yet. The guards had brought in some extra hands to handle anybody who was unfortunate enough to walk to the stadium with Korda. Thad observed them leaning against the alley's opposite wall, a trio of goons with the dull-eyed blankness of people who would do anything for money.
Thad's blood surged at the thought of finally getting his own. “Remember,” he hissed, “leave Korda for me.”
No one bothered to respond. He had said the same thing a half dozen times already.
Thad checked his watch once more, wondering how much longer he could stand the waiting.
The guard by the alley's entrance chose that moment to turn and wave his hand over his head. They were coming.
Thad's heartbeat surged to an impossible rate. He glanced at the faces around, saw no sign of tension or excitement or anything beyond hard-edged boredom.
He accepted the black stocking mask handed out by the security guard. Thad watched how the others shifted the masks around so that the eye- and mouth-holes pulled down correctly. He felt a strange, stomach-twisting surge at the thought of what those guys had done to make this motion seem so natural. For himself, the mask felt tight and sweaty.
His breathing sounded overloud in his ears as he started toward the alley's entrance with the others. Up ahead, the guard raised his hand, the fingers extended, the thumb cocked back onto his palm. Four. There were only four of them. A piece of cake.
His heart pounded like a blood-soaked gong in his ears. He raised the cush, ready to pounce as soon as they appeared. The road stretched out empty and void in front of them. He heard the scratch of approaching footsteps, the murmur of quiet voices.
Out of nowhere, a fog drifted in and enclosed them, a mist so thick he could not see the wall he was touching. One moment all was clear and ready, and the next he could not see a thing. One of the thugs grunted in surprise. He heard someone else hiss for quiet.
If anything, the mist grew thicker, tighter. Breath was hard to come by, as though milky fingers were reaching out and closing around his throat. The feeling was so strong that Thad reached up and ripped a larger hole in the clinging mesh, clearing it farther from his mouth. Still, it was tough to draw a decent breath.
The footsteps were almost on them. Thad stepped forward, wanting to be the first to strike.
Shadows coalesced in the fog, but from the
opposite
direction. They were coming from the
stadium
. Thad backed up in alarm. The shadows followed, far too tall to be Korda and his men. They looked like warriors carrying shields, which was impossible. Shields and clubs. Or swords. Warriors standing a full foot taller than Thad, and broader than the goons.
A guard jostled him on one side. Or perhaps it was one of the thugs, backing up with him. Thad pulled off the mask. He could not breathe in this mist. Then he felt a wall behind him. He must have swerved sideways in the mist. Then the wall
moved
. Thad spun around and felt his heart squeeze shut at the sight of another shadow
behind
him. This one was bigger than the others, a behemoth looming over him, the club raised over his head longer than Thad was tall.
“
We're surrounded!
” The shriek was alien, even though he could feel it rip from his own throat. “
Run!
”
