Need You Now

52

I was in the BOS Midtown office before nine A.M. I didn’t have to pretend to be busy. My team leader had reams of financials for me to review in preparation for Monday’s meeting with the private equity group in Chicago-the one I had promised to attend, no problem, “my plate is clear.” Not until after lunch did things settle down enough for me to make my move, which was okay. Joe Barber was out of the office most of the day and couldn’t see me until four forty-five. It was clear that his assistant had penciled me in only because she thought it was adorable that a junior FA thought he could ring the executive suite and schedule a meeting with the head of private wealth management. There was definite surprise in her voice when she called me back at four thirty.

“This is to confirm your four forty-five meeting with Mr. Barber,” she said.

“I know. I have an appointment.”

“I mean, he really is going to see you.”

I thanked her and rode the elevator upstairs. As the doors opened and I stepped out onto the polished marble floor, it occurred to me that I was probably setting a bank record for the number of times a junior FA had set foot in the executive suite in a single week.

Amazing what the inside track on $2 billion will do for you.

Barber’s assistant offered me coffee or a soda, which I declined, and then she led me down the hall to Barber’s office. He was behind his desk, pacing as he spoke into his headset on a phone call, and he waved us in. His assistant directed me to the armchair, and then she tiptoed out of the office and closed the door.

“We need to hit the links again soon,” Barber said into his headset, about to wrap up his call.

My focus was on my plan-not just what I would tell him, but how I would deliver it. I’d been doing dry runs in my head since dawn, however, and I was starting to fear that it would come across as too rehearsed. I allowed my eyes to wander across the cherry-paneled walls, a quick survey of the trappings of Wall Street success. Some would have regarded the shrine that Barber had erected to himself as clutter, but there was indeed order to the plaques and mementos encased in glass and gold-leaf frames. His early days at Saxton Silvers. His service at Treasury. His elbow rubbing with the right politicians. I’d noticed much of it on my last visit, but this time I was struck by the contrast to what I’d seen in Evan’s apartment. If Evan’s walls told the story of Wall Street thievery, Barber’s walls told the story of… well, maybe it wasn’t such a contrast.

Barber ended his phone call and laid his headset atop his desk. It had been a pleasant call, judging from his expression, but all sign of pleasantries faded as he came around to the front of his desk, leaned against the edge, and faced me.

“I assume this is about Lilly Scanlon’s banking files,” he said.

Less than forty-eight hours had passed since his Wednesday-evening meeting with Lilly and me, when I had sat in this very armchair, when Lilly and I had received each other’s data with the challenge to find the missing $2 billion.

“That’s correct,” I said.

He folded his arms, a smug smile creasing his lips. “I feel it’s only fair to tell you that I’ve already received Lilly’s report on your data. Very interesting.”

It was a weak bluff. “I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t. But that doesn’t surprise me.”

There was a light knock on the door, and Barber’s assistant poked her head into the office.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Lloyd has a family emergency.”

Even Barber was taken aback, and it wasn’t his emergency. “What is it?” asked Barber.

“I have a doctor on the line from Lemuel Shattuck Hospital in Boston.” Then she looked at me with sadness in her eyes and said, “It’s about your father.”

It was the kind of news no one wanted to receive, but I was checking Barber’s reaction. Under my witness protection profile-the life I had been living-Patrick Lloyd’s father was deceased. I wondered if Barber realized that we were talking about Peter Mandretti’s father. If he did, he did not let on.

“Would you like me to forward the call again?” his assistant asked.

I had my BlackBerry with me; confronting Barber about the spyware was part of the plan I had discussed with Scully.

“Yes, please do,” said Barber. “Forward it to his BlackBerry.”

The way he’d said it confirmed in my mind that Barber was behind the spyware, or that he at least knew it was installed. But in a “family emergency” it wouldn’t have made sense to insist on using another phone, anything less expeditious.

His assistant went back to her desk. My BlackBerry vibrated in my pocket. “I can take it in the lobby,” I said.

“Please, use my study,” said Barber.

His offer of privacy was, of course, pointless, since he would hear it anyway through spyware. But after the doctor’s call, my actions were those of a son anxious for news about a family emergency that involved his father, so I stepped into the study that was adjacent to his main office and took the call. The woman on the line introduced herself as an oncologist, Dr. Alice Kern.

“I’m calling about a patient named Sam Carlson,” she said.

“Is he…”

“No. But the situation is grave. We don’t have any family information on file, but he tells us that you are his son.”

I took a deep breath. “So he’s conscious?”

“Yes.”

“How long does he have?”

“You should come immediately. Special arrangements have been made for you to stay at his bedside until it’s time.”

“Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.

“Does he know I’m coming?”

“Yes. He specifically asked for you.”

“He did?”

“Yes,” she said. “He indicated that there is something he wishes to tell you face-to-face.”

Enough had been said on a phone with spyware. I didn’t push the doctor to speak further. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

The call ended, and my knees felt like rubber. I knew that I had to hurry, but for a moment I couldn’t move. I was scared for my dad, for my sister, for myself. I felt sorry for Evan Hunt and his family. I wanted to call Lilly, but I didn’t dare use the BlackBerry that the Wall Street bully in the next room had essentially converted to his own use with spyware. His ego was everywhere, even in this private study, the walls of which were covered with still more glass-encased articles about him from newspapers and magazines. It was sickening-and then, suddenly, it was an epiphany.

The Forbes article on the wall caught my attention-almost slapped me in the face. I stepped closer and locked eyes with the tough, take-no-prisoners persona of “Joe Barber, deputy secretary of the U.S. Department of Treasury” staring back at me. Standing to his left in the photograph was the assistant secretary for Intelligence and Analysis, charged with overseeing the production and analysis of financial intelligence for use by policy makers in combating illicit financial activities. To his right was the assistant secretary for Terrorist Financing, responsible for developing anti-money laundering and counterterrorist financing policy.

But what snagged my full attention-what reached out, grabbed me by the neck, and shook me-was the subtitle in small but bold letters:

Is al-Qaeda broke?

“Holy shit,” I said aloud.

I suddenly knew who Robledo’s clients were, knew why an undercover agent had duped him into investing $2 billion through Gerry Collins, knew why Treasury had ignored Evan’s thirty-eight red flags and allowed Cushman to collapse, knew what BAQ meant. I knew everything.

Most of all, I knew that I was running out of time.

I tucked away my BlackBerry and hurried out the door, apologizing to Barber on my way, though surely he didn’t deserve one. There was an express elevator from the executive suite, so I didn’t bother stopping for my overcoat. In less than sixty seconds I was in the ground-floor lobby, pushing through the revolving doors at the bank’s main entrance. The sidewalk on Seventh Avenue was bustling with nine-to-fivers headed for the subway, eager to start their weekend. The zoo’s white van was at the curb, where we had agreed last night that Connie would meet me, and I jumped into the passenger seat.

“We need to go to Lemuel Shattuck right now. It’s an emergency.”

“Is Dad okay?”

“A doctor called saying that I needed to get there as soon as possible, that there’s something Dad wants to tell me.”

“Oh, my God, he’s dying.”

I hated to see such pain in her expression, but we had to move. I took my BlackBerry from my pocket and removed the battery.

“What are you doing?

“The spyware in here could have GPS tracking. Taking out the battery disables it.”

“If there’s spyware on that phone, they already know you’re headed to the hospital.”

“Call me paranoid, but I don’t want the guy who killed Evan Hunt knowing exactly where I am on the road between here and Boston.”

“Okay, but if it’s a tracking chip, it has its own power source. Removing the main battery won’t disable it.”

I figured a scoutmaster would know. I rolled down the window and tossed the phone into the street. A passing bus ground it into the pavement.

“That will,” I said.

“If you were a scout, I’d pull your world conservation badge.”

“Drive, Connie.”