Project Northwest

by C. B. Carter

  “Wrong, credit agencies rate in two ways. She gets into financial trouble.” The crowd booed and the young lady sank into her chair.

  “It happens, and the credit agencies demand that she raise cash to cover debts or they will downgrade her. She can’t raise cash because she’s made this same crazy bet over and over with many companies. She goes bankrupt. Sure, some of the five dollars she collected over the years found its way to a reserve fund of some sort, but much of it is paid out as salary and huge bonuses. The credit agency looks at my books and says, ‘Hey, you’re no longer insured. Get insured or we will downgrade your rating.’ I can’t get insurance and now it costs me more to manage my loans and I’m losing money or just barely breaking even. The entire deal unravels, with no one in a position to pay when he goes bankrupt,” he continued, pointing at the auditor with the hundred dollar bill.

  “Of course, a credit default swap is much more complicated than that, but the demonstration illustrates the basic idea behind it. But wait, there’s more, to rob the common catchphrase of info commercials. It gets worse. She’s just a single insurer; others, investment banks and insurance groups, seeing there is easy money to be made, package up her debt with thousands of others and sell the packaged contract on the CDS market. Eventually, every number on the roulette table is covered with all the players hoping the wheel never spins. Hoping the little white ball never drops, they’re hoping the game is never in play. Thirty-five of them are going to lose and lose big.”

  He collected his hundred dollar bill from the auditor, who pretended to hold snugly to it, and made his way back to the podium. He clicks the remote to bring up his second and final slide.

  The slide contained only two bullet points: Debt covered by CDS contracts estimated to be between 33 and 47 trillion dollars. The second bullet point was astonishing: Total over-the-counter (OTC) derivative notional value is in the neighborhood of 600 trillion dollars. (Notional value is the face amount of a note and normally doesn’t change hands.)

  Dr. Thomas paused, then placed his hand on the remark in parenthesis. “I’m not certain the notional value of six hundred trillion is correct, but the scary thing is that I can’t prove it’s wrong. We’re all in finance here and we know financial systems shouldn’t have this type of anomaly, if one could call six hundred trillion an anomaly. This, my colleagues, is the wave rushing out.

  “To continue my tsunami analogy, when a tsunami rushes to the shore, the first to perish are the onlookers, those at the shoreline watching the initial wave go out. These are your average moms and dads, shareholders who’ve invested for the future: college funds for their kids, retirement, et cetera. Let’s be honest, they will not stand a chance when the tsunami hits, when the wave rushes in.

  “It will destroy all the homes and businesses along the shore. In a matter of seconds, millions of people will be homeless, and businesses, employers, will simply disappear, the economy will crash. That’s the mom and pop industry, the core of many countries. This, of course, will put the government in a panic, a panic that will ripple through communities and economies, and the government will react as it always does, in misguided attempts and ineptitude.”

  Dr. Thomas walked back to the center of the stage. “What happens when a government panics? They seek experts. Usually, the same experts that got us into the mess to begin with, the ones who caused the problem are put in charge to fix it. This is not only idiotic because of the obvious, it’s poor judgment because these CEOs are well-connected and run in deep circles of cronyism. Cronyism rears its ugly head like the diseases that ravage the survivors of the tsunami. If you think cronyism isn’t in play, just look at the inconsistencies in the treatment of banks, investment banks, and insurance agencies since 2007.”

  Dr. Thomas saw Mr. Stone off stage, pointing at his watch. “I can see Mr. Stone is calling time on me.”

  He placed the microphone back in its stand and tapped it until a little feedback could be heard. When he was convinced he had everyone’s attention, he continued, “The tsunami is coming, ladies and gentleman. The initial wave has gone out, don’t get caught at the shore gawking.”

  The room erupted in genuine but reserved applause as Dr. Thomas shook Mr. Stone’s hand and made his way to the side of the room where his book table was set up. He was selling a self-published book called Financial Tsunami: Initial Wave.

  James and Shelly made their rounds, ate a little cake, and made their way back through security to begin their fifth day of criminal espionage, knowing Dr. Thomas was more right than wrong.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ~ Lady Sylvia ~

  James waited near the doors of the bank lobby as Shelly purchased a caramel frappuccino from the plush Starbucks. He was starting to get anxious. He had no idea what Mark was up to and the moment was quickly approaching. He considered not going and questioned that if Mark knew the danger he was in, he would realize there was a lot of danger if Mr. Wright sniffed out what was happening. He’d already told James it was his third strike, and then there was the risk to Shelly and her daughter, not to mention Bridget. James was having some serious second thoughts.

  “These are so good,” Shelly said as she slurped the coffee and caramel mixture and met James at the door.

  “You know what? I don’t think I’m going to go. I think I’ll just skip it this time. Why put us at risk?”

  “What risk? Mr. Wright said you could go.” Her words were thick from the cold drink.

  “I know, but I think I’ll just skip it.”

  “No, let’s go. To be honest, I’m kind of intrigued by the whole thing now. What does your instinct tell you?”

  “It’s screaming ‘don’t go’.”

  “Well mine is saying ‘go’, and a woman’s instinct is more accurate than a man’s.”

  “Really, and how is that?”

  “Simple, women have better empathic ability.”

  “I don’t buy that for a minute. Not even sure what that means.”

  “See, I knew you would say that. Let’s just go, it will be interesting.”

  “Okay, but don’t be surprised if I change my mind as soon as we’re there,” he said as they exited the building.

  “I could use the walk anyway. Caramel is delicious, but it’s not exactly skinny food. Plus, I feel like I need to see her for some reason. Who knows, I might get my palm read after you.”

  “You know the area is haunted, right?”

  “No.” She stopped in mid-step and froze.

  “Come on, I’ll tell you about it. You’re right, this is kind of fun.”

  The sky helped set the mood with a slight overcast as they leisurely walked and James told her the tale he’d heard during a Halloween ghost tour the year before.

  “Post Alley has a chilling history and is the subject of narration on several ghost tours, especially in the area of Seattle’s Pike Place Market. Many locals swear the area is haunted with the mortuary ghosts of children.”

  Shelly was scared, but wanted more.

  “Bridget likes to be scared, too, and I’ve basically memorized the story.”

  “Well?” Shelly insisted.

  James talked as they walked. “During an epidemic of black diphtheria that hit the northwest region in the 1880s, Edgar Butterworth, a city mayor and a member of the state legislature, built ready-made coffins from his furniture shop and eventually had a controlling interest in Cross & Co. Undertakers on the northeast corner of Second Avenue and Pike street.

  “Diphtheria, in general, is especially aggressive towards children, slowly suffocating them as a black, tough, fibrous bacterial covering assaults the throat. Once infected, the bacteria releases toxins into the bloodstream and the host dies a slow agonizing death.

  “The children cried for their parents, for anyone to help them, but most died and were transported into the basement of Butterworth’s mortuary through the entrance on Post Alley, the exact same alley you and I are heading to.”

  James ended his rec
ollection with, “They say the phantoms of the mortuary pour out of the basement at night, trying to escape the coffins and death.”

  “You’re messing with me, right?” Shelly said as they arrived at the corner of University and Post Alley.

  “Can’t make this stuff up, they’re just ghost stories. Bridget and I took a ghost tour last Halloween—I think it’s this way.”

  James turned right onto Post and began making his way into the dark alleyway. It was paved, but the concrete was old and worn, giving the impression that even the city workers didn’t dare tread there.

  Shelly didn’t move.

  “Are you coming?” His question echoed off the tall buildings on both sides of the alley and boomed to her like a ghostly voodoo priest rolling bones.

  “Yeah, I’m coming, don’t rush me.”

  Her heart rate jumped as she placed one foot onto the old concrete, felt its chill, thought of the hundreds or thousands of children that were carted to and from the mortuary, maybe over the very spot she was standing. She placed her second foot onto the concrete and rushed to catch up with James, grabbing his arm.

  The sound of a door chime welcomed them as they entered Lady Sylvia’s Mystic House. The reception room was small and contained nothing like the office furniture that they were used to seeing in reception rooms. It had three posh chairs, two along one wall and one along another wall. Each chair was covered with a rust colored, silver highlighted chair throw, and on the center table burned three candles in candle lanterns decorated with cutouts of half-moons and stars.

  “Welcome! Hello, Sam. Who is your friend? You are stunning,” Sylvia said as she entered the room from the doorway to the left and focused on Shelly. “Beautiful eyes. Are you an albino?”

  Shelly studied the remains of her frappuccino, wanting to somehow crawl into the cup and hide. It wasn’t that she was afraid. She had an unnerving feeling that Sylvia could read her mind, had access to her deep dark secrets. She could see right through her.

  “Not a full albino. I do have some pigmentation,” Shelly finally managed to say.

  “Well, you are gorgeous, please have a seat. You will let me read you afterwards, correct?”

  She motioned to James. “You, follow me.”

  James followed Lady Sylvia into a reading room off the main hallway. The room wasn’t anything like he expected. There were no door beads or sitar music, not a single lava lamp, and the crystal ball he expected to find wasn’t anywhere to be seen. There wasn’t even the psychic staple of spooky chicken’s feet hanging from the ceiling. None of his stereotypes were affirmed.

  Instead, it was small room, with a single round table big enough for four people, skirted with a red tablecloth, and supporting a couple of candles. One object seemed out of place. A mobile radio of some sort was in the center of the table.

  Sylvia locked the door and moved with smooth strides, as if she were on roller skates. One got the sense she was moving through the membranes of two worlds. She really played the part.

  “Please have a seat,” she said as she pointed to the note on the table.

  James read the note.

  James, it’s Mark. Strip down to your boxers. Leave your cell phone on the table about a foot away from the radio. Go to the room in the back of this room. Bring this note with you.

  James glanced at Sylvia and she nodded her head in confirmation, then pointed to the door behind her chair.

  He undressed and, with only his boxers on, inched toward the door, note in hand. He opened the door and could barely make out Mark in the middle of a narrow hallway that ran perpendicular to all the reading rooms. The hallway exited out to the street at the far end and was lit by a single red light bulb.

  “Mark, thank God you’re here. This was a clever way to meet.”

  “I’d hug you, man, but you know, you’re in your boxers. It would be kind of weird and Sylvia already thinks were gay. But listen, we’re really short on time.”

  Mark handed James a mobile radio. “While I tell you what you’re up against, you will need to focus on Sylvia because she will still be conducting the reading. When you speak, press this button. Do not touch this button, as it will cause the radio to squeal, understand?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Mark opened a folder and pointed at the picture in the top right corner. “Is this the guy?”

  “Yes, that’s Mr. Wright.” James said in amazement. He quickly scoured the first page and for the first time had a name to put to the face. William Paul Wright, Major, USAF.

  “He’s a bad guy, James. Iraq, Syria, Yemen, he did financial espionage against many enemies of the United States. Not sure what department he was with and his trail gets cold, quickly. The last couple of years are completely blank.”

  “So he’s military, US Air Force? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Was, he was dishonorably discharged after he caused some trouble with his family.” Mark flipped a couple of sheets of paper, looking for the names. “Wife Doris and son David, were killed in Iraq. They weren’t killed by enemy fire or anything. They were kidnapped on the border of Bahrain and murdered in some ransom plot by the Iraqi mafia. Don’t have all the details, but our government apparently didn’t back Wright and when the ransom wasn’t paid ... well, you can guess how it ended. From what I could gather, they left him hanging.”

  The radio came to life. “What is your birthday, day and month?”

  “Answer her,” Mark said.

  James pressed the button. “Seventeenth of December.” His response travelled from the radio on the reading table toward the bugged cell phone.

  Mark continued, “These military types take betrayal hard. The military is their life, their livelihood. No other career mixes and combines the two like a military career. A dishonorable discharge takes it all away with a single pen stroke.”

  The radio again. “Sagittarius, the archer. What would you like me to focus on today?”

  James didn’t know what to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind, “I’d like to get a reading on my love life.” He immediately regretted his answer. What if she saw or said something bad?

  Mark raised his eyebrows at James’s request. “So, he lost everything he knew in a matter of months. Some ex-military, those with combat experience, become soldier-of-fortune types. Some never recover and William Wright has taken another path. He’s angry, well-connected, well-educated, and knows how to operate in the shadows. Do you know what he has in mind for you, why he’s targeting you?”

  “I think he’s providing numbers, inside numbers, to a competitor of the bank. My guess is he’s working as an agent for some large bank or institution who wants to do a hostile takeover of Washington Common Bank. I’m not sure how they would do it, it would take billions to purchase the bank and no one has that type of cash right now. My true guess is they are preparing for a bank run or some type of stock manipulation to devalue the bank. A bank run brings in a whole host of scrutiny that no bank wants.”

  “So we’re talking of a lot of data transfer?”

  “Absolutely. I’d say they have in their possession thousands of pieces of data, certainly enough to do damage if misrepresented. And we’re supposed to do this for months. Why?”

  “I’m just thinking, it has to be stored somewhere, right? That’s a lot of data. Think about it James, you have to think like I do, like they do. Not in the Boy Scout way you normally do. What could I do with that same information as a single investor?”

  “Not much.”

  “How about, as you said, a large bank or institution?”

  “Well, that’s a whole ‘nother story, they have resources to—I see your point, they’re storing the data somewhere, they have to be.”

  Sylvia’s reading had dropped into the aural background until James and Mark heard the distinctive sound of the door chime through the radio.

  “Someone entered the reception area, Sylvia doesn’t have any appointments, I checked. Stay here and l
isten on the radio, okay,” Mark said.

  Sylvia was opening the reading room door in preparation to make her way to the reception room when Mark stopped her and whispered, “Sylvia, use your instinct, if it’s a guy, try to intimidate him. I need like ten more minutes.”

  “Sure,” she readily agreed.

  He pushed his back to the hallway wall and listened as Sylvia interacted with the new visitor.

  Mr. Wrong was 6 foot 2 inches, 220 pounds. He towered over the 5 foot 3 inch psychic, but she controlled the interaction from the start.

  “Hello, do you have an appointment?” Sylvia asked when she entered the reception room.

  Mr. Wrong didn’t answer right away, he was obviously restless and Sylvia took advantage.

  “If not, I can see you in about fifteen minutes. You have an old soul, a dark aura, and you must stay for a reading. I fear you may be in dire danger. Please have a seat.”

  Mark peeked around the corner and saw the big man making his way around the coffee table. He got a quick view of a rather remarkable looking lady sitting in a chair and his mind skimmed the possibilities.

  Shelly recognized Mr. Wrong and watched as he sank into the chair next to hers. She instinctively pulled the throw over her lap as a type of security barrier.

  “Karma, Mr. Wrong, karma. She sees right through you, you know.”

  “Don’t start, don’t say anything to me, not here,” Mr. Wrong warned. He shifted in the chair, unable to get comfortable.

  “I’m just saying,” jabbed Shelly.

  Mark doubled back to James in the back hallway and Sylvia returned to the reading room and continued her reading, “Sorry for the interruption. Shall we continue?”

  “Yes,” said James into the radio. He got Mark’s attention. “I heard Shelly through your radio. That was Mr. Wrong. He’s Mr. Wright’s muscle. I need to get back in there and get dressed.”

  “No, it’s fine. You don’t know Sylvia. She can handle it. Getting back to the point, okay, so Mr. Wright is pinching you and we know they’re storing the data somewhere. And you said you’re bugged at your condo and office?”