“Jackie.” Wynn leaned over. Asked softly, “Tell me what’s happening here.”
She turned only slightly, her attention held by the monitors. “What is reality in economic terms is less important than what the market thinks is real. Or, even more important, what the market thinks will be real tomorrow.”
“So?”
“Most economic pundits think a downturn is under way. The most likely scenario is what the economists call a soft landing. Economic growth declines slightly, remains relatively stagnant for a time, then gradually picks back up. Such contractions are all part of a normal economy. Okay so far?”
“Yes.”
Up close she bore stains deep as bruises beneath her eyes, at the edges of her mouth, upon her temples. She reached for her cup, grimaced at the taste of more cold coffee, drank it anyway. “But if pressure is precisely applied, the soft landing could be turned into a suicide leap. A twenty percent decline in the Dow would be enough to make the international investors panic and start dumping—the same scenario that brought about the Black Monday surge at the beginning of the Great Depression. These same pundits predict anything over a fifteen percent slide in the value of the dollar would have the fund managers racing for the safety of international waters, spurring a panic-driven spree of diving stock and bond prices and an uncontrolled fall of the dollar. Whoever bet against the lemmings would make a killing.”
An aide raced back into the room shouting, “Cisco denies the whole thing. Chase too.”
Bowers had straightened as much as his paunch and bowed shoulders would permit. “Mr. President, I am calling to inform you that we are shutting down the markets. Yes, sir. All of them.”
73
Wednesday
BOWERS INSISTED THAT the press gather in the Dirksen committee room. Kay then placed Wynn next to her own chair, the place of honor normally reserved for the committee’s senior congressman. But the other members made no objection to being moved down a rung. Not after Bowers began with an announcement that every financial and commodities market in the United States had been shut down temporarily, that warrants had been issued for the arrest of Pavel Hayek, and that all assets under Hayek’s management had been frozen.
The television lights were hard on them all, exposing every line, every fear. Jackie leaned on the back wall beside Carter. The two of them looked like walking wounded. Wynn felt no better. As Bowers started his wind-down, Wynn quietly confessed to Kay, “I can’t do this.”
“Too late for withdrawal symptoms,” Kay’s mouth scarcely moved. “Get ready to go sing your song.”
“You’d be much better—”
“It’s your baby, Wynn. You named it. You rock it.” The edges of her mouth rose slightly. “Just think of it as probably the most important moment in your entire life. That ought to help.”
Bowers turned to the committee chairman and took his cue from how Kay raised her gavel and pointed it at Wynn. “I am now going to turn these proceedings over to Congressman Bryant, who will endeavor to tie this unfolding crisis into the legislation presently under consideration before this committee.”
As he rose, Kay reached over and tugged the hastily scrawled pages from his hand. “I’ll take those.”
“What are you doing?”
“Saving you from coming across like you’re reading somebody else’s letter.” She glared away his objections. “You know this stuff, Wynn. Now get up there and give it to them.”
Wynn stumbled and would have gone down, sprawled flat in front of all the world, had not a pair of hands been there to steady him. He arrived at the podium, stared at the bare polished wood, gave a tight shrug of resignation. Given his current state of mind, the notes probably wouldn’t have helped.
He looked up, confronting a sea of faces and camera flashes and the glare of television lights. He did his best to meet them all head-on. “In the period just after the Second World War, officials from Britain and the United States developed what is today known as the Bretton Woods Accord. This was an international effort, advanced by two key Western powers, intended to ensure that the Great Depression’s devastation would not ever recur.
“This accord gave governments the primary responsibility of managing their own financial systems, and stripped from the banks the power to regulate themselves and print their own money—two principal reasons why the Depression happened in the first place. Naturally, the banks and the other financial powers of that day were vehemently opposed. But the officials responsible for drawing up this plan managed to convince their respective governments. They explained that without such restraints, the financial institutions would hold the power to sway public policy toward increasing their own profits, even when it damaged the public good. Not only that, but there was a very real threat that the banks would grow in size and influence until governments were held accountable to them, rather than the other way around.”
Perhaps it was a trick of the glare, or maybe just the effect of strain and fatigue. But the cluster of lights seemed to gather into one flashing illumination. A single brilliance that dominated his vision, blotting out all else, giving him the chance to hear himself and know what needed to be said. “Over the previous two decades, financial institutions have led a two-pronged attack against these laws, seeking to destroy the regulations that were set in place to protect us. They have beggared the laws themselves, until the loopholes are so great they can act with impunity. And they have replaced the printing of money with something just as lethal—a collection of high-risk notes that go under the collective heading of derivatives. Banks have exceeded the ability of any one government to control them, and they call this progress. They wreak havoc with the economies of nations and call it globalization.
“The Hutchings Amendment intends to meet this threat on two fronts at once. In a concerted action similar to the original Bretton Woods Accord, a group of some two dozen nations are together enacting new laws. A global body will oversee international currency transactions, instituting a level of sanity to these activities. Any nation that does not enter into this agreement will find its financial institutions unable to do business with the member countries. Furthermore, a tax will be levied on every currency and derivatives trade, not so large as to halt the flow of genuine business but enough to stifle this wild tidal flow of risk. And the proceeds of this tax will go toward ending the stifling burden of debt carried by the world’s poorest nations.”
Only when Wynn paused for breath did he realize he had said enough. A more experienced politician would have found a way of ending on a stronger note. But when he blinked the lights separated, the faces all stared up at him, and the only thing he wanted was to be away.
By the time he had returned to his seat, he was certain he had blown the whole thing. But before he could apologize, Kay reached over, gripped his hand, and squeezed hard. With her free hand she raised the gavel, rapped the table and announced, “This committee is hereby called to order. The chair is open to motions to proceed on a vote on the appropriations bill.”
Wynn drew strength from the hand upon his own, and said, “So moved.”
“Second.”
“Moved and seconded.” She raised Wynn’s arm with her own, so that the cameras and the photographers’ flashes caught the senator and the congressman seated there in grim satisfaction, their hands raised above their heads, as Kay declared, “All those in favor of the bill’s passage out of committee, including most especially the provision known as the Hutchings Amendment, say Aye!”
74
Wednesday
HAYEK’S DRIVER WAS busy polishing the Bentley when Burke drove up. The circular drive was shaded by cedars planted to form a sentinel line down the crushed-seashell lane. Morning’s light spilled through the high cedars and formed a complex pattern on Hayek’s lawn. Hayek’s realm was as perfect and orderly as ever. Only Burke was no longer fooled.
The muscled young man who opened the door showed him straight into the breakfast room with its polar
ized view of the paddocks and the fields beyond. At his approach, Hayek looked up from his Journal and said merely, “Another coffee for my guest, Samuel. And a fresh cup for myself.” He waved Burke into the wrought-iron chair next to his and said, “Have you seen the day’s top story? Apparently those imbeciles in Brussels are going ahead with a European army. Led by the French, no less. Who have gloriously illustrated their fighting ability in two World Wars.”
Burke remained standing. “Our Interbank lines have been chopped off. The markets have shut down. Our news items have been denounced. The Feds are flying inspectors down from Washington.”
Hayek seemed not to have heard. He frowned and searched the empty doorway, then lifted the little silver bell and shook it vigorously. When no one appeared, his scowl deepened. “That young man is history.”
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“All this is over. You’re leaving the United States.”
Hayek looked at him for the first time. “And if I am?”
“Take me with you.”
The smile came and went so swiftly Burke could only take it for silent assent. But before he could respond, a voice from behind them said, “Afraid it’s too late for travel plans, gentlemen.”
Burke turned and confronted the senior spot trader. Alex was flanked by two swarthy men, still in their gray blazers. He could only gape.
Hayek, however, responded more coolly. “It was you all along. Of course.”
“Always wanted to run my own fund,” Alex replied. “The Brazilians and their new Russian partners have got to park that money with somebody. Why not me?”
He motioned the two goons forward. “I’m pretty certain they’ll get their job right this time.”
EPILOGUE
WYNN DID NOT realize he was holding Jackie’s hand until the memorial service was drawing to a close. The Melbourne park was so full and the wind so strong the words spoken by Sybel’s daughter were almost lost by the time they reached him. But he had no interest in moving closer. Surrounding him there at the back of the crowd was a second group of mourners. They were poorly dressed and seared by winds far fiercer than those rushing through the gathering. But these were Sybel’s people, and Wynn found comfort in standing among them to say his own farewells. Along the park’s far side, others unpacked a memorial feast for those Sybel had considered her special clan.
As people began drifting away, he felt Jackie’s eyes on him. He said, “It all began right here.”
She smiled so gently he could feel the comfort in his bones. “You need to make peace, Wynn.” When he did not move, she added, “Your sister would want this.”
He stared over her head up to where Grant stood surrounded by the better-dressed flock. “I’ll do it when the cameras aren’t watching. Besides, we need to be going.”
They drove to the prison in silence. Wynn glanced over from time to time but could read nothing from Jackie’s expression. Only when they turned off the Beeline Expressway and pulled into the prison parking lot did she say, “Do you mind if I watch from out here?”
He scanned the almost empty lot. Atop the chain-link fence, the razor wire danced and shivered in the wind, the sunlight glinting along its surface like sudden bolts of current. “Not at all.”
She started to reach for him, then redirected her hands to tightly clasp her chest. “Thank you, Wynn.”
The warden was there in the gatehouse and greeted him with, “An honor to meet you, Congressman. You’re all signed in, and the people are already assembled, so let’s move ahead, shall we?”
Wynn followed the warden down the path and into the concrete hall. All the tables had been pushed to the sides, save one down the center where a group of four people sat. In front of them was a lone man in a small plastic chair. He tossed nervous glances at Wynn and the warden, then returned his gaze to the assembled four.
“Shane Turner, you have been called before this exceptional meeting of the parole board. At the express request of Congressman Bryant, we are granting you a conditional release based on good behavior.”
Wynn studied him as he would a new opponent, and saw a too-handsome man in prison blues who could not believe his own ears. The spokesperson went on, “You will spend the next ninety days in a halfway house, then be placed on strict probation for the next three years. You must find gainful employment outside the financial arena. You must report to your parole officer on a weekly basis.” A pause, then, “Do you have any questions?”
THE WHITE HOUSE meeting was arranged by Polk Hindlestiff, professional kingmaker. His chair in the hallway outside the Oval Office was intentionally distanced from the AIM officials and the lobbyists who had hired him. His attitude, spoken and silent both, showed them a snobbish disdain. The two senior Wall Street bankers who headed up their little group glowered and bit off tight words of protest. Valerie did not need to approach them to know what was being said. After all, they had paid Hindlestiff forty-five thousand dollars, and all he had done was make a couple of calls. But apparently forty-five thousand dollars was not enough to purchase the old man’s respect.
Valerie paced as far down the hall as the Secret Service agents allowed, then turned and stalked back. Finding herself along on this little jaunt only deepened her wounds. She hated how she had been not just thwarted but vanquished. Being this close to the flame branded her with everything she had almost grasped.
The Secret Service agents alerted them by stiffening to sudden attention. The President came striding down the long hallway, leading an entourage made up of his chief of staff and three more agents. He acknowledged the man who had brought them together with, “I didn’t know you were in on this, Polk.”
“Only marginally, Mr. President.”
The man’s almost apologetic tone once again provoked the bankers. Valerie’s boss stepped forward before the pair could demolish the moment even further. “Mr. President, we are extremely grateful for this moment of your time.”
“A moment is all you’ve got.”
“Yessir.” Clearly this was as close to the Oval Office as they were going to come. “We have prepared documents that will show clearly what a terrible mistake it would be to sign this legislation into law.”
“I don’t need to see your papers to tell you how I read this,” the President replied. “You folks have showed up here today because you want to hand me a live grenade. And I’m here to tell you that I’m not accepting it.” He waited long enough to be assured he had finally silenced them, then added, “Now that this is taken care of, Frank here will offer you a bone. I advise you to take it and run. Good day to you.”
When the President had disappeared around the corner, his chief of staff opened his arms in grim welcome. “Why don’t we step into my office.”
He did not seat himself, however. Instead he leaned against his desk, crossed his arms, and said, “The President is going to sign this legislation, and that’s all there is to it.” One upraised hand was sufficient to silence the bankers’ objections. “You’ve had your word with the President, now you’ve got ninety seconds with me. You want to rant, that’s your choice. Or you can listen up and hear how things stand.”
When he was certain they were going to keep their protests leashed, he nodded. “Fine. This appropriations bill is a crucial piece of legislation, and several of the riders attached to it are vital components of this administration’s goals. Not to mention the fact that Hayek has made your entire industry out to be an enemy of this entire nation.”
“If you’ll just give us a second, sir, we can explain—”
“Don’t even start. The nation is not in any mood to listen, so neither are we.” When they had subsided once more, he continued, “Now then. If your lot can be on its best behavior for a year or so, next term you can pressure your allies in Congress to back a repeal. The President gives you his word he won’t stand in your way. You’ll have a level playing field. But you’ll be acting under the spotli
ght of international attention.”
He indicated the meeting was over by pushing himself off the desk. As they began filing out, the chief of staff patted the top fund manager’s shoulder, a recognition of his campaign funding potential. “Just make sure you back all the right horses between now and when Congress reconvenes. We’ll make this happen. You can count on it.”
WYNN HEARD THE PRISON GATE clang behind him and took a free breath. He walked to the car to find Jackie cutting the connection on her cellphone. He asked through the open window, “Anything wrong?”
“Colin’s been offered a job with some group that does internet monitoring for the fibbies.” Jackie’s face had grown pinched during Wynn’s time inside. “He wanted my advice.”
Wynn climbed into the car. “It’s done. Shane is to be released on parole.” When she did not turn from watching the sunlight and shadows dance upon the windshield, Wynn asked, “Do you regret doing this?”
“Maybe a little.” Her reply was a sigh, not of fear but release. “Could we leave here, please?”
Wynn drove them back to the Beeline, hesitated only a moment, then pointed the car eastward. Toward Merritt Island, the ocean, and home. A rising wind turned the marsh grasses and palmetto stands into silver blades, framing lakes the color of hammered tin. Clouds raced one another across the blue horizon, and not even the packed highway could overtake the perfume of storm and sea.
Jackie continued her silent perusal of the clouds and the light. Wynn’s nerve held until they approached the toll booths. After he paid, he pulled over to the side of the highway and asked, “Where exactly are we headed, Jackie?”
She slid across until she was more in his seat than her own, as though she had been waiting all along for him to make this exact move. “I guess sometimes the only way forward is by finding space for the impossible.”
Drummer In the Dark Page 44
