Authors: Mark Russinovich
But that’s what they were paid to do. If this work were easy, anyone could do it. They were bright, no question about it. But could they pull it off?
Any troubles they had, Bandeira believed, were connected to the fact that Pedro didn’t like taking direction from Abílio. He wanted to be his own man. He occasionally resisted instructions, which was bad enough but primarily he squabbled with his New York counterpart, clashing with him over ultimate authority. As if anyone but Bandeira was in charge. The situation was improved but it was still a source of concern to him.
He thought about his son and wondered if other fathers had the same troubles. He’d coddled the boy, he belatedly realized. An only son is a burden as everything rested on him. Perhaps it had been a mistake to put Pedro in charge of Casas de Férias. Of course, at the time he’d had no idea the operation would by now be poised to take $10 billion from the New York Stock Exchange, to make him and those with whom he did business richer than any of them had ever dreamed. Now, with everything depending on success, he was stuck with Pedro playing a key role. Everyone was expecting the big payoff. Bandeira had to deliver. He wondered if his son understood that.
Failure would be a disaster from which he could never recover. Bandeira was unconcerned about the operation being traced to him. That was of no consequence. The problem would be in disappointing those in power he depended on. So far, his career had been free of major missteps, but he’d studied previous
chefes
and had taken from them one important lesson: The perception of success is the mother of power. When those who can hurt you see you fail, then the power seeps from you like water from a cracked pot.
Bandeira’s fresh Scotch arrived and he lifted it to his lips. The first danger with Carnaval was that something might go wrong and would point to the ongoing Casas de Férias operation and possibly to the men working at the Exchange before they had a chance to get away. It wasn’t anything Bandeira thought couldn’t be handled, but it would be an unnecessary complication. He was satisfied that NL was sufficiently removed from the operation even in that eventuality.
What ate at him was the consequence of success. Ramos had expressed his concern that taking so much from the IPO could have a catastrophic cascading effect on the market. “Lesser amounts have caused serious disruptions,” he cautioned.
Bandeira found that hard to accept. The NYSE transacted billions of dollars every day. Ten billion would scarcely be missed but Ramos had explained that even a few billion when linked to the algos of the high-frequency traders had caused temporary chaos in the market previously. “Everyone is looking for the next event,” he said, “and when it happens, we can’t predict with total confidence how they will react. We could have a stock market crash unlike anything in history. Everything is set up for it to happen at some point. No one has faith in the Exchange to have in place the necessary controls.”
And there it was, the real source of Bandeira’s concern. He could not be seen as responsible for an international collapse of the financial markets. He required a functioning stock market. He needed a financial system with all the flaws the current one had to milk it. A restructured, rebuilt system would make what he’d been doing, and what he planned to do in the future, impossible. A catastrophe would also wipe out the fortunes of many powerful men. Guilt would need to be placed, a scapegoat found. Bandeira wondered if he could escape the blame of a concerted worldwide effort to find the culprit.
Was his ambition at last too much? Bandeira thought as he finished his drink and gestured for another. Had his ego finally become too much? Esmeralda had cautioned him once about that. She’d been the last person able to speak to him with such candor. He’d dismissed it at the time. Great men did great things. It was the way of the world. Still, it was peculiar that her words came back to him at this moment.
Ego had been the final undoing of his predecessor, Joaquim de Sousa Andrade. Known simply as Bibo, he’d been
chefe
for just a single year. He’d been satisfied with the status quo, content with the wealth and power that flowed his way and made no changes except the ill-advised one of moving Bandeira to the number two position. Andrade had thought the car accident that made his final elevation an act of God. Everything, it seemed to Bandeira, went to the man’s head and in the end it was vanity that did him in. He’d wanted a hair transplant, the bags under his eyes removed, his jowls reduced or eliminated, and opted to do it all in a single secret procedure. He trusted Bandeira with the news as he’d be out of commission for a week or so. He didn’t survive the procedure, nor did the doctor and his team. Bandeira had passed off their brutal elimination as revenge for their carelessness in allowing the great Bibo to die.
Just then, Carlos Lopes de Almeida, president of the Banco do Novo Brasil, entered the restaurant. Bandeira watched him smile and wave, then weave his way across the crowded room, shaking a few hands, gesturing to others along the way.
He was of slightly below average height compared to the new generation. His scalp shined in the bright light, the wreath of gray hair about it trimmed short. He wore heavy framed glasses in the Latin style. He smiled broadly as he reached the table. Bandeira rose and the two men embraced.
“I am so sorry to be late, my friend,” Almeida said. “I was detained at home and the traffic is just terrible.”
“Of course. I understand. I only just got here myself.”
Bandeira didn’t like depending on men like Almeida, men of privilege. They came from the highest ranks of Brazilian society, were intermarried with each other’s families, and were traditionally those who controlled the nation. That had changed in recent decades but such men were still important to someone like Bandeira who needed connections in such circles.
That was what irritated him. For all his wealth and power Bandeira would never be invited within that group. That was just one reason why he needed Almeida, why his involvement with Sonia was so reckless. Yes, he controlled the bank, but he still needed the father.
And just what game was she playing? He’d known women who enjoyed it rough. Typically they started fights knowing they would end in only one way. Over the years, he realized that these were not just women who came from violent childhoods but also women of social standing, women who had been pampered all their lives. Was he to believe that Sonia was one of them? You never knew with young women, not until it happened. He wondered sometimes if they knew. Had Sonia discovered this about herself only now? It would seem so, and if he was right, it opened up new opportunities for him with her, opportunities so much more reckless than what had gone before.
Almeida gestured for drinks; then the men ordered their meal. It had been Almeida who wanted to meet, so Bandeira waited, indicating by his silence that he intended to get to business. He had plans for later.
Almeida hesitated, then said, “I am concerned about the cash flow into the bank.”
Bandeira raised an eyebrow. “I thought banks liked money.”
Almeida smiled. “Oh we do, but lately it has been too much. It is getting difficult to manage without attracting attention. The Banco do Novo Brasil might be old and respected, but it is no longer a major bank in our nation.”
“It soon will be, Carlos. We’ve discussed my plans.”
“Oh yes, yes, I quite agree,” Almeida said eagerly. “But … too much, too fast is a problem, you understand?”
Bandeira pursed his lips. “I can see that.” The waiter set their drinks down, then drifted away. “How are the special accounts doing?”
The “special accounts” were those established for key politicians and government officials, all the corrupt elite who had to be taken care of. One of the reasons for acquiring control of the bank had been to give Bandeira a legitimate way of paying them off. Almeida’s principal service to him was to arrange this as routine business.
“There are no problems. It all goes smoothly.”
“Carlos, over the next week to ten days you will receive perhaps a billion U.S. dollars.” Almeida blanched. Bandeira held up his hand to stop him commenting. “I will be meeting with our friends before then, arranging special payments. I will give you the figures in a week. Move the money on to their outside accounts, you understand? Do not keep it in the bank.”
“I understand.” Almeida lifted his drink gulping down half before lowering the glass.
Bandeira smiled. “In this case the bank records are important to us so don’t work too hard at concealing them.”
“I … I thought…”
“Yes, usually. But this time I want my friends tied very closely to me. Don’t be concerned, Carlos, the secretary of the Ministry of Finance will receive a significant sum. All is well.”
“As you say.” Almeida ran his bare hand across the top of his head. He removed a handkerchief and wiped it unconsciously.
This was insurance. Almeida would bind the powerful in Brazil to Bandeira so completely, implicate them in Carnaval so thoroughly, if the necessity came they would save him in saving themselves. It was going to cost a great deal but it was worth it.
Business done, Bandeira turned to chat. “And how is your family?”
“Oh, that. It is why I was delayed coming. My daughter, Sonia—you’ve met her—she is having boyfriend trouble.”
“Young women always have trouble with their romantic life.”
“You are lucky to have a son. You have no idea what a curse it is to have so beautiful and willful a daughter. It is not like the old days when a father simply told his daughter what to do.”
“She told you about this trouble?”
“Nothing like that. You know women. I think she told my wife who became very upset.” Almeida leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I think he was physical with her. She is wearing too much makeup on her left cheek.”
“Ahh. He has no right. They are not married.”
“Exactly!” Almeida blinked quickly several times. “But since I’m not sure what happened, I don’t know what to do.” He clenched his jaw. “But if he really hurt her, that
filho da puta
will pay, I promise you!”
Bandeira suppressed a smile. He could not imagine Almeida doing anything in such a situation. “These young people, they are always having troubles like this. We spoil them.”
“Yes, I know. I know.” Almeida picked up his glass.
“Who is she seeing? Do you know?”
“I’ve never met him. I asked once, just showing interest, and she glared at me. I asked my wife and she said nothing.”
“Difficult.”
“Yes, it is very hard.” The man uncharacteristically finished his drink. “I’ve been thinking,” Almeida said, “and want to make a suggestion. An idea I have to bring us closer together, bind our relationship and solve this problem I have.”
“Yes?”
“You find my daughter attractive. I’m sure you do. She is lovely. Perhaps you could spend some time with her. It would be a great favor to me as it would get her away from this vile man who abuses her. Perhaps, if you think it would be an agreeable match, you would do me the honor of considering marrying her.”
Bandeira was stunned.
“Ah, there they are.” Almeida rose to attract the attention of his wife and Sonia as they entered the dining room. His wife wore a fixed smile on her face, as plastic as that on a mannequin. Sonia, dressed in something light and sunny, kept her eyes down, looking up just once, her eyes passing across Bandeira’s face without expression. For all anyone watching could know, this was the first time they’d ever seen each other.
Bandeira carefully watched as she sat. Then, for the briefest of moments, she caught his eye with a sly, hungry gaze.
44
WEST 109TH STREET
MANHATTAN VALLEY
NEW YORK CITY
12:58
P.M.
Daryl grimaced at the sight of the hotel where Frank and Jeff were staying. She looked carefully about the lobby as she entered and decided it was safe enough. The unshaven desk clerk eyed her as she went straight to the elevator but said nothing. She punched the button for the fifth floor, then stepped through the opening doors. The elevator swayed slightly as it rose, strange metallic sounds coming from above and below, echoing in the shaft.
The car stopped and the doors slowly parted. Daryl found the door and rapped lightly. A moment later Frank opened it half an inch, then pulled the door wide and greeted her with a smile.
“Good to see you,” he said, hugging her. “Come on in. Come on in.”
A bachelor’s effort had been made to clean the place, but it was obvious two men had been sharing the cramped room. The trash basket was filled to overflow with a pizza box and take-out containers. Papers on the dresser had been neatly stacked, sort of. Jeff was seated beside his laptop in the room’s only chair. There were white bandages on his head. He stood and smiled lightly.
“Hello, Daryl.” He didn’t approach her. She nodded in reply.
Frank closed the door behind her. Daryl moved to the first bed and sat. “Little short of sitting space, I see.”
“Yes,” Frank answered. “It’s turn-of-the-last-century modern. Hope you didn’t have any trouble getting here.”
She shook her head. “No. I took three cabs, traveled back and forth on the subway for an hour, then had a coffee for a bit before coming. That’s as good as I can do it. The area’s not as bad as its reputation, though a bit dodgy.” She took in the faded wallpaper. “This place is kind of a dump.”
“Manhattan. Gotta love it. They take cash, gladly.” Frank looked at Jeff as if giving him a prompt.
“Thanks for coming, Daryl,” Jeff said. “We both appreciate it very much.”
“How’s the head?” Frank had assured her it was nothing serious, though it certainly
looked
serious to her untrained eye. Jeff was pale, seemed weak to her, appearing as if he’d been sick for a long time. The change was remarkable from when she’d last seen him. He’d lost at least ten pounds.
“It’s been better. Still aches a bit but nothing I can’t handle. The swelling’s gone down, but I’ve still got a pretty good knot. I’ll ditch the bandage before we go out. It’ll be fine.”