"My entire personal portfolio has been cleaned out."
"I'm not minimizing that."
"I'm the victim."
"It would appear so," he said.
"So I have to be there when you talk to the FBI."
Brewer took a breath, letting it go as he spoke. "Michael, I can't begin to tell you how many times I have seen law enforcement treat the victim as a suspect."
I suddenly thought of the way the Bahamian authorities had treated me after I reported Ivy's disappearance. Not even a clean polygraph exam had convinced some of them of my innocence.
"I understand where you're coming from," I said. "But I didn't do anything here but check my account balance."
"I know how these agents think," said Brewer. "If you set foot inside that building, they will shift into fact-gathering mode and will want to know everything about every transaction you have ever structured that involves an offshore bank. That's sensitive information that you and your clients don't want to hand over freely, and just as soon as you put up any resistance to their inquiry-bam. You go from victim to suspect in their mind."
The man was making sense, but I kept coming back to the bottom line. "This is my life savings."
Sonya chimed in. "Let Stanley and me deal with the FBI. I've called in our head of security. The best thing you can do right now is go to the office and use the firm's internal resources to find out what happened."
Another good point. When money went missing, private security was often more effective than law enforcement, especially in international matters.
"All right," I said. "That sounds like a reasonable plan."
I handed Brewer my business card and told him to call me day or night. Then I stepped out of the car. The lights were burning brightly at the old fire station on Duane Street. Even so, everything else was quiet in this city that never sleeps; there wasn't a cab in sight. The night air wasn't quite cool enough for me to see my breath, but I was feeling the chill. I buried my hands in my pants pockets and walked up Broadway, where, for fifty bucks-maybe my last last fifty-I convinced a taxi driver with a Ukrainian accent to switch off his off-duty light. fifty-I convinced a taxi driver with a Ukrainian accent to switch off his off-duty light.
I started to give him the firm's cross streets-"Seventh and..." but stopped myself. It was time to lose the tuxedo. We headed up Broadway to Fifty-seventh and then east to my apartment at Sutton Place. The driver waited with the meter running-he should have worked for Cool Cash-as I hurried into the building.
"Mr. Cantella!" the doorman called.
"Gotta hurry," I said as I punched the call button for the elevator again and again.
"Delivery here for you, sir. Courier brought it by an hour ago."
"I'll get it later, Juan."
"'Urgent' marked all over it," he said, walking over and handing it to me.
I grabbed it as the bell chimed and the elevator doors parted. I swiped my security card and punched twenty-six. The doors closed, and I inspected what Juan had given me. It was the size of a FedEx envelope, but it was from a local courier service-probably delivered by one of those maniacs on bicycles who pedaled as if they got paid extra for bumping off pedestrians in crosswalks. I had one eye on the numbers over the elevator doors blinking with each passing floor-fourteen, fifteen, sixteen-as I found the zip tab on the package and pulled it.
There was a sudden flash of red and yellow, and I wasn't sure if the package flew from my hands or if I had thrown it to the floor. The elevator stopped immediately, and the alarm sounded. I was stunned for a moment, then smelled smoke. My sleeve was on fire, and flames were at my feet. I ripped off my jacket and stomped on it and the package in a frantic effort to extinguish the flames. I was winning, but barely. The package seemed to contain some kind of substance that burned with resilience. I smothered it with my jacket until the flames died, but the smoke continued to thicken even after the fire was finally out. It had a chemical odor, and my hands were stinging from the burn. Breathing was nearly impossible in the smoke-filled elevator.
"Are you okay in there?" the voice on the intercom asked.
The car wasn't moving, and I felt on the verge of succumbing to the smoke. I grabbed the seam between the doors and pulled as hard as I could. At first the doors didn't budge, but on the second try, they separated-not enough for me to climb out of the car to safety, but at least I could stick my nose and mouth out into the shaft and breathe.
"I need help!" I yelled.
"We're on our way!" the response came.
I stood there with my face in the crack between the metal doors. I was light-headed but refused to let myself pass out. My focus was purely on survival, but as I caught my breath, Stanley Brewer's words came back to me.
"When the motive is revenge, you never really know when-if ever-they are going to call it even."
I cast my eyes downward, peering into the dark elevator shaft below.
"Not good," I told myself. "This is definitely not good."
10.
I COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED. COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED.
The thought was sinking in as I stood outside the closed door to Eric Volke's office. The president had the largest corner office on a highly secured floor that was reserved for nine of Saxton Silvers' most senior executives. Visitors knew they were in the right place as soon as the elevator doors opened: They could smell the flowers. Roses, calla lilies, crepe myrtle, and other assortments were abundant and fresh every day, a two-hundred-thousand-dollar line item in the firm's annual operating budget. An extravagance, to be sure, particularly since no more than two or three executives were actually in the office on a typical day. Today obviously wasn't typical. It wasn't even nine o'clock and the place was buzzing.
"He's on the phone," said Nancy, Eric's assistant.
Of course he was. Eric Volke off the phone was like Tiger Woods off the golf course. "I'll wait," I said.
I took a seat on the leather sofa, and suddenly I had to catch my breath.
Damn, I really could have been killed.
Things were moving so fast. I hadn't really processed how close I'd come to burning alive inside an elevator. My hand was still stinging and red. I had decided not to go to the emergency room, even though that flaming package had probably given me a second-degree burn. I had bigger problems.
As I waited, I wondered how much more harm the anonymous sender had intended.
My cell rang, reminding me that the wheels of commerce were still turning. I had to cancel today's trip to Chicago, where I was supposed to consult with a group of real estate lawyers, bankers, and architects to make sure their multiuse building qualified as green. It was a nine-figure deal put together by our Investment Banking Division, and by missing a key meeting I ran the risk of some engineer making a decision that would throw the whole thing out of LEED compliance-no more green stamp of approval for the socially responsible class of investors I was trying to make richer. One successful green project had a way of blossoming into more, so it would hurt to lose this one, but not nearly as much as losing my entire personal portfolio.
I checked the call, let it go to voice mail, and peered through the beveled glass door. Eric was pacing from one end of his silk Sarouk rug to the other, speaking into the headset of his hands-free phone. The signs of stress were all over his face.
Eric was my mentor, the man who had hired me out of business school. Two years ago, when ditching Wall Street and changing careers had seemed like a good idea, it was Eric who'd convinced the firm to let me split my time between production and management. It sounded like two jobs, but it was more like twenty. In theory, putting Saxton Silvers' Green Division on the map meant training investment advisors across the country to "think green," but all the training in the world wasn't going to convince them to make less less money for the pension funds, retirees, and other investors who counted on the brilliant minds at Saxton Silvers to maximize their returns. Expanding "green" beyond charitable trusts and other special investor groups that were either required or predisposed to go green meant assembling and supervising an investment strategy team like no other, and then traveling across the globe to identify and nail down socially responsible opportunities that would actually make money- money for the pension funds, retirees, and other investors who counted on the brilliant minds at Saxton Silvers to maximize their returns. Expanding "green" beyond charitable trusts and other special investor groups that were either required or predisposed to go green meant assembling and supervising an investment strategy team like no other, and then traveling across the globe to identify and nail down socially responsible opportunities that would actually make money-lots of money. " of money. "Show them-don't tell them-that green belongs in their portfolio," was Eric's charge to me. His own career had soared since then, and for the past thirteen months he'd served as president of Saxton Silvers. Subprime fallout had made the last three hell.
"Does he know I'm here?" I asked his assistant.
"Yes. It'll be just a few minutes more. Mr. Volke wants to see you as soon as he hangs up."
I returned to my seat, and my phone buzzed again. It was Mallory, who was still at the Pierre Hotel. This was the third time she'd speed-dialed me since I'd called to tell her about "a little mishap" in the elevator.
"Why is there a security guard outside my door?" she asked.
I could hear the strain in her voice, and I tried to reassure her. "Honey, it's like I explained earlier: The lawyer thinks somebody might be trying to even an old score with me. It's better to be safe than sorry, so I asked the firm to arrange for a bodyguard."
"Michael, you're not telling me everything. Juan called over here from the front desk to see if I needed a ride home. According to him, everyone in our building is talking about the package that burst into flames and almost burned you alive in the elevator. The FBI was even there."
It had been a mistake not to tell Mallory the whole story, but my intentions had been good. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to freak you out. I've already talked with the FBI, and the security guard outside your door is just a precaution. This is going to be okay."
"How can you say that? Somebody tried to kill you!"
"Nobody was trying to kill me. Even the FBI said so."
"What?"
"It was just a stunt. The only reason it was dangerous was because I happened to open the package inside the elevator, where the smoke got to me. There was no way the sender knew where I was going to open it."
"Well, I suppose that's true. But it could could have killed you. And whatever it was, it sure wasn't a love note." have killed you. And whatever it was, it sure wasn't a love note."
"You're right. Someone is definitely trying to scare us."
"And doing a damn fine job of it. This is all too crazy. Why is this happening?"
"We don't know yet. But we have the best of the best working on it. I'm meeting with Eric as soon as-wait. He just got off the phone. I have to go, okay?"
"Call me just as soon as you know anything more."
I promised I would and hung up.
Nancy opened the glass doors and escorted me into the president's office. Eric was a handsome man with a touch of gray hair at the temples, the strong handshake of a former Olympic rower (Munich '72), and impeccable taste in custom-tailored suits from Hong Kong. Decorating the walls of his spacious office were a dozen large underwater photographs that he had taken while scuba diving the most spectacular reefs in the world. He was the one senior manager who consistently took the time to talk one-on-one with up-and-comers like me to make sure we weren't getting too wound up and heading toward burnout-which was amazing, given the constant pressure he worked under. He was president of an institution that derived 40 percent of its annual revenue and 70 percent of its profit from its most risky and volatile line of business: trading and investing. Even in bull markets, the firm's trading desk spent forty days a year operating in the red. In other words, Saxton Silvers' Investment Banking Division could arrange the biggest deals in town, its Asset Management Division could manage client portfolios with precision, and one boneheaded call by a single group of traders could still land the entire firm in the toilet.
This morning, the stress had tightened its grip on Eric's facial muscles beyond normal. Before he could even try to flash a semblance of a smile and greet me, he was on another phone call and speaking into the headset. He motioned for me to sit on the couch by the window. Listening to Eric, I quickly realized that he was talking to our CEO, who, as usual for this time of year, was in Palm Beach. It was the first time I'd witnessed Eric in what appeared to be the financial equivalent of code blue. He spoke clipped, rapid-fire sentences into his headset.
"As of this morning cash reserves were at twenty-nine billion," Eric said. "I've checked with the finance desk, the repo desk, the treasurer and asked each of them point-blank-has anyone heard of any margin calls from our major lenders? No. A trade gone bad? No. Anything out of the normal course? Across the board the answer was absolutely not. No problems."
The call lasted another two or three minutes, and it was abundantly clear that my identity theft and personal financial problems were not on the president's radar. Eric ended the call by ripping off his headset and throwing it on the floor. He was seething, apparently in desperate need of a punching bag. But he was the ultimate multitasker, never missing anything out of the ordinary.
"What the hell happened to your hand?"
I looked down and saw it was turning lobster red. I told him quickly about the package.
"Shit like that happens when people lose money. We've had nuts walk into branch offices and start shooting. Be careful. Did you call the police?"
"Sonya's got the FBI on it," I said. "But this is just the latest in a much larger problem."
"No shit," he said, and suddenly we were no longer talking about me. "Biggest financial crisis Saxton Silvers has faced in its hundred-fifty-seven-year history, and I can't get our CEO to cancel his tee time and deal with it."
I said nothing. I knew by now when to shut up and let him process his anger. Finally he looked at me and said, "It's going to hit the fan today-huge."
"What's wrong?"
Eric went to the window and looked off into the distance. The morning sun gave a warm glow to the new leaves and blossoms in Central Park, confirming that April showers really do bring May flowers. Eric seemed oblivious to the spectacular view, still stuck in the icy grip of winter.
He said, "The plan had been to hold the bad news until after the close of trading today. But it leaked. Nothing we can do now but watch the big board and hold on to our asses."
"How bad is it?" I asked.
He shook his head and said, "Another subprime write down."
I swallowed hard. At the start of the housing slump last autumn, Eric had been forced to confirm a leak to the media that Saxton Silvers would burn $1.6 billion of its cash reserves to bail out two of its wholly owned hedge funds that were on the brink of bankruptcy from subprime losses. The firm still managed to report a profit of $9.3 billion for the year, even after payment of $16.5 billion in compensation and benefits.
"How big is this one?" I asked.
Eric turned and looked at me. "Twenty-two."
The number hit me like a five iron to the forehead. "I assume you don't mean million."
"If only," he said with a mirthless chuckle.
It was a staggering sum, but it was what happened when mortgage originators linked up with an unregulated Wall Street-two wires you really don't want to cross. The irony was that since 9/11, most of the federal dollars that had gone toward regulation of financial institutions had been redirected to Homeland Security. Now, in the absence of that regulation, Saxton Silvers was writing down another $22 billion in losses-nearly half the entire annual budget for Homeland Security.
"Is it all subprime?" I asked.
"Every penny."
Eric turned away again and looked out the window. His gaze swept across Midtown from Madison to Seventh Avenue, where in turn he could literally see the shining world headquarters of Bear Stearns and then Lehman Brothers. Sandwiched between the two, painted on the side of a building, was a big blue-and-white ad for AIG.
"And who the hell knows where it really ends?" he said.
11.
CHUCK B BELL GOT TO WORK EARLY-EIGHT HOURS BEFORE HE USUALLY checked in for his talk-and-analysis program, checked in for his talk-and-analysis program, Bell Ringer Bell Ringer, the top-rated television show on Financial News Network.
"Morning, Chrissie," he said on his way through the FNN lobby.
Bell called the receptionist Chrissie only because everyone knew that he hated to be called anything but Christopher. Bell continued through the lobby, slowing only to rub the hoof on a miniature replica of the famous seven-thousand-pound bronze sculpture of a charging bull that sits in the Financial District two blocks from the New York Stock Exchange. Bulls are good on Wall Street. Bears are bad. The financial world is big on animal references, most of which come from the nineteenth-century London Stock Exchange, including "lame duck," which originally meant a debtor who couldn't pay his debts.
This morning, Bell was poised to break a story that would turn plenty of bull riders into lame ducks in the classic sense.
Bell had made his mark as a hugely successful hedge-fund manager, and then he retired at the age of thirty-seven to pursue a second career in journalism. His first show on FNN-a serious attempt at market analysis-was a total flop. His research was suspect, his predictions were usually wrong, and the "nice-guy" demeanor the network foisted upon him just didn't fit. Bell had been notorious for his temper in the business world, and finally the geniuses at FNN realized that he came across as someone who knew what he was talking about only when shouting angrily at the top of his lungs. They renamed the show Bell Ringer Bell Ringer, created a set that looked more like a boxing ring than the stock exchange, and let Bell just be himself. The show was an instant hit. "Suze Orman meets Jerry Springer," critics called it. Viewers especially loved his stunts-like the time Bell rolled up his shirtsleeves, pulled on a pair of boxing gloves, and beat the living crap out of two guys dressed up as Smokey and Yogi the last time the market went from bull to bear. Whenever something good happened-a stock catching fire, or a bear hitting the canvas-it drew the same reaction from the host: "That's a Bell Ringer!" he would shout.
Normally Bell's show didn't air until five P.M P.M., but today's big news was happening before breakfast. Bell wanted a piece of the story in real time.
"Go home, Chuck."
Bell turned to find Rosario Reynolds standing two feet away from him. Rosario was the female half of FNN's popular morning duo-the young, energetic, and gorgeous counterpart to the stodgy old Wall Street fat cat who, bloggers said, couldn't keep his dirty-old-man eyes off her breasts.
"Rrrrrosario," Bell said, trilling the R R for added annoyance. "How's my international superstar this morning?" for added annoyance. "How's my international superstar this morning?"