SUNDAY
Reynolds Thane took the predawn flight from Charlotte-Mecklenburg to Washington-Dulles. His plane was delayed because of fog, and he almost missed his connection to Bermuda. He normally traveled aboard the bank’s Gulfstream. It was the first time Reynolds had flown commercial in three years.
Hamilton, the capital of Bermuda, was a teacup fantasy sort of city. Hamilton officially contained 1,100 citizens. There were twice that number of financial establishments. But resident bankers were not counted. The locals did not consider bankers on work visas as, well, real people.
The limo driver was a taciturn islander with the face of a burned prune. Reynolds gave the address of Sir Trevor’s secret bank. The journey into Hamilton was pleasant enough. The city was a throwback to a different era, the brightly whitewashed buildings holding to a charming colonial flavor. Reynolds considered it as fake and uninteresting as Disney World.
The correct term for their Bermuda project was off-book—no direct tie between the parent bank and the Bermuda operation. Most off-book schemes were paper only. Many international banks used a local attorney to establish a shell company where they parked toxic assets and high-risk ventures that might otherwise raise red flags with the regulatory authorities. It had been a favorite tactic of banks before the 2008 meltdown, and the ploy was now making a comeback.
What made Sir Trevor’s operation unique was its size. There had not been an off-book venture this large since Enron tanked.
When the limo halted on Reid Street, Reynolds stepped out and had a look around. Trevor’s bank occupied the top three floors of the Perry Building. The traders had a nice view of the Cabinet Gardens and the sparkling blue waters of Hamilton Harbor.
He returned to the limo. As they drove along Front Street to the Hamilton Princess Beach Club, Reynolds watched a sailing regatta in the bay. Tourists lined the park-side walk, photographing the brightly colored spinnakers while a string quartet played waltzes under a Victorian pavilion. It was a fitting tribute, Reynolds decided, to the current state of affairs. The idle rich looking on as the band played its final tune.
Jason was pacing the hotel’s forecourt when Reynolds’s limo pulled up. The bank’s supposedly missing chief trader had sweated through his starched shirt, though the temperature was barely eighty degrees. He now waited impatiently as Reynolds booked the return journey for noon the following day. Jason then led him into the hotel and up to his bay-front suite. The parlor’s French doors stood open to the sea breeze, and a buffet lunch had been laid out on the credenza. “You want anything else?”
“This will do nicely,” Reynolds replied.
Jason tipped the bellhop, dismissed the waiter, then demanded, “What are you doing here?”
Reynolds took his time loading a plate, pouring himself a cup of coffee, selecting the chair with the best view. He took a couple of bites, knowing that Jason was about to explode. Timing, he reflected, was everything. Then he said, “If anyone asks, I have heard you are thinking of making this a permanent shift. I am here to convince you otherwise.”
Jason settled into a chair. “Works for me.”
“How is the operation proceeding?”
“We received the first two billion from Sir Trevor yesterday. It’s already in play. Initial results won’t be known until Monday.”
“Keep all trades on a maximum twenty-four-hour window.”
Jason frowned. “That limits our options.”
“Even so, we want all the money put out on a very short leash.” Which described precisely the best way to handle this man.
Jason shrugged. He would obey because he had no choice. “Was that why you came?”
“Of course not. We could have handled that via the scrambler.” Reynolds pushed his plate aside. “We need to talk about Esther Larsen.”
That caught Jason by surprise. “What about her?”
“So, you haven’t seen her website.” Reynolds pulled a tablet computer from his briefcase, drew up the site, then turned the tablet around so Jason could see it.
Jason squinted at the screen. “The Book of Esther? What kind of joke is this?”
“I thought the exact same thing when the chairman of Bradenton Industries brought it to my attention.”
Jason lifted his gaze. Bradenton was a six-billion-dollar behemoth that owned eight percent of CFM. “What did he tell you?”
“That the site had gone viral.” Reynolds tapped the right side of the screen. “Have a look at her list of sponsors.”
Jason wanted to dismiss it out of hand. Which had been precisely Reynolds’s first reaction. But the longer he scrolled down the list, the more confused Jason became. “How long has this been going on?”
“Three days. Less.”
“That’s impossible—”
“But real nonetheless.” Reynolds stood and addressed the brilliant day beyond the window. “The site contains three components. First there is the layman’s introduction to what Esther claims are dangerous tactics being taken by certain banks. Banks she goes on to name. Sixteen in the US, forty-seven more around the world.”
“Are we on that list?”
“Unfortunately not. Otherwise we would already have brought her up on charges.”
“The other components?”
“Apparently Esther has developed a series of algorithms for measuring global economic risk.” Reynolds lifted a hand, halting Jason’s question before it was formed. “These have nothing to do with our own trademarked calculations. Sir Trevor had his analysts work around the clock. They say her structure is, well, astonishing is the word they used. Unique.”
“She’s spent the past year or so harping about how the national economies are too interlinked to be isolated,” Jason conceded.
Reynolds nodded. “I saw the reports.”
“And the third component?”
“She has a list of six steps people should make. She urges everyone to withdraw their business from what she refers to as the ‘tainted institutions.’”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Reynolds watched Jason shove the tablet away and lean back in his chair. Dismissing the news, which was what Reynolds desperately hoped they would be able to do. “Her website has received four hundred and sixty thousand unique visitors. The site includes a counter.”
Jason mulled that over, then shrugged. “She could be padding the numbers. Even if she isn’t, what difference does it make?”
Reynolds took a long breath of the salt-laden air, made a mental note to book a tee time with one of the island’s finer courses. He walked back to the table. “Did you sweep this room for bugs?”
“Of course. But . . . Esther Larsen has you that worried?”
Reynolds was tempted to go against Sir Trevor’s edict and tell Jason the truth. That Esther’s predictions were too close to the crux of their real strategy. Sooner or later, Jason was bound to realize what their true motives were. He was, after all, a trader. Jason thrived on ferreting out the unseen. But Sir Trevor had been adamant.
Reluctantly, Reynolds held to the party line. “Do you recall the board meeting last week when you requested the additional two billion?”
“Of course. I don’t see what—”
“I did not invite Esther to join us because I wanted her input.” Reynolds liked Jason’s look of uncertainty. Keeping him off-balance was crucial to their plans. “I did so because I needed to know whether she could be controlled.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Put simply, I needed to know whether Esther could be forced to stay silent. We can’t have our in-house risk manager blowing the horn about our endeavors.”
“You think she knows?”
“She is bound to suspect. We need to be certain she never utters a word.” Reynolds pointed to his tablet, still showing Esther’s home page. “Four hundred and sixty thousand visitors in three days. A list of sponsors that already contains six Fortune Fifty companies. What if they do as she says? What if this continues to grow? They could strangle us. And even if it doesn’t, this is absolutely the wrong kind of attention.”
“I should have been monitoring her more closely.” Jason slowly shook his head. “When I get back I will personally destroy—”
“You will do nothing.” Reynolds waited until Jason met his gaze, then added, “Unless I give you the word.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I want you to develop a strategy for ending this threat. An accident would be best. Keep everything at arm’s length.” Reynolds kept his voice calm. “Multiple layers of protection between you and . . . whatever you think might be necessary.”
“You want me . . .”
“Don’t make any moves until I say to,” Reynolds repeated. “But if I ask you to reconsider your options, then you have the green light.”