SOPHIA - Age of Intelligence

by Mike Donoghue

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Vessey Street, Manhattan

  DERRICK GLANCED at his cell phone, as he walked to the conference room in which his five o’clock meeting was scheduled to take place. Briskly, he followed his escort. Turning left then right, they navigated through a large area of partitioned workstations until they arrived at their destination. Derrick smiled and nodded when the young woman stated: “They’re waiting for you inside.” Stranded, he paused in front of the closed door. He needed a moment to catch his breath, to configure his thoughts. It was all about stature now and the mathematical integrity imbedded within his soon to be delivered testimony. When careers, moreover institutions hang in the balance, Derrick knew the data had to be flawless, burdened by due diligence and uncorrupted even by the suspicion of a wavering word.

  After exiting One World Trade Center only moments ago, Derrick was soon waiting for the walk-sign at the corner of Vesey and West Street. A few idle moments were filled with the sights and sounds of street level activity, and the chaotic display soon inspired a brief period of reflection. He watched as a few younger versions of himself embraced the principle of invincibility as they darted across busy lanes of traffic. He imagined doing the same thing many years ago; being trapped on a narrow center median, laughing and carrying on as cars sped by in both directions. Today, however, the burden of quantifying risk descended upon him differently. It rolled over him in honest, yet unsubtle ways.

  While his impetuous tendencies had undoubtedly been tempered by a process few embrace, that being aging, Derrick found a measure of contentment while considering qualities more redeeming. Why, for example, was wisdom so inextricably linked to the passage of time, to an evolving evaluation of one’s environment?

  The notion caused Derrick to appreciate, among other things, an encounter from a lifetime ago. It was a time when he needed the influence of someone who was born to defy such age-old paradigms. When the walk-sign beckoned Derrick onward, thoughts of meeting Simon for the first time resonated with each ensuing step.

  More than a decade ago, Derrick was in the process of emerging from his previous Wall Street career. He had hit rock bottom in every way humanly possible, and he needed someone willing to trust him, to give him an opportunity to get his life back on track. PurIntel was, at the time, a fledgling start-up. The two men met at, of all places, The Whiskey Cupboard.

  “Rather ironic, wouldn’t you say?” Derrick asked Simon. “An establishment that doesn’t serve alcohol calls itself The Whiskey Cupboard.” Derrick’s heart pulsed with the desires of two worlds, of a suffering existence awash in all things intoxicating and the creative ember, which he dared to believe, needed only the breath of encouragement.

  Simon stared at Derrick’s CV. “You have a special talent, it seems.” Simon looked up at a man whose composure seemed as thin as the document that contained his life’s achievements.

  “Yes, well,” Derrick replied, nervously. “I have a talent for reducing everything to numbers and variables. Our world, a pub with an identity crisis, your cup of … what is it that you’re drinking?”

  “It’s Earl Grey. Would you like one?”

  In addition to trying Simon’s favourite tea, two things were agreed upon: Derrick’s loyalty to the newly formed PurIntel enterprise would be the defining factor in their professional relationship. And, once proven, Simon would work with a young Sophia towards isolating the genes associated with addiction.

  Furthermore, if a resolution to the dehumanizing behaviour remained beyond Derrick’s suitability for treatment, then at least hope could be offered to those who still struggled with the affliction. Derrick reflected on his decade old promise and how it helped him to redirect his compulsive tendencies toward the moment at hand. The few minutes remaining spurred him on.

  Derrick embraced the necessity to alternate between a fast walk and short spurts of running. The journey was, in in the end, more vertical than horizontal as the distance negotiated by elevator far exceeded that which was taken in stride. And with the lift on the opposite side of the street dropping him at the appropriate floor, the last leg of the journey allowed for little time to compose a demeanour suitable to what awaited.

  With a lingering nervousness still buffeting his breathing, Derrick recalled the most important words ever spoken to him: “Let’s just worry about the variables in play right here, at this very moment,” he remembered Simon saying. “I would suggest our future together is the most important one. Our past is diminished by each passing second, minute, and day.”

  A fresh cup of Earl Grey was politely placed in front of Derrick. “Thank you,” he said to their waitress.

  “Success is born from the ability to quantify opportunity,” Simon continued. “You’ve demonstrated that knack by suggesting our meeting today. If you can manage the same tomorrow, show up at this address at 8 a.m.” Simon slid his business card across the table.

  Derrick remembered the moment as if it had happened yesterday. He wanted to take stock of everything he had accomplished in the intervening years, but realized the moments remaining would be better invested. He collected his thoughts, opened the door, and entered the meeting room with an expression devoid of interpretation.

  Initial observations suggested grim proceedings ahead. Of the six men and one woman present only one offered the appearance of being pleased with Derrick’s arrival. He was, after all, the only recognizable person in the room. When he stood up to extend a polite greeting, Derrick was quick to exchange a modest smile. Of the three chairs available, he was glad to sit beside the man with whom he had frequently corresponded: it was, of course, Allan Forbes. Derrick had been cooperating with the SEC all along.

  “Do I know you?” Allan’s boss immediately queried.

  Derrick was unfortunately drawn backward in time again. A memory connected him to events that punctuated his previous career.

  “Derrick Landry,” Allan interjected. “This is Steven Phelps. He is our Regional Director of the SEC’s New York branch.”

  Derrick presumed Phelps must have ascended the SEC ranks after being involved with the original Equity FX file some years ago. “Quite possibly,” Derrick replied. “From a lifetime ago, perhaps.” He quickly pulled his laptop out of its carrying case and opened it on the table in front of him.

  Allan took the opportunity to get a few more introductions out of the way. In addition to his boss at the head of the table, two SEC lawyers assumed the starchiest of postures. Three individuals from the Securities and Exchange Board of India confirmed for Derrick that the soon to be made public investigation would reflect a broad mandate, both domestic and foreign, as well as possess the ability to reach deeply within the subcontinent. The vacant chairs remaining would soon be occupied by two banking officials, who had been summoned less than an hour ago. They were presently waiting, most likely sweating, in an adjacent room. Once called into the meeting, the Riot Act would suffice as an opening narrative. However, some groundwork had to be explained in the interim, and that duty would fall to Derrick.

  Subsequent to his meeting with Rose at The Whiskey Cupboard, Derrick had indeed gained access to the hidden funds associated with the initial fraud perpetrated by Equity FX.

  He had confided the rendezvous to Simon upon his return from California and agreed to work toward repatriating those monies in due course.

  The fact that his five million dollars was still gaining interest in his Equity FX bank account offered his best testimony to date: he had faced temptation and been able to transcend it.

  “May I?” he asked, before getting up from his chair. A presentation came alive on the large display located at the far end of the room.

  “The floor is yours, Mr. Landry. And in plain English, if you don’t mind,” Steven Phelps stated.

  As Derrick proceeded to explain the eloquence of algorithms, several of those listening seemed mystified by what came so naturally to their presenter. Seldom seen mathematical variables were supported by c
harts and graphs whose lines and arrows led inevitably to the outcome that everyone was awaiting: the unravelling of a sophisticated, interconnected web of financial deception. A short list of those culpable soon became apparent: Equity FX, a recent Gen Tech spin off, as well as several newly formed biotech companies headquartered in India.

  As for the names of those responsible? In addition to the men presently languishing in the other room, one kept emerging as the person on which the investigation should focus: Praveen Gill. Indicting him would provide the SEC’s New York Office with the publicity its Director desired. It could propel Phelps into the position that would crown his career: Director of the National Office in Washington.

  “All right, I’ve seen enough,” Phelps interjected. “I think it’s time we bring in those two Equity FX boys.” The SEC Director’s no-nonsense exterior confirmed his straightforward, lacking-in-subtlety reputation.

  Derrick returned to his seat, and while putting away his laptop, he asked: “You don’t mind if I make an early exit, do you? I’d rather remain anonymous if that’s at all possible.”

  “I think we can handle it from here,” Phelps agreed, but as Allan Forbes got up to summon the Equity FX officials, Phelps stopped Derrick at the door by making one more request. “Oh, do me a favour, will you, Mr. Landry? Can you forward over a few of the illustrations you had up there? I might use them at tomorrow’s press conference.”

  Phelps knew that this type of announcement was best made after the trading day had closed. “Whatever turmoil it creates will be restricted to afterhours trading.”

  “Consider it done,” Derrick said, before leaving the room.

  With Derrick’s involvement concealed, Allan returned with two very ashen-faced Equity FX Executives.

  “Please be seated,” Phelps ordered.