Drummer In the Dark

by T. Davis Bunn

  Wynn was already up and moving. “So now we can trust him?”

  “No, we’re just running out of options.”

  The day had warmed into a welcome embrace. The taxi dropped them off in front of the Federal Reserve Bank, an imposing structure off Constitution Avenue in Foggy Bottom. Carter gave their names to the uniformed guard, pulled him over to a quiet corner, and said, “The global banking system is a mess. And the situation is growing worse, not better. Central banks are becoming pawns of the hedge fund and investment banking communities. Our own country’s regulation of the national financial institutions has not been this lax since the late 1920s. Back then, the flashpoint was every bank’s ability to print their own money. Today we’re back in a similar situation, only the paper isn’t called money any more. It’s called derivative certificates and currency options. But the effect is the same. Once again banks have found a way to extend risk beyond what is prudent.”

  The marble-lined lobby was segmented by pillars and stairs and mock balconies. Clustered beneath the three-story ceiling were other dark-suited knots of serious faces and important murmurs. Everybody carried a briefcase, everyone expected to be noticed. A young man wearing the plastic badges of entry around his neck approached the guard, who pointed in their direction. Wynn demanded, “What do you want me to do here?”

  “Just pretend like you’re talking straight into Hayek’s ear.”

  The staffer said, “Congressman Bryant?”

  “Just a minute.” He turned his back to the young man. “Go on.”

  “These guys always travel in packs, it’s their way of sharing any possible blame. The one we’re interested in probably won’t say a word. His name is Gerald Bowers, and he makes me look pretty. Say whatever you think might make Hayek the most nervous. You know our situation. If this guy’s on our side we need to find out now.”

  “CONGRESSMAN, WE ARE indeed grateful that you would take the time to bring these matters to our attention.” The spokesman was handsome in the way of manicured pandering. Another was rail-thin and heavily jowled. The third man was short and bald and had the complexion of a wizened toad. Other than that, they were identical. All three were in their sixties, all spoke with the nasal twang of inbred Ivy League snobs, all eyed Wynn with polite condescension. “We also regret very much the recent demise of your sister at the hands of Islamic terrorists.”

  “They weren’t terrorists.”

  “That’s not what the FBI is stating,” interjected the slender man.

  Carter leaned forward, asked in an over-soft voice, “And just how would you be knowing that?”

  The spokesman harrumphed his way back into control. “As I was saying, we are obliged to take note of your assertions. But I must also tell you that they are utterly without merit.”

  “The fact that First Florida has been acquired by a Liechtenstein bank fronting for the Hayek Group doesn’t concern you?”

  “We are well aware of the Banque Royale’s recent acquisition. And we have made an official request to the Liechtenstein authorities for a full list of shareholders.”

  Carter snorted. “Which you will definitely be receiving. In about fifteen years.”

  The spokesman gave Carter the fish eye before proceeding. “As to these other matters, I am certain even in your bereaved state that you can well understand how unfounded these allegations of yours are.”

  Wynn caught Carter’s signal, rose to his feet, and let a little of his heat show. “Hayek and his group are responsible for the death of my sister. He is a menace.”

  “He is a respected member of the hedge fund community,” interjected the spokesman.

  “Same thing,” Carter said.

  “Have your people ask him about the code name Tsunami,” Wynn said, turning for the door. “And do it fast.”

  WYNN STOOD BEFORE the unlit fireplace in his suite and read off his note cards, “Currency traders are champagne-swilling speculators who treat the world’s financial markets like their own personal casino. These international gamblers produce nothing and help nobody. Their days are filled with maneuvers that endanger the lives and jobs of normal working people.” He stopped. “How’s that?”

  “Be better if you could get the shimmy out of your voice.” Carter sat on the edge of the sofa, briefcase open beside him and notepad on the table in front of him. “But not bad.”

  “I look nervous?”

  “Like a rabbit staring down the barrel of a gun.” Carter glanced at his watch. “We have to go.”

  Wynn reached for his coat. “I still feel like I ought to give them something with more meat to it.”

  “If they want stats, have them talk to me. Every chance you get, hand the press a thirty-second soundbite. Anything more and you give them the power to edit you down.” Carter reached the door, gave Wynn’s suite a final glance. “Kay is going to have something to say about your present abode.”

  Walking along the long hall and twice more in the elevator, Wynn had to stifle the sudden onslaught of panic. The Willard’s brass-framed mirrors reflected a man on the verge of serious meltdown. Carter met his eye just as the doors pulled back but said nothing. Too much was on the line for empty solace.

  They were midway across the lobby when Carter murmured, “Well, just lookee here.”

  The toadlike man from the meeting at the Federal Reserve was making his way toward them. Beside him walked a man in a red-and-blue-checked jacket and navy polyester pants. Despite the seventies golf attire, the second man carried himself with arrogant ease. Behind the pair walked the senior FBI agent who had wrecked Wynn’s Saturday. The squat man with the reptilian complexion said, “Gerald Bowers, Congressman. Far as the world is concerned, this is a no-hard-feelings little confab. Smooth the waters with the freshman in Hutchings’ seat after today’s set-to. Catch my meaning?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Reed Brink, Vice President of the SEC and Chairman of the Arthur Brink Brokerage Company. Out of Saint Louis. A good man to have on your side. Agent Welker you already know.” Bowers planted himself within probing distance. “We’re here to tell you that we know the hedge fund community, Congressman. And as far as we’re concerned, they are the enemy. They’re a cancer that must be destroyed before it wrecks our entire financial establishment.”

  The man barely made it up to the middle of Wynn’s chest, and smelled of hair oil, cigars, and the drink he had just had in the bar. “You guys came all the way over here to teach us the alphabet?”

  “You look like a smart man, Congressman. Word is, you held your own when you went up against Jackson Taylor’s group. That’s good. We need us some fighters down in the front line trenches.”

  “I’m still not clear on one thing. Just exactly why are we having this meeting?”

  “Because once you unleash your firestorm tonight, officially we are going to be standing with the opposition.”

  “I would never have suspected anything else.”

  “Officially, I said. But we’d like to see things otherwise. Even so, we can’t box with shadows. Get us something real and we’ll do our best to help you take them down.”

  “Explain one thing, please. Why is it I’m all of a sudden supposed to trust you?”

  Bowers bristled. “If you were half as sharp as they say, Reed here and the agent are all the bona fides I should need.”

  “Right. A man I don’t know and an agent who spent four hours in my face. Great references, Mr. Bowers.”

  The agent stepped forward. “Tsunami is a name we haven’t had on our radar screens for some time, Congressman. Last time it popped up, the young lady who told us about it got very dead.”

  Carter edged his way into the huddle. “What did she tell you?”

  The agent held his focus on Wynn. “Little more than we have from you so far. A supposed connection to Hayek. Nothing more.”

  Bowers repeatedly smoothed his tie, the nervous gesture of a man ready to bolt. “This has already taken too long. All you need t
o know is, if you come up with some real ammunition, we’re on your side. Otherwise, we’ll be just two more faces watching you from behind the enemy’s cannon.”

  THE TAXI DROPPED them off at the member’s entrance to the Capitol. Wynn wanted to stop and catch a final breath of free air, but Carter grabbed him by the arm and pulled him forward. “Waiting won’t do anything but spotlight all the things that might go wrong.”

  The stairways and corridors passed like a marble-lined maze. “I couldn’t find my way around this place with a map and a guide dog.”

  “Remind me to give you the five-cent tour. That is, if we ever have time.”

  “You think things are going to get busier?”

  Carter smirked. “You’re about to redefine the term, upwardly mobile.”

  Kay Trilling was waiting at the front doors, Esther one step behind. “How’s our man tonight?”

  Carter answered for him. “Raring to go.”

  “He looks a little green around the gills to me. You nervous?”

  “Absolutely terrified.”

  “Probably a healthy attitude.” She withdrew a sheet of paper from her navy jacket. “Graham wrote you out another missive.”

  Wynn read the shakily printed letters. Pray.

  “Man has a way with words, doesn’t he?” Kay patted his lapel. “We’ll be up there in the balcony doing just that.”

  THREE OTHER MEMBERS of the House of Representatives stood to shake Wynn’s hand and thank him for his assistance. Carter and Kay were upstairs and seated by the time he reached his own desk. The chamber was not particularly large; he had addressed the final meeting of his employees and shareholders in a ballroom twice this size. The desks were scarred, the carpets scuffed, the odors mostly of dust and beeswax. But the pressure of history and brilliance and power squeezed his chest until Wynn was panting with the exertion of having made it this far.

  To his right, a man was droning into a microphone. He wore no jacket. The top three buttons of his vest were undone. His tie dangled at half mast. He read from a tome of typed sheets with the bored voice of one who had been at it for a very long time. The Speaker’s chair was taken by a man Wynn did not recognize. None of the other front desks were occupied. The stenographer appeared almost asleep behind his machine.

  Gradually the chamber filled, both the desks about Wynn and the balconies overhead. Without warning, the orator at the lectern turned and said, “Mr. Speaker, I relinquish my place to our newest representative from the great state of Florida, the distinguished Wynn Bryant.”

  “Congressman Bryant, do you wish to address the House?”

  It took him three tries to rise. “Yes, Mr. Speaker.”

  “You have the floor.”

  The orator patted his back in passing. “Way to go, son. Way to go.”

  Wynn fumbled in his pockets, came up with the sheet of paper he had prepared, and flattened it on the lectern. Four breaths later, he realized he had pulled out Graham’s message by mistake. He stared at the single word, illuminated now by the chandelier overhead and by his own churning dread.

  “Congressman Bryant?”

  “Just a minute.” With an eerie sense of calm, he pulled out the proper page and said as instructed, “Mr. Speaker, I move for the inclusion into H.R. 451, the current appropriations bill, an amendment entitled . . .”

  “Yes, Congressman?”

  Wynn looked up at the balcony and saw Esther seated beside a very worried Kay. The name on the page suddenly seemed incomplete. “Entitled the Hutchings Amendment.”

  The speaker shifted through the pages before him. “You are renaming what I have here before me as the Jubilee Amendment?”

  “I am. Graham Hutchings dedicated his life to seeing this matter addressed.” Esther watched him with a look of stunned disbelief. Kay Trilling, however, crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat. She gave him a single nod. “It seems the least we can do is honor him in this way.”

  “Very well. I have before me a motion to amend H.R. 451 with the Hutchings Amendment. Do I have a second?”

  A voice from the chamber intoned, “Seconded and move for a voice vote, Mr. Speaker.”

  “Seconded.”

  “Very well. All in favor of the inclusion of the Hutchings Amendment, say aye.” Wynn added his voice to those others from the chamber. “All opposed?” When no one spoke, the Speaker rapped his gavel. “The ayes carry. Congressman, do you have further business before the House?”

  “Yes, Mr. Speaker.” Following the script to the letter now. “I move to vote on appropriations bill H.R. 451.”

  “Seconded.”

  “So moved and seconded. All in favor? All opposed?” Another bang of the gavel. “The ayes carry it. As the companion legislation has already moved out of the Senate, H.R. 451 will next be considered by the Conference Committee.”

  “Mr. Speaker,” Wynn continued, “I move to recess.”

  “So moved.”

  “Seconded.”

  “All in favor? Very well. The House is recessed until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Wynn accepted a few more handshakes on his way out the rear doors. He noted a few solemn thanks, then heard the man who had relinquished the lectern tell his neighbor that it was a historic event. The congresswoman beside him shook her head, eyed Wynn with unmasked pity, and said, “Now the blood will flow.”

  42

  Tuesday

  ERIC DRISCOLL SAT behind the wheel of his Porsche and worked to unfreeze his mind. He had followed the traders from First Florida’s downtown headquarters to the Kissimmee strip. The town had not so much grown as mutated, grafting on one hideous segment after another until the main drag became a twenty-mile-long neon netherworld. Eric sat in the parking lot of a bar sporting a fifty-foot-high sign that promised honky-tonk heaven. The lot was full of pickups, mud-spattered SUVs, and customized vans. His Porsche stood out as boldly as the Lexus and Ferrari and two Mercs the traders had parked in the handicapped zone. He watched the last of them careen into the club as the bouncer greeted them and held the door. They had claimed this place as their own and paid to ensure they were well protected. Eric swallowed hard and worried over past and future mistakes, just inches away from real nausea.

  Reluctantly he left the safety of his car and hurried across the parking lot. It was raining slightly, a warm, sticky mist that felt like the world was sweating with him.

  The doorman gave him a brief look, then jerked his chin toward the collection of gleaming metal parked alongside. “You with them?”

  “Y-yes, I guess . . .”

  “You better move your machine over where I can keep an eye on it.”

  “No.” If he got back in the car, he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to flee. “I won’t be long.”

  The bouncer shrugged massive shoulders. “Your wheels, man.”

  The music struck with fists of acid rock. A trio of ladies danced the central aisle, while another pair concentrated on the poles rising from the circular stage to his right. The boys from First Florida were clustered in two booths to one side of the circular stage, waving bills and drinks at the women. Two of them rode the padded hammock separating the booths. Eric tried to saunter over and slip into the booth, but failed. One trader spotted his move, hooked an elbow into his neighbor, and instantly Eric confronted a phalanx of hostile faces.

  “I’m a spot man on Hayek’s floor,” he shouted.

  One of the traders, the guy Colin had attacked with the bush, used the partition as a saddle and slid down beside Eric. Up close the man looked bloodless. “So?”

  “So I want a switch. The world’s getting stale over there. Word is, you’re the guys in the know. The hot data’s all coming your way.”

  The trader rolled his cigar in the ashtray and exchanged silent communication with his pals. One passed a quick hand signal, too fast or too alien for Eric to catch. The trader asked, “How’d you know where to find us?”

  “I followed you guys. Figured it was best
to chat where others wouldn’t see.”

  The trader raised up and whistled once. Loud.

  Instantly a man bigger than the doorman was by the booth. “You rang?”

  The trader pointed a thumb in Eric’s direction. “This slimeball is bothering us. You know how much we dislike being bothered.”

  “Hey, wait, I came all the way out here—” But a hand gripped Eric’s jacket and plucked him away.

  The trader was already climbing back onto his padded saddle, flicking lint from his jacket. “Bye bye, slimeball.”

  Eric made the mistake then. Worse than his foulest trade. Worse than having gotten involved with Shane Turner. But the entire club was watching this gorilla drag him across the floor, guys pointing with their beers and laughing at the joker in suit and tie being hauled away. So he took a swing.

  The bouncer didn’t even flinch when Eric’s fist struck the stone-hard muscles covering his ribs. He just veered slightly. Not far, a couple of feet. But he also accelerated his forward motion, until Eric connected head-first with the nearest pillar.

  Stars erupted, a skyrocket explosion of pain and light. Eric wanted to black out, but he couldn’t even do that. So he was still alert enough to hear the laughter and the jeers as an entire bar bid him a fond farewell.

  The world was canted slightly to his left now, as the bouncer dragged him toward the exit. The bouncer slammed through the door and dumped him in the puddle beyond the awning. “Don’t ever come back.”

  COLIN SAT IN HIS car two rows back from the entrance, his wipers clearing the mist. He watched as Eric raised himself from the oily water. He saw the doorman’s mouth move but did not open his window to hear what was said. Colin doubted whether Eric heard the bouncer either as he blundered toward his Porsche. His suit was streaked, his forehead bleeding. Eric touched the rising welt and winced. It seemed to wake him up slightly, for he managed to find his keys and unlock the car. He slipped out of his jacket, used it to smear the greasy water from his face, then tossed it on the pavement. Ditto for the ruined tie. He touched the welt another time, then his rapidly swelling lip.