The Domino Effect

by Davis Bunn

  And now, out of the blue, CFM had opted to do exactly as she had proposed? After pulling down over two hundred million in profits in just two trades?

  Please.

  She sat there watching the markets as dawn strengthened beyond her window. She knew she had no choice but to keep moving forward.

  If only she were not so afraid.

  Later that morning, Esther visited with her brother, then drove to meet the girls. They opened their front door just as Esther pulled into the drive. The two girls climbed into the backseat. Esther had the impression they both dreaded questions for which they did not have answers.

  Esther turned far enough around to face them and said, “I just want you to know, I wouldn’t be able to go back there today without you. Yesterday was very hard on me. Having you two there meant the world.”

  Neither girl replied. Esther put the car into drive, and Samantha unwound the earbuds. Abigail sat and stared at nothing. Esther had no problem with the quiet, especially since she still felt a little dazed from lack of sleep.

  Then Samantha surprised her by pulling out the buds and asking, “So, you and your brother, you didn’t get along?”

  “No, we’re extremely close. We fought quite a bit after our parents died, but that was because I was angry with the world. Nathan was my rock. He kept me sane.”

  “Where did you go? I mean, after your parents . . .”

  “We went to live with my grandparents. Nathan soon went off to college.”

  The girls must have caught something in her voice, because Abigail asked, “They didn’t want you there?”

  “They never said so. Well, not in words. But, no, I don’t think . . .” Esther sighed. “You want the truth?”

  The girls did not speak. Their gazes were intent.

  “I think they saw me and my brother as daily reminders of the daughter they lost. It emphasized how silent their lives were without her, how empty of joy and happiness and everything my mother was.” Now it was Esther’s turn to stare through the windshield. “They shut me out.”

  Abigail said, “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  “Is that what is happening in your home?”

  Samantha snapped, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I understand,” Esther said. “All too well.”

  Samantha’s face grew tighter still, her mouth a tiny pucker in the center, caught in a vise of emotions she was determined not to reveal. “Aren’t you going to tell us how it’s all in our minds? That they love us and are doing their best by us?”

  Esther forced herself to ignore the comment and Abigail’s tears, though it cost her. “Can I change the subject?” She took their silence as assent and went on, “I like you both. A lot. And I want you to know I understand. I really, really understand. If you want to talk, fine. If you want to just hole up and use my house as a safe place, that’s fine too. I’ll make you keys, you can come and go as you like. Because we all need a haven sometimes from life’s unfairness.”

  Of all the responses she might have gotten, the expressions on their faces were the finest part of the day. Esther said, “Let’s go kill some ghosts.”

  Esther and Abigail sorted through boxes and bundles that had not been touched in years. They had cloths wrapped around their noses and mouths, but still coughed from the grime.

  Samantha’s head poked through the attic access door. “There’s something you need to see.”

  “Abigail can’t come right now,” Esther replied. “Whatever it is will have to wait. I can’t finish this without your sister.”

  “There’s bound to be asbestos in here somewhere,” Abigail commented cheerfully. She had spent the past two hours listing all the ailments they were contracting.

  “Not Abigail,” Samantha said. “I meant you.”

  “Then it definitely has to wait.” The attic now contained two piles. The larger pile was everything Esther intended to have the movers dispose of. She slid over one of the boxes they were going to keep. “Carry that out to my car, please.”

  Samantha protested, “I’m not touching that thing.”

  Abigail put in, “Not to mention ringworm.”

  “You can’t get ringworm from dust mites,” Esther said. She then looked at Samantha. “How about two dollars extra per box?”

  Abigail complained, “She hasn’t done anything all afternoon and you’re paying her extra?”

  Samantha replied, “You haven’t seen what I’ve found.”

  “You both get the same bonus,” Esther told them. “These keeper boxes are leaving with us today. I’m not coming back up here.”

  “You really need to see this,” Samantha said, then disappeared with the box.

  Abigail said, “You can too get ringworm. Charlotte dust spores carry an extra bonus charge.”

  “What’s in that box?”

  “Magazines.” Abigail held up a technical journal. “Work.”

  “Slide it over to the dumpster pile. Please tell me that’s the last one.”

  “We probably won’t know what’s infected us until it starts eating our brains,” Abigail said.

  “Okay, we put everything in my trunk that fits, and the rest of the keeper boxes go in the garage. The big pile can stay here until the movers show up.”

  “I’ll probably go blind before you do,” Abigail said.

  Esther started down the stairs, calling back up, “You are a terrible child. I’m going to tell your father to lock you in a closet and feed you through the keyhole.”

  “I like that idea a lot,” Samantha said, heading back up the stairs for another box.

  “Carnivorous flesh eaters,” Abigail called down. “Charlotte dust spores especially like young brains.”

  It was not until Esther brought the last box down, shut the attic door, and entered the master bath for a quick wash that she realized what Samantha had done with her afternoon.

  All the personal items—soaps and shampoos and pills and brushes and cosmetics—had been boxed up. And the bathroom was spotless. The tile smelled of disinfectant. The tub and sink and mirror were immaculate.

  When Abigail walked up behind her, Esther said, “You can’t come in here.”

  “I need to wash my hands.”

  “Not here.”

  “But I have ringworms in my hair.”

  “Me too.” Esther turned Abigail around. “We’ll find somewhere else to wash up.”

  “What’s the matter with in there?”

  “Your sister cleaned it.”

  “No. Wait. Samantha?”

  “Do you have another sister I don’t know about?”

  “I want to see this.”

  “Don’t touch a thing.”

  “I won’t.” Abigail poked her head inside, took a slow look around. “Wow.”

  They walked downstairs and passed through the living room, which seemed far more crowded with boxes than Esther recalled. Then they entered the kitchen, and Abigail said, “Double wow.”

  Samantha sat at the breakfast table and scowled at the laptop screen, pretending not to notice as they took in the freshly cleaned kitchen. Esther slowly walked around, viewing the empty cabinets and drawers and the black trash bags lined up by the back door like rumpled soldiers.

  Esther turned to Samantha. “Prepare yourself.”

  “What?”

  “I’m about to hug you.”

  “No, you’re not. Eww.”

  “Rubber gloves and all.” She could not have cared less that Samantha pulled away and made a face. “There. All done.”

  Abigail said to her sister, “Now it’s my turn.”

  Samantha said, “Girl, you come within ten feet of me, I will hammer you like a nail.”

  Abigail beamed. “My sister hates that stuff.”

  “From you I do.”

  “Tough patootie,” Esther said. “Abigail, I’ll hold her down, you move in for the kill.”

  “Get away from me, the both of you.”

  “Treat it like a visi
t to the dentist. The more you fight, the longer it lasts. Group hug.” Samantha squirmed and squealed, but there wasn’t much heat to it, and when Esther stepped back, she thought she saw a fraction of a smile. Flickered and gone. But still. Esther said, “Thank you very, very much.”

  Samantha lifted one shoulder an inch. “You want to thank me, take a look at this.”

  Abigail peered over her sister’s shoulder. “That’s just a silly game.”

  “You didn’t think it was so silly when you were playing it until after midnight.” Samantha shifted her finger on the touch pad, then turned the computer so the screen faced Esther. “I meant this.”

  Esther squinted, then realized what she was looking at. “It’s my website.”

  “Well, duh.” Samantha scrolled down to the bottom. “Here. Check this out.”

  Esther stared dumbly at the counter. The numbers kept flipping over. Not the tens. Not the hundreds.

  Thousands of visitors. Coming to her website. While she watched.

  24

  SUNDAY

  Reynolds Thane took the predawn flight from Charlotte-Mecklenburg to Washington-Dulles. His plane was delayed because of fog, and he almost missed his connection to Bermuda. He normally traveled aboard the bank’s Gulfstream. It was the first time Reynolds had flown commercial in three years.

  Hamilton, the capital of Bermuda, was a teacup fantasy sort of city. Hamilton officially contained 1,100 citizens. There were twice that number of financial establishments. But resident bankers were not counted. The locals did not consider bankers on work visas as, well, real people.

  The limo driver was a taciturn islander with the face of a burned prune. Reynolds gave the address of Sir Trevor’s secret bank. The journey into Hamilton was pleasant enough. The city was a throwback to a different era, the brightly whitewashed buildings holding to a charming colonial flavor. Reynolds considered it as fake and uninteresting as Disney World.

  The correct term for their Bermuda project was off-book—no direct tie between the parent bank and the Bermuda operation. Most off-book schemes were paper only. Many international banks used a local attorney to establish a shell company where they parked toxic assets and high-risk ventures that might otherwise raise red flags with the regulatory authorities. It had been a favorite tactic of banks before the 2008 meltdown, and the ploy was now making a comeback.

  What made Sir Trevor’s operation unique was its size. There had not been an off-book venture this large since Enron tanked.

  When the limo halted on Reid Street, Reynolds stepped out and had a look around. Trevor’s bank occupied the top three floors of the Perry Building. The traders had a nice view of the Cabinet Gardens and the sparkling blue waters of Hamilton Harbor.

  He returned to the limo. As they drove along Front Street to the Hamilton Princess Beach Club, Reynolds watched a sailing regatta in the bay. Tourists lined the park-side walk, photographing the brightly colored spinnakers while a string quartet played waltzes under a Victorian pavilion. It was a fitting tribute, Reynolds decided, to the current state of affairs. The idle rich looking on as the band played its final tune.

  Jason was pacing the hotel’s forecourt when Reynolds’s limo pulled up. The bank’s supposedly missing chief trader had sweated through his starched shirt, though the temperature was barely eighty degrees. He now waited impatiently as Reynolds booked the return journey for noon the following day. Jason then led him into the hotel and up to his bay-front suite. The parlor’s French doors stood open to the sea breeze, and a buffet lunch had been laid out on the credenza. “You want anything else?”

  “This will do nicely,” Reynolds replied.

  Jason tipped the bellhop, dismissed the waiter, then demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  Reynolds took his time loading a plate, pouring himself a cup of coffee, selecting the chair with the best view. He took a couple of bites, knowing that Jason was about to explode. Timing, he reflected, was everything. Then he said, “If anyone asks, I have heard you are thinking of making this a permanent shift. I am here to convince you otherwise.”

  Jason settled into a chair. “Works for me.”

  “How is the operation proceeding?”

  “We received the first two billion from Sir Trevor yesterday. It’s already in play. Initial results won’t be known until Monday.”

  “Keep all trades on a maximum twenty-four-hour window.”

  Jason frowned. “That limits our options.”

  “Even so, we want all the money put out on a very short leash.” Which described precisely the best way to handle this man.

  Jason shrugged. He would obey because he had no choice. “Was that why you came?”

  “Of course not. We could have handled that via the scrambler.” Reynolds pushed his plate aside. “We need to talk about Esther Larsen.”

  That caught Jason by surprise. “What about her?”

  “So, you haven’t seen her website.” Reynolds pulled a tablet computer from his briefcase, drew up the site, then turned the tablet around so Jason could see it.

  Jason squinted at the screen. “The Book of Esther? What kind of joke is this?”

  “I thought the exact same thing when the chairman of Bradenton Industries brought it to my attention.”

  Jason lifted his gaze. Bradenton was a six-billion-dollar behemoth that owned eight percent of CFM. “What did he tell you?”

  “That the site had gone viral.” Reynolds tapped the right side of the screen. “Have a look at her list of sponsors.”

  Jason wanted to dismiss it out of hand. Which had been precisely Reynolds’s first reaction. But the longer he scrolled down the list, the more confused Jason became. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Three days. Less.”

  “That’s impossible—”

  “But real nonetheless.” Reynolds stood and addressed the brilliant day beyond the window. “The site contains three components. First there is the layman’s introduction to what Esther claims are dangerous tactics being taken by certain banks. Banks she goes on to name. Sixteen in the US, forty-seven more around the world.”

  “Are we on that list?”

  “Unfortunately not. Otherwise we would already have brought her up on charges.”

  “The other components?”

  “Apparently Esther has developed a series of algorithms for measuring global economic risk.” Reynolds lifted a hand, halting Jason’s question before it was formed. “These have nothing to do with our own trademarked calculations. Sir Trevor had his analysts work around the clock. They say her structure is, well, astonishing is the word they used. Unique.”

  “She’s spent the past year or so harping about how the national economies are too interlinked to be isolated,” Jason conceded.

  Reynolds nodded. “I saw the reports.”

  “And the third component?”

  “She has a list of six steps people should make. She urges everyone to withdraw their business from what she refers to as the ‘tainted institutions.’”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Reynolds watched Jason shove the tablet away and lean back in his chair. Dismissing the news, which was what Reynolds desperately hoped they would be able to do. “Her website has received four hundred and sixty thousand unique visitors. The site includes a counter.”

  Jason mulled that over, then shrugged. “She could be padding the numbers. Even if she isn’t, what difference does it make?”

  Reynolds took a long breath of the salt-laden air, made a mental note to book a tee time with one of the island’s finer courses. He walked back to the table. “Did you sweep this room for bugs?”

  “Of course. But . . . Esther Larsen has you that worried?”

  Reynolds was tempted to go against Sir Trevor’s edict and tell Jason the truth. That Esther’s predictions were too close to the crux of their real strategy. Sooner or later, Jason was bound to realize what their true motives were. He was, after all, a trader. Jason thrived
on ferreting out the unseen. But Sir Trevor had been adamant.

  Reluctantly, Reynolds held to the party line. “Do you recall the board meeting last week when you requested the additional two billion?”

  “Of course. I don’t see what—”

  “I did not invite Esther to join us because I wanted her input.” Reynolds liked Jason’s look of uncertainty. Keeping him off-balance was crucial to their plans. “I did so because I needed to know whether she could be controlled.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Put simply, I needed to know whether Esther could be forced to stay silent. We can’t have our in-house risk manager blowing the horn about our endeavors.”

  “You think she knows?”

  “She is bound to suspect. We need to be certain she never utters a word.” Reynolds pointed to his tablet, still showing Esther’s home page. “Four hundred and sixty thousand visitors in three days. A list of sponsors that already contains six Fortune Fifty companies. What if they do as she says? What if this continues to grow? They could strangle us. And even if it doesn’t, this is absolutely the wrong kind of attention.”

  “I should have been monitoring her more closely.” Jason slowly shook his head. “When I get back I will personally destroy—”

  “You will do nothing.” Reynolds waited until Jason met his gaze, then added, “Unless I give you the word.”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “I want you to develop a strategy for ending this threat. An accident would be best. Keep everything at arm’s length.” Reynolds kept his voice calm. “Multiple layers of protection between you and . . . whatever you think might be necessary.”

  “You want me . . .”

  “Don’t make any moves until I say to,” Reynolds repeated. “But if I ask you to reconsider your options, then you have the green light.”

  25

  Esther’s Sunday morning began with a series of remarkable events. First, she slept late and woke up so foggy it took her a long moment to bring the clock’s numbers into focus.