“Helped along, I could add,” Hastings, the secretary’s counsel, countered, “by a wide array of factors.”
“Yes, sir,” Naomi said, “no doubt. That’s precisely what I came here to discuss.”
She opened another file and got up, placing hastily made copies in front of the two Treasury figures. She explained that it was nothing she could be 100 percent firm on yet, just the most circumstantial links between Thibault, as mapped out by the person she had interviewed, Ty Hauck, and the two traders who had suspiciously died. Traders whose concealed losses were of such a size they were the death knells of Wertheimer Grant and Beeston Holloway, dragging the rest of the financial markets to the edge.
“And we all know where that has led,” Naomi finished up.
“You’re suggesting there’s a possible criminal connection between these two investment managers’ deaths?” Keaton drew in a hesitant breath, paging through Naomi’s exhibits.
“I’m saying that’s possible, sir,” Naomi said.
“And that it’s somehow tied back to this Mashhur al-Bashir. Through this figure Thibault? Why?”
“I’m just forwarding a theory, sir. One of our jobs is to put together possible unmaterialized threats and anticipate what might happen next.”
“Yes, yes.” Keaton rolled his hand, fast-forwarding. “Go on.”
“Okay.” Naomi took a breath. Here goes…“What if there were people on an organized basis, people of influence,” she suggested, “who wanted to do our country systemic harm, using a new strategy, a ‘change in direction,’ as they referred to it.” She steeled herself. “Not by flying a plane through our tallest buildings, like before, but by driving one, figuratively, sir, through the heart of our most vital national asset. The root of everything we stand for.”
Keaton narrowed his eyes at her. Naomi had no idea if he was buying it.
“The economy, sir,” she said. “The amount of economic wealth we have lost since the downturn, not to mention the unrest of our citizens, is impossible to measure. One could trace the start of the slide, I believe, to these two Wall Street investment houses going down.”
The treasury secretary’s face began to whiten, almost matching his hair. He nodded soberly, glancing at his chief counsel, and seemed to draw his words with care. “But who would possibly gain? We are in a global economy. Every stock exchange around the world is reeling from the decline. Oil is selling at less than half what it once was. It would be economic suicide.”
Naomi shrugged, anticipating the question. “I don’t know that yet.”
“And you think there’s a chance this Thibault person might be somehow at the heart of this scheme?”
“I’m saying it’s possible, sir, yes.”
Keaton leaned back in his seat. “What do we know about him?”
“His past is a bit vague, sir. He has a Dutch passport. It’s entirely possible he holds multiple passports. This ex-detective I mentioned, Hauck, he’s done some preliminary investigation through his firm and he seems to think he may, in fact, be Serbian.”
“Serbian?” The secretary’s eyes widened. He leafed through Naomi’s exhibits. “Do we have the findings of this firm?”
“No, sir, I don’t think we can go there, at least not right now. It seems someone has been trying to push Hauck off his investigation. And it’s possible, I only say possible,” Naomi added, knowing she was rolling the dice here, “his own firm may be somehow complicit in this.”
Keaton looked up. “Run that one by me again.”
“It seems they represent other parties,” Naomi said, “who might have a vested interest in this story not coming to light.”
“Other parties?” Now the treasury secretary’s gaze grew heated. “Other parties such as whom, Ms. Blum?”
“Such as Reynolds Reid, sir. I’m told they’re seeking to pick up some of Wertheimer Grant’s operations…”
“Yes, we’re involved in those negotiations. For Christ’s sake, what’s the name of this security firm?”
“The Talon Group,” answered Naomi.
“Talon?” Keaton swallowed, concerned. “You must be kidding. They’re all over this fucking town.”
Keaton stared blankly back at her and pushed back his chair. His eyes flicked to his watch. He gritted his teeth.
Naomi glanced at Whyte, wondering if he was asking himself the same thing-whether they should both be making their reservations to Missoula around now.
“This doesn’t get out!” The head of the Treasury looked at Hastings peremptorily. “Not to the FBI, not to Justice. And for God’s sake, not to the press. Until we have more. Agent Blum, you’ve done a creditable job on this. You can engage whatever means necessary with respect to these two traders’ untimely deaths to find out whatever you can on this Thibault figure.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll authorize a probe by NSA. Maybe there’s been some direct contact between him and this Marty figure, the Saudi fund manager. Or that Bahraini, Hassani…”
Naomi looked toward her boss, pleased. “I’m already on that, sir.”
“And maybe this Hauck might prove useful. You say he’s an ex-detective. How the hell did he ever get himself involved in this situation in the first place?”
“Marc Glassman’s wife, who was killed along with her husband at their house in Greenwich…” Naomi shrugged. “Apparently, she was a friend of his. He was looking into her death on the side and became doubtful it was part of a burglary break-in. It was simply a coincidence that his security firm got him involved in probing into Thibault on a personal matter.”
“A personal matter?” The treasury secretary pushed back his chair, standing up. “Well, it seems we’re damn lucky if you ask me. Just following up on the death of a friend…What is the man, some kind of white knight?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Naomi said, suppressing a slight smile.
“Well, he’s about to get his armor dinged a bit if this turns out to be true. Give me something to go on, Agent Blum. Find out who Thibault is. Just keep it, for now, under the radar. I don’t want this out.” He headed around to his desk. Naomi assembled her files to leave. “And Agent Blum…”
“Sir?” Naomi turned.
The treasury secretary smiled. “Good job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A rush of relief mixed with exhilaration followed Naomi all the way back to her office. She almost felt lifted off her heels.
“Good job,” Rob Whyte said, exhaling, as they crossed M Street to their building.
“Cancel that reservation then?” she replied playfully. “To northern Montana?”
He patted her on the shoulder. “Why don’t we just see how it goes?”
When she got back to her office, Naomi stepped behind her desk. Files on various cases she was looking into were piled high. Thick, bound reports as high as the slit in the basement wall they called a half window.
Maybe she’d work her way up to a full window soon.
Her assistant, Talia, came in after her expectantly. “So how did it go?”
“Well”-Naomi blew out her cheeks in mock relief-“I’m still here!” Of course, she hadn’t told Talia what her meeting had been about.
“This came for you while you were out.” Talia dropped a FedEx carton on her desk.
The sender’s address read Greenwich, Connecticut.
“Thanks.”
Naomi waited for her to leave, then slit open the top of the heavily taped carton. She took out a large plastic bag, and sealed in it, protected carefully in bubble wrap, was a clear drinking glass, like a lowball glass.