“Let the blood I have shed not be in vain,” the man prayed. “Let it be that any deed done to bring about Your Son’s return is a blessing.”
He raised the snake over his head and continued to pray until his muscles ached from the awkward weight. Gradually, his mind quieted and faded back into the far reaches until the universe consisted only of himself, the serpent, and God—the three of them bound in a strange trinity. When his prayer finally ended, he lowered the snake and replaced it in the terrarium. As he withdrew his hands it happened, a blur of movement.
He jerked away, seeing the red punctures in the thin web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. The fangs had gone right through the narrow band of flesh, which meant the amount of venom in his system would be slight. However, fire already consumed his entire hand. The throbbing pain rocketed up his arm and threatened to drag him to his knees.
He staggered to the chair and sat, willing himself to perfect stillness. He began to pray, knowing he had to embrace his pain, show God his absolute faith. This was a test, he knew, a demand for him to prove his fortitude. Only the strongest and most devout would be allowed to light the fires of Armageddon.
ONE
NEW YORK, JUNE 6
THE OLD GRANITE MANSION JUST off Fifth Avenue in the high Sixties lorded austerely over its more mundane neighbors. Brent Lucas gazed at the brass plaque beside the polished front doors, thinking it was no accident that the name “Genesis Advisors” was barely visible from the sidewalk. GA, as it was known in the financial community, understood that its very wealthy clients appreciated understatement.
Brent took a deep breath and started up the steps. At the top he re-centered his tie and rang the white buzzer. Almost as an afterthought, he pushed the record button on the tape recorder hidden in his pocket.
After several moments the door swung back, and a plump woman with a helmet of dyed black hair held out her hand. “Brent! Let me welcome you to Genesis Advisors,” she said.
He recognized Betty Dowager, Executive Assistant to the firm’s chairman, Prescott Biddle. “Mr. Biddle is traveling,” she said. “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Wofford is going to handle your orientation.”
He followed her thick calves up the carpeted staircase. It was still early, the building hushed, the air smelling of oiled wood and leather. The firm was only a dozen years old, but the historic mansion provided an aura of prestige and stability. An atmosphere of blue blood and old money oozed from its mahogany paneled walls and from the impressive paintings and antiques.
They went down a hallway to a pair of tall doors. After several years in a Boston skyscraper, Brent thought it felt more like some exclusive private club than an office, as if any second he might stumble upon a game of high-stakes backgammon.
Betty opened the doors to an anteroom where a secretary worked at an antique desk with an inlaid leather surface, then led him through another door into an ornately furnished office with heavy brocade drapes over tall windows. The firm’s number two partner rose from his chair and stepped around the desk to greet his visitor.
“Welcome, Brent,” Fred Wofford rumbled in his slightly nasal twang. He was a bear of a man in his early sixties, with stooped shoulders, a heavy gut, and a halo of perspiration atop his mostly bald scalp, an utter contrast to the athletic chairman, Prescott Biddle. “Come on in and sit down,” he said, offering a damp handshake.
He waddled around the desk and crashed in his swivel chair, looked at Brent, and then let out a chuckle. “Yale, Stanford MBA, All-American football player,” he said. “You’re smart and competitive and analytical. Just the kind of man we’re looking for.”
Wofford went on in a similar vein for several more minutes then folded his meaty hands on the desktop. “We covered most of it in the interviews,” he said, his smile fading. “But there are a few details we didn’t get to—mainly about communications. Knowledge is power, Brent. All we’ve got to sell here is our performance.”
Brent nodded, knowing what was coming next. Everyone on the street, and for that matter most investors in America, knew about Prescott Biddle’s legendary track record. Biddle had been among the first public investors in Microsoft, Cisco, and AOL. He’d ridden WorldCom up then shorted it within ten percent of the top, even shorted the whole market the summer before 9/11. More recently he’d been early in Research In Motion, Google, and Intuitive Surgical. He’d been in and out of real estate, commodities, and highflying stocks like a man with a crystal ball.
Prescott Biddle’s results had been nothing short of extraordinary. In the eyes of the Justice Department they’d been too amazing, and that was the real reason Brent was here. He pretended to scratch himself as he dropped a hand to his jacket and felt the slight vibration of the recorder, making sure it was turned on.
“People follow us on the street,” Wofford continued. “They hang on our conversations in restaurants, they search our trash to find out what we’re doing. My point is—we are very careful, and we don’t allow leaks—ever. I can’t overstate the importance of confidentiality.”
Brent nodded.
Wofford glanced down at his interlaced his fingers then gave Brent an embarrassed smile. “I assure you I’m not bringing this up because of that little… incident in Boston.”
Brent’s gaze faltered momentarily. “I disclosed all that in the interviews,” he said.
Wofford held up a hand to stop him. “We know why you blew the whistle,” he said quickly.
He was referring to how some of Brent’s fellow portfolio managers had been making millions in their personal accounts by trading fund shares after the close of the market, at times when major news announcements would make stocks open sharply up or down the next day. It was done quietly and privately, but it happened to be highly illegal.
“In fact, your commitment to doing the right thing is one of the reasons we picked you,” Wofford said.
Brent nodded, feeling a twinge of guilt at the tape recorder running in his pocket.
Wofford waved a hand. “I only mention this because we are a Christian firm. We wouldn’t turn a blind eye. If you see anything improper here, you bring it to Prescott or myself. Have faith that we will correct our mistakes.”
Brent was about to reply when Wofford’s gaze left his face and drifted to something over his shoulder. He glanced back, thinking someone had come into the office, but saw only a large portrait on the wall he had missed when he walked in. It was savage and violent, a depiction of Jesus on the cross, hands pierced with heavy spikes, cheeks concave and inked with shadow, eyes haunted with unspeakable pain.
Brent turned back and waited. Wofford slowly tore his eyes from the painting.
“Welcome to the firm,” he said at last.
TWO
NEW YORK, JUNE 8
“HERE’S TO PROGRESS,” UNCLE FRED said, raising his wine glass in a toast. “It was a long slog, but you got there.”
Brent smiled and raised his own glass. “Thanks.”
“But you’re in the same shitty industry,” Fred said, shaking his head. “After all that crap in Boston you should’ve wised up.”
Brent would have resented the comment coming from anyone else, but since Fred had raised him from the time his mother died, he shoveled a forkful of pasta bolognaise into his mouth and took it. They were at a restaurant in Little Italy, Brent’s treat on his uncle’s first foray into Manhattan in probably ten years.