Storm Front: A Derrick Storm Thriller (29 page)

“I know I don’t deserve your help,” he added.

“Yes, that’s true,” Storm said. “And just so we’re clear, Mr. Cracker, I’m not here as some personal favor to you and I’m not here because I like you. I’m frankly disgusted by you. Your actions and decisions have resulted in the deaths of dozens of innocent people all over the world. I believe you ought to spend the rest of your life in prison for what you’ve done. I don’t know what the U.S. government will have to say about it. But if I find the opportunity to voice my opinion, I will.”

He was thinking of all Volkov’s victims when he said it, but Ling Xi Bang most of all. No, Cracker hadn’t pulled the trigger on the bullet that severed her femoral artery, nor had he deposited that slug in her gut. Volkov had done that. And Storm recognized that he himself bore responsibility for her death as well. But the fact was, if Whitely Cracker had never come into Storm’s life, Ling Xi Bang would still be alive. Storm would always despise him for it. The only reason Storm wasn’t consumed with finding a way to make sure Cracker was properly punished was that stopping Volkov mattered more.

“I understand,” Whitely said, evenly. “But I want you to know, it wasn’t supposed to—”

“I don’t have time for your excuses,” Storm cut him off. “We have to go. Come on.”

Storm turned his back and began taking long strides toward the exit. Cracker left his donut half-eaten and scrambled after him.

“I’m not trying to make excuses. Believe me, I’m not. But I want you to understand what happened. I’m not expecting your
forgiveness or… or your sympathy… or anything. But I would like you to at least know the truth as I see it.”

Storm pushed through the double doors into the parking lot, where he spied Cracker’s Jaguar.

“We’re taking your car,” Storm said, without looking back. “And I’m driving.”

Storm had first seen the Jaguar in Cracker’s garage when he had taken the Maserati. The Jaguar’s V12 engine might come in handy.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Cracker said. “Anyhow, as I was saying, I… Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but, in all seriousness, no one was supposed to get hurt. Volkov was pitched to me as a mercenary who was an expert in surveillance. He was supposed to spy on these people, steal their codes, and give them to me. Killing was never something we discussed.”

They had reached the Jaguar.

“You seriously expect me to believe that?” Storm said. “You hire a man like Volkov for one reason, and that’s to kill people. It’s what he does. And he does it efficiently and without remorse. I find it hard to believe that a man who does research for a living wouldn’t have been able to learn just a little about who Volkov is. Keys.”

“What?”

“Give me the keys.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” Whitely said, fishing them from his pocket and tossing them to Storm. “Look, I know what you’re saying, and I know how this must sound, but I’m telling you the truth. You have to remember, I do research on companies, not criminals. There was never any mention of bloodshed when Volkov and I first talked. I was even paying him extra because he said the way I wanted the job done made it harder. But it was also an important part of my plan. No one was supposed to be aware this was happening. I wanted this done quietly, without attracting any attention at all—not from the finance community, not from law enforcement, not from anyone. Then the next thing I knew, he was leaving bodies all over the place and I couldn’t control him.”

Storm had settled into the driver’s side, scooted the seat back, and fired up the engine. Much as he hated to admit it, Cracker’s version of the story actually sounded plausible. And, much as he hated to engage Cracker in conversation, his curiosity was getting the better of him.

“But why, Cracker? Why? Why even kick a plan like this into action? I’m pretty sure I know, but I need to hear it from you.”

“Because I’m broke,” Cracker said.

“So I’ve heard. How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I thought my trades were all good. Most of them anyway. I’m not saying every deal I did ended up being a win. No one in this business has a perfect batting average. But I was winning at least eight times out of ten. Or I thought I was. But I guess… Look, I know this sounds ridiculous, but I’ve always been very process-oriented. I’m all about drilling down very deep, paying attention to the details of each trade, and then letting other people deal with the big picture. I never really paid attention much to the bottom line. And the next thing I knew, my accountant was coming to me, telling me I was broke.”

“Your accountant. As in Theodore Sniff?” Storm said, merging into the southbound traffic and accelerating until they were well over the speed limit.

“Oh, you know Teddy, too? Yeah, him. Good guy. Wrinkled suits.”

“As you were saying, he tells you you’re broke.”

“Yeah, broke. And I’m not just talking rich guy broke, where I’m down to that last hundred million that I swore I’d never touch. Apparently, I went through that a while ago. I’m talking billions in the hole. Billions. I could fool people for a while because my name is Graham Whitely Cracker the Fifth, but you can’t stall them forever. It was all about to come crashing in on me.”

“So you call up your buddy, Senator Whitmer.”

“Wow, you’ve really done your homework. Watch out for that truck.”

Storm had wedged the Jaguar into a tight spot between an
eighteen-wheeler and a minivan so he could scoot around a slow-moving Mitsubishi that had taken up permanent residence in the passing lane—a development that made Storm briefly wish the Jaguar had front-mounted rocket launchers.

“Anyhow, yeah, I had read Rodney Click’s paper. A bunch of us who are active on the Foreign Exchange Market did. We had even talked about it, in that way you talk about, I don’t know, Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. Everyone else sort of laughed it off. But I was toying with it in my mind. And, all the while, I was getting more and more desperate each time I talked to Teddy Sniff. Click Theory was looking like my only way out. Then I called up good ol’ Donny Whitmer and asked him for a favor and he said sure. Next thing I knew, Click Theory had gone from the Loch Ness Monster to this little goldfish swimming around in a bowl. It was right there for me. All I had to do was reach in and grab it.”

“Because you knew you could make a killing if you could dictate when Click Theory was going to come down,” Storm said as he settled into some clear road and accelerated.

“That’s right. I knew U.S. stocks would go in the dumper while precious metals and anything not connected to the dollar would go out of sight. So it was really pretty simple. I was selling short on everything I could, stockpiling gold and silver and non-U.S. currency, and waiting to make my fortune back.”

“And to hell with everyone else,” Storm said.

“No, that’s the best part,” Cracker said. “Rodney Click is a really smart guy, but he has a more theoretical understanding of things. He doesn’t fully grasp the way the ForEx works in practice. He overlooked certain corrective mechanisms that would have kicked in when savvy traders looked at the new landscape. If you understand those measures
and
you still have those six traders’ MonEx codes? You could wait a week and then completely reverse the effects of Click Theory. I would have made a mess, yes. But it would have been just a temporary mess. I would have cleaned everything up again. It would have all been over in a week, and at the end of it, I would have been whole again.”

“At the expense of the people you swindled.”

“Believe me, the people I was trading with can handle a few losses,” Cracker said. “Look, I know… I know what I did wasn’t exactly going to win me any Man of the Year votes, but I… I do a lot of good with my money, too. I give a lot of it to charity. I try to help the—”

“Save it,” Storm said.

“Okay, okay, I know, but I—”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen, Cracker, if we both get out of this alive—and that is still a big if—there’s going to come a time when I’m going to ask you to do certain things. Correction, I’m going to
tell
you to do certain things. You will do them without second thought, you will do them anonymously, and you will do them without hope of recognition or reward. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.”

They drove in silence for a minute or two.

“Can I ask something?” Cracker said.

“Yes. One thing.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see an FBI agent.”

“The FBI? Why the FBI?”

“Sorry,” Storm said. “You’re already out of questions.”

T
he East Rutherford Field Office of the FBI is one of the less advertised posts of America’s mightiest law enforcement agency. It can be found alongside Route 17, a clogged commercial byway, tucked in among the big box stores, chain restaurants, and gas stations. It is housed in an unmarked office building that resembles a Tic Tac, because it’s long and white and some 1970s-era architect thought rounding the edges at each end would make his creation look distinctive.

And if you are a Wall Street trader, it is the last place you ever want to find yourself.

The East Rutherford Field Office is the home to the famous—or infamous, depending on your point of view—WCCU. The White Collar Crimes Unit. Often working in concert with the Securities and Exchange Commission, the unit employs some of the smartest agents the FBI has, which is important because they go after some of the most sophisticated crooks in America. Most of the agents who land in the WCCU are there because they have MBAs or other advanced degrees; and most, in truth, have a chip on their shoulder.

That, it turns out, is just as important as what ever formal training they bring to bear. The people they deal with seldom recognize they’ve acted unlawfully and rarely view themselves as
criminals. The thief who steals money from a bank understands he is doing something wrong. The thief who illegally leverages a pension fund thinks he’s just pushing around paper.

As such, when you catch a white collar crook, there’s a certain amount of indignant, I’m-just-doing-whatever-everyone-else-does rationalizing to suffer through. And, to be fair, they’re actually right. They
are
just doing what many of their peers do but haven’t gotten caught at. The haphazard nature of it is easier to reconcile if you bring a certain attitude—and a certain moral rectitude—to the job.

Storm was coming to this place improvising to a certain extent. He had not yet made contact with the FBI—only his father had—and he did not know how cooperative or forthcoming the fibbies would be with someone who wasn’t of their number.

But he hoped they played nice with him. In order for the plan he was currently formulating to work, Storm needed—unfortunately—a rehabilitated Whitely Cracker, one who was financially solvent.

If nothing else, Storm could enjoy the irony of it: He was taking a trader to a place that would feel like prison as a first step to getting him out of it.

He pulled the Jaguar off the busy road and into the parking lot as Whitely stared at the building in stunned awe.

“I’ve heard about this place,” Whitely said.

“Oh?”

“You know how Boy Scouts sit around the campfire and tell ghost stories? This is the kind of ghost story they tell at my tennis club. About people who got taken here. They call this building ‘the Poison Pill,’ because that’s what it looks like and that’s what you want to have handy if you’re ever asked to go there for questioning. For people in my world, this is like the principal’s office, the dentist’s chair, and Pa’s woodshed—all rolled into one and then made a million times worse.”

Storm let the comment pass. He wasn’t in the mood for gallows
humor from this man. Death wasn’t funny to Storm. It was a dull ache in the empty spot once filled by Ling Xi Bang.

Storm parked and got out of the car. With misgiving, he took the Dirty Harry gun out of his shoulder holster, knowing it wouldn’t make it past the metal detector. He tossed it in the Jaguar’s trunk, away from any skel who might wander through the parking lot and take a shine to it.

They entered the building, crossing the FBI seal on their way to a metal detector, a thorough wanding, and a briefly invigorating pat down.

Once they were through the outer layer of security, an agent asked if they had an appointment.

Storm didn’t. But he said, “I’m here to see Scott Colston.”

The agent frowned. “I’m afraid Agent Colston is out.”

“We’ll wait,” Storm said.

The man pointed them toward a stiff-backed wooden bench in the lobby. There were no pillows on it. The FBI did not particularly care whether its visitors were comfortable.

About five minutes into their wait, a phalanx of agents burst in through the front doors. Two of them held the double doors extra wide for a burly, goateed agent who was escorting a short, fat, balding man in a wrinkled suit.

A wrinkled suit and handcuffs.

If Whitey Cracker’s jaw hadn’t been hinged, it would have fallen to the floor. The look on his face was pure confusion, as if he was seeing someone incredibly familiar to him, but in the completely wrong place.

“Teddy?” Whitely said loudly, as Theodore Sniff and his escorts were waved through security. “Teddy, what are you… what are you doing here?”

The agents were stone-faced. The burly guy was gently prodding Sniff forward. The accountant was doing anything he could to avoid making eye contact with his boss.

“Teddy, what’s going on?” Whitely asked.

Sniff’s attention was now firmly fixed on the floor in front of him. They were passing by Storm and Cracker on their way to the elevator. But Whitely was finally starting to put things together: No moneyman was brought into the Poison Pill wearing handcuffs so he could get a good citizenship commendation.

“Teddy, what have you done?”

Still nothing from Sniff. Whitely walked toward the burly guy. “Excuse me, sir. My name is Whitely Cracker and this… this is my accountant. Can you please tell me why he’s being brought here?”