Jersey City
Thom Martiel opened the door to his office on the twenty-eighth floor, but instead of going in, he simply stared into the shadows beyond. “How exactly is this supposed to work?”
“Just do what you would ordinarily do,” Stone said, and then turned and pushed forward into the office. The lights flickered on automatically, revealing a surprisingly utilitarian workspace with very little in the way of décor, and zero personal touches—no photographs of family and friends, no mementos of prior accomplishment. That was how it looked to Tam as she surveyed the office through Stone’s eyes, or more specifically, through the tiny pinhole camera concealed in the frame of the horn-rimmed glasses he was wearing.
The camera, along with a miniature two-way radio unit hidden in Stone’s suit jacket, was the next best thing to being there in the room with the two men, but Tam’s attention was divided between the task of following along, and watching the high-rise building’s main entrances and internal security cameras from the back of a surveillance van parked in the garage across the street. It was a lot to keep track of for one person, but with the rest of her team already on their way to Europe, and Billy Sievers covering the lobby of the building, she was it.
The office was mostly taken up by the desk, the top of which was empty except for a pair of flat-screen computer monitors positioned side-by-side in a herringbone configuration. The workstation was nearly identical to those occupying the desks of the open office behind them where several of Martiel’s co-workers were already busy with their respective duties. As a senior account executive, Martiel evidently rated a private if not exactly luxurious workspace. Evidently, he wasn’t senior enough to rate an office with windows, but Tam suspected a view of the Manhattan skyline would have been wasted on someone like Martiel.
Stone pulled one of the guest chairs around to the working side of the desk, positioning it alongside Martiel’s plush executive chair, and then settled into it.
Martiel frowned but then advanced into the room and took his seat. He had not put up much of a fight when Tam suggested he return to work and continue as if nothing had happened. In fact, he seemed to latch on to the idea that getting back to business as usual meant the danger was past, and Tam, at Stone’s urging, had said nothing to disabuse him of the notion.
He opened a drawer, took out a wireless headset, which he donned, and then pulled out the under-desk tray which concealed an ergonomic keyboard and mouse controller. After another moment of hesitation, Martiel gave the mouse a nudge, and the dual screens flashed on. The banker tapped in his password, and then clicked on a desktop icon marked “MYSTIC.”
“Should I explain what I do?” Martiel said as the browser window launched.
“Buy low, sell high, right?” Stone replied. Tam knew he probably understood the intricacies of the market better than even Martiel, but since he was posing as an intern “learning the ropes,” it made sense to play dumb.
Martiel uttered a short, humorless laugh. “Maybe if you’re a day trader. In our world, it’s a little more complicated than that. Our clients depend on us for long term sustainable ROI—that’s return on investment. Waiting for windfalls and speculating may seem attractive, but it’s not a pathway to financial security. There’s usually a very good reason why a particular asset might be trading low. Buying in quantity might help drive the price back up, or you could end up with a big pile of worthless paper.” He nodded to the screen. “That’s where Mystic comes in. It’s our primary trading platform. Not just ours, actually. Everyone uses it. It employs an advanced heuristic algorithm for trend forecasting and risk analysis.”
“Heuristic?” Stone prompted, almost certainly for Tam’s benefit.
“It’s self-refining. Always learning.”
“It’s an artificial intelligence?”
“Yes, but not in the science fiction sense. It’s more like a cross between Google and a sophisticated chess computer, but on a massive scale. Mystic crunches an unbelievable amount of data. Not just what the markets are doing, but other factors—socioeconomic, geopolitical, and so forth. And then it predicts outcomes which we use to determine the best investment strategy.”
“Is it always right?”
“Better to say ‘reliable.’ You can’t really quantify the outcomes in absolute terms like ‘right’ or ‘wrong.’ There are a lot of factors that even Mystic can’t account for—”
“Such as?”
“Well, like I said, everyone uses it, so everyone is getting the same information. So, if Mystic says to invest in pork belly futures, and everyone does, it’s going to have unforeseeable ripple effects. Mystic can anticipate that to some degree, but there’s always going to be uncertainty. The X factor. That’s why there always has to be a real live person at the wheel to make the final decision. Don’t get me wrong, though. It’s an invaluable tool. And getting better all the time.”
The scene on Tam’s screen shifted as Stone leaned forward. “When you say ‘everyone uses it’...?”
“I mean everyone. All the major players. The system is proprietary, developed by Iron River Asset Management... Are you familiar with them?”
Stone shook his head.
“You know how conspiracy nuts always talk about a secret organization that controls the world? Well, Iron River is just about as close as you can get, though it’s not really a secret and they don’t have a sinister agenda or anything. They made a lot of smart investments—mostly because they had Mystic working for them—and got huge. They’ve got a controlling stake in thirty of the top fifty corporations worldwide, and directly control well over five trillion in assets.”
As Martiel was speaking, Tam used her own computer to search the Internet for “Iron River.” To her surprise and dismay, the search confirmed everything Martiel had just said. According to reputable news outlets, the company, headquartered in the Pacific Northwest, controlled an estimated seven percent of the global economy, which gave them enormous political sway as well.
“You said ‘everyone uses it,’” Stone pressed. “What did you mean by that?”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Aside from their own investments, Iron River sells access to Mystic. It’s simply the best predictive algorithm available, so all the banks and investment houses use it.”
“So if someone could manipulate the data—input and output—they could influence the markets.”
Martiel feigned shock at the suggestion. “Well, they could, but that would be illegal of course.” He smiled and shook his head. “The short answer is yes, but the whole point of a system like Mystic is to maintain market stability in the face of uncertainties. Trying to manipulate the system to influence trading behaviors defeats the purpose. It would be like...” He paused, searching for the right analogy. “Developing a foolproof card counting method for playing blackjack, and then trying to deal off the bottom of the deck.”
Stone seemed to ponder this answer for a moment, then said, “Mind if I give it a try?”
Despite the modulating effect of the radio transmission, Tam could hear the eagerness in his voice. If Mystic was a sort of chess computer, then Stone was the human grandmaster eager to test himself against it.
Martiel registered surprise but then shrugged. “I don’t see why not. All trades require my approval, so there’s not much chance of you crashing the plane, as it were.” He pushed away from the desk making room in front of the computer. The picture on the screen shifted as Stone slid his chair over to take Martiel’s place, and then the camera feed was completely dominated by the dual-screens display.
“Let’s try currency exchanges,” Martiel suggested. “Just click on the tab with—”
Stone moved the cursor over the virtual button and clicked on it before Martiel could complete the thought, and a new screen appeared.
Martiel talked him through the basic functions of the application. It was evident to Tam, even from her removed vantage, that Stone was miles ahead of the tutorial, but he patiently followed along, asking questions about the intricacies of the system. Martiel directed him to research several foreign currencies, and then explained the output, which in this case, indicated a strong future for Chinese yuan.
After a while, Tam tuned out the discussion and focused on her surveillance of the building. She switched the radio to the frequency Sievers was using. “How’s it looking in there, Billy?”
“Just a little bit less excitin’ than watchin’ bullcrap dry in the sun,” came the reply in a deeply exaggerated Texas drawl. Sievers sounded alert despite the fact he had been up all night rebuilding the engine on his Mustang.
“Wanna trade places?”
“Not on your life, darlin’. At least in here I can get coffee and watch all the pretty ladies walking by.”
“Uh, huh. Well, don’t let yourself get too distracted.”
“Don’t worry,” Sievers replied, his tone taking on a harder edge and losing the accent. Mostly. “Nobody’s getting in or out of this place without going through me first.”
Tam smiled and signed off, but despite Sievers’ assurances, she was uneasy. If Stone was right—and she had little doubt that he was—whatever the Immortal was planning, it wasn’t going to be as obvious as what had happened the previous night.
Sievers’ colorful description of the ongoing surveillance was apt, but Stone seemed to be enjoying himself.
The morning passed without incident, but shortly after noon, Martiel expressed a desire to stretch his legs. “I usually hit the fitness center about now. Is that okay?”
Stone inclined his head. “I’ll join you.”
From her virtual vantage-point, Tam consulted the building floor plan, and then switched to Sievers’ frequency. “Billy, you ready for a change of scenery?”
“You going stir crazy over there?” Sievers replied with a chuckle.
“No...well, yes, but that’s not what I mean. Our subject is moving to the fitness center.”
“Fitness center?” Sievers snorted. “Rat race ain’t enough exercise for these guys? All right, where is it?”
“Second floor. He’ll be a lot more exposed there than in his office.”
“Gotcha. I’ll go keep an eye on them.”
The main screen showed Martiel moving ahead of Stone, exiting the bank’s offices and heading down the hallway. As they waited at the elevators, Stone spoke in a low voice, his words clearly meant only for Tam’s ears.
“I think I know what’s going on.”
“Iron River, right?” Tam guessed.
A loud bell tone rang out, and the doors to the elevator at the end opened. As Stone swung his gaze toward it, Tam saw a couple of passengers already occupying it, but before she could get a good look at them, Martiel stepped in front of Stone, blocking her view.
“Not Iron River,” Stone whispered as he followed the other man into the elevator car. “It’s Mystic. All of the—”
The video feed abruptly went dark.
“Stone!”
No response.
“Shit!”
Billy Sievers knew how Tam felt about profanity, so he when he heard her expletive, he was instantly on full alert. “What’s wrong?”
“I just lost Stone’s signal. I think it’s happening.”
“Where are they?” Sievers knew better than to ask if the problem was due to local interference. A sudden loss of signal could only be the result of active multi-spectrum frequency jamming. As if to confirm this suspicion, he heard a crackle of static in his own earpiece.
The Immortal was making his move.
“Tam?”
“I still read you. We’re getting some interference. They were just getting in the elevator.”
Sievers dashed across the lobby to the central elevator bay, scanned the indicators mounted above each set of double doors. Two showed downward-pointing arrows, one just passing the twentieth floor, and the other evidently stopped at the third. “Which one are they in?”
He heard nothing but static in his earpiece now. The RF jammer was probably right above him, a couple hundred feet up the elevator shaft.
Tam’s voice abruptly cut back in. “—the end. Left side. Your left side.”
He muttered a curse of his own as he moved down the row, but even from a distance, he could see that the indicator above that particular car was pointing up. The car on the opposite side was stopped on the twenty-second floor and not moving. A knot of dread tightened around Sievers’ gut. He darted back to the opposite end, hoping that Tam had simply gotten her directions reversed, but neither of the cars at that end was moving.
Tam hadn’t gotten turned around. The car she had seen Stone and Martiel get into was ascending. Rising from the twenty-eighth floor, where Martiel’s banking firm was located, through the thirties.
Up not down.
“Crap,” he snarled, jumping forward and stabbing the call button. He understood now why the radio was working again. “They’re going to the roof.”
“Get up there, Billy.”
A bell tone signaled the arrival of a car in response to his summons. Under almost any other circumstances, he would have taken the stairs instead of the elevator, but forty-two floors was a long haul, and there was no time left on the clock. He darted into it and hit the button for his destination, but as the doors started to close, a hand shot through the narrowing gap.
Sievers’ own hand dipped beneath his leather bomber jacket, to curl around the grip of the compact SIG Sauer P228 concealed in a shoulder holster under his left arm, but when the doors parted again to reveal a balding, overweight man in a rumpled suit, jabbering into his phone, Sievers reached instead for his wallet. He flashed his cover credentials, which identified him as a special investigator with the Securities and Exchange Commission, and extended his free hand, palm out, to block the would-be passenger. “This one’s full,” he said.
The man gawped at him, seemingly paralyzed, so Sievers gave him a firm push until the doorway was clear. This time it closed without interference.
As the car began rising, Sievers hit the illuminated ‘42’ button repeatedly, even though he knew it would have no effect.
“Too bad this thing doesn’t have a button for NOS,” he muttered as the indicator slowly ticked through the floors.
The ascent seemed to take forever, but thankfully the ride was non-stop all the way to the top floor. As soon as the doors began to open, he was moving, pushing through and sprinting down the hallway toward the roof access stairwell. Unlike the busy lobby, the uppermost story was as quiet as a funeral parlor; the only sound Sievers could hear was the thud of his footsteps on the carpeted floor. He hit the door to the stairwell at a full run, slamming it back against the wall with a noise that seemed as loud as a gunshot, and pounded up the stairs two at a time. Another door barred his way to the roof, but he burst through that as well, and into a blast of wind.
The rooftop of the high-rise was sheltered on all sides by a high wall, part of the tower’s eco-friendly design, but the wind whipping across the open top created a weird low-pressure environment that seemed to suck the air right out of his lungs. He drew his pistol and started forward, hastily clearing the blind corners around the HVAC units and other superstructures, on his way to the steep metal stairs that led up to the catwalk atop the perimeter wall. He saw no sign of anyone on the rooftop. He crept up the stairs, getting just a glimpse of the spectacular unrestricted three hundred and sixty-degree view of the entire New York City skyline, before ducking back down, just in case one of the Immortal’s goons was waiting to take a potshot at him, but the catwalk was similarly deserted. The only thing moving was the wind.
He poked his head up again, leading with the pistol and stepped up onto the catwalk, and that was when he saw them.
A pair of figures, momentarily silhouetted against the shimmering, sun-dappled surface of the East River, as they fell away into oblivion.
He holstered his pistol and keyed his radio mic. “Uh, you’re not going to believe this. They just jumped.”