Such was the Hive’s self-sufficiency that the year-end banquet was the first time Jordan had left the building in over a month. He usually used the main door, in the building’s west lobby, overlooking the Huangpu. When Zhu’s Hummer pulled up that evening, though, it was to the southern lobby, which existed exclusively for VIPs. The instant the vehicle stopped, the doors opened and two valets reached upward with white-gloved hands.
Reingold got out first, followed by Stack and Jordan. Inside the Hummer, Zhu nodded goodbye as the steward cleared the Scotch glasses and wiped down the table. A valet swung the door shut, and the Hummer pulled away.
Reingold led them across the lobby to the elevators. He paused in front of them and turned to Jordan. “Nice to get to know you, Emerson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reingold,” Jordan replied weakly, having persuaded himself that he was done.
“X.D. gave me this to give to you,” Reingold added, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an envelope. “Another token of his appreciation. He looks forward to seeing you again.”
Jordan took the envelope. The elevator door opened, and Reingold and Stack stepped in.
“Goodnight, Emerson,” Stack said.
“Goodnight, Alan,” Jordan replied, wondering if he would ever see him again.
Alone in the lobby, suddenly aware of how drunk he was, Jordan fingered the envelope Reingold had given him. He opened it and found a key card, the kind used to operate most of the elevators and doors in the Hive. The card bore no markings, nothing to indicate what it provided access to. Jordan stood in front of the elevators for a moment, examining the card. When the doors opened again, he decided what the hell and stuck it into the slot.
The doors closed and the elevator began to ascend, but the screen displayed no floor numbers, so Jordan had no idea how high he rose. Higher than his floor, certainly, high enough that his ears popped and his booze-addled brain fought back a wave of seasickness when the elevator finally decelerated.
The doors opened to reveal an unfamiliar foyer, one that looked as though it had been airlifted from a Victorian exhibit in an art museum. The room was furnished with ornate chairs and lamps, Impressionist paintings, and — Jordan did a double-take — a fireplace with a crackling fire. On the far wall was an antique desk, behind which stood a Caucasian woman Jordan had seen somewhere before.
“Good evening, Mr. Jordan,” she said, as Jordan stepped out of the elevator.
“Um, good evening,” Jordan responded.
The woman crossed the room to shake his hand. “I’m Sarah Lewis. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Mr. Zhu asked me to look after you. Follow me, please.”
She led Jordan through a door and down a hallway, the parquet floor creaking under her shoes. At the end of the hall, she slid a key card into the slot beside a door, then held it open for him. By now, he had a good idea of what to expect inside.
Zhu’s fantasy boudoir wasn’t your average bordello bunk room. Rather, it was a four-room suite, complete with a stocked refrigerator, six-foot bar, seventy-two-inch flat-panel TV, 500-thread count sheets, and, surprise surprise, a plexiglass Jacuzzi mounted in a floor-to-ceiling glass wall.
“If you don’t like heights,” Sarah said, while giving him a tour of the bathroom, “I recommend the jets.”
After showing him around, she lifted the TV remote off the bedside table and held it up.
“If you would like company,” she said, “click here to bring up our interactive catalog. We would be happy to accommodate any special needs.”
A video hooker catalog — nice touch. Despite this innovation, Jordan felt a wash of disappointment. He was enjoying the company he already had.
“What button do I press to ask you to have a drink with me?”
“We don’t have a button for that,” Sarah Lewis replied. “And I don’t drink on the job. But if that’s one of your special needs, I’ll be happy to pour you one.”
“I have a lot of special needs,” Jordan said, smiling.
Since joining Whitney Gilman, Jordan had made it a practice to wake up every morning at 4:55 a.m. He did this seven days a week, on the theory that it had a self-regulating effect on his evening activities. The theory was flimsy — the evenings went on no matter how exhausted he got — but one positive side-effect was that after eight years, Jordan no longer needed an alarm clock. To reduce the risk of falling back to sleep, moreover, he had instituted a policy of standing up the moment he awoke, an aggressive maneuver that often left him grasping for support as blood drained out of his head.
In the predawn blackness, Jordan awoke and stood up. This time, the brain drain was so severe that he slumped to his knees. Head hanging, palms flat on the rug, he thought he was going to black out, but he kept still and the feeling passed. After several deep breaths, his strength returned, and he lifted himself to his feet — at which point he remembered where he was and why he felt so bad.
The “where” was Zhu’s fantasy pad, high up in the Hive. The “why” was the lack of sleep and the fact that he was still, indisputably, drunk. Head pounding, Jordan glanced at an easy-chair, the last place he remembered being. The glasses were gone (Lagavulin for him, water for her), as was the jacket draped over the back of the chair. Looking down, he discovered that his clothes were gone too, replaced with silk boxers. He hadn’t undressed — he was pretty sure of that. He also didn’t remember browsing through Zhu’s video catalog. But someone had removed his clothes and tucked him into the bed. And the same someone, he discovered after some shaky steps to the closet, had hung up his suit, shirt, underwear, and socks.
In the darkness, Jordan picked up his wallet, keys cards, and BlackBerry from the bedside table. Reflexively, he checked the markets and headlines — New York had closed higher — along with his e-mail. In the seven hours since the end of the banquet, eighty-six e-mails had accumulated in his inbox, mostly blasts from the research and trading desks in New York. This was a good sign: He hadn’t yet been canned. He scrolled down the list, looking for anything time-sensitive, and was about to toss the BlackBerry on the bed when he found her note.
From: Sarah Lewis
Sarah Lewis Seeing her name brought everything back. Just a few hours earlier, he remembered, she had expertly accommodated (some of) his “special needs,” needs that Zhu’s catalog would only have exacerbated, needs that often intruded in times like these. Despite her repeated attempts to excuse herself, he’d kept asking her to stay. He had even, pathetically, insisted on her watching Casablanca with him, in the hope that it would kindle something. (It hadn’t — and he had fallen asleep during the flashback sequence.) Now, he clicked on the e-mail, and the message filled the screen.
Hope you slept well, it read. Sorry you missed the end.
Very personal. No Mr. Jordan, and a tantalizing vagueness too. What “end” was she referring to — the movie or the evening? The note gave Jordan hope that, magic key card or no magic key card, he would see her again.
Thought you should see this, the note concluded, adding a link to a video file.
Jordan clicked the link and sat down on the edge of the bed, having no idea what to expect. As the file loaded, he glanced toward the windows. The BlackBerry’s luminescent screen reflected off the dark glass, a glowing spot of blue among the lights of a predawn Shanghai.
The video began to play, and at first Jordan couldn’t tell what he was seeing. Then the image brightened, and he realized it was the view from an elevator security camera. The elevator doors opened, flooding the image with light, and a man in a suit got in. He inserted a key card into the console, stepped to the back of the elevator, then turned around and looked up toward the camera: Stack.