by Davis Bunn
© 2016 by Davis Bunn
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938452
ISBN 978-1-4412-3051-5
Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Gearbox
Praise for The Domino Effect
“This novel of high finance is genuinely compelling and comes with a real warning about real markets. The dominoes may well fall in quick procession.”
Ted R. Malloch, Senior Fellow, Said Business School, University of Oxford
“[A] fascinating, fast-paced story . . . The consequences Bunn outlines really could be taking place in our world. The Domino Effect is both frightening and sobering. . . . As my heart rate slowed I asked myself, ‘Is this just a great story or a timely prophetic warning?’”
Janette Oke, Bestselling author
“This book is a must-read for anyone who thinks the global financial crisis is over or feels that ‘just one person’ can’t make a difference.”
Rev. Dr. Kenneth J. Barnes, Director, Mocker Center for Faith and Ethics in the Workplace, Former CEO, EcoForce LLC
“A stunning achievement. The Domino Effect is a compulsive read, and far more besides. This is a riveting presentation of a very real threat to America’s economic future. I cannot recommend this book too highly.”
Mark Siljander, Former United States Congressman
“Davis Bunn applies his deft hand to The Domino Effect with the grace and mastery his fans have come to expect. But this tale goes a step further, drawing upon Bunn’s wealth of experience in international finance. . . . Here it’s evident he still knows his stuff. This is a must-not-miss.”
Jerry B. Jenkins, New York Times bestselling author
This book is dedicated
To three remarkable gentlemen
Who introduced me
To the art and discipline
Of honorable politics.
James B. Hunt
E. Lawrence Davis
James R. Hinkle*
———
Esse Quam Vedere**
* In Memoriam
**To Be Rather Than To Seem
(North Carolina State Motto)
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for The Domino Effect
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
Afterword
About the Author
Books by Davis Bunn
Back Ads
Back Cover
“Recent market swings are a sign that something is awry with the capital markets. . . . A fast market is not necessarily a fair market, and . . . will cause the public to lose confidence in the markets.”
Richard Grasso, Former CEO, New York Stock Exchange, September 11, 2015
“In recent years the world’s top twenty banks have paid fines totaling 235 billion dollars for bad behavior.”
Donald MacDonald, Chairman, Institutional Investors Group, October 2015
“Major banks operate in a privileged heads-I-win-tails-you-lose bubble. There is widespread rigging of benchmarks for personal gain.”
Mark Carney, Governor, Bank of England, Chairman, UK, Monetary Policy Committee, October 2015
1
THURSDAY
Esther Larsen hurried along the corridor, racing the clock.
She arrived at the boardroom five minutes late. Jason Bremmer paced the corridor outside the conference room. Esther’s boss hated to be kept waiting. But she had only learned about this meeting when the bank’s CEO had personally phoned her. Esther’s boss hated that most of all.
Jason stood with his back to the conference room and put serious heat into saying, “Not one word. Not one breath out of line.”
Esther did not respond.
She followed her boss into the room. The bank’s chairman, Reynolds Thane, stood facing the plate-glass wall and the Charlotte skyline. Esther knew he had been studying the room’s reflection, waiting for her to show up. “Everyone here now? Excellent. We’ve called this meeting because the investment banking group has requested an additional temporary allocation of two billion dollars.”
“So the bank can earn another hundred million,” Jason replied. “In two days. Possibly more money in less time.”
Reynolds took many of his meetings like this, dressed in a striped shirt with a white collar and the pants to a Savile Row suit, suspenders from the St. Andrews golf course gift shop, gold cuff links and tiepin. Standing with his back to the room, fascinated with the city he dominated. “You claim to have identified a sure-fire investment.”
“Not claim, Reynolds. We’ve done it. This is solid gold.”
“Your floor already controls eight percent of the bank’s total assets. And now you want more.”
“We’ve made money year on year,” Jason replied. “We will again this year. If you give us the green light here.”
“Your division is down for the past two quarters.”
“Just on paper, and only because we hedged on longer-term gains. Which means we can’t pull out of these positions without posting unnecessary losses. But this new investment will put us in the black for the quarter and the year.”
Esther stared at the polished surface between her hands. She did not need to look up. She had sat through enough of these meetings to know exactly how things stood. Jason had come with four of his traders. They were all eager, smart, polished, and vicious. Just like their boss. They would say whatever Jason to
ld them to say. This blind willingness to do whatever it took was how they had arrived at this point. Making the big bucks. Sitting with the power players. Looking at how much higher they might climb. If they made the cut. If they bet right with the bank’s money. There was no reason to dwell on the downside, no profit.
That was the job of Esther and her analysts.
Reynolds asked, “What if I told you the bank could only allocate half a billion?”
“The deal won’t work. I can give you the figures if you want. But the trade requires the full two billion outlay.”
Jason did not actually lie. But in the nineteen months she had worked for him, Esther had learned that Jason took pride in manipulating the truth to his own ends. She felt her muscles lock with the effort it required not to speak.
Reynolds asked, “What if the bank requires time to draw together these funds?”
“The memo I sent you this morning was marked urgent for a reason,” Jason said. “The door opens, the door closes. If we’re going to act, it has to be now.”
Esther had a distinct impression of observing the conference room from a vast distance. Jason was in control here. Forget the titles on the doors. Everyone else was frozen into position. Including Esther. They played the game according to his rules.
“Walk me through it one more time,” Reynolds said.
Jason was one of the best at pitching deals Esther had ever heard, and she had heard some of the finest. It would be so easy to believe in what he was selling.
When Jason was done, the room held to a singular tension. Jason’s crew tensed with genuine fear, knowing just how dangerous their boss could be, how their careers were all on the line. Each and every day.
Reynolds asked, “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t approve this deal?”
Esther knew without looking up that Jason’s attention was trained on her now. Taking aim.
Reynolds asked, “Is there any potential downside lurking in the shadows?”
Two hours ago, Esther had been called into Jason’s office. Her report on this deal had been there on his desk. Jason had planted one fist on the pages and told her that she was never to mention this to anyone. Ever. He did not threaten because he did not need to. Esther knew Jason had only one way of dealing with staff who did not fall into line. He chopped them off at the knees.
Reynolds, of course, did not care about Jason’s hostility. Esther suspected the bank’s CEO actually approved of his senior trader being a vengeful tyrant. Reynolds Thane was interested in one thing, and one thing only: making more money this quarter than last.
The bank president rocked up on his toes once, twice, and said, “Do it.”
Jason could not have risen faster if his seat had been spring-loaded. “You’ll have the documents ready for your signature in an hour.”
Esther rose with the others. As she filed from the room, she risked one glance back, hoping the CEO might ask her to remain. But Reynolds stayed as he was, smiling at the skyline and his own reflection.
Jason did not speak until the elevator doors slid shut. Then he looked at Esther with all the menace she knew he carried. “Good work, Larsen.”
Esther nodded in response. She felt dwarfed by the five men in the elevator, despite her five-foot-eight height and gymnast’s physique. She wore her dark hair swept back and held in a plain gold clasp. Today’s dress matched the mood, somber and gray. She shifted slightly from one foot to the other, observing her reflection. In the bronze elevator doors, her mask shattered and reknit, over and over.
She walked down the carpeted corridor, across the skyway, and halted by the entrance to her department. Esther leaned her forehead on the door and wished she could find enough air to take one easy breath.
2
Esther met that evening with a group she’d known for several years. Once every month the friends came together for dinner and a relaxed gathering in various homes. There was no agenda. The individual or family who hosted also offered some theme or thought or whatever. The discussion flowed from there. It lasted an hour, two, occasionally until after midnight. These informal gatherings were as close to intimacy as Esther came.
Tonight they met in the home of a neurologist, Donald Saunders. Esther loved their sprawling home, its walls of exposed brick and the freestanding chimney forming a natural barrier between the kitchen and dining areas. The open spaces suggested a home without boundaries. A life completely alien to the way Esther lived.
Most were gathered in the living room, talking in the easy manner of old friends. Esther helped Patricia, Donald’s wife, unpack the bowls and platters brought by the guests. Each time someone offered to help, Patricia shooed them away. Esther carried a tray of sliced beef tenderloin out to the dining table, and when she returned, Patricia said, “I keep hoping one of these evenings you would open up.”
“I’m really not comfortable talking about myself,” Esther replied.
“Don’t I know it.” Patricia Saunders was a heavyset woman with an easygoing manner. “You are about the most tightly wound woman I’ve ever met. Do you ever allow yourself to just relax?”
Esther did not know what to say.
“And another thing. I’ve noticed the way you watch all of us. Like you’re taking mental notes. Analyzing. I bet you know more about me than anyone else here, outside my own family.”
“Patricia Saunders, born Richards, October 1972. Dartmouth BA with honors in art history. You met your husband your senior year and opted not to continue for a master’s, though you’d already been accepted to Duke’s graduate school. You wanted nothing more than to marry Donald and raise a family.” Esther concentrated on spooning hummus from a plastic deli container into a ceramic bowl. She knew Patricia was frozen in place, watching her. Esther had no idea why she was talking like this. Probably because she had to release the growing pressure somehow. “For years you and your husband took in foster children, often special-needs. But the last one turned out to be a very difficult experience, especially for your youngest daughter who had just turned fifteen. Lacy is now a junior at UNC, in premed. You miss her terribly.”
“You researched us?”
“No, Patricia, I listen. That’s what analysis is all about. A good investigator often pulls together things that are hidden in plain sight.”
“So . . . you’re a private investigator?”
“I suppose, in a way.”
“But I thought you worked for a bank.”
Esther turned around. “I do. I’m the senior risk analyst in the investment banking division.”
Patricia Saunders was not so much large as solid. She coached children’s soccer, which helped to keep her weight down. But the years and the birthing of four children had added an unyielding thickness to her frame. Patricia picked up the salad without taking her eyes off Esther. “This is the most I’ve ever heard you speak in . . . how long have you been part of our group?”
“Two years and three months.”
Her husband called from the living room, “Patricia, the natives are getting restless.”
“Coming.” Patricia asked Esther, “When dinner is over, will you tell us something about yourself?”
Esther felt a decisive shudder run through her. “If you want.”
But Esther’s courage vanished long before dinner was over. Esther ate very little and managed to slip away while the others shifted from the table to the living room. She was out the door and down the curved front walk before anyone noticed.
As she drove away, Esther glanced back and saw Patricia’s silhouette in the doorway. The home looked inviting, and Patricia somehow emanated a genuine disappointment. Yet Esther knew it was for the best. There was nothing to be gained from sharing her burdens. They couldn’t help her. After it was over, she would be right where she was now, driving back to her silent home. Only they would have been burdened now as well. No, it was far better to keep her fears down deep. Where they belonged.
3
FRIDAY
&n
bsp; As with most senior analysts and traders, Esther’s home office was linked to the bank’s system. She left the four monitors on twenty-four-seven. She was in the habit of crossing in and out of the office as she prepared for bed. Whenever she could not sleep, like now, she climbed out of bed and went over to stand in front of the monitors. The images told a story, changing with every day, every hour, sometimes every few heartbeats.
Toward dawn, Esther watched the European exchanges race through another turbulent trading day. The Middle East crisis continued to trouble the global markets. She gave up on trying to sleep and made herself a pot of coffee.
She slipped into workout clothes and packed her business outfit in a large tote her assistant referred to as the mother ship. Back when times were easy and her life seemed on track, Esther had bought a house in the Dilworth section of Charlotte. The neighborhood formed a green boundary to the high-rise downtown area, its stately homes set on oversized lots. She had spent happy weekends with her brother and a pair of semi-retired carpenters, turning the old house into a haven for the family she hoped one day to have. Eight years on, Esther’s plans had come no closer to reality. As she backed her car down the tree-lined drive, she reflected on the fact that she had never been more successful . . . or felt more alone.
The predawn hour was Esther’s favorite time to work out. The bustling city was calm, and many of her problems were asleep. She loved entering the gym and being surrounded by others who were equally determined to get a head start on the world. She knew many of them by name but felt no need for small talk. No one was here to socialize, unlike the after-work crowd. Esther had developed a routine all her own, starting with a long stretch and then light free-weights to keep her upper body toned. This was followed by the stationary bike or an elliptical machine, always with reading material positioned in the handy tray by the controls. Today Esther scanned a series of WSJ articles on her tablet, then finished with another stretch.
She ignored her reflection in the surrounding floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She had never been defined by how she looked. She had a fairly extensive wardrobe and bought a new business outfit once every quarter. She tended to go for designers she trusted, since how she looked was part of her persona.
