Crash

by David Hagberg

  “Don’t make a mistake in the morning, Arkadi,” Bykov said.

  “Be there when we come around the corner,” Zimin countered.

  40

  Reid Treadwell was panting into Heather Rockingham’s bare shoulder, and when he calmed down a little he raised his head so their faces were inches apart. “Christ, that was good,” he said, and meant it.

  “We corn-fed Midwestern girls can show up your refined New York ladies anytime,” she said, grinning. She squeezed his hips with her thighs.

  “Now I know why I like an early lunch,” Reid said. He made to pull away, but she held him in place with her legs.

  “Stay,” she said.

  He settled in.”Obliged,” he murmured.

  She laughed lightly. “You have a lot of stamina for an old guy.”

  “And you have a lot of technique for a kid.” Of all the women he’d bedded, the ones half his age were always a special treat.

  “I like older men,” Heather said. “Especially successful ones.”

  “And I like you.”

  She laughed again. “No, you don’t. You just like getting in my panties.”

  “I hope you’ll be sticking around town for a while. I’d like to see more of you.” He didn’t know how she was going to feel in the morning when the bottom dropped out of the market. But he didn’t give a damn. Here was here and now was now.

  “Here’s the deal, Reid. I’ll let you recharge for a bit, but then we’re going to do this again. Do you think you can handle it?”

  “Easy,” Reid said.

  Her legs parted, and when he slid out of her it was almost painful. He rolled over on his back, and she turned to him and nestled against his chest, one leg thrown over his, and played with his chest hair.

  They lay in a broad California king bed in the penthouse apartment’s sumptuous bedroom, done up in a Middle Eastern theme: bright kilim rugs from Turkey, ceramic urns from Egypt, bronze lamps from Morocco.

  Treadwell had always left home décor to his wife, and it amused him that she had decorated this place as a guest apartment for visiting financial dignitaries from all over the world, and not for the real purpose he used it.

  The midday sun bathed the broad patio outside the door with a soft light. For a half minute or so, he closed his eyes, thinking that everything was perfect, until it suddenly struck him that his cell phone had chimed while he and Heather were making love.

  “Sorry, love, I have to check my phone, crazy day in the markets,” he said. “Just be a sec.”

  “No problem,” she said, swinging her legs off the bed. “I need the loo.”

  He got his phone from the nightstand, and for a moment he simply watched Heather’s great ass as she headed for the marble bathroom. When she shut the door, he checked the missed calls. This one was from Dammerman. He hit replay.

  “Call me ASAP, Mr. T. I was going to have one of Butch’s boys come fetch you, but I thought you’d like a call first.”

  Treadwell got off the bed and walked to the patio window looking out toward the Hudson River, traffic heavy as usual thirty stories below on Rector Street.

  He was about to return Dammerman’s call when his phone chimed, and Betty Ladd’s name came up.

  He answered. “What do you want? I thought I’d heard all the lovely things you had to say earlier.”

  “I forgot to ask you what you were doing this morning at Kittredge’s with Spencer.”

  “Discussing economic policy, what else? The debt bomb. The Chinese situation. Spence is just as pessimistic as Seymour. Anyway, what the fuck business is it of yours?”

  “You’re cooking up something. I know goddamn well you are. And I’m telling you, Reid, I will absolutely destroy you if you’re fucking with the markets for your own gain. I shit you not!”

  “Crude as usual, Betts,” he said, and he broke the connection.

  He phoned Dammerman. “What’s up, Clyde?”

  “I thought you’d better know that Butch put a tail on Julia. She met with Betty Ladd at Zuccotti Park.”

  It was if an electric prod had been zapped against his balls. “Did they get any of the conversation?”

  “Apparently not,” Dammerman said. “I’m at Mongo’s right now with Butch. He got a call that she talked to Ladd for maybe five minutes. And it was cozy, like they were old pals. But when Julia got up and walked away, she didn’t look happy.”

  “What’s the connection between Julia and Betty?” Treadwell demanded. This was not good.

  “Beats the shit outa me. But Butch says that he doesn’t trust Julia any farther than he could throw our building. Me, I never liked her. All those geeks are wired different than us. We needed her to get us Abacus, but now that’s a done deal, she’s yesterday’s fish.”

  “Don’t mention that word on the phone, goddamnit,” Treadwell said. He could feel his cool slipping. They were so fucking close he could almost taste it. Nothing was going to screw the deal. Nothing and no one.

  “Whatever, Mr. T. All I’m suggesting is that maybe we should add her to the Brighton Beach list. We don’t need her now.”

  “We don’t know that. Something could go wrong, and we’d need her help. Any of a thousand technical glitches to the system. And besides, the Levin girl claims she’s come up with evidence of a virus in our system for which she’s apparently developed a cure. She’s supposedly delivering it on a flash drive or something to Julia today.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Treadwell said. “This is the endgame now, and I’ll take care of it.”

  “I meant about Levin?”

  “Get the flash drive. Whatever it takes.”

  41

  Julia O’Connell was sitting at her desk, sure now that meeting with Betty had been a bad mistake, especially in lieu of what was going to happen first thing in the morning.

  Her phone rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. It was Reid’s cell. “Yes.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Reid shouted. “Meeting with Betty Ladd?”

  She said nothing.

  “What did you two talk about? Now of all times; for Christ’s sake, Julia.”

  “It was her idea. She wanted to meet outside of our offices. Said it was important.”

  “What was important?”

  “You had me followed. Why?”

  “It was Butch’s call,” Reid said. “And how the hell does a computer jock know the president of the exchange?”

  “I met her years ago at a technology conference here in New York,” Julia lied. “She was there to mentor newcomers, and she picked me along with a few others.”

  “And you’ve been pals ever since?”

  “She’s checked on me from time to time. But mostly it was years ago, ever since your … the incident between the two of you.”

  Reid was silent for a beat or two. “You know what’s at stake.”

  “Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my mind.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She knew that you and I met for breakfast with Clyde and Spence, and she wanted to know what that was all about.”

  “And?”

  “I told her that it was really none of her business. And then she wanted to know why all of us were on the floor, and I told her we were supporting our new IPO, and you wanted to have a chat with Seymour.”

  “And?” Reid demanded, relentless.

  Julia felt as if she were being pounded into the ground, and her voice rose. “She wanted to know if it was true that we were going all cash. I told her that I didn’t know, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be any of her business.”

  “Ladd is like a fucking cobra, and she hates me, you know it,” Reid said, his voice notching up a pitch again. “Why didn’t you tell me or Clyde the instant she called you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Listen to me, you stupid fool. We’re on the brink of the greatest financial coup in history. For the next twenty-four hours
I don’t want you going to the women’s room without letting me or Clyde know.”

  Julia was mad. “I don’t have to take this.”

  “You want out, then get out. But keep your fucking mouth shut, or I’ll have one of Butch’s pals pay you a visit. And believe me, you won’t like it.”

  Julia was about to shout back, but Reid had hung up.

  She slowly put her phone down and sat back, not an idea in the world what she could or should do next.

  42

  “That was intense,” Heather said.

  Treadwell spun around to face her. She was naked, a slight smile on her lips. “A staff problem, is all,” he said.

  “You’re tough, and I like it. Just don’t ever talk to me that way, okay?”

  For once in his life he didn’t know what to say.

  “But whatever you’re up to, I want in,” she said.

  43

  An FBI limo brought Spencer Nast to the 34th Street heliport on a barge in the Hudson River near the Javits Convention Center just before one o’clock. The driver got out and opened the rear door.

  A sleek white Sikorsky S-76 with civilian markings but piloted by a pair of air force officers was warming up, ready to get down to Washington as quickly as possible, as soon as Nast was aboard. The limo and aircraft were SOP for high government officials needing to get somewhere in a hurry and discreetly.

  “My bag from the trunk?” Nast asked, getting out.

  The driver, who was a Bureau special agent, hesitated for just a moment, but nodded. He went to the other side of the car, got Nast’s bag out of the backseat, and brought it around.

  Nast’s phone rang. “In the chopper, please,” he told the agent, and then answered the call. It was Sam Kolberg, the president’s chief of staff, whom Nast had thought from the beginning of the campaign was nothing but a royal pain in the ass.

  “I’m at the Thirty-fourth Street heliport ready to take off, if that’s why you’re calling.”

  “We’re waiting, Spencer, and the president is running out of patience.”

  Nast bit back a sharp retort. Kolberg was technically his boss, but only technically. Reid Treadwell had been one of the president’s main donors, and Reid had recommended Nast as the president’s chief economic adviser.

  Since Nast had political insulation, Kolberg could only retaliate in petty ways, like assigning the president’s chief economist to an office not in the West Wing but over in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, which was nothing but an ornate old pile of French Empire–style architecture.

  “I’ll be landing on the White House lawn in less than two hours. Miller and Nichols will be there, and we can hash out our next moves.”

  Kolberg started to object, but Nast held him off.

  “It’s around midnight now in Beijing, and I seriously doubt that the Chinese will be doing anything at this hour. So just hold on to your Jockeys, Sam.”

  The agent tossed Nast’s bag in the backseat of the helicopter.

  “Betty Ladd gave me a call a few minutes ago,” Kolberg said.

  Nast was about to start toward the chopper, but he pulled up short, his breath almost catching in his throat. “What’d she have to say?”

  “You know that we’re old friends,” Kolberg said. “When she was over at Salomon Brothers getting her start, our law firm did business with her. In fact, I was assigned to do the work.”

  Kolberg’s family law firm was one of the most prominent in San Francisco. Sam had gone to a third-tier school and graduated in the middle of his class, but since he was family, he got the position over law review grads from top schools such as Harvard who would have given their eyeteeth for it.

  “When you were working for Betty, I was busting my hump for my Ph.D.—a real degree—at Penn State, existing on ramen noodles,” Nast shot back. He was actually proud of what he called his gritty background.

  “I don’t have time for your bullshit class resentment,” Kolberg shot back. “Betty’s worried that you and Treadwell are thick as thieves, and she’s convinced that he’s trying to somehow make a buck off the China crisis. Is that true?”

  “Give me a break, Sam.”

  “Any truth to it?”

  “For Christ’s sake, I had breakfast with Reid this morning. It’s my job, you know, to keep up my contacts with people on the Street. He used to be my boss—past tense—but I’m no longer privy to his business plans. I’m the president’s economic adviser, not a Burnham Pike employee.”

  “Word is you’re going back as soon as you leave Washington. Maybe a good idea to keep your finger in the pot?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe go back to teaching, or maybe stick around for a second term,” Nast said. “Wouldn’t that be nice, Sam? The two of us together for another four?”

  “I’ll discuss it with the president.”

  “He and Reid are fast friends, you know. Campaign contributions, support in lots of the right places. And it’s not likely to end next year.” Nast hesitated, loving this. “I don’t think that Reid would care to hear that someone was spreading rumors.”

  Kolberg said nothing, and Nast ended the call.

  The pilot opened his door. “We have clearance, sir,” he shouted.

  “Stand by, I need to make a call first,” Nast said.

  “Sir, we have onboard comms.”

  Nast turned his back on the man and speed-dialed Dammerman’s cell. The COO answered on the first ring.

  “Are you on your way to D.C.?”

  “I’m at the heliport now. I just got a call from Sam Kolberg, who told me Betty Ladd talked to him about us. Frankly, what the woman is doing is getting me worried.”

  “Son of a bitch. How the hell does she know Kolberg?”

  “They’re old pals. But what’s Reid’s take on the situation? Are we still good to go?”

  “She’s got her thing for him, but she has nothing except her bullshit suspicions.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Take it easy. She’s been after Reid all day, and she even had a face-to-face with Julia.”

  “Jesus, Clyde, what the hell was that all about?”

  “Trust me, everything is under control. Just take care of your end in Washington. Okay, pal?”

  Dammerman was Nast’s closest ally at BP, and had been from the beginning. They’d both come from blue-collar neighborhoods in the New York area: Dammerman from Queens and Nast from Garfield in Jersey.

  Dammerman had been a street-corner tough, Nast a bookworm whose only social interaction in high school was the chess club.

  But both of them had fought their way tooth and nail to Wall Street prominence.

  “To tell the truth, Clyde, I’d rather stay here in New York when it all goes down. The guys around Farmer are going to have nervous breakdowns. It won’t be pretty. Or safe. They’re going to want someone to blame, and I’m the one in the catbird seat.”

  “Exactly why we want you down there. When the shit hits the fan, you need to keep your boss thinking that he’s in charge, keep his people from looking our way. Once the dust has settled, the Chinese will get the rap, and we’ll be home free. We just have to get past the first few hours after the opening bell. Trust me, we’re going to end up heroes.”

  “Okay, I’m on my way,” Nast said.

  “What about your pals Nichols and Miller? Can you keep them in line?”

  “We’re all meeting in the Oval Office as soon as I get down there. Right now they’re focused on the China thing, just like everyone else. I’m going to give them a plan that’ll never go through but will sound good to the American public.” And make me a hero, he thought.

  “Less than twenty-four hours now, Spence,” Dammerman said. “Stay the course.”

  44

  Cassy popped the second flash drive—the one containing the real anti-virus program—out of her machine and palmed it as she glanced at Masters, who was on the phone, his back to her.

  The woman ex-cop t
hat Hardy had stationed across the room had pulled a chair over twenty minutes ago and was glancing at a magazine, looking up every so often.

  “Is that it?” Donni asked. His eyes were wide, but he was grinning.

  Cassy nodded. “Are you ready?”

  “This is serious, isn’t it?”

  “Dead serious. We’re going to take the remedy to someone who can help us. Outside the company. I don’t trust most of our people upstairs. That’s why I’m going to give Julia a fake drive.”

  Donni looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, his eyes wide. “Why don’t you trust them?”

  “I’m almost sure that the worm started right here in our system, not from outside somewhere.”

  “Is it Francis, do you think?”

  “I don’t know, but everyone is treating me like the enemy, not someone just doing her job,” Cassy said. She looked away for a moment then turned back. “I want to trust Julia, but I’m not sure.”

  “Okay, I guess I’m your man,” Donni said.

  Cassy stepped over and hugged him, and as they were embracing, she slipped the correct flash drive in the back pocket of his floppy linen plants. Taped to the back of it was the password. “My hero,” she whispered.

  “Reluctant hero.”

  “Showtime,” Cassy said.

  They parted, and Cassy erased all traces of the fake anti-virus program from her machine. The two of them then went over to Masters’s desk.

  He turned and looked up. “Gotta go,” he said and put down the phone.

  “We’re going to lunch,” Cassy told him.

  “Have you finished copying your program that’s going to save the firm?”

  Cassy held up the fake drive, and Masters reached for it.

  “I’ll drop it off at Julia’s office on my way out. I need to explain a few things to her.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  Masters’s eyes narrowed. “I’m your goddamn boss.”

  “And Ms. O’Connell is yours,” Cassy said. “Now, do you want to argue about it, or can we get out of here?”