The Loyal Nine

by Steven Konkoly

  “Just one moment, Mr. Quinn,” she said, never taking her eyes off him again.

  Pushing a button on her desk, she spoke softly into a wireless microphone attached to her jacket collar. “Mr. Quinn is here to see you, sir.”

  The male escorts stepped back to flank the elevator while one of the women circled the desk. She pointed to an intricately carved set of mahogany doors at the end of the reception hallway. This is new. He took in the details of the woodwork. Sheep and sheepdog on a hillside. Donald searched for the meaning, knowing these functional works of art had been purposely commissioned. The security guard opened the right door before he could form a theory.

  “This way, please,” she instructed, leading him past a wide bank of windows.

  Of the many incredible views of Boston from the city’s high-rise buildings, none matched the view west across Boston Common from the top floor of 73 Tremont. From the thirteenth floor’s unique vantage point, one could also observe the Charles River, Commonwealth Avenue and the Massachusetts State House on Beacon Hill. The State House was particularly spectacular in the late afternoon, with the setting sun reflecting off the State House’s twenty-three-karat gilded gold-leaf dome. The dull winter scene blazed to life, drawing the viewer’s attention away from the bare trees and naked sidewalks directly below.

  Opening another mahogany door, she motioned for him to enter his host’s office—the inner sanctum. With slight trepidation, Donald stepped into a world out of reach for most. Measuring more than forty feet wide, the office was bigger than most Americans’ homes. Gas fireplaces flanked both ends, rising through the two-story ceiling. The furnishings consisted of oriental carpets, dark chestnut furniture and overstuffed chairs, more resembling a gentlemen’s lounge than an office. On the broad leather inlay desk centered in the middle of the room, two crystal glasses sat beside an opened bottle of Perrier.

  Donald stood silently, waiting for the man standing in front of a set of velvet-clad French doors to acknowledge him. Appearing deep in thought, his benefactor finally spoke.

  “Hello, Mr. Quinn, thank you for coming,” he said, in the New England accent associated with people of aristocracy.

  “Yes, sir, it is a pleasure to see you again,” said Donald. Not that I had a choice.

  He didn’t expect the pleasantries to last for too long. The meeting had been hastily arranged. Something was brewing.

  “I trust you have everything you need for your various projects,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, and I hope my reports are satisfactory,” said Donald.

  Donald always remembered to choose his words deliberately and concisely.

  “Of course. Mr. Quinn, you will need to take care of something for me—immediately following the close of the markets today,” he said. “There are a number of transactions to be made, and you must use the highest levels of discretion.”

  I knew it; this couldn’t be trusted to a phone call. Donald retrieved a small Louis Vuitton notebook from his suit jacket pocket.

  “Immediately following this meeting, you are to execute the following transactions,” said Donald’s benefactor.

  Listening intently, Donald took meticulous notes. The instructions represented the largest series of transactions he had executed to date. Donald had established a complex network of international brokerage accounts, which enabled him to effect secretive transactions—but never anything of this magnitude. He knows something. Donald jotted down country names in the left margin—Cook Islands, Dominica, St. Kitts, Turks and Caicos Islands.

  The intricacy of the trades was significant, but not nearly as noteworthy as the sums of money involved—over one billion dollars. This would take days.

  “Mr. Quinn, this must be completed before the opening of the Asian markets,” he said, jarring Donald’s attention from the notebook.

  “Sir, I believe it is roughly five in the morning in Tokyo. Their markets open in about four hours. The New Zealand and Australian markets open an hour sooner, in roughly three hours,” said Donald.

  “Mr. Quinn,” he said sternly, “you are prepared for this, are you not?”

  Donald felt flush, taking a moment to respond carefully.

  “Yes, sir, I have the systems and procedures in place. It’s the scale of the transactions that concerns me,” said Donald. “Currency trades of this magnitude will have repercussions throughout the global financial system. Although I have total confidence in the structure I have established for you, there is also the possibility of enhanced scrutiny from the Commodity Futures Trading Commission. Taking a six-hundred-million-dollar short position in the euro, coupled with a six-hundred-million-dollar long position in the dollar, will wreak havocs in the equities markets as well.” And I’d rather not return to jail, regardless of how comfortable you can make my stay.

  His concerns rose above the scrutiny of the CFTC. The FOREX market was the largest foreign exchange market in the world, with currency changing hands continuously—but the size of these trades would rival the currency manipulations of George Soros. The potential upside was beyond contemplation—more than a billion dollars.

  “Mr. Quinn, I have thought through this request thoroughly, and I am fully aware of the potential for international examination. Nevertheless, you will move forward. In addition, you are to short sell all of my positions in the following equities,” he said, listing nearly a dozen U.S. and European companies. He said all. Donald quickly did the math—another four hundred million.

  “Yes, sir,” was all Donald could muster.

  “I will have you escorted to an office, where you can execute my directives. A secure line is available, and you will have the complete assistance of a member of my staff if needed. Do you have any questions, Mr. Quinn?”

  Yeah, what the hell do you know that nobody else does?

  “No, sir,” replied Donald.

  Donald rose to leave. He took one more glance at his surroundings. So this is how you pay for this stuff?

  As if reading Donald’s thoughts, his benefactor added, “I hope your wife and children are doing well.”

  Oh yes, very well, thanks to you, sir.

  “They are, sir. I thank you for the very generous gift on the birth of our daughter. She will benefit from a Harvard education,” said Donald.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Quinn. There is no substitute,” he said, turning his attention to the view of Boston Common.

  That was it. He was dismissed. Donald let himself out without another word and was escorted by a young man to a conference room on the other side of the thirteenth floor. The room was well appointed, featuring a full bar and six wall-mounted televisions.

  “May I offer you anything to drink?” said the young man.

  Donald smiled and nodded. With the delivery of the Evian, the young man closed the door and left him alone. He took a quick inventory of the tools at his disposal. Telephones. Old school, but no doubt filtered by the securest encryption technology available. He pulled a chair in front of the phones and thought about Susan and the girls for a moment. They were extremely happy together as a family. Did their happiness come with a heavy price tag? Currency trading was practiced every day, right? Not $1.2 billion at once, followed by another $400 million in stock manipulations. What did it matter? Forget the dollar amounts, make the trades and go home to your family.

  He pulled off his jacket and flung it into an empty chair. Unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves, Donald executed the first in a series of steps that would make front-page news tomorrow morning.

  Chapter 6

  December 15, 2015

  Newbury Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  After turning right on Clarendon Street, Sarge crossed Commonwealth Avenue and started looking for a parking space. He considered parking at home and walking—Newbury Street would no doubt bustle with Christmas shoppers. He passed the First Baptist Church and admired its architecture. The congregation’s history dated back to the mid-1600s and was commonly consider
ed one of the oldest Baptist Churches in America. The current church, built in the late 1800s, was on the National Register of Historic Places. The Sargent families had been prominent members of this church since the Boston Baptists congregated in the North End. His grandfather, former Governor Francis Sargent—of “Put Sarge in Charge” fame—attended services regularly. The current-day “Sarge in Charge” had not attended since he was a boy.

  Easing his Mercedes SUV onto Newbury Street reminded him of the maze of one-way streets created in Back Bay. Tourists must think the street layout was designed as a sadistic game to keep them out. Clearly, the city’s nineteenth-century planners didn’t anticipate the population boom. The Newbury Street shopping district had an interesting history. Until the mid-nineteenth century, this area of Boston was under water—part of the Boston Harbor.

  A massive public works project was undertaken in 1857 to remove dirt fill from neighboring communities and their once substantially higher hilltops. Boston Harbor was slowly landfilled to create the affluent Back Bay section of the city. Completed in 1882, a majority of the original European-designed buildings were still standing today. By 1900, the prestige and exclusivity of Back Bay surpassed the renowned Beacon Hill. Today, Newbury Street was commonly known as the “Rodeo Drive of the East” and was home to a unique mix of shops, high-end fashion stores and stylish restaurants.

  Sarge, like most men, was not a shopper. He was a buyer. He ventured onto Newbury Street with a singular mission—buy a Christmas gift for a Harvard colleague who loved Tommy Bahama products. Sarge noticed the sidewalks were not bustling with happy shoppers. In fact, the bulk of the inhabitants were not carrying any packages. Is December 15th too early for Christmas shopping?

  Sarge spotted a parking space in front of Steve Madden shoes. He wondered if the customers of Steve Madden would care that Madden was a former bunkmate of my friend Donald Quinn at Fort Devens. Probably not, he surmised. What’s a little income tax evasion among friends, right? He maneuvered the G63 into the space, hitting the pavement with a mission as he strode towards Tommy Bahama. Hello, ladies, he thought as a group of female boutique shoppers marched up the sidewalk toward him. Give them plenty of room; you’re on their turf now. They looked expensive in a “how much would it cost to keep them satisfied” sort of way. Plenty of casual smiles were exchanged except for the one toting the most bags. I need to introduce her to my brother.

  His smartphone buzzed, stopping him long enough to avoid a speeding SUV in the Dartmouth Street crosswalk. Looking at the display, he grimaced.

  “Well, if it isn’t Julia of the Jungle,” answered Sarge.

  “Fuck you, Sarge!” was the caller’s retort.

  “You don’t scare me, lady,” he replied.

  “Well, you should be scared. Is your phone broken? Did you not pay the bill? Lose my number, perhaps?” interrogated the caller. He was doomed.

  “No, no, no and no. I’ve been winding up the semester,” replied Sarge, knowing the lame-ass excuse would not be a sufficient justification for his lack of a call.

  He really didn’t know why he hadn’t called her.

  “Fine. I’m hungry and you should feed me proper. What’s your status?” she asked.

  “Lucky for you, I’m down by Tommy Bahama’s on Newbury Street, picking up a Christmas present. When can you meet me at Stephanie’s?” asked Sarge.

  “Are you buying something for your sailor-boy brother?” she asked as her innate seventh sense of shopping kicked in.

  “No, are you kidding? He’d tie me to a line and drop anchor if I bought him something from there. Besides, he’s working this month. This is for a Harvard buddy. So, are you on your way yet?” asked Sarge, trying to deflect attention from the previous interrogatory.

  “Yes, sir,” she stretched out her response. “Private Julia Hawthorne will report to Stephanie’s at eighteen hundred hours!”

  “Well done, Private—first class, out!” added Sarge with emphasis.

  This worked out well, thought Sarge. He had been meaning to call Julia and, in fact, missed her company. Sarge—the buyer—hopped up the stairs through the cast-iron rails with a new sense of purpose—besides the acquisition of a Tommy Bahama XXL Jungle Jingle camp shirt.

  Chapter 7

  December 15, 2015

  Newbury Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Stepping out of Tommy Bahama’s, Sarge caught a last glimpse of the setting sun, watching as the gas lanterns took over the responsibility of illuminating Newbury Street. Ambling down the wide sidewalk, under a canopy of leafless trees, he safely stored Jungle Jingle and its signature marlin-emblazoned Tommy Bahama bag into the car.

  Briskly walking to Stephanie’s, his thoughts returned to Julia. Their relationship was complicated. Convoluted may be more descriptive. The two were close—in a “friends with benefits” sort of way—yet there had never been the slightest hint of taking it to the level of dating, much less marriage. In a sense, their side work cast a cloud of doubt over the possibility of a long-term relationship. The Quinns do it, Julia had whispered into his ear on more than one intimate occasion. That was true, but their roles were different, insulating their family from certain risks.

  It pained Sarge to keep her at a distance. Julia was an incredible woman. She’d attended the prestigious Boston University School of Journalism, which would have made their ancestors proud. The families of George Peabody and Nathaniel Hawthorne shared an ancestral background dating back to the Founding Fathers—a particular badge of honor in Boston. They also shared a sense that their destinies were predetermined. This unease didn’t prevent them from being intimate or working together, but it did give them reason to hold back from a more permanent union.

  Approaching Stephanie’s, he saw Julia’s town car pulled up to the valet stand in front of the restaurant. Not waiting for the driver, Julia emerged from the car—one long leg after another. Julia was incredibly beautiful and impeccably appointed. Christian Louboutin shoes, Hermes Birkin JPG bag designed by Jean Paul Gaultier, Stella McCartney trench coat, and a variety of glistening baubles. She drew the instant attention of men and women alike wherever she appeared.

  “Yo, Adrian,” bellowed Sarge, in his best Rocky Balboa voice.

  “You are so full of it, Rocky, or Bullwinkle, whichever you choose,” said Julia laughingly, presenting her cheek to Sarge for a proper kiss.

  Sarge observed the driver, who seemed to enjoy the playful banter between the couple, smiling at them as he dutifully shut the back door. Maybe they should give it—the couple thing—a try.

  “C’mon, I’m powerful hungry,” said Sarge, befitting Stephanie’s reputation for offering sophisticated comfort food.

  During milder weather, the wrought-iron enclosed outdoor dining café was packed with locals and tourists alike. Located at the corner of Exeter and Newbury, Stephanie’s outdoor dining provided an idyllic setting to watch the hustle and bustle of the world go by. Once inside, you were surrounded by dark walnut, a fireplace in the bar, soft golden lighting and casual conversation over what Chef Stephanie Sidell called “love food.”

  “I have big news,” started Julia as they waited to be seated. “We earned a Marconi.”

  The Boston Herald was one of the oldest daily newspapers in the United States. Founded in 1846, it had been the proud recipient of eight Pulitzer Prizes. Julia’s rise at the Herald was meteoric. Following her graduation from Boston University, she was immediately assigned to cover Senator John Kerry’s 2004 campaign. Through some remarkable investigative reporting, she uncovered voting irregularities in Florida and Ohio, which stemmed from dual state registrations. Julia earned a Payne Award for ethics in journalism.

  Later, Julia was named the first political editor in the paper’s history, consistently delivering a libertarian viewpoint. The journalist community panned the move as risky, warning the shift would reduce the Herald to “tabloid status.” Their analysis couldn’t have been further off the mark. The Herald wa
s rewarded with a tremendous surge in its circulation. By 2012, its circulation increased at a time when most print media outlets had declined. Even the “Old Gray Lady,” the New York Times, had reduced its staff. Once again, the Herald was rewarded for its efforts by being named one of the “10 Newspapers That ‘Do It Right’” by the newspaper industry magazine—Editor & Publisher.

  Unfortunately, Julia’s stewardship of the Herald’s editorial content was not given the proper credit by her counterparts, since the Herald often contradicted the mainstream media’s left-leaning bias. Scorned by the establishment, she dug deeper into the numbers, motivated to prove them wrong. When the marketing department reported a surge in online readership of the Herald’s political content, she found what she needed. In 2013, Julia launched the Boston Herald Radio network, which broadcast locally on the AM band, but more importantly reached an audience of millions worldwide via their website. The overnight success of the venture sent the media pundits scurrying. Eighteen months later, Julia was ready to share more big news about her career.

  “Sargent, party of two?” asked the perky hostess.

  Sarge smiled and nodded affirmative.

  “Right this way,” she added.

  The wait staff at Stephanie’s was crisply attired with starched white button-down shirts, burgundy ties and waist-high aprons. Sarge always admired a well-run restaurant operation, especially one with well-trained staff. A restauranteur may have found the best location, perfectly designed, with a fabulous chef, but if a guest was not greeted by a smiling face and the proper level of attentiveness, the restaurant was doomed to failure. Sarge and Julia were seated at a cozy table next to the window.