The Warning

by Davis Bunn

  “Wait, please, I want to ask—”

  “That is all I have to say at this time,” he said, thankfully reaching the door.

  –|| TWENTY–FOUR ||–

  Thirty-One Days . . .

  Saturday morning found them in a hotel in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, where Buddy was struck by three body blows in the space of twenty minutes.

  First came the call from his doctor. As soon as Jasmine Hopper had introduced herself, Buddy started in on his apology. “I’ve been busier than a one-legged man in a polka contest.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling. There’s—”

  “I’m feeling fine, Jasmine. Really. I’m sorry I didn’t make another appointment. I’ve been so busy I forgot to call.”

  “Buddy, I’m not calling to ask about your health or your missed appointment.”

  “You’re not?” At the sound of knocking, he carried his cellular phone over to open the door. Clarke Owen stood holding a bunch of newspapers. “Is something the matter with our children?”

  Molly opened the bathroom door, her makeup powder in one hand and the pad in the other. Buddy looked at her as Jasmine said, “No, Trish has come down with what I suspect is a strep infection, but otherwise your family is healthy as far as I know.”

  Buddy swiveled the mouthpiece away and said to Molly, “Trish has strep throat, but otherwise everybody’s fine.”

  “Is that Jasmine?”

  “Yes.” To the phone, “Why are you calling?”

  “I got your number from Alex.” She sounded extremely worried. “Buddy, there’s been a break-in at my office.”

  “Jasmine, I’m so sorry.” Scrunching up his forehead, he wondered why his doctor was calling to tell him about a burglary. They were friends, yes, but Jasmine Hopper was friends with half the town. “What can—”

  “I wanted you to hear this from me first.” She took a deep breath. “They were after my files, Buddy. Your file.”

  Buddy’s gaze shifted from Molly to Clarke to Molly again. “My file.”

  “I’ve spent the past two days making sure it wasn’t just misplaced.” Another pause, then she went on worriedly, “Buddy, you were so tense at your last visit. And you were so insistent that everything was perfectly all right. These are classic symptoms of denial.”

  Everything fell into place. He took in Clarke’s somber expression and the newspapers in his hands. Buddy said, “I understand.”

  “I wrote into your file that if the pains persisted, you would need to have a psychiatric examination.” These words were spoken in an explosive rush, as though she wanted to get them out and over with. “I’m so terribly sorry, Buddy.”

  “You did what you thought was right.”

  “If these notes are passed to the press, we can prosecute.”

  Buddy decided there was no need to point out that the damage would still be done. Jasmine clearly felt bad enough already. “I have to get going, Jasmine. Everything is fine. Don’t give it another thought. And thank you for calling.”

  Buddy cut the connection and said to Clarke, “Is it bad?”

  “Bad enough.”

  Molly demanded, “What are you talking about?”

  “The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal have both launched attacks at Buddy. Well, partly at Buddy.” Clarke’s expression became pained. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Alex,” Buddy said. “They’ve gone after my brother.”

  “It’s pretty rough. They talk about his alcoholism and his run-ins with the law, and they make his business out to be on its last legs.”

  Molly moved up to grasp Buddy’s arm. “He must be beside himself.”

  Buddy lifted the cell phone and dialed his brother’s number. When Alex came on the line, Buddy said, “Don’t pay them any mind at all.”

  Alex’s tone was edged by a new grimness. “If my ramblings have taught me anything, it’s that I can’t please everybody, but I sure can irritate the whole world at once.”

  “The more our message gets out, the more the financial establishment is going to attack us,” Buddy said. “We’ve known that from the beginning.”

  “Seems to me you’d be better off if I was to retire and leave this work to better hands.” There came a sound of hoarse breathing, of needing to take a moment to gather the energy to continue, “I’m not polished enough. I’m not a pro.”

  “If you quit, then I do too,” Buddy said, gripping the phone so hard his hand shook. “And that’s a promise.”

  “I’m carrying too much baggage to be much help to anybody.” Alex sighed, weary at seven-thirty in the morning.

  “That’s not true, Alex. Not at all.” Buddy found himself recalling something he had not thought of for years. The words had been repeated often by his favorite Sunday school teacher, the man who had brought Buddy to the Lord when he was fifteen years old. “Being the person God wants us to be is a victory over our past,” Buddy recited from memory. “It means not just embracing His call, but also overcoming our limitations.”

  “God called you, Buddy. Not me.”

  “He’s called us both. I know that in my heart of hearts.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then, “You mean that, little brother?”

  “We’re in this together, Alex. And that’s all there is to it.” He reached into his jacket for Molly’s card. “I want to read you something Molly found for me yesterday. It’s from the twenty-seventh Psalm.”

  When the wicked came against me

  To eat up my flesh,

  My enemies and foes,

  They stumbled and fell.

  Though an army may encamp against me,

  My heart shall not fear;

  Though war may rise against me,

  In this I will be confident.

  One thing I have desired of the LORD,

  That will I seek:

  That I may dwell in the house of the LORD

  All the days of my life.

  When Alex had finally agreed to carry on and Buddy set down the phone, he tensed against well-meaning objections from Clarke. Instead he found himself facing a warm smile. Clarke told him, “That was a great thing you just did.”

  “It was beautiful what you told him,” Molly agreed softly.

  Clarke folded the two top papers he was carrying and dumped them in the trash can. “We sure don’t need this mess.”

  “You two go on down to breakfast,” Molly said. “I want to call and see how Trish is doing.”

  Buddy followed Clarke from the room and asked, “What are those papers you’re still carrying?”

  “One paper and one magazine.” As they walked the hallway, Clarke showed him the cover of Money and said, “This came out today. Listen to what it says about you.” He flipped to the page he had already turned down and read, “A mild-mannered, narrow-minded, small-town banker has hit the financial pond like a meteorite, and the tidal waves are still flowing outward. The question is, Whose boats are going to be swamped? If what Buddy Korda’s increasingly convincing arguments say is true, it could very well be almost all of them.”

  Buddy accepted the magazine and slipped it under his arm unread. “If only there was some way for them to really listen.”

  Clarke glanced at him. “Time is pressing down on you, isn’t it?”

  Buddy nodded grimly. “More with every passing day.”

  Sunday they decided not to try and go home, much as both of them wanted to see the family and worship with their own church. But Sunday evening Buddy was scheduled to address a church gathering in Philadelphia, and the hours simply could not be found.

  The following week, Buddy and Molly started early and traveled hard. On Monday they visited Camden and Trenton, New Jersey, before traveling Tuesday to meet groups in four different Connecticut towns. After overnighting in Bridgeport, they flew Wednesday to Providence, Rhode Island.

  Like a stone dropped into a still and expectant pond, the ripples spread ever wider. People began approaching Buddy after his talks,
introducing themselves, saying they had seen his video at a prayer meeting in Baltimore or a church luncheon in Chicago or a specially called gathering in Jacksonville, Florida. They told him how they had traveled six hundred, eight hundred, a thousand miles, just to hear what he had to say in person. Just to make sure the incredible power they had felt from the video or tape was really there. Just to shake his hand and thank him and say that without a doubt, he was a prophet called by God to warn the faithful.

  Buddy endured these encounters because he had to. He masked his winces as best he could, especially when they looked at him with something like awe and wanted to hang on to his hand. He deeply loathed the sensation that they were trying to cling to him as though he were something holy. But he could not be rough with them. He could not turn and flee as he wanted. He had to accept and endure. It was the message that was important. He could do nothing that would take away from the power of the message. He could not.

  –|| TWENTY–FIVE ||–

  Twenty-Seven Days . . .

  Wednesday morning, Larry Fleiss refilled his cup from the coffeemaker built into the left wing of his desk before swinging his Swiss-made leather and titanium chair around and scanning the screens. No major change, little action for that time of week. The Fed was scheduled to release its quarterly review of interest rates in two days, and the market was still trying to figure out which way the central bank was going to jump. He sipped from the cup, his fifteenth of the day. He averaged twenty before lunch, another two dozen by market close, an even fifty by the time he left. He went through a pound of Costa’s best every day. He had long since stopped tasting much of anything.

  Fleiss could not help glancing at the phone. There were nineteen lines into his office, plus the mobile and the two faxes and the six direct satellite hookups to the major overseas markets. But the phone he could not help looking at was the one linked to Nathan Jones Turner’s office at the estate. He had spent all morning waiting for that call. He was supposed to have checked in with Turner an hour ago, giving him the word on a sure win. Which he did not have. But Fleiss had a hunch he knew where to find one. His gut told him so.

  Only, if he was going to pull it off, he could not place this call himself.

  He turned his attention back to the file, the only bit of paper on the desk’s broad central dais. Thaddeus Dorsett. What a name. Still, he liked the feel of this guy. He flipped through the pages, already having committed the information to his prodigious memory. This was not an ordinary employee file. One of the changes Turner had brought to Valenti was a deep-profile investigation for all top managers. Fleiss was one of only three people permitted to see the information.

  Thad’s earlier delinquencies indicated a reckless spirit. This was good. Fleiss was not looking for somebody who was frightened by risks. And the way he had broken into the doctor’s office, taken the guy’s private records, and left the other files poking out as a warning—all this was very strong. Fleiss had probed a little after Thad had delivered his report, wanting the details, glad the guy did not pussyfoot around, but simply told him in an almost bored manner how he had obtained the information. Thaddeus Dorsett lived for the thrill. He knew the borderlands beyond law and legality. All this was good. Very good. Fleiss needed somebody like this. He needed him desperately.

  Turner’s firing of his top analyst-trader had wounded Fleiss badly. Fleiss needed a pair of legs, somebody to implement and to hunt and to be the face the Street saw. Somebody Fleiss could trust to be his man and his alone. The trouble with taking someone from within the ranks of Valenti’s trading arm was that Turner’s spies were everywhere.

  But finding the sure thing could not wait. Fleiss had spent the last week and a half hunting and worrying. But he had the entire bank’s operations to cover as well. No. What was needed here was a number two who was not squeamish about where legalities ended and profits began.

  Fleiss resumed his perusal of the file. He liked the feel of Thad Dorsett. It was one thing to trade for a year or so. Most could not take it longer than that. They burned up or burned out. But there was occasionally somebody who lived for the trade. Market junkies, modern-day privateers. Fleiss closed the file and tapped his fingers on the cover. Yes. He could very well imagine Thaddeus Dorsett was going crazy in that branch office.

  When the phone finally rang, Fleiss had to stop himself from reaching out. One ring, two, then on the third he finally picked up the receiver and said, “Fleiss.”

  The querulous tone demanded, “Did I forget something? Was there a miscommunication somewhere? Weren’t you supposed to be in touch already this morning?”

  “Been busy watching the market.”

  “In case you have forgotten,” Turner lashed out, “I do not like to be kept waiting. Not by anyone.”

  “You also don’t like to be bothered.” Fleiss was dancing on the razor’s edge here. Since the exchange rate debacle, Turner had been viciously unpredictable. “I don’t have a thing to report. If I don’t have something to say, a call goes under the head of bothering.”

  “You’re not paid to report. You’re paid to find me a way out of this mess!”

  “You told me to find you a sure thing. I’m still looking.”

  “Well, look faster!” Turner was breathing hard. Which was a warning in and of itself. The man was notorious for losing his cool in spectacular fashion. “Every day we wait is another day we might be discovered.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “You’d better be. This had better dominate your every waking thought and shape your nightmares.” A moment’s heavy breathing, and then, “I can’t understand what is taking you so long.”

  “Middle of next week,” Fleiss promised. “Soon as we figure out which way the Fed is gonna jump, I’ll have a better handle on how to—”

  “Do you know, are you the least bit aware, that I have to make the second cash payment for the hotels at the end of next week? And if I don’t make the payment, I lose the fifty percent deposit I’ve already made! Of course you’re not aware! How could you be? If you knew, you wouldn’t be hanging about! Because if you did know, you’d also know that I don’t have the cash!”

  “Middle of the week,” Fleiss repeated, and decided now was the time to strike. “Listen, about the Journal article.”

  “What?” The anger switched to confusion. Turner was not a man used to having the conversation’s direction dictated by anyone else. It threw him off balance. “I don’t—”

  “The article about one of the bank’s employees. That Korda guy. There’s been a follow-up. And some of the other news services are taking notice.”

  “I fail to see how you can be so fixated on this worm when we are faced with a total fiasco!”

  “Like I said,” Fleiss persisted. “There’s a risk here. What if one of the pension funds decides they don’t like how we’re managing our people and we can’t be trusted to manage their money.”

  “You’re talking nonsense.” But the old man’s tone held a trace of uncertainty.

  “Any move of a fund would expose our illegal borrowings,” Fleiss pointed out.

  “All the more reason for you to get moving,” Turner snarled.

  “You told me to handle it,” Fleiss reminded him. “I’ve found a guy at the Aiden branch. He’s one of the traders slated for top management who is putting in his time as a branch manager. He’s sharp, and he doesn’t like this Korda guy any more than I do.”

  “Doesn’t like who?” Clearly Turner’s mind was only partly held by this conversation.

  “The assistant manager, the one who’s causing all the ruckus. This manager, he has a plan to take care of Korda. But he wants out. He’s going crazy there in the branch. He wants to move back into trading.” Fleiss kept it casual, making it sound as though it was no big thing. “Wants his own portfolio, the works.”

  “Well, if he can handle this problem, do it.” Turner was still too distracted to pay much attention. “But I want you to concentrate on what’s
important here.”

  “Will do.”

  “I want answers. I want results. Find me a way out of this mess. And find it now.”

  Fleiss hung up the direct line, thoroughly satisfied. He then picked up another phone and prepared to make urgent arrangements for Thaddeus Dorsett to travel up to the Big Apple.

  –|| TWENTY–SIX ||–

  Twenty-Six Days . . .

  Thursday morning, Nathan Jones Turner’s personal helicopter attendant met Thaddeus Dorsett as he came off the private jet at Kennedy. Thad accepted the attention as though he had known it all his life.

  The amenities were exactly what he had always thought a private chopper should have—soundproofing so thick the rotors’ noise was cut to a barely audible whine, newspapers and magazines still in their wrappers held in a chrome-and-wood stand, crystal decanters and a refrigerator in one corner, a smiling hostess to keep him company, two pilots, three color-television sets, and big windows through which he could look down as the Big Apple swept into view, ripe for the plucking.

  He had never before been to New York. It was not a confession Thad would have made to anyone. But early in his career, he had promised himself that there was only one way he would arrive in New York City, and that was in style. A winner. A big-time guy. A name.

  He had made his mark in the Chicago dealing rooms, always hearing the extra edge that the New York guys held in their voices. They were top of the heap, and made sure that everyone understood this. The saying went, a trader never made it anywhere until he made it in New York. Thad accepted the saying as fact. But he also knew that landing at the bottom in New York meant hitting hard and fighting mean. He had always figured he would battle his way out of the trenches where the competition was a little easier and the scars quicker to heal. Then he would arrive in New York with power and experience behind him and burn his emblem into the Street.

  The pilot’s voice sparked over the intercom. “That’s the Turner Building to your right.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh,” the stewardess said brightly. “Have you come in by air before?”