The translucent walls and floor in Stack’s office were dark, the only light coming from a strip of glass behind the desk. Reingold was in Stack’s seat, surrounded by the heads of Asia Wealth Management and Investment Banking, along with the regional general counsel, the head of HR, and the head of PR. Of course the lawyers and HR folks were there: Reingold would need witnesses. Security guards were no doubt waiting just outside the door.
As Jordan entered, everyone was staring at a speakerphone in the middle of the desk. Reingold looked up.
“Karl?” he said to the speakerphone. “Emerson Jordan has just walked in.”
Karl, Jordan assumed, was Karl Eichenwald, Whitney’s CEO.
“Hello, Mr. Jordan,” said Eichenwald’s disembodied but unmistakable voice. “Glad you could join us on this fucking peach of an evening.”
“Emerson,” Reingold said, “we’ve got a situation here, so we’ll be brief. Other than myself, I believe you were the last one to see Alan last night. I’ve told everyone how we rode back from the banquet together. After that, Alan and I went upstairs for a nightcap, and then Alan headed off — to his apartment, I thought. Did you see Alan again last night?”
So they were going to interrogate him first. Interrogate him, find out what he knew, then shoot him.
“No,” Jordan said.
The general counsel jumped in.
“Was he behaving normally on the ride home? Was he drunk?”
“Not that I noticed,” said Jordan.
“Any idea where the video was shot?”
Jordan’s heart skipped. “No,” he lied.
“Any idea who would have sent this video around?”
“No.”
“Well, whoever it was ought to be fried alive!” Eichenwald’s voice boomed. “Stack’s in need of some serious therapy, but whoever spammed this thing around has fucked the rest of us. Issue the statement. I’ll do a press conference in the morning.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise, sir,” the general counsel said. “We haven’t authenticated the video. We haven’t interviewed Stack. We haven’t even gotten all the basic facts.”
Authenticated the video?” Eichenwald boomed. “What the fuck is there to authenticate? The head of our Asian trading organization is on four networks banging a twelve-year-old!”
The speakerphone chirped as Eichenwald hung up.
“Well, I guess we’re done,” another voice said through the speakerphone, one Jordan didn’t recognize. “Thanks for the rapid response. Can’t say I agree with the Chinese about living in interesting times.”
“Hopefully, they’ll be less interesting in the morning,” Reingold said.
The speakerphone chirped several times in succession: the rest of the board disconnecting.
Reingold looked up. “Thanks, everyone.”
The executives rose and filed past Jordan toward the door.
Reingold stood up and walked toward him. “There’s one other thing we need to discuss,” he said. Jordan’s heart raced again, as Reingold placed a hand on his shoulder. “I have to go apologize to Shanghai’s mayor on the firm’s behalf, so I don’t have much time. I’ve spoken to most of our big clients this morning, including X.D. I’ve explained the situation, told them that, regardless of what happens, they’ll be in good hands. And they will be.”
Why the preamble? Jordan wondered.
“No matter what else happens,” Reingold continued, “Stack’s done. For now, he’s on administrative leave, but I suspect he won’t be coming back. We need a new head of Asian trading. And I’m looking at him.”
“Excuse me?” Jordan said.
“The press release will be on the wire in ten minutes. Eichenwald has already approved it. He wanted me to congratulate you on his behalf. Our clients are happy with our choice — they’re ready to help you however they can. X.D., especially, would be eager to hear from you this afternoon.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” Jordan replied, meaning it.
“Give it time,” Reingold said, patting Jordan’s shoulder again, turning toward the door. “Congratulations, Emerson. I’ll be out of your new office this afternoon. Enjoy it. And don’t let me down.”
For the first time in his life, it seemed, Fishman wasn’t completely in the loop. He had been busy, though, thinking everything through. When Jordan sat down, still in shock, Fishman was positively bursting.
“So, is Reingold on cloud nine, or what?”
“I’m sorry?” Jordan said.
“You’ve just had a private meeting with our next CEO,” Fishman said, “a man who until this morning was an also-ran.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember Beston? The heir apparent? Well, the reason Beston made the late surge to the front of the CEO lottery was because of Stack. Stack had lost confidence in Reingold, and threw in with Beston. But now Stack’s toxic, and everyone who ever knew him is running for the fumigator. There’s no way Beston can distance himself. So that leaves Reingold, the man who was suspicious of Stack to begin with. He’s our new CEO.”
“Interesting,” Jordan said, his heart pounding again.
“Yes,” said Fishman. “And I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot of him.”
“Oh?”
“Rumor is he’s got a girlfriend in the Hive. An American — Sarah Something. Lives upstairs. One of the bond guys runs the StairMaster with her in the gym, and he saw her coming out of Reingold’s apartment this morning. Now, Reingold can fly his jet-copter into the heliport, take a couple of meetings, and then bang away all night long. How’s that for convenience? Doesn’t even have to leave the building.”
Jordan sat frozen, ostensibly watching headlines tick up the screen.
“And you want to know the kicker?” Fishman continued. “I just talked to a buddy of mine who’s obsessed with that Stack video. Has been playing it again and again, all day long. He has all this fancy equipment, and he says that he’s pretty sure the thing’s a fake. The first part’s okay — that’s Stack riding up the elevator, shaking the woman’s hand — he’s sure of that. But the kiddie porn thing? In the whole sequence with the girl there’s only one shot where you see Stack’s face, and my buddy doesn’t think it’s really him. Says he’s blown it up to the pixel level, and he thinks Stack’s face was cut-and-pasted from the first part, the elevator segment. Something about the angle — looking up when he should be looking out. In any case, he thinks Stack has been framed.”
“Where did the sex part come from, then?” Jordan said, feeling sick.
“My friend thinks it’s from some dime-a-dozen porn flick, the kind piled eight feet deep in Xiangyang Park.”
“And Stack?”
“Stack’s toast. He’ll rot in prison until they finally let him call a lawyer, and even then he won’t be able to do much. It’s not like the folks at the embassy are clamoring to save him, not with that horrific video going around. He’ll get off eventually — if my friend can spot a fraud, the forensic gurus can too — but it won’t be anytime soon. R.I.P., Stack. Meanwhile, I wonder who they’re going to get to run things around here.”
Just then, as Jordan watched, a Whitney Gilman press release blipped onto the screen.
Everything i’m not
by Lauren Sanders
Tel Aviv, Israel
Ten Counting backwards
Middle of summer and Tel Aviv’s wilted to its roots. But a deep chill cuts through Ben-Gurion. Outside the tarmac steams, monstrous 757s nose-to-nose with military planes, security everywhere. Look matronly, I’d been told: Former combat soldiers comprise airport security, and everyone knows the army’s stocked with mama’s boys. I’m wearing a long floral skirt, loose-fitting T-shirt, sensible shoes, purple beret covering my head like a religious woman. The band of my skirt is soaked.