Man in the Middle (31 page)

“Another layer of security?” Peter asked.

“Very good, dude. That second bank then trades with Howie-Boy, or Morgan, or me, or you. We make back all that money lost by Bum-Fuck a day or a week earlier. Bum-Fuck’s got a tiny account with us or with one of our outside managers. Maybe offshore, maybe not. Depends on her pedigree. Suddenly she has a tiny investment that trades into a great big ol’ giant one. All legit as far as the eye can see. Everyone takes some vig along the way, but Bum-Fuck ends up with clean money. Eventually she can buy a building if she wants to.”

“The trades are bogus,” Peter said. “All we do is shuffle paper, create paper losses in the home country, then create a gain somewhere else, later. Once classified as trading profit, everything’s untraceable?”

“Congrats. Like the former First Lady making a hundred grand on commodity trades with squat as an initial investment—difference is: we’re dealing in tens of millions, and we don’t leave paper trails that can be followed. Adds up to billions in no time. That said, I’m outta here.”

Stuart stood, saluted, then exited the conference room.

“Sweet,” Peter had to admit. “Not my problem, but still sweet. No wonder there’s so much damn money floating around this place.”

The walk from the conference room was thirty feet. Peter crumpled into his seat and turned on his computer. An incoming phone line flashed. He picked up.

“Hello. Neil, here.”

“Morning, Peter. It’s . . .”

Peter scanned the scene still underway in Muller’s office. Muller’s was the only back not turned. His big mouth widened in Peter’s direction— leering, it seemed, like a fox cornering an injured rabbit.

“Hello, Peter? You still there?” the phone voice asked.

“Huh. Oh yeah. I’m here. Who’s this?”

“You weren’t listening? I told you. We’re going to raise our rating on . . .”

Peter again tuned out and watched Muller’s distant head nod against a phone, pressed to his ear.

A moment later, Muller said something to the other two. Ayers spun and looked at Peter. Stenman didn’t move.

The insistent broker speaking at Peter continued. “Peter? What’s going on? You okay?”

“Raising your rating?” Peter mumbled into the mouthpiece.

“Yes. This is big. If you can get some stock overseas, you’ll make some quick cash.”

“Thanks.” Peter hung up.

When the meeting in Muller’s office broke half an hour later, Peter was engaged in exaggerated activity. He punched out quotations and read lines of data, all the while working into and out of ten equity positions.

Ayers exited first. He came by the desk. “Peter,” he asked, “you have time for lunch? After the close. Around two. Won’t take long.”

“I’m busy—”

“It’ll take less than an hour. Please.”

Peter reluctantly agreed to meet.

Ayers’ Lincoln Town Car was waiting when Peter made it downstairs shortly after two o’clock. A uniformed driver opened the rear door and Peter slid in, next to Ayers. The attorney reached across and shook hands. Ayers’ fingers still felt like thick, pliant noodles.

“Thanks for coming, Peter. I wanted to get caught up. After all, I’m the one who got you this job. How’s it going?”

“I love trading. By far the best job I’ve ever had.”

“Morgan’s happy with your development.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Ayers.”

“I think it’s time you called me Jason. I hope we’re friends.”

“Yes. Certainly, Jason.”

They spent several minutes speaking of nothing relevant, then Ayers asked, “Any questions you have concerning the firm? Morgan and I go way back, to when she had only a few million under management, and I was an overworked intern.”

“Not really. But thanks for asking.”

“Would you like to discuss how they operate? They’re aggressive.”

“I’ve picked up a few of those habits myself.”

“Good for you. This is like war.”

“That’s what everybody keeps telling me.”

“The rules of trading are different, depending on where you play,” Ayers said.

He’s trying to sound too much like a best friend, Peter thought.

“Take Russia, for example,” Ayers continued. “Under the table payoffs are a fact of life. Anyone who plays there, from IBM to the U.S. government, knows the game.”

“I’ve got nearly half a brain. I guess I already figured most of these things out on my own.”

“You sound cynical and sarcastic, Peter. Am I reading you correctly?”

“Not really,” he lied. “Just wondering where this conversation is heading. Look, I appreciate your concern. And I’m sorry if I’m as subtle as a chainsaw, but I’m tired. If you don’t mind, can we cut the crap? I know this business isn’t whistle-clean, so save your breath. The way to win a war is by going all-out. Now, I guess that means we’re in agreement. I intend to go all-out, all the time.”

“Whoa,” Ayers said, shaking his head. “Slow down, son. I’m trying to counsel you to be careful with the securities laws, not break them.”

“Maybe you need to talk to someone else first. I don’t make policy.”

“Are you referring to Morgan, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Look, Jason, I like Morgan, but your preaching to me is disingenuous. So let’s drop this line of bullshit.”

“Let me state something for the record, Peter. It is Stenman Partners’ policy to discourage inappropriate use of information. If you have a question—it’s in the employee handbook—you are to ask Compliance. Compliance is undertaken by Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers. Our law firm has someone available twenty-four hours a day.”

“Whatever you say. We’re encouraged to be aggressive but not overstep the line.” Peter rolled his eyes.

“Exactly,” Ayers said. “A fine distinction exists between doing good, hard, investigative research and gaining inside information. Even the SEC is having a hard time deciding which is which. Let’s take the example of . . . .”

Ayers spent ten minutes clarifying what he meant. It sounded convincing enough on the surface, and Peter nodded in rhythm to Ayers’ words while staring out the window.

“Now,” Ayers said, switching to another topic, “let’s take this Brazilian thing.”

Peter focused back inside the car and on Ayers’ face. “Good idea,” he said. “I’m interested in your spin on what Stenman did in that situation?”

“Again, you sound critical, Peter. Do you think some rules were bent?”

“Bent? Good euphemism for... never mind. Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

“I will say this unequivocally: Morgan did
not
have advance word on the loan package, if that’s what you think.”

“Come on. I’m not saying I care, but the consultant had worked for her, for God’s sake. She was the solitary human being in the world who made money on this play. Josh Robinson’s hedge fund got hammered, and he’s as savvy as they come.”

“Listen and you’ll understand,” Ayers said. “This former employee of Morgan’s shares her economic beliefs and values—as former co-workers, that stands to reason. Morgan anticipated his recommendations. That’s not illegal. She also knows how the IMF and the U.S. Treasury work. She understood that a major country in this hemisphere, one that has taken on massive reforms—political as well as economic—is important to the U.S. Again, she anticipated that a bailout was more likely to be granted here than in Indonesia. And was correct.”

“Okay. Let’s say I buy that.” Peter had to admit it sounded plausible. “What about Indonesia? Who the hell was on the other end of the phone— the person I passed specific messages from? It sounded like someone inside the central bank.” If it shits like a duck, and quacks like a duck, Peter thought, it’s gotta be a duck.

“I wasn’t there,” Ayers reminded him, “but I do know Morgan has people in every country who follow capital inflows and outflows. They poll major market players—including bankers willing to be polled—to gain insight. Deducting bank outflows from estimated hard currency reserves is a game everyone tries to play. Nothing illegitimate in that.”

“Down to the last billion, at a specific moment in time?”

“This is a sophisticated world, Peter.”

“Fine. You’ve explained Indonesia and Brazil, counselor. Explain back-trading?”

Ayers shook his head and said, “No such thing. I think I know what you’re referring to. Whenever a ticket is incorrectly written, or an error discovered, we file an
as-of
ticket to correct or
backdate
legitimate trades.”

Ayers wrote something on a piece of paper as he spoke, using his briefcase as a table. He handed the note to Peter, keeping his hand below the back of the front seat, out of view of the driver’s mirror.

Peter kept the slip of paper in his lap and read:

Drop this line of questioning. Conference room is monitored. So is this car. Discussions overheard. You are in 100%, or you are out. Decide and state your decision clearly.

Peter studied Ayers’ face. Deep lines creased the attorney’s forehead as he said, “Surely you are aware that errors need to be corrected.”

“Yeah, corrections. I guess Stuart’s explanation confused me.”

Ayers mouthed the word
good
, then said, “It’s possible I should review how these error tickets are written and processed. You don’t have a problem with any of this, do you?”

“No. Of course not,” Peter said with an actor’s conviction. “This has been helpful, Jason. Sometimes, when a person is new to something, it gets confusing. But I’m a team player. I’m totally on board.”

“That’s good, son. On another topic, how has settling your mother’s affairs gone? Anything I can help you with?”

With the knowledge that others had overheard earlier discussions, Peter guessed this was meant to be a leading question. Ayers nodded as if confirming the insight.

“Uh, as a matter of fact,” Peter said, recalling what he had already admitted to Stuart, “I found a letter from Mom, but I threw it away. It made no sense. She wrote something about the law and clients and such.”

“Did she mention that she sent some papers to the SEC?”

Peter’s chin dropped. This was a frontal assault for information. How should he answer?

Ayers wrote out another note:

Say, no.

“No, she didn’t say anything about that,” Peter replied on cue. “She did mention something about some documents, but not what or where they were.” Did that sound convincing? Peter wondered.

“If you come across anything, you can always run it by me.”

“Sure. I’ll do that.”

Ayers reached for the notes and retrieved them from Peter’s lap. He opened his briefcase and put them inside. Clamping the case shut, he spun the locks. The car pulled up to a small restaurant, two blocks from the beach at the north end of La Jolla, close enough for the ocean breeze to ruffle their hair.

As they entered the restaurant, Ayers asked, “And the rest of your life? How have you been?”

They took a booth and faced each other. Peter discussed a few recent events, his new apartment, his car. He then asked, “How’s Kate? I’ve been meaning to call, go see her.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Kathryn passed the Bar.”

“That’s fantastic,” Peter said. “I should ask her to dinner to celebrate.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Ayers shook his head.