The key to this afternoon’s mayhem: The Fed’s move had caught the market by surprise — most of it, anyway.
Jack Jensen sat calmly in the middle of the chaos, gazing at two photographs he kept tucked into his cramped position between the bank of phones he used to trade his nine-hundred-million-dollar bond portfolio.
Traders didn’t have cushy offices like their investment banking counterparts at the firm. They operated from tight quarters, with other traders a few feet away on all sides. More than six hundred people packed this room, and many of them were going manic right now.
Jack gazed at the photo of his wife, Karen. She was a pretty, slender brunette with delicate features and a lovely, symmetrical smile. Well, it used to be lovely and symmetrical. Nine months ago she’d been shot in the head. Even after all the rehab, she was still having problems walking. Her speech had been affected as well, as had that lovely smile. She could no longer control the left side of her face, so the smile was crooked most of the time.
Jack had married her two months ago on a summer morning in a church outside Greenwich, Connecticut. He loved her so much — still.
His eyes shifted to the photo of his brother, Troy, standing before a crab boat christened the Arctic Fire as it lay at anchor in Alaska’s Dutch Harbor. Two years younger than Jack, Troy was a tremendous athlete who’d conquered the Seven Summits and circumnavigated the globe in a sailboat alone — all by his late twenties. Perfectly proportioned, he had dirty blond hair that fell to the bottom of his collar in the back as well as laserlike blue eyes and a killer smile women adored.
He and Troy were different in many ways. Troy acted on impulse and feared nothing. Jack analyzed everything and acted deliberately. Hell, they didn’t even look alike, Jack thought to himself wryly with a soft chuckle. He was taller and darker and not nearly as well proportioned as Troy, with a smile in photographs that seemed forced and less charismatic.
Of course, there was a glaring reason they didn’t look alike. Cheryl was their mother. But only Troy was blood to Bill Jensen.
Jack’s eyes narrowed as he stared. Despite all the differences, they were close as hell. They always had been, even though Troy was the star of the family and Bill’s favorite while they were growing up. Jack hadn’t spoken to Troy in nearly two weeks, and he knew what that meant. The kid was in some far-off shadow of the world, protecting a population who’d never be able to thank him because they’d never know he was there.
“Jesus Christ! What am I gonna do? I mean, what the hell am I going to do?”
Jack’s gaze darted toward Russell Hill, who occupied the position immediately to the left on this bulkhead, which ran down the spine of the huge room. The red-haired young man, who always wore flashy suspenders along with an arrogant attitude, was not himself.
“Easy,” Jack urged loudly above the roar. “Stay calm. Calm always wins the day.”
“Fuck you, Jack.” Russell slammed the bulkhead counter in front of them so hard the lunch change lying on it jumped for the air. “Maybe you’re okay, but I’m down twenty-seven million in the last ten minutes.”
It sounded like a lot, and it was for any individual trader, but not for First Manhattan as a whole. Last year the firm had surpassed a trillion dollars in assets and reported more than fourteen billion in profits. Twenty-seven million was nothing in the grand scheme. Of course, it might mean Russell wouldn’t get a bonus this year, and bonuses were everything for bond traders. A trader’s after-tax salary barely covered his commute to and from Manhattan.
“I’m gonna lose my house when I don’t get shit at the end of the year,” Russell muttered desperately, burying his face in his hands. “I got nothing saved. I’m gonna lose everything.”
Until a few minutes ago, Russell had been bragging every chance he got about the ten-thousand-square-foot monstrosity he’d built last year in a ritzy area of Long Island — complete with beachfront and pool. Jack lived with Karen in a small apartment in Greenwich. The needle on Jack’s sympathy meter was barely registering.
“Cut your losses,” he suggested, leaning over so Russell could hear him above the din. “Close out your worst positions.” Russell was long on many of his trades, Jack knew, way long. If rates kept rising, Russell’s losses would continue to pile up as well. It was that frighteningly simple. “Hedge yourself.” They sat so close together Jack couldn’t help but overhear how Russell had positioned his portfolio during the last month. There were no secrets on a trading floor. “You have to.” Plus, Russell had one of those inescapable, obnoxious, foghorn voices. “You can’t risk losing any more.”
“My father wasn’t CEO of this place for thirty fucking years,” Russell snapped. “I can’t just eat twenty-seven million bucks in losses. The hell with a bonus, I’ll be fired tomorrow morning when they sort through this shitstorm. I’ve got to let it roll. I’ve got to hope this thing turns around in the next hour. But you,” he said, stabbing the air at Jack, “you don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“Oh, yeah, I do.”
“Your father got you this job. You’re safe even if he is missing. He’s still a legend around here.”
Last December Bill had left the Jensen compound — set in the countryside outside Greenwich, Connecticut — to “get some things at the store.” He’d never returned.
No one had heard anything from him in nine months, and state and federal law enforcement officials assigned to his high-profile disappearance still had no leads as to his whereabouts. People were starting to whisper that he was dead. A few months ago First Manhattan’s board of directors had replaced him as CEO.
“I’m just like you, Russell. I’ve got to make this work every day. No one cuts me any slack because of my last name.” Jack gestured at the phones in front of them. “Stop the bleeding. Make the trades. Don’t be an idiot.”
“Fuck you!” Russell screamed at the top of his lungs. He slammed the bulkhead again, reached into a drawer, grabbed a huge nickel-plated Colt .44 Magnum lying inside, and pointed it at Jack. “I’m done here. And I’m taking you and everyone else I can shoot with me!”
CHAPTER 3
“Hold up,” Troy called ahead to Pablo.
They’d just moved into a small clearing covered by smooth rocks. The jungle canopy was thick, and this was the first time Troy had gotten a good look at the sky since leaving the campground. It was becoming overcast as evening approached, he saw as he gazed up. Torrential rains were on the way, but that was good. They needed as much cover as they could get tonight.
“How far to the compound?”
“Four kilometers,” Pablo answered, “maybe five.”
For the last two hours the five men had walked, climbed, and crawled through the rugged jungle terrain in a single file with Pablo leading the way, Troy second, Bennington behind Troy, and Bennington’s two subordinates at the back, Heckler & Koch MP5s out and ready. All five of them were covered in perspiration after their grueling up-and-down through the reptile- and insect-infested jungle, and it was time to hydrate. There was nothing more important in these jungles than staying hydrated, Troy knew. It was even more crucial than steering clear of the snakes and jaguars, though not by much. Fortunately they hadn’t encountered any serious wildlife problems — yet. Of course, the animals were much more active at night.
He glanced over his shoulder at Bennington. “We take ten here. It won’t be dark for another two hours, and I don’t want to start anything until at least midnight. So we’ve got time.”