Maggie was grateful for the quiet and hoped some peace and quiet would help her sort out the feelings stirred up by Brent’s call. Before last night, they hadn’t spoken in months. The enforced silence had been her choice—five months and twenty-six days if anybody was counting—and during that time she’d been reasonably successful in keeping him out of her thoughts. Nonetheless, last night her fragile wall of self-denial had collapsed, and she had to admit she missed him terribly.
Goddam you, Brent, she said to herself, preferring anger over vulnerability. They’d dated in high school, broken up in college, dated after he graduated from Yale, broken up during his time in business school, and then gone out again when he was in Boston. This last time, after nearly two years, it had seemed, well… perfectly natural to take things to the next level. She was thirty, ready to start thinking about the future, but when she’d shared those thoughts with Brent, he’d pulled back.
She knew the reasons. They had a lot to do with Harry’s death, with his parents’ deaths before that, and Brent’s irrational fear that Lucases were poorly made for parenthood or long-term relationships. Still, she hadn’t been able to accept the way he’d become cold and distant. She’d told him she didn’t want to force him into something, but she wasn’t going to waste her life on a partner who showed no hint of changing. It broke her heart, but in the end, she’d been the one who’d called things off.
Over the past months, she’d told herself she was over him, but last night something in his voice had gotten under her skin. He’d sounded lonely and lost, and after all this time, like he was finally reaching out to her. Sadly, she wondered if she could ever be there for him again.
TWENTY
NEW YORK, JUNE 28
TUESDAY MORNING BEGAN WITH A special firm meeting. The first thing Brent noticed when he walked into the conference room was the look of barely restrained excitement on Biddle’s face. He turned to Owen Smythe, whose shrug indicated he, too, had no idea what was happening.
“First,” Biddle began once the last person sat, “a reminder that I’m going to be out of touch for the next ten days on a salmon river in Siberia. I’m leaving right after this meeting. I’ll have my sat-phone turned on about an hour each day, so you can reach me in an emergency. Betty will know the hours when I’ll be available.” Biddle smiled and looked around the room. “Call at your peril, gentlemen.”
There was muted laughter, but Biddle raised his hand for silence. “More important,” he said, his voice deepening. “The Holy Spirit spoke last night. The Lord told me that a moment of great darkness approaches. Because of that we’re going short. I want us net flat by close of trading, and by tomorrow we will be short with ninety percent of maximum leverage. The market is going to crash, gentlemen.”
There was murmur of surprise. Brent looked around at the delight etched on the faces of the other partners. What could be so important that it would change the direction of the market, he wondered? What did Biddle know?
He ran over upcoming earnings releases and government economic data but came up with nothing. Still, there was Biddle at the head of the table with a wild glint in his eyes. Why was Biddle doing this? Were Brent’s clients about to be exposed to massive risk based on some delusion? He caught himself—his clients! Reminded of why he was here, he pressed the record button and cleared his throat. “Yesterday, we were unanimous in our assessment that the market would continue moving higher.”
“Yes,” Biddle said.
“We’re going to ignore that now and reposition the entire portfolio?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to know how you justify taking that kind of risk with our clients’ money?”
An angry murmur came from the other partners, but Biddle held up his hands for silence. “Because mine is the way,” he said. He smiled around at the others then clapped his hands, dismissing the meeting. “Have a good day, gentlemen, and God bless.”
Biddle walked out, followed by the other portfolio managers. Brent remained seated. No one, not even Smythe, would meet his eye.
TWENTY-ONE
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
BRENT SAT AT HIS DESK looking over the cash balances generated from selling out his portfolios a day earlier. His first instinct had been to refuse, but when he’d called Simmons to tell her about the meeting she had instructed him to go along. Still, it was utterly nuts.
He brought up Dr. Faisal’s account on the computer and looked at the performance. The account’s value had grown from seven hundred sixty five million to nearly eight hundred twenty million in the time he’d managed it. This morning the market was roaring ahead yet again; only Biddle said there was “darkness over the world” and they had to go short. He stood and started to pace, telling himself he’d be out of there soon enough.
His phone buzzed, and he reached over and jerked it off its base. It was Joe Steward, the firm’s head trader. “I’ve got everyone else’s list. Where’s yours?” Steward barked, meaning the lists of stocks Brent would be shorting.
“You’ll have it when it’s ready,” Brent replied.
“Get your ass in gear,” Steward said and hung up.
Brent tossed the phone back into its cradle and resumed pacing. It buzzed again, and he snatched it up. “What?” he barked, expecting Steward again.
Instead, it was Betty Dowager, her voice high-pitched, anxious. “I need to come down and speak with you.”
He assumed it was because Steward had called her to complain. She was probably going to patch Biddle through on the phone and stand there as a witness while he commanded Brent to go short according to God’s holy word.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
A moment later, Betty hurried into his office and shut the door. She stood as far from him as possible, pressing her plump rear end against the doorknob. Her glasses had heavy frames with arched points at the hinges. They usually gave her an aspect of slyness, but now along with the ashen color of her cheeks they simply added to her look of concern.
She put her fist to her mouth and held her other hand over the swell of her tummy as though she had eaten something bad. “Two men are here from the FBI,” she said in a near-whisper. “They asked to see Mr. Biddle, but he’s already out of touch. Mr. Wofford is on vacation as well, and I can’t reach him. They want to talk about one of your accounts.”
Brent frowned. “Which one?”
“Dr. Faisal.”
Brent had no idea what it could be about, but he wanted no part of handling it alone. “Who’s our counsel?”
“Spencer McDonald at Tweed, Barker and Rowe. I’ve already put in a call, but he’s not available.”
“Tell the FBI guys I’ll talk to them when Mr. McDonald can be present.”
Betty shook her head. “They insist on seeing you right away.”
“Tell them I’m not here.”
She pointed over her shoulder. “They know you are. They followed me up here,” she said in a hoarse whisper. With that, she opened the door and hurried out.
Right away, a man with a linebacker’s neck, square jaw, and small eyes set into a flat face stepped into view. “Mr. Lucas,” he said. “We need to see you, sir. Right away.”
“I’ll be ready in a second,” Brent said.
“Please do not use your phone, sir,” the man said.
Brent felt his neck grow hot. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
“We’ll explain when you talk to us.”
“Well, I’m not ready yet!”