One Child

by Jeff Buick

  Eight years wasn't enough time to soothe the anger. It roiled inside him, a relentless sea of hate that some days threatened to consume him. All time had done was magnify the loathing and the desire for revenge. He had no doubt that the Russian would pay. The only questions were - when and how.

  He leaned forward and retrieved the paper from the wastebasket. He set it on his desk and smoothed the creases, then reread the article in its entirety. The editorial slant was easy. Volstov was being hailed as a hero for organizing the event and bringing the world's most popular band to Moscow. The concert date was August 25th and he did the math. Twenty-nine days. Fleming stared at the scrap of paper, wondering if it was an opportunity.

  He checked his watch and switched off his computer. Other business called. The soft Italian leather soles on his shoes made no sound against the ebony hardwood floor as he approached the door. It opened automatically and he walked through without breaking stride. On the other side, grasping the handle, was a stocky man dressed in Armani. He fell in behind Fleming and they took the private elevator to the underground parking garage. A Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows was waiting next to the elevator shaft. Fleming slipped into the back seat. His bodyguard settled into an identical vehicle parked immediately behind Fleming's.

  "Kellari," Fleming said to the driver.

  The vehicles entered the traffic - oddities among the surge of yellow cabs. The drive between his office on the Avenue of the Americas and the Greek restaurant was less than five minutes. The driver parked at the curb and Fleming got out without a word. The maître d' greeted him by name and walked at a quick stride through the packed dining area. A few people nodded as Fleming passed and one man stood and offered his hand. The maître d' motioned to a table tucked in the back of the restaurant. A thin man dressed entirely in black was seated in one of the chairs. Fleming sat opposite him.

  "I'm tired, Jorge. I hope whatever you have is worth my time."

  Jorge Amistav leaned forward. The Armenian, with his olive skin and black hair, could easily have been one of the Greek businessmen having a late dinner. In reality, he was an arms dealer.

  "I don't think you'll be disappointed."

  Their waiter appeared at the table. "Can I get you something to drink, sir?" he asked, setting a menu on Fleming's napkin.

  Fleming asked for Maker's Mark bourbon, then turned back to Amistav. "What do you want?"

  "I have another warehouse filled with armaments. All of them are next to untraceable."

  Fleming shook his head. "We've done this before. I didn't like the risk then. I like it even less now."

  "These ones are almost free." He smiled, revealing crooked teeth. "The profit margin is much better than the last deal."

  Fleming traced his finger across his napkin. "What's the bottom line, Jorge?"

  "Thirty-five million in your pocket. After expenses."

  Fleming sat back in his chair and stared out over the room. For a moment he was a ten-year-old, on his bicycle, bags of groceries in the basket. The summer Hungarian sun was warm on his arms as he pedaled along the bumpy road, delivering milk and bread and other staples to the elderly people who couldn't make it to his father's store. Two cents a delivery. Thirty deliveries a day. Ten hours of pedaling to make sixty cents. And now, this man sat in front of him offering thirty-five million dollars if he financed and invoiced one deal.

  "What's your end of things?" Fleming asked.

  "Two million for my contact at the warehouse and three for my fee."

  "Thirty-five is good," Fleming said slowly. "But there's usually a downside to deals like this. What's the risk?"

  Amistav smiled. He knew the question was coming. Fleming wasn't stupid. Far from it. "The weapons are rejects. They didn't pass the necessary testing. They were slated to be destroyed, but I have a contact inside the warehouse who..." he paused to choose the right word, "saved them."

  The waiter returned with the bourbon. "Your drink, sir." He set it on a coaster.

  "Thank you," Fleming said. "So you're suggesting that I supply our troops with defective weaponry. I'm not sure I like that idea. The last time we sold the US military weapons, at least they worked properly."

  Amistav shook his head. "The military standards are ridiculous. I don't know the exact figures, but it's something like a one or two percent fail rate and they toss it in the reject pile. That means the gun is firing at 98 to 99 percent efficiency. I think that's pretty damn good."

  "What's the rate of fire for an M-4?" Fleming asked.

  Amistav shrugged. "I'm not sure."

  "Ninety rounds per minute. So if the soldier in the field keeps the trigger depressed for a full minute, and the gun is firing at 98 percent efficiency, it will jam."

  "Nobody fires for a minute without stopping. The magazines don't hold enough bullets."

  "The magazine holds 30 bullets." Fleming sipped his bourbon and set it back on the coaster. "And M-4s no longer have a fully automatic setting. Single shot or three-round bursts are the only options." He settled back into the leather chair. "The fact is that at 98 or 99 percent efficiency, the gun will fail at some point in time."

  "Probably."

  "No, Jorge, not probably. Definitely. Don't ever try to bullshit me on armaments," Fleming said.

  "Sorry."

  A roar of laughter from a table of eight shot through the room and most people glanced at the origin. Fleming didn't. He simply looked irritated at the noise. He took another sip of bourbon.

  "Leave it with me. I'll let you know tomorrow."

  "Okay." A bead of sweat ran down the arms dealer's forehead. He picked up his napkin and dabbed it away. "Should I call you?"

  "I'll call you."

  Fleming finished his drink and walked back through the restaurant. His Lincoln was parked directly outside and the second one appeared from down the street in seconds. The man in the Armani suit followed him and jumped into the tailing vehicle. They disappeared into the New York night.

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  Chapter

  2

  Day 2 - 7.28.10 - Morning News

  Soho, New York City

  The beeping from the alarm began as a low gurgle, then increased in cadence and volume until a hand hit the snooze button. The room sank back into silence. One of the figures stirred under the covers, then bare feet touched the floor.

  Carson Grant shuffled across the worn hardwood into the kitchen and touched the brew button on the coffee machine. He returned to bed and pulled the woman under the covers close to him. She mumbled something incomprehensible, but contented. They lay unmoving for ten minutes, then he roused himself again and returned to the kitchen. He added cream and sugar to the brew and padded back to the bedroom. He opened the shades on the window and slipped into bed, sitting in the dark with his back against the headboard, staring out the window. Across the street, the windows of the four-story warehouse lofts were still dark. Above the building the last remnants of a full moon lit the early morning sky. The woman rolled over on her side, snuggled up to him and dozed off.

  A light breeze pushed through the open window. Carson sipped the coffee, his mind growing alert as the caffeine kicked in. Below him, Soho was slowly coming alive. The sounds of traffic from Spring Street picked up and a large truck drove past, the roar from its diesel motor reverberating off the brick buildings. Low voices carried up to the third floor window, the words muted and indistinguishable. Cans clanged as a garbage truck hauled away the last of yesterday's trash.

  New York was waking up.

  The woman shifted slightly under the covers and coughed. She clutched the duvet until her fingers turned white. Her body was wracked with convulsions - muscles tensed and contracted as t
he shock waves rolled through her thin frame. The coughing fit lasted almost a minute, then she settled back into the pillow and her grip on the covers relaxed. Tiny spasms shook her body for another minute, then she lay still, her breathing labored and shallow.

  "You okay, Nicki?" Carson asked.

  "Fine," she answered. Her voice was strong for such a small frame. "Business as usual."

  "Yeah," he said quietly. He hated it when she said that.

  He sipped the coffee and stared out the window, listening to the growing wall of white noise. The alarm clock flipped over to 6:00 and he slid out of bed and started the shower. The water was cold - invigorating - and his mind ran through his daily calendar. The two o'clock meeting trumped everything. In fact, it was the meeting that could change his life. Or not.

  The water dripped for thirty seconds after he turned it off, then petered out. Carson couldn't help smiling. Everything about the third-story flat was like the shower and had some sort of quirk. The heat register thumped six times before it kicked in and the electrical outlet the television was plugged into would only work if the bathroom light was on. Two years was enough, it was time to move on. Maybe that would happen today.

  "It all comes down to one meeting," he muttered to himself as he stripped the plastic off his freshly pressed suit. He knew he was ready.

  He dressed and checked his look in the mirror. Perfect. Never better. His light brown hair was exactly the right length and was behaving itself. None of the usual cowlicks or unruly tufts. He smiled and was rewarded with the sight of even white teeth behind full lips. His eyes, pale on the grey days, were vibrant blue. He ran a sponge over his black leather shoes and returned to the bedroom. Nicki was awake and sitting up in the bed.

  "I should have gotten up this morning," she said. "Made you breakfast." She was thin - too thin - her clavicles jutting out from her shoulders. The natural beauty in her face was accentuated by her leanness. Like freshly fallen snow - a simple white blanket with no blemishes. Nothing to detract from the perfection of the place and the moment. Short black hair framed her striking features.

  He sat beside her. "It's okay. I'll grab something at the deli near the office."

  "Big day for you," she said. She adjusted his tie.

  "Big day for us."

  She nodded. "For us. Of course."

  He hugged her, longer than usual, then left the apartment and locked the door behind him. Spring Street was already busy. Delivery trucks filled with early morning shipments pulled in at the curb and an occasional yellow cab trolled, looking for fares. He stayed on Spring Street to the Avenue of the Americas and caught the 1 Line subway at the Canal Street station. The train was crowded, but not unbearable and he rode it past his building to the 50th Street Station rather than getting off at Times Square. He liked the walk coming back in from the north better.

  The lobby of 1177 Avenue of the Americas, home of Platinus Investments, always amazed him. A grand piano sat just inside the doors and the ceilings soared five stories above the marble floors. He cleared security and took the elevator to his office on the eighteenth floor. Getting through the morning was hell. A problem with the latest algorithm was waiting on his desk and needed his attention. But his thoughts and focus were already in William Fleming's office, facing the man across his desk. He finished lunch and checked his watch. 1:20. Forty minutes until he was due for the most important interview of his life. He felt a tinge of wetness in his armpits and willed his sweat glands to stop. Nothing was going to ruin this.

  It was three weeks ago to the day when he found out he had been shortlisted for the job of heading up the High Frequency Trading division of Platinus Investments. It wasn't a title that was to be taken lightly. In addition to overseeing two hundred highly educated men and women, the job description included advising the CEO on a daily basis. That meant one-on-one contact with William Fleming, a man who stood among the ruling elite on Wall Street. High Frequency Trading was enormously lucrative for the firm, and it was Fleming's baby. Fleming wanted opinions on how the firm could maximize profits and keep the other HFT firms at bay. Carson would have influence over the computer programs that were the engine of the global financial markets. It was Nirvana. And he was one of five who had made the shortlist.

  Almost double his current salary plus bonuses. It would easily run over a million a year. If Fleming chose him for the position, he would move up the wedding and get a new place in Midtown. Soho was nice, but couldn't compete with an apartment overlooking Central Park.

  It was so close. Everything he had worked for. So many years of college, all for this moment.

  Carson switched off his computer and took the elevator to the forty-seventh floor. It opened with a swooshing sound and he wondered if it did that on every floor. He strode across the foyer to where a mid-forties woman sat at a sleek metal and glass reception desk.

  "Carson Grant to see Mr. Fleming," he said.

  "He's ready for you," the woman replied. She motioned to the door behind her with one hand and touched a button on her computer with the other. "No need to knock."

  "Thank you," Carson said.

  His knees almost buckled. He moved past the desk and glanced at his watch. Was he late? It wasn't possible. The minute hand on his Omega was exactly on eleven. Five minutes before the hour. He was early. He wasn't sure what to think as he pushed open the solid wood door.

  The corner room was spacious and sparsely furnished. An average-size desk, dark wood with pewter accents, faced the bank of windows looking north toward Central Park. William Fleming sat on one of a pair of sofas that faced each other in front of a second wall of windows. He was reading the contents of a file folder. He set the folder on his lap and pointed to the other couch. He was dressed in tan slacks and a dark blue shirt open at the neck. His dark hair was pushed back behind his ears and framed a thin, intense face. His eyes were deep brown, almost black.

  "Sit down, Carson," Fleming said.

  "Thank you, sir." Carson tugged his trouser legs up slightly as he sat, then adjusted the material so it sat properly on his legs.

  It was the fifth time he had met William Fleming. If anyone asked, he could tell them where each encounter had taken place and what was said. Conversing with one of the richest men in the world wasn't something that was easily forgotten.

  "You have an MBA from MIT," Fleming said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Did you like the school?"

  Carson considered his answer. The examination was underway. No foreplay with this interview. "Yes and no. I found the professors to be the best I had ever encountered. But the student body was a different thing altogether."

  Fleming tilted his head to one side. "Why is that?"

  "There were some students on scholarships, but there were a lot more from wealthy families. Most of them had attitudes of entitlement."

  "And you didn't." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

  "No," Carson said. He wondered if the $375,000 student loan he had taken out to attend the prestigious campus was noted in his file. He suspected it was. No, he knew it was.

  Carson was ready for the questions. He had studied everything he could find about William Fleming prior to the interview. Born Laszio Farkas in Hungary in 1958, he was the younger of two children. He had a late October birthday, which made him a Scorpio. His father had dropped out of school in grade eight and spent his life running a small grocery store. His mother helped with the store and cooked the meals. There was some sort of trouble with a communist party official in the summer of 1975 and Fleming had left the country the same night the incident had happened. He changed his name to William Fleming and settled in Wisconsin, where he excelled at math and statistics. He enrolled in business at the University of Wisconsin - Madison, maintained a 3.85 GPA for two years then dropped out and headed for New York. Fleming spent the next nine ye
ars with a handful of investment companies, then started Platinus Investments in 1989. The rest was logged in the Wall Street history books.

  Fleming locked eyes with the younger man. "Thursday, May 6th, 2010. A computer glitch erases 723 points off the Dow in sixteen minutes. What is your immediate response to counteract the drop?"

  The questions continued for over an hour. Easy ones that lulled him into a false sense of security, followed by staccato bursts that tested him on industry knowledge, his integrity and decision-making ability. There was no rhythm, nothing to indicate what question might be next. To Carson, it was an hour that redefined stress. Finally, Fleming closed Carson's file and set it on the table.

  "Can I ask you a personal question?"

  Carson nodded. "Yes."

  "You're engaged - getting married soon."

  "Yes, sometime later this year, maybe early in 2011."

  "Why are you marrying a woman who is dying?"

  Carson's mouth opened, then closed. His mind was racing. Somehow, instinctively, he knew that the outcome of the interview rested on this one answer. The obvious one, and the truth, was that he loved Nicki and that it didn't matter to him how much time they had together. But this moment wasn't about truth. It had nothing to do with Nicki or with love. It had everything to do with his dedication to William Fleming and to Platinus.

  "I committed to her," he said. "A commitment - a promise - is everything."

  Fleming leaned forward. He stared coldly at the younger man. "Are you committed to this company? To running a High Frequency Trading department that outperforms every other firm in the world?"

  "One hundred percent."

  Fleming remained motionless for fifteen seconds, eyes locked on Carson. Then he relaxed into the leather cushion and touched a small black button embedded in the arm of the couch. A pleasant voice answered.