Reckless

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Hassan ibn Hassani passed through customs at JFK and found the private limo driver waiting for him in the terminal.

His private security man followed a step behind.

The driver took Hassani’s expensive Hermès carry-on, exchanging the usual pleasantries about the trip with him. Hassani had used the man before. He led them quickly to the custom BMW 750i, which was permitted to wait for him at the curb, the security man hopping in front. They drove into the city.

As the car navigated the bumper-to-bumper traffic along the Van Wyck Expressway, Hassani got on the phone. He was here, principally, as a representative of the Bahraini royal family’s interests, for the annual meeting and the preceding board meeting of Reynolds Reid. A year ago the sultan had made a six-billion-dollar mezzanine investment in the ailing firm, which converted, if needed, to almost 7 percent of the company. That was eighteen points ago on the stock. The sultan’s six billion was now worth less than half that.

But Hassani knew that was about to change.

It would change because Reynolds Reid was clearly going to be one of the survivors in the world financial collapse. Not simply a survivor but a clear winner. When the world calmed, it would be more powerful than ever. And now, with a place at the table, who would be better set to represent their country’s vested interests?

One just had to have patience, Hassani knew. As well as take the long view.

This was a twenty-first-century kind of jihad.

Apart from Reynolds, Hassani also had other affairs to attend to in the States. He had legitimate business interests there and in Canada. And various other matters not so transparent. There were Islamic cultural organizations, religious freedom groups that funneled money from back home into mosques and Islamic communities in upstate New York.

That reflected the other side of his causes as well.

He found his mind wandering and he stroked his goatee, his thoughts flashing back to Sera, his new treasure back in Dubai. How sad he was to have to leave her behind. But he had to focus on other things here.

The car went through the tunnel into Manhattan and then wound its way up Park Avenue to the Waldorf Astoria, where Hassani had the six-room Roosevelt Suite, which was sometimes home to visiting heads of state. He told the driver and the security man to wait while he was shown around his quarters, quickly showered and changed, put on his Brioni pinstripe suit, custom-made Turn-bull and Asser shirt, and a yellow Alan Flusser tie. In half an hour he was back downstairs, totally refreshed.

He decided he would walk and told the driver he could pick him up again in two hours’ time. He was heading to 457 Park, on Fifty-fourth Street. The tall glass headquarters of Reynolds Reid, only five blocks away.

It was a beautiful day and Hassani felt safe enough to enjoy the summer weather in New York. Street vendors were out on the avenue, selling kabobs and pretzels to office workers who sat sunning themselves outside their buildings. His security man kept up a couple of paces behind.

On Fifty-fourth, he recognized the familiar stone and glass tower with the iconic intersecting “RR” wrapped in a lion’s tail. He almost felt an owner’s pride.

Crossing the street, he passed through the large glass doors and walked up to the marble desk in the reception center. He announced himself to the guard, who printed off a VIP security badge and directed him to a private elevator bank that served the executive offices on the forty-second and forty-third floors. As the elevator whooshed them high above Manhattan, he knew there was much to talk about.

The largest bank in California had gone belly-up this week. In Spain, the leading real estate developer was underwater. The walls were tumbling, one by one, with even more speed than they had imagined. Mighty Lehman Brothers and Citi-their stocks were now the lowest they had even been. Everything was in play, if you had access to an unlimited supply of capital. The carnage was only beginning. Only those who had the long view, who had the required patience to accept the pain, with the promise of future reward, future domination, would be there to pick up the pieces in this new world.

The elevator opened on forty-three. Hassani and his security man stepped out. A pretty, nicely dressed secretary was there to greet him. Hassani admired her and wondered if something might be arranged later on. (Though the thought did also cross his mind that she might be just a tad old for him.)

The woman smiled and said, “Mr. Simons is waiting for you now.”

She led him along a row of important-looking offices, executives who wouldn’t even be there now, earning their large bonuses, Hassani mused, were it not for the timely investment of his own king. She led him into a spacious conference room. Hassani motioned to his man to wait outside.

“Make yourself at home,” Peter Simons’s secretary said. “Mr. Simons will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.” Hassani smiled.

The room had a large rosewood table that might have seated as many as forty, and a sprawling, wall-to-wall vista of midtown Manhattan. In one corner there was a Giacometti bronze on a pedestal. Hassani had acquired such tastes himself, having studied at the Sorbonne. A six-foot-wide video presentation screen boasted the familiar logos of all the iconic brands that Reynolds Reid had acquired, ready for the upcoming board meeting. A set of antique silver tea and coffee pots sat on the credenza.

As Hassani admired the view, a private door to one side opened. Peter Simons stepped in.

Simons was tall, lanky, raw boned, slightly graying. He was fifty-six, but with his still light-brown hair and fit, trained body, he looked much younger. He came over and hugged Hassani with open arms. “Hanni!”

“Peter.” The two embraced, kissing each other on each cheek in the Middle Eastern fashion. “It’s very good to see you again, my friend.”

Simons patted the Bahraini warmly on the back. “I’m glad you could be here.”

There was much to talk about before their meeting, but first the Reynolds Reid CEO leaned close to Hassani’s ear and said, his voice no louder than a whisper, “One thing… That little matter in London, which so concerned us…It’s been taken care of, I presume?”

“Completely taken care of, my friend.” Hassani gave a pat to the CEO’s back. “Let us get on to other things.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Hauck flew back to New York on Sunday. Eight A.M. Monday, he was back at his desk.

The plane ride back was the first time he’d been able to think about what Steve Chrisafoulis had shared with him, the connection between Talon and Sonny Merced, the man who’d attacked Jared at the rink. He recalled how Foley had tried to put the brakes on his investigation into Thibault, citing the firm’s “other” interests with Reynolds Reid.

It also worried him how someone was always one step ahead of them in Serbia and London. Only a handful of people in the world knew about Thibault. Or al-Bashir’s connection to Hassani.

Was it possible he and Naomi were being played?

Around ten, one of the partners transferred in a call from Tom Foley. “Glad you’re back,” his boss said with seeming enthusiasm. “Ready to go forward?”

“Totally ready,” Hauck said, looking to deflect any questions on where he had been.

“Good. I want you in on a lunch meeting Skip Haley is holding up there around noon on Landmark Communication…”

Landmark owned television stations and was looking to make an Internet acquisition. Hauck told him he’d sit in.

Naomi had remained an extra day in the UK, to check with some contacts there and see if they could pin Hassani in Switzerland on the date of the supposed meeting in Gstaad.

They knew the date in question, June 26, a year ago, from Thibault’s lift ticket. If they could pin Hassani there, coupled with the flow of funds from Ascot through Thibault to James Donovan’s account in the Caymans, that might be enough to restart their investigation. Something had brought both al-Bashir and Thibault to the Swiss resort. Hauck began to wonder could there have been others? Others they didn’t know about. Something al-Bashir had said before he stepped into the car: It was never about terrorism…This was much larger than terrorism.

A thought occurred to him. He took out his BlackBerry and searched through the contact files for a name from years before, when he worked for the Department of Information at the NYPD.

Marcus Hird was a criminal inspector from Kantonspolizei in Zurich. They had gotten to know each other at a conference they both attended in DC and later, Hauck had done a favor for him, actually for his cousin who had moved to Greenwich to work for UBS; the cousin’s son had been caught with some beers behind the wheel. Hauck had gotten the boy off with a suspended license and probation.

Hauck located the number. It was four P.M. over there. The overseas call went through and connected with the usual short beeps.

“Bitte, Hird,” the inspector answered officiously.

“Marcus,” Hauck said. “It’s Ty Hauck. From Greenwich. In the States.”

“Ty!” the Swiss inspector exclaimed, switching to almost perfect English. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” Hauck agreed. They exchanged a few pleasantries about work; Hird’s cousin, who was now back home; and the man’s son, who was now a student at the local polytechnic college. Hauck then got to why he was calling: “Marcus, there may be something you can do for me.”

“Always happy to assist the local police there in any way I can,” the Swiss detective said politely.

“I’m afraid I’m not exactly with the local police any longer,” Hauck admitted. He explained what he was doing now, then why he had called, keeping the reason vague. “Do you ski?”

“Sure. I’m Swiss, Ty. I grew up in a village near Davos. In younger days I was quite the racer.”

“Good. I need some information from another of your resorts. From Gstaad.”

“Gesh-staad,” the Swiss said, drawing out the German pronunciation. “Beautiful place there. What is it you need?”

“I want you to look at only the five-star hotels there for me. Just the very top echelon.”

“Understood,” the Swiss said. “The Grand Hotel Park. The Grand Hotel Bellevue. The Gstaad Palace. Do you need a booking, Ty? If so, I recommend you call the Ministry of Tourism, not me.”

Hauck laughed politely. “No, not a booking, Marcus, sorry. I’m going to give you a date. On or around June twenty-sixth of last year. I’m also going to give you a series of names…”

“The twenty-sixth of June, only the top hotels…Go ahead. What is it you’re looking for, Ty?”

“I’d rather not go into it, if that’s okay. It’s part of a private investigation. You understand.”

“I understand perfectly,” the inspector said without argument. “You may have heard, we Swiss are used to matters of privacy. So tell me, what it is that you need?”

“The hotel guest lists for those days,” Hauck said. “All of them, if you can.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

Naomi flew back to Washington that Monday afternoon and went straight to her office across from the Treasury.

She threw herself behind her desk, which was submerged under piles of memos and security reports that had stacked up in her absence. So far there was still no word on the Mercedes. She tried to convince herself over and over that it was al-Bashir, not her, like Ty had said, who had put his family in danger. But still, she couldn’t shake the sting of feeling responsible. The boy’s panicked face, peering out the back window, had haunted her all the way home. She sank back wearily in her chair under the weight of never having lost anyone before.

She logged on to her computer and scanned for a message from her contact at the Swiss Federal Office of Police’s financial crimes division. With Thibault and al-Bashir gone, there was only one course left-to try to prove Hassani was in Gstaad at the same time as the others. That some kind of conspiracy had been hatched there.

Then there was the added worry of just how to proceed. Ty’s concern was real. Someone always seemed one step ahead of them. There were only a handful of people on the inside who knew, and she had grown to understand, as Ty said, this was no longer something she could go on managing in the usual way.

She was scanning through her e-mails and calls, sipping a latte to fight the jet lag, when her boss, Rob Whyte, appeared with a knock at the door.

“Talia said you were back.”

Naomi straightened up, surprised. She cleared her throat. “Just got in now.”

“I’m sorry,” Whyte said, coming in, “about what happened, Naomi.” He pulled out a chair across from her desk. “Still no word?”

She shook her head. “I think we’ve got to proceed as if they’re gone.”

Her boss nodded. “You realize, Naomi, there’ll have to be a review of this. How it all went down.”

“I understand.”

“I know how it must make you feel. You had him.”

“Thanks,” she said, growing suspicious that he was buttering her up for something.

Whyte sat. His tie was loosened, and for the first time Naomi felt something unspoken and distant between them, a stiffness in his eyes. Was it what had happened in London or something more? She had always trusted him completely. Why not? Rob had been JAG. An ambitious lawyer. Passionate about the good they were doing. One day he would go on to bigger things. It gave her a queasy feeling holding important information back from him. But Hassani had recruited al-Bashir. He had seduced Glassman and Donovan. Something had gone awry. And this was what she felt she had to do right now.

Her boss rocked back in the chair. “So where do we stand?”

“Back at square one. Al-Bashir was the only one who could fully implicate Hassani. Now that he’s gone, I’m going to have to try to retrace some of the movement of cash between Thibault and Hassani’s firms. It’s possible there were other people in play. I’ll try to see if we can find a fit.”

Whyte nodded, his fingers folded in front of his face. “That thing in Serbia, Naomi, what you did was crossing the line. It could get our department in a lot of trouble.”

Naomi shrugged. “I did what I felt I had to do, Rob.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that, when Justice finds out…They’re already bent out of shape we didn’t bring them in on taking al-Bashir into custody. They’re calling us a bunch of amateurs.”

“I don’t care what they’re calling us. There was no time.”

He nodded. “Listen…there’s something else. Hassani is in the States.”

“The States?” Naomi put down her coffee and fixed her gaze directly on him.

“Uh-huh. He’s here for the Reynolds Reid annual meeting. You know he helped arrange that preferred financing for the Bahraini royal family…”

Naomi’s blood began to surge. “Then we can pick him up, Rob. We can question him. He’s here!”

“Question him on what, if you don’t mind me asking? On some perfectly legal flow of funds that, at worst, might tie him to Dieter Thibault? Which he would clearly insist he knew nothing about. You haven’t established a single direct contact between him and Thibault. Only that phone conversation with al-Bashir. He’ll deny it meant anything, just as al-Bashir did. What’s there to use as leverage against him? Two co-conspirators, both dead? This is a big fish, Naomi…”

She looked back at him, suddenly feeling something different, a weakening in her boss’s will. A loss of nerves? His career path suddenly in jeopardy, would he take on the very institutions he might one day look to for a deal?

Or maybe it was worse…

“That auditor’s position up in Montana,” Naomi said, smiling cautiously, “you’re thinking that may not be such a joke…”

Whyte got up. He smiled only enough to let her know he wasn’t amused. “Come back to me with something firm. Facts, Naomi-not conspiracies. You’re a goddamn Treasury agent, not Jack Bauer on 24.”

In his gaze Naomi suddenly saw that everything was now in play. Her future as well. That auditor’s position up north, it might not be Rob’s next posting.

She might get there first.

“I’m working on something, Rob…”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

That first night back, Annie came over. Mondays, Hauck generally cooked. Then they’d hang out on the couch and watch a game or rent a movie. Monday was Annie’s only night off and the last thing she needed was to spend it at a restaurant.

That Monday, Hauck felt a little nervous how things would go.

He knew he hadn’t been completely honest with her. About what had been taking up his attention as of late. Where he had been in the past week and why. It was time to come clean. As she came up the stairs, in a pair of torn white jeans and a cute orange tee, she waved brightly, but he could tell in her reserved smile that something was a little wrong.

“Hey, stranger.” He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Glad you’re back,” she said, hugging him back.

Tonight, Hauck was doing lamb burgers on the grill, with caramelized onions in balsamic and topped with Danish bleu.

“Sounds awfully good,” she said. “Spoil me.”

They opened some wine and sat on the deck overlooking the sound, feet up on the railing. A nice breeze came off the water. She didn’t ask about the trip. It was like she was waiting for him to volunteer it. They chatted about the restaurant. How it was time to get his boat in the water. He asked about Jared. She said he was doing okay. The conversation felt like the weight of a two-ton truck pressed across his back. They both felt it. There was something distant between them tonight.

How could there not be?

Hauck stood up. “Maybe I should go fire up the grill…”

“Listen, Ty-”

“Me first.” He sat back down. “I’ve actually got something to say. About where I was. What it is I’ve been up to lately. I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Annie, and-”

“I know what you’ve been up to, Ty…”

He stopped, looked at her. Annie’s eyes were round and totally nonjudgmental. Still, her gaze made him feel a bit ashamed.

She said, “I let myself in here while you were away.” She put her wine down and faced him. “I wasn’t snooping. I’d left my earrings the last time I was here and I went upstairs to look for them. I found them, on your dresser. Elena must’ve put them there…I also found something else.”

Hauck swallowed. The breath he inhaled almost hurt him; he knew what it was.

“I found that picture, Ty. It was right there. I think you know the one I’m talking about. That gal who was killed…What was her name, April?”

“April.” He nodded a little guiltily.

“And you.” Her eyes stayed solidly on him. Not accusingly; more like she was hurt. “Who was she, Ty? I’m not jealous. Well, maybe a little…But you’ve been different since the very day that happened, and you withheld it from me. I think I deserve to hear the truth.”

“She was just a friend, Annie,” Hauck said. “I promise, that’s all. That photo was taken a long time ago.”

“I know it was a long time ago, Ty. So why… Why did you have to hide it all from me? Why couldn’t you just tell me? Whatever your connection to her. You knew her-and not just from around town.”

He nodded, releasing a contrite blast of air from his cheeks. “There’s a period in my life, Annie, I’ve never gone into much. With anyone. Not just you. After Norah was killed. As things started to fall apart with Beth…”

He told her about how he walked out of his job at the NYPD. The dark period that followed. The guilt he bore. About not being able to find a reason to even get up in the morning. “One night I just sat in my car in front of the store I was heading to when it happened. I was so angry…I took a rock and hurled it through the window. The cops came…If I wasn’t a cop, I would have spent the night in jail. Maybe it was depression.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was just blame. I had a lot of it. I didn’t know how to talk about it then. Clearly, I’m not exactly a whiz now…April just helped me back, that’s all. We met in a depression group. We started to meet, afterward, for coffee. I needed someone then. I don’t know how I would have made it on my own. I don’t even think about that period now, but when I saw she was killed…”

Annie stared at him. “You’ve been following up on her death, haven’t you? All this time. You don’t think I saw it in your face? You don’t think I felt that something had changed? That maybe I had done something-”

“You haven’t done anything, Annie.”

All of a sudden her expression changed and her hand covered her mouth. “Oh my God! That’s what the attack on Jared was all about, wasn’t it? It was meant for you-to pressure you off the case. Did you keep that from me too? Did they try to hurt my son because of you?”

He nodded, flattening his lips. “Yeah, I think so, Annie.”

“Oh, Ty…” Her eyes glistened. “How could you possibly keep something like that from me?” She stared, tears about to flow, as if she was looking into a face she had seen a million times but that had now changed. “What have you gotten into, Ty? You have a new life for yourself. You have me. What hold does she have on you? What is it that’s dragging you back there, Ty?”

“I’m not dragged back anywhere, Annie…”

“Yes, you are.” She nodded. “You are… This woman’s dead, Ty. I’m here. Why are you willing to throw it all away? Why can’t you love me like that?”

“I do love you, Annie,” he said. “I do.”

“No.” She shook her head with tears in her eyes. “Not like that.”

He wanted to reach out and take her in. He wanted to tell her there was more to it. More than he was saying. But what hurt him was that she was right. They had only made one commitment to each other. Dealing in the truth. Honesty. She deserved that one thing.

And he had withheld it from her.

“I won’t even ask you where you’ve been.” She tried to smile bravely. “I mean, it’s not my business. You’re a good man, Ty. I know that, and I know you’d do anything for me. And for Jared. You’ve already proven that. You treat him like a son. But he’s not; I know that. And I’m not your wife either.”

“I was in Serbia, Annie. And London.” He swallowed. “I was with an agent from the Treasury Department, and we were tracking someone who may have been responsible for her death.”

“Serbia?” Annie shook her head, wiping away a tear. “London. Well, at least it wasn’t anywhere exciting or glamorous, right?”

“We weren’t exactly on a Butterfield and Robinson bike tour, Annie.”

That made her smile. “I’m sure. Was it dangerous?”

He looked at her, not really wanting to say. Not now. “I guess.”

“You guess…” She sniffed a little cynically and shook her head. “So did you catch him? The person who did this thing.”

“No. He’s dead. Annie, listen…” He took hold of her hand and squeezed it in his own. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I held things from you. I’m sorry to have hurt you in any way. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. Or that you deserve.”

“You’re damn right it’s the last thing I deserve. But I can’t make you love me either, can I? And I deserve that too. I don’t need the roses or the Valentine’s Day hearts or some big commitment. But I deserve to be loved, don’t I?”

“I do love you, Annie…”

“No.” She shook her head. “I meant like her.”

She smiled at him one more time, then glanced at her watch. “I guess firing up the grill doesn’t exactly seem like the thing to do right now.”

He looked at her and tried to smile back. “No, I guess not.”

“I hope you find ’em, Ty.”

“Who?”

“The one you’re looking for.”

Hauck didn’t know if she was talking about April’s murderer or maybe someone else.

She got up. “You know, it’s not like me to leave with something corny like this…” There was a wistful twinkle in her clear blue eyes. “But I guess I was always hoping, inside, when you went to someplace like London, it might have been with me.”

She brushed past him and he reached for her arm.

She stood there for a second in his grasp.

“Regarding April, I haven’t told you everything. There’s one more thing…”

“I’m sorry, Ty.” Annie pulled free. “But I don’t want to know.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

The e-mail flashed on Naomi’s laptop when she logged on at six the next morning. It was a short, three-line response, and she stared at it in her oversize Princeton tee. She read it twice, just to make sure.

It changed everything.

She waited as long as she could, showered, her heart racing. Then she punched in the number on her speed dial. “Ty…”

“Hey.” He sounded groggy.

“I figured you’d be jet lagged. You okay?”

“I’m okay,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Didn’t sleep much. I’ve been up since three. Just something personal. What’s going on?”

“I got something back from Bern.” Her voice shook with excitement. She told him about the response. From the assistant consul general at the embassy there. “A private jet, registered to a Dubai aviation company, landed in Geneva at seven twenty-one A.M. June twenty-fifth. Hassani passed through immigration there half an hour later. That’s the day before Thibault’s lift ticket was dated, Ty.”

“Geneva’s not Gstaad, Naomi.”

“Geneva’s the closest airport to Gstaad for someone clearing immigration. It’s only a two-hour drive away. I checked. Hassani was there, Ty!”

She had tried desperately to fit it all together ever since she had received the reply. It was clear now something important had taken place there. A conspiracy mapped out, put in motion months later by the largest stock fund in the world dumping U.S. securities. Two investment managers secretly paid off to conceal massive losses at their teetering banks, then killed, setting in motion a terrible slide in the already reeling financial sector. Stocks sent plummeting. Banks going under.

The walls tumbling down.

Now she had to get her people involved. Hassani was in New York. This might be their only chance to get him. The FBI, the Justice Department…What she had to do now was figure out who she could trust.

“Who have you told about this, Naomi?”

“No one,” she replied. “Just you. But I can’t keep it that way any longer. Hassani’s in New York. He’s there for the Reynolds Reid annual meeting. I’m not certain for just how long. I know Geneva’s not Gstaad, but we can prove he was in the area at the same time as Thibault and al-Bashir. We have the transcript of him on the phone setting the plan in motion. The flow of cash from one of his firms to pay off James Donovan. The three of them were behind a plot to take down the economy of the United States, Ty. Marty al-Bashir basically admitted that much.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to jog on it first. There’s a lot at stake. Not to mention my career if I blow this up. I was thinking…” Something al-Bashir had said had occurred to her. About how it wasn’t terrorism but something much, much larger. “What if there were more than three? What if there were others involved? Who were there. What if this Gstaad Gang had a few more paying members?”

“I’ve thought that too,” Hauck said back. “And I’m already on it, Naomi.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY

He was getting ready to leave when his cell rang. Steve Chrisafoulis.

“I want you to see something, Ty,” the Greenwich detective said. “Are you near a computer?”

“Can be,” Hauck said back, throwing his car keys on the counter and heading to his desk.

“We had an ID come back. One of Sonny Merced’s buddies in Iraq. They knew each other in the Hundred-and-first over there. I told you we were checking that out. He also worked as an armed security consultant with GTM, the security firm that told Merced to get lost. Talon’s firm.”

“Yeah.” Hauck turned on his computer. “I remember, Steve.”

He logged on to his e-mail account. He saw the message flashing. He clicked it open and then the attachment.

A photo came on the screen.

A man in fatigues, leaning on an armored vehicle. From his GTM days. Muscular, ripped. In a gray army T-shirt, brandishing an M4 rifle. His hair short, wiry, pulled back in a stubby ponytail.

Jack “Red” O’Toole.

“I’m on it, Steve…”

“He did two yearlong stints with GTM after his military tours of duty were over. I spoke to his field boss. Known as a real cowboy over there. Quick on the trigger. I think it’s our guy, Ty. I asked who his main clients were over there. Just on a whim. You’re never gonna believe what he came back with.”

“I’m listening, Steve…”

Hauck stared intensely at the photo. The muscular physique. The short ponytail. The connection to Merced.

But it was something else that made Hauck’s blood come to a boil.

It was what was on his neck. A kind of tattoo. A claw, it looked like, maybe a lion or a panther. Just as the photos Evan Glassman had snapped from the second-floor window had shown.

The person who had killed his family.

Jack “Red” O’Toole.

“Nice work, Steve.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

She did jog on it.

Close to five miles. On the path along the Potomac. Until the answer came to her. Stopping, hands on hips, breathing heavily, she knew she’d be taking a huge risk. To go out of channels this way.

Yet it was something she had to do. To let this situation pass, to possibly lose Hassani, was not an option now. Eight innocent people had died. Not to mention the global economic collapse that he had precipitated. Or the fact that al-Bashir’s son’s face still resonated in her.

Corny as it was, she found herself staring at the Lincoln Memorial.

This was her job.

She took out her cell and put in the call. She had only been with him privately that one time. She requested ten minutes-alone. That morning, if possible. And to keep the call confidential.

Ninety minutes later Naomi walked into the office of the treasury secretary of the United States.

She had gone through the list of anyone she could talk to, anyone who could take action, someone she could trust. Thomas Keaton was the one name that came to mind.

His secretary walked her in, opening the large, paneled doors just as she had once before, revealing the spacious room, the polished mahogany desk and gleaming conference table. The bright seal of the United States staring up at her from the carpet. The un-obstructed view of the Washington Monument.

I hope you know what you’re doing, Naomi…

From his desk, Thomas Keaton stood up. He motioned for her to take a seat in a large leather chair that suddenly seemed way too big for her.

“Agent Blum,” he said. “You asked for a private meeting. You realize how unorthodox this is…”

Naomi sat down, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. “I realize that, sir.”

“I assume by private, you didn’t mean Mitch.” Mitch Hastings, the department’s chief counsel, was seated on the couch nearby.

“No, of course,” Naomi said. She nodded to the lawyer. “How are you, sir?”

Hastings gave her a tight smile, adjusting his glasses.

She removed a large file from her satchel and placed it on her lap. “I’m sure you both have important matters to attend to. I won’t take up much time.”

The secretary sat back down. “If by ‘important matters’ you mean the world markets being in free fall, California’s largest bank having collapsed, the world wondering which iconic investment house is going to go under next, the president’s going on the air today to tell the public to have faith in the markets…yes”-he glanced at Hastings-“the day is a bit full. The last time you were here you made some pretty lurid innuendos. I asked you to come back with proof. Have you found that proof, Agent Blum?”

“Yes, sir.” Naomi nodded. “I think I have. I’m sorry, but I didn’t feel comfortable taking this through normal channels. When I was here last I mentioned a Saudi investment manager named Mashhur al-Bashir, who I suspected had precipitated a global sell-off in stocks as part of a plot to destabilize the U.S. economy. I think you’re aware that two days ago we attempted to take him into custody?”

“I am aware of that, Agent Blum.” The treasury secretary’s face soured. “This al-Bashir was a respected figure in the financial world. To date, it’s just been reported he and his family are somehow missing. I instructed you to keep this under the radar, not create a public incident. What the hell happened on that?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” Naomi shifted uncomfortably. “But before it occurred, Mr. al-Bashir confirmed to me he had, in fact, been part of a conspiracy just as I mapped out, along with Hassan ibn Hassani. As you may recall, the original evidence of this surfaced from a transcript of a monitored phone conversation between Mr. Hassani and al-Bashir, which I was trying to tie to the two traders whose deaths sent Wertheimer Grant and Beeston Holloway into insolvency through an intermediary, Dieter Thibault.”

The treasury secretary leaned forward. “And were you able to make that connection, Agent Blum?”

Naomi opened her file. “I’ve been able to show a trail of money between Thibault and one of Mr. Hassani’s corporate entities, a real estate development firm in Dubai, Ascot Capital, that was used to advance a significant amount of money to James Donovan of Beeston Holloway, who we are now pretty certain did not kill himself, but in fact was murdered, sir.”

Keaton’s gaze grew somber. “I’m still waiting for you to take this somewhere, Agent Blum.”

“Yes, sir. I’m fairly certain Mr. Hassani, Mr. al-Bashir, and Thibault developed this plot to collapse the financial markets in June of last year. We found evidence that all three men were in Gstaad, Switzerland, on the same day, June twenty-sixth.”

“Gstaad?”

“Hassani’s private jet landed at the Geneva airport the day before. Geneva is the closest international airport, at which he would have had to land. He took off to London two days later. I believe they discussed this at a restaurant there named Christina’s, on the mountain. I’m in the process of trying to nail down their whereabouts, the hotels they might have stayed at as well as the restaurant where this meeting took place.”

“Proving they were there at the same time doesn’t exactly tie them to this plot, does it, agent?”

“No, you’re right.” Naomi nodded. “It doesn’t. What does is that Dieter Thibault was actually the assumed identity for an ex-Serbian-paramilitary officer who was implicated in a mass murder in Bosnia during the war. He’s been directly linked to the murders of Glassman and Donovan. Tying him to Hassani through the money that went to bribe Donovan, and then tying Hassani to al-Bashir through the monitored transcript and the sell-off of global stocks, is enough in my eyes to warrant a full investigation, Mr. Secretary. But it gets more urgent. That’s not in itself why I’m here.”

Thomas Keaton motioned for her to continue.

Naomi took a deep breath. “Hassani is currently in the United States. He’s attending a board meeting at Reynolds Reid tied to their annual meeting. It’s clear he orchestrated a major international conspiracy that resulted in the collapse of U.S. banks-and contributed to a worldwide panic that cost billions in lost net worth and personal hardships.”

Hastings cut in from the couch. “Hassani and al-Bashir didn’t bring down these banks, Agent Blum. Are you forgetting a few minor issues such as the subprime mortgage collapse, the housing meltdown, CDOs, the rating agencies’ lack of governance…?”

“No, sir, you’re right, but they clearly hastened it. It’s just as much of an attack against the United States as if they flew a plane directly into the Capitol dome.

“Not to mention,” Naomi said, looking back at Keaton, “at least eight innocent people presumably killed between here and the UK.”

Keaton’s face grew stonelike.

“I can’t put everything together. I can’t put together why this was done or ultimately who benefited from what took place. There may even be others involved I haven’t identified yet. But there was a plot, sir, make no mistake. A plot to destabilize the U.S. economy by taking advantage of weaknesses in the financial system. Hassani should be detained-today. He should be made to provide answers about his activities in this plot. If he was carrying a bomb you would have no problem picking up the phone to the FBI immediately. This is no less a bomb, and it caused more damage than any device they could have detonated. I wish I didn’t have to come to you on this, sir.”

“And the reason,” Keaton asked, “you’re not proceeding through normal channels is…?”

“You mentioned London, Mr. Secretary. You know what happened there. Somehow someone beat us to both Thibault and al-Bashir before we could take them in. Two days earlier, Thibault had been killed in Serbia. It was made to look like a retribution killing for his offenses in the war. But no one knew about that, sir. And no one knew he was back in his home village.

“I don’t know who it is,” she continued. “Hassani, I assume, covering his tracks. But only a handful of people knew we had placed Thibault and Hassani together. In light of this I couldn’t take the chance of what I had on Hassani finding its way into the wrong hands. I felt I had to go directly to you with this, sir. I hope you understand.”

Thomas Keaton’s jaw grew taut and he glanced toward Mitch Hastings with a sobering stare. The lawyer eyed him back with an equally concerned expression.

“Very serious stuff,” he said, turning back to Naomi. “You were absolutely right to bring this to me, Agent Blum.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

Peter Simons was skimming the Wall Street Journal in the back of his company Maybach, making his way down the FDR. He had an eight thirty breakfast with the head of the New York Fed in the Washington Room at their headquarters on Liberty Street. Along with the chiefs of Goldman, Citi, and Blackstone, some of the most powerful people in finance. The government had to craft a response to the deepening Wall Street crisis, a plan for how to hold the system together. And who better to consult with than the very people most responsible for pushing it over the edge? The historic meeting room on the Fed’s thirteenth floor was three stories tall and completely windowless. In the most symbolic sense, to lock in whatever was discussed within its hallowed walls.

You didn’t have to be a genius, Peter Simons knew, to have seen it all coming. The geniuses were all responsible for creating the mess. For years, the world had been lulled to sleep by the toxic double dose of credit and debt. The banks, the rating bureaus, the governance agencies tasked with keeping it all together. Even the insurance giants who devised the logarithmic schemes to offset all the risk, like AIG. The system was corroded, rotted from the core. And, as most failed to understand, completely rigged. Deregulation had allowed the banks to lever their capital up at forty to one. Rating agencies were collecting fees from the very firms they were assigned to vet. Complex derivatives and credit-default swaps no one understood drove trading volumes. The mortgage market had melted down to dross. The whole rotted mess spiraled upward in an unimpeded arc, throwing off record profits for everyone. Until it stopped.

Until it simply didn’t anymore. Until the winds changed. No, you didn’t have to be a genius, Simons knew. Certainly he wasn’t. You just had to be willing to do something about it. To make sure not to be blown away by the gale.

And Simons had never been one to be pushed aside by a little shift in the winds. His father had been a middling merchant outside of Philadelphia, and from the beginning, Simons had dreams that he was destined for higher things. He had run track in high school, still held the record for the four hundred at his school. Now the stadium was named after him. At Yale, he had been invited into Skull and Bones. The day he had been asked into the exclusive club was one of the proudest of his life. It had made his ascent to the top of Wall Street almost a self-fulfilling plan. Opened doors to the right contacts. There was always a hand above him guiding his way. No one worked harder. No one sold his ass off like he had. He knew he wasn’t one of the “geniuses.” And he surely had no pedigree that was going to pave his way.

First, he became head of the trading floor at Reynolds, when it was a quiet, retail-based institution. Then he was put in charge of the bond department, riding the wave of growth in the nineties. He built the firm from a quiet old-line brokerage house into the new model of leading investment banks in the world. He rode the crest of the subprime rally all the way to the top. But the signs became clear-when everyone else started piling on, he wasn’t about to let it take him down as well. That was the difference between him and many of his peers. Even the people who, in fifteen minutes, were about to sit around the same table with him and thrash over how to right the ship in this storm.

In school, Simons had studied the Austrian economist Joseph Schumpeter, and it had formed his view that the system was made anew by every generation. Capitalism wasn’t static. It was constantly remaking itself, like a living organism. Innovation cleansed the system. Behemoths rose and fall. Creative destruction. Nature did it, in evolution, in great forests ravaged by fire. Schumpeter called it being carried away by the “gale.”

The idea had first occurred to him a year ago over drinks with Hassani in Dubai, after the Bahraini had helped facilitate a needed investment by the royal family. How, if they could just influence events, tip the scale, you might say, in their favor, despite the coming downturn, everyone could win. It was all inevitable anyway. Nature was going to take its course. Simons had the network of like-minded people. People to make it happen on a global scale. Hassani would just need to implement the plan. Put it all in motion. Give it the proper impetus. That was where al-Bashir fit in. A man with obligations to Hassani of a different sort. The perfect fit to start the chain unraveling. Send the banks’ stocks plummeting. Bring the short sellers out. Then the rogue traders. That was Hassani’s idea.

And he had found the perfect piece of scum to make it happen.

What a lark that that scum had ended up seducing his ex-wife.

Simons knew, in the end, he was only speeding up the inevitable. Reynolds Reid would be poised to pick up the pieces. Some of his competitors would be blown away; that was bound to happen. Surely he would suffer losses. Personally. As well as the firm. In the short term.

But in the end, he would be one of the winners. The innovative player. The one who alters circumstance to fit design. They would be made stronger by the gale.

After breakfast he had a board meeting. At that meeting they would ratify the acquisition of Pacific-West, California’s largest bank, which had just been taken over by the Fed. They had picked up coveted pieces of Wertheimer. And ArcCo, the country’s largest mortgage company. They would announce it at the annual meeting this afternoon.

What they would never announce was just how it all came to be.

Simons’s car pulled up at the Fed on Liberty Street. His driver, Carl, leaned back around. “Shall I let you off here, Mr. Simons?”

“Great, Carl. Stay close to the phone. I should be back down in ninety minutes. We have to be back up at the office by ten.”

“You got it, sir.”

Simons stepped out onto the street. There was only one thing that gave him pause.

His friend.

At his core, Hassani was still too much of an ideologue for him. He still carried this crazy belief in jihad. People who believed too strongly in anything always made Simons a little nervous. It made him smile that despite the lavish meals and the warm hugs of friendship, the Bahraini probably shared the same doubts about him as well.

You never knew how that would fall.

Heading through the gilded door, Peter Simons reminded himself he’d have to do something about that.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

Naomi was at Reagan International, waiting for the government jet to take her to New York. She had finally found a moment to look over what Ty had sent.

She was on her way up to connect with Anthony Bruni, a senior agent in charge of the FBI Financial terrorism task force. Together, they would take Hassani into custody later that day.

Keaton had given the word. It was delicate. There were many entanglements between the U.S. and Bahrain over matters of national security. The king might well be enraged. Hassani might even claim diplomatic immunity. As the jet rolled out, Naomi quickly scanned through Ty’s attachment. The e-mail it had arrived in said, Proof Hassani was there. And check out who else.

Excitedly, Naomi clicked back and forth between the three hotel guest lists. Her blood whipped like a squall running through her veins. Thibault. Al-Bashir. Hassani. All highlighted in Ty’s document. She felt vindicated.

They’d all been there.

Just as she had laid it all out weeks before. Only this made the case against him a hundred times stronger. Not to mention her job security. Naomi took out her BlackBerry and was about to place a call back to Ty when the “who else” he was referring to hit her like a lacrosse stick to the face.

Peter Simons.

Peter Simons was head of one of the largest investment banks in the world.

Naomi’s stomach almost climbed up her throat. Simons was there. She tried to wrap her brain around what this meant. It made it a whole new thing.

It was no longer about jihad or some terrorist plot to cripple the West; this was a deep-rooted conspiracy, one that sprang up not from overseas but from within. Naomi tried to grasp it. How did anyone profit from this kind of thing? What did Reynolds Reid have to gain?

A military officer came through a door. He nodded at Naomi. “Agent Blum, your aircraft’s on the tarmac now.”

“I’ll be there in a second,” Naomi said, her body breaking out in an exhilarated sweat.

Could there be others?

Excitedly, Naomi scrolled up and down the three lists, shifting between hotels, the two nights.

Other names began to pop out. Important names.

Marshall Shipman. Shipman was chief of Orpheus, a large hedge fund. She felt her hands tremble. Stephen Cain. Cain ran a boutique private equity group. A mini-Blackstone. Vladimir Tursanov. A huge Russian financier.

Hassani. Al-Bashir.

The Gstaad Gang.

She took out a pad and feverishly scratched the names on it as she read on. It left her feeling queasy and uncertain, like she was facing the unclimbable walls of some deep well she was at the bottom of.

She realized she was opening a Pandora’s box of something that was way beyond her control. Like al-Bashir had said on the landing before he was driven away. This was much larger than simply terrorism.

She punched in Ty’s number on her BlackBerry.

“You see what I found?” he answered on the first ring. “Simons.”

“Simons is only the tip of the iceberg, Ty. It was a plot-a plot to take down the markets. Not some terrorist thing. Well-orchestrated, by some of the most influential people in the investment world. From within.” Her mouth was dry. “I don’t know what we stumbled into.”

“Is it possible this was just a part of other meetings that were scheduled around it? Legitimate meetings?” Hauck asked.

“No. Nothing like this. Nothing this big. It would be public. I would know about it.” She had to hold her head to keep it from spinning.

“Naomi, who have you shared this with?” Hauck pressed. His voice was laced with urgency. “Who approved the arrest? Who else knows?”

“I went directly to Thomas Keaton. I…” As soon as his name fell off her lips her heart slowed to a stop. “Oh my God, Ty…”

She hadn’t seen it before, but now she did. It was all there. Not behind some curtain. But in plain day. Hassani. Al-Bashir. Tursanov.

Simons.

She had to hold her stomach from lurching up inside her. Even a blind person could see. If they knew what they were looking for.

“Naomi, what-”

“Ty, I need you to meet me in New York. I’m about to board a government jet. We’re taking Hassani into custody. Today, after the Reynolds Reid meeting. But Hassani’s only the front man for this…” She put her fingers to the front of her head as if she was trying to keep it from exploding. “Oh, God, what have I done, Ty?”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Red O’Toole leaned against the car and stared out at the New York landmark.

He had been told to come here and wait. That this was a final job for him. An important one. Then he could collect his last pay and disappear. He had sensed a tone of desperation in his contact’s voice. He knew that sign-like in the field when a position had become too hot to hold. Taking on fire. He’d been in several of those, and this one had that feel. You always had to have a way out. A line of retreat.

He was mapping his now.

He knew he’d done more bad stuff in his time than he cared to admit or remember. He figured one or two more added to the list wouldn’t mean shit when it came to an accounting of these things. It’s not like he’d set out to do them. If his dad, a devout man, was still alive, he’d have said, Johnny, don’t do anything you can’t repent for. That’s the one rule.

O’Toole smiled and wondered if there was enough repentance left in the world for what he’d been forced to do.

He knew Merced had been ID’d. His name was now all over the news. They knew his background. In Iraq. At Global Threat Management. Sonny had always been careless. And a little desperate. O’Toole realized it wouldn’t be much of a stretch for them to find a connection back to him.

After this last job, he needed to disappear.

Behind his shades, he watched taxis and limos pull up. His cell phone rang. He knew who it was. He didn’t even have to look. He took it out of his pocket and flipped it open. “I’m here.”

“Are we secure?” the caller asked, meaning the line. The caller never lost the chance to dot his “I’s” and cross his “T’s” he was not a little paranoid. Guess a man like him had to be. An important man.

O’Toole assured him that it was.

“Matters have gotten a little out of hand,” the man began. “I need you to settle a past-due account for me. We’ve set it all up. We’ve got a way in for you. But it’s tricky…”

He took the target’s name and looked at the location. It was tricky. Getting in. Cameras all around. Lots of people. A public venue. Not to mention bodyguards.

“Call it in to me when you’re done,” his contact said on the line.

“When I’m done,” O’Toole mused, “I intend to be long gone.”

“Before you go, there are one or two last details that need to be settled. One you already know. It’ll be almost a sort of reunion for you. The other, call it your retirement party.”

He gave O’Toole the names. He’d seen them before. A fist of anger ground inside him. He lowered his shades.

“That one I do for free.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Two large black Suburbans pulled up in front of the Waldorf on Fiftieth and Park Avenue. The doorman attempted to wave them along, but the driver in the lead vehicle rolled down his window, flashing his ID. The doorman’s expression changed and he motioned for them to double-park right in front.

A team of government agents jumped out. Hauck saw a stocky, dark-complexioned man in a tan suit, followed by Naomi, in a brown pantsuit, close behind. Three more agents exited the second SUV, wearing earphones.

He recognized them all as FBI.

He went up to Naomi and her demeanor brightened when she saw him. “I’m glad you’re here. This is Senior Agent in Charge Anthony Bruni.” She introduced him to the agent in the tan suit. “He’s with the Financial Crimes Task Force in New York. This is Ty Hauck. He’s worked with me on much of this case. More like I’ve worked with him.”

Hauck shook hands in front of the entrance to the hotel.

“I know who you are.” Bruni nodded respectfully. “I followed what you did on the Grand Central bombing case and that mess up in Hartford. Glad to have you aboard.”

Hauck nodded back appreciatively, as if surprised his exploits had made their radar.

Bruni grinned. “Hey, FBI agents watch CNN too.”

He stationed two of his men at the cars and one in the lobby; the other two went with them in FBI Windbreakers as they entered the posh hotel. “This could go several ways,” Bruni explained. “And it won’t be quiet. One thing I know: the ruling family back in Bahrain is going to throw a fit. We have a representative of the State Department meeting us back at FBI offices.” He smirked. “You might also think about shorting Reynolds Reid stock before the end of the day. This isn’t going to go well on the Street, either.”

The group entered the crowded lobby and went up to the front desk. The hotel manager, in a black suit, came out to meet them. “I’m Special Agent Bruni,” the FBI man said. “We spoke on the phone.”

The manager, a tall fortysomething man with a receding hair-line, appeared understandably anxious that a procedure of this magnitude was taking place at his hotel. “I checked. Mr. Hassani is still in his room,” he said. “He arrived about forty minutes ago and hasn’t come back out. I’m hoping you can exit through the side entrance on Fiftieth and keep this as discreet as you can.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Bruni assured him. He radioed to the drivers to wait around the block. Then he turned to Naomi. “Ready, Agent Blum? It’s your show.”

The determination was clear on Naomi’s face. Not only was this the biggest arrest of her career, but she had traced this since it was no more than two seemingly unrelated deaths of Wall Street traders. They’d tied them to a cryptic call from Hassani and followed the chain of money to Serbia and London, murders blocking them every step of the way. Now they were back to Hassani.

“One hundred percent,” Naomi said, inhaling a deep breath and casting a tight smile at Hauck.

“Then let’s go.”

Hauck, Naomi, Bruni, the hotel manager, and the two accompanying agents went over to the elevators across the red carpeted lobby. When it came, the manager politely asked a couple about to step in if they could wait for the next one. They climbed in. The elevator whisked them to the twelfth floor, where Hassani was staying. On the private floor, there was a concierge seated behind a desk.

“Chris, is Mr. Hassani still in his room?” the manager asked.

“Yes, sir.” The concierge nodded, checking. “He went in about forty minutes ago. There’s only been one other person on the floor, another guest, who went in and out shortly after.”

In and out.

Naomi’s gaze shot to Hauck. He saw in it the same sense of alarm that was buzzing through him.

This couldn’t happen again.

Naomi started to run. With her leading the way, they went quickly down the long hall of rooms and turned the corner to the suite at the end.

The wooden double door read 1201.

Naomi knocked. “Mr. Hassani! This is Agent Naomi Blum of the United States Department of the Treasury. We need you to open the door.”

There was no answer.

She knocked again, this time with more force. “Mr. Hassani. This is the United States Treasury Department. Please open the door.”

They waited again. Nothing came back. Hauck could feel the nerves rising in Naomi’s blood.

The same feeling was going on in his.

Bruni stepped in. “Mr. Hassani, this is the last time we are going to ask you. This is the FBI. We need you to open the door. We have a federally executed warrant for you to come with us on matters of national security. If we don’t hear a response, we’ll be forced to make our own way in.”

They waited a few more seconds. No sound emanated from the suite. Bruni nodded to the hotel manager, who stepped between them, wearing a concerned look, and slipped an electronic key into the lock. The green light flashed with a click. He turned the handle and opened the door, then backed away.

Bruni and the two agents behind him drew their arms. “Mr. Hassani, we are coming in…”

The door struck something hard.

With an anxious look, Bruni put his shoulder against it and forced it open. It took just a second for it to become clear something was deadly wrong.

A heavyset, Middle Eastern-looking bodyguard in a dark suit was on his back on an expensive-looking Oriental rug.

Two dark circles of blood spread on the man’s white shirt.

Hauck’s own blood scame to a stop.

Naomi muttered, “Oh, no, no, no, no…,” and, rushing inside, shouted, “Mr. Hassani?”

The entrance opened to a spacious and modern living area. There was a wall bar, a set of curtained windows overlooking Park Avenue. Next to it was a large dining room and a kitchen.

“Mr. Hassani!” she called out again. Now everyone had their weapons drawn.

The team of agents spread, the cry of “Clear! Clear!” echoing through the multiroom suite.

Hauck went ahead of Naomi and found what looked like the master bedroom. He carefully stepped into the room, his Sig in front of him, but when he saw what was there he lowered the weapon.

“He’s in here.”

A man reclined on the bed, in his sixties maybe, wearing a white terry bathrobe, gray bearded, reading glasses on his forehead, composed, a newspaper spread on his chest as if he were napping.

A bright red hole dotted the center of his forehead.

Naomi and the other agents rushed in. She stopped, as if some invisible force had halted her motion, and she gazed, deflated, at the bed. Her fists clenched and she pressed her lips tightly, her eyes glassing over in anger and dismay.

A look of understanding spread across her face.

“Simons?” Hauck asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s larger than Simons.” She took her gaze off Hassani and turned back to Hauck. “I know what’s happening, Ty.”

He nodded back. “So do I.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

Peter Simons was pleased.

The annual meeting had been a home run. He had stood up in front of two thousand concerned shareholders in the Grand Ballroom at the Pierre and mapped out-simulcast on a giant screen above him and across the globe-how Reynolds Reid was in position to emerge as one of the victors in these challenging times.

Yes, he had acknowledged, the stock price had taken a hit. The entire financial sector had.

Yes, there were billion-dollar write-downs that would have to be taken. The government had proposed a possible rescue plan for the troubled banks. It was conceivable the firm might participate in it, he told the shareholders.

Participate?

Simons had to hold himself back from laughing out loud. It was the biggest bonanza in the company’s history. And he had been sitting at the table where it was conceived, Simons reflected with glee, but, of course, he could not divulge this.

Still, the firm was solid, he declared. It was not in line to be one of the casualties, he said with commitment. It had shifted out of its subprime positions long before many of its competitors, like Wertheimer or Citi or Merrill. Its balance sheet was fundamentally strong.

In addition, he announced, the troubled times had worked in the company’s favor. The board had just approved their offer to acquire one of the largest mortgage companies that had recently failed. It had added prized pieces of Wertheimer too, which the firm had long coveted. It had just put in an offer to buy a 20 percent stake in AVO, a Dutch bank, which would strengthen its position in Europe. It had recently shored up new and substantial lines of capital in the Middle East.

Of course, he said, the firm had taken hits. But they were in a strong position to weather the storm. Not to simply weather it, he declared, but to emerge stronger and better positioned from it.

The packed ballroom responded with a standing ovation.

Now, hours later, back in his office on the forty-third floor, Simons caught the reactions on CNBC and Fox Business. The commentators were saying how Reynolds seemed uniquely positioned to take advantage of the crisis. Even if they needed government funds, it would only serve to strengthen the company’s reserves. Wertheimer and Beeston were history. Merrill and Lehman seemed ready to join them there.

The stock price had jumped almost 20 percent in an hour.

Satisfied, Simons reclined back at his desk and took out a cigar. He had done what he had to do. What he needed to do. The landscape around him had to be cleansed. Yes, there would be a year, maybe two, of turmoil. Of uncertainty. Yes, their own results would be slow to come back. Job loses. Contraction. Those were all just statistics. All simply debris, he mused, swept away by the gale forces of change.

But when the winds finally calmed, who would be there to profit on the rebound? Who, made flush with endless government funds, strengthened by their tight relationship to the Fed, would emerge the winner in this new world? The administrator of the TARP fund was an ex-Reynolds man. The head of the New York Fed had been their head of fixed income for years. It was like Skull and Bones all over again. You don’t leave things to the government to sort out, Simons thought, chuckling with pride.

We are the fucking government.

The seeds were planted well.

Harold Molinari, Simons’s CFO, called saying he wanted to share the Street’s reaction. Simons buzzed for him to come on down. Later, there was a partners’ dinner at Cipriani. Yes, it would be a long road back. A difficult climb. But Peter Simons had done what he had to do to win.

He had not let them down.

His office door opened. Simons spun expansively, expecting to greet his gloating CFO. “Hal!”

Instead he was staring into the panicked face of his secretary, who was followed by two men he did not know.

One was in a tan suit, and he came up to Simons’s desk and dropped a badge in front of his face.

A heavy weight plummeted inside Simons. Over the years, he’d become very familiar with the look of someone who was holding your balls in his mouth and was about to chew. He had that look down to a science.

He was staring at that same expression now.

“Mr. Simons,” the man in the suit said, smiling victoriously, “my name is Senior Agent Anthony Bruni, and I’m from the FBI.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

They took the Amtrak Metroliner back to DC.

The government jet had already returned; they had assumed Naomi would be in New York for a while as part of Hassani’s interrogation.

But now Naomi realized the less anyone knew about their whereabouts, the better. Outside the hotel suite, Hauck had run the photo Steve Chrisafoulis had sent him earlier by the desk concierge on the twelfth floor. Jack “Red” O’Toole. The man immediately pointed to him as the “other guest” on the floor who had come by just after Hassani had gone in. They looked into who had made the booking: A phony name. A stolen Amex card. But now at least they knew. They knew who was doing the killing. Who had killed April. And the picture began to come clear just for whom. Hauck showed Naomi something else, something that Marcus Hird in Switzerland had sent back today. Naomi’s mood grew somber. This changed everything again. Hauck had never seen her look as nervous and unsure of what to do.

On the train, she and Hauck sat in two facing seats in the business car. They rode in silence for much of the way, stations flashing by. Newark. Metropark. Trenton. It was clear Naomi was gearing up for what she had to do. She joked fatalistically to him about some frozen lake up in northern Montana-how that might not even be an option by the end of the day. She took a call from Bruni, who now had Simons in hand. He arranged for them to be met by some of his colleagues when they arrived at Union Station in DC.

Sometimes you just step into something, Hauck knew, watching her steeling herself for the task that had to be done. Something larger than yourself. Something that just needs to be seen through. It may not be what you set out for at the beginning. It’s not exactly your plan. It’s more like your fate-or where fate guides you. Those with the part of them inside that does not look away. Back down. You look around for someone else to carry the ball. To run with it.

And it’s just you.

And it can cost you, Hauck knew, dearly. His whole career seemed to be a lesson in that. It had cost him a brother. If he had only looked away…It had cost him his friend and closest protégé on the job. It might now cost him Annie. Why can’t you love me like that? Chasing the ghost of a dead friend.

He looked away and felt the train rattling on the tracks. If only that’s what it was…

But you see it through. Certain of them were like that. You follow it all the way to the end. Regardless of who it swallows up or to what frozen lake it leads. When Naomi looked up and the two of them caught each other’s eyes, it was as if they were both thinking the same thing. Both recognized the look.

They smiled.

“I need something to eat,” he said. “Want anything?”

Naomi shook her head. “No, thanks.”

He got up. “I’ll be right back.”

The train was shuttling swiftly between Philadelphia and Wilmington. Hauck headed back up the aisle. A group of four businesspeople were crowded around a table, laptops out. In the next row, a man in a military cap appeared to be dozing, his brim pulled down.

Hauck flung open the door and crossed into the next car.

He found a snack bar two cars ahead and ordered a roast beef sandwich and a coffee for himself, and in spite of what she’d said, a turkey sandwich and a bottle of water for Naomi. She probably hadn’t had a bite to eat all day.

The clerk gave Hauck one of those cardboard trays. He made his way back up to his car, the motion of the train making it all hard to carry. He slid open the heavy outside door to his car, holding it open with his foot. Made his way back up the aisle. He saw Naomi still sitting at the far end of the car. A female college student had a People magazine on her lap. A black woman was knitting. The businesspeople were still recounting their meeting. He passed the guy dozing in the cap. He noticed the lettering in gold embroidery on the back, and a warning bell suddenly went off in him

101st Airborne.

Hauck glanced down, noticing the thick braid of hair knotted into a short ponytail that peeked through the back of the cap.

Everything stopped.

He immediately flashed to the photos Evan had snapped of the two men who had killed his family.

One had a short ponytail.

Some kind of tattoo on his neck.

His body suddenly tingling, he flashed to the photo he had seen today.

He started forward again, catching Naomi’s eye. As he passed, the man in the military cap seemed to stir, shifting to the side. Hauck looked down with a quick glance. The man was wearing a gray T-shirt under a nylon jacket.

What he saw sent a tremor down his spine.

That same tattoo. On his neck.

It looked like a panther’s claw.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

Hauck’s body went rigid with determination.

It was him. O’Toole. It had to be. Even before Hauck sat back down his mind fast-forwarded through what he had to do. Anger roiled in him. It was a crowded car. The train still had an hour to go. There could be no mistake. Thibault. Al-Bashir. Hassani. Dead.

They were after them now.

There was no way they would make it to DC.

He sat back down, his stomach tensing, this time on the opposite side, next to Naomi. His heart raced with the inevitability of two speeding trains about to collide. He put the tray between them. Naomi looked up, unsuspecting. She smiled, looking over what he had brought her. “Thanks.”

Hauck looked back up the aisle. The man was solid, shoulders hunched, arms folded, hugging his chest. His face was hidden underneath the hat’s brim.

Hauck wanted to leap up and kill him.

But he also knew O’Toole was aware of him too. The guy was a professional. Army trained. He clearly had no hesitation about what he had to do. He had killed a kid, for Christ’s sake. Murdered an entire family.

Hauck knew the guy was measuring him too.

Hauck leaned close to Naomi and squeezed her knee, trying not to give a sign that anything was wrong. “You remember that nice couple who picked up our Saudi friend in London?” he whispered under his breath.

Naomi looked back. Seeing his steady gaze. Sensing something wrong.

She nodded slowly, her pupils widening, meeting his.

“I don’t want you to show a reaction,” Hauck said, tightening the pressure on her knee, “but those very same people are here for us now.”

She blinked. Her gaze displayed the slightest tremor of fear. She leaned back and nodded, this time with a beat of alarm. “What are we going to do?”

Hauck glanced back toward at the man, who seemed to shift their way. “I don’t know.”

He felt underneath his jacket for his gun. He quietly unsnapped the holster. The car was crowded with unsuspecting people. Maybe the only thing to do was to seize the fact that he knew. Rush O’Toole. He had killed April, her family. His heart starting to throb, he had to hold himself back. His only ally was the element of surprise.

Suddenly the train began to slow. An announcement blasted through the tinny speakers. “Wilmington. This is Wilmington, Delaware. Next stop, Baltimore…”

The man in the army cap stirred, grasping his satchel. He looked up and made it appear as if he was getting ready to leave. Briefly, his gaze darted their way. Didn’t make eye contact. Just made sure they were still there. He stood up. Departing passengers began to fill the aisles.

Suddenly it became clear. This was how O’Toole was going to do it. As he went by, exiting the train. Then he could bolt onto the platform.

“Wilmington. Wilmington Station…,” the call came through again.

Hauck tried not to show a reaction, but the sweat had built up under his shirt. Any way out of their seats was blocked now by the lineup of passengers. The man fiddled with his bag. Hauck saw him put something underneath his jacket. People left, carrying bags, suitcases.

They were blocked in.

He leaned close to Naomi and whispered with urgency, “Take out your gun. It’s happening now.”

Hidden by the departing passengers, Hauck reached under his jacket and took out his Sig. He transferred it to under his seat, hidden in the palm of his hand.

The train slowed. It entered the open station. Hauck kept his gaze riveted on O’Toole. The train came to a stop. The doors hissed open. People began to step off onto the platform.

O’Toole was about six passengers in front of them. Advancing. What if it wasn’t him? What if he was someone else? He couldn’t just start shooting. Four people between them now. Hauck saw him reach inside his jacket.

Three.

There was no more time.

O’Toole was turning toward them now. Hauck put his palm on Naomi’s back and pushed her to the floor. “Stay down!”

He jumped up, leveling his Sig at the approaching assailant. “O’Toole!”

The killer looked at him, a glint of recognition in his eyes. He went for whatever he had under his jacket, then he ducked behind a passenger.

Hauck couldn’t shoot. He shouted, “Everyone get down!”

There was a scream. A black woman directly in the line of Hauck’s aim spotted his weapon. Then everything descended into chaos. The line of passengers shifted as if they were one, people crouching, diving into the rows, covering their heads.

O’Toole stared directly at him now. Hauck spotted the Glock 9 equipped with a silencer. O’Toole was startled by Hauck’s sudden response. He grabbed one of the businesswomen in a gray suit and pulled her across his body. She was terrified, shrieking.

There was no way Hauck could shoot.

O’Toole didn’t have the same qualms. He raised his Glock and squeezed off two rounds in Hauck’s direction, bullets thudding into the seat cushions where Naomi had been sitting, his captive’s jerking movements altering his aim.

Hauck ducked down.

Everyone was screaming in panic. Running for the exits.

O’Toole stepped backward, forcing the terrified woman with him, using her as a shield. He spit off two more muffled shots as Hauck dove out of the line of fire.

“Shut the fuck up!” he screamed, twisting her by the hair. There was a flash and another silenced round clanged off the luggage rack.

Everything was at close quarters and happening fast. Hauck knew that if O’Toole simply rushed forward using the woman as a screen, he wouldn’t be able to fire back. He had nothing to protect them.

But instead, he went backward, firing as he did. Two more bullets slammed into the wall of the train, one grazing Hauck’s arm. It stung like fire.

He winced.

Naomi had made it up and had her gun leveled at O’Toole. The man kept the woman in front of him and began to back his way through the aisle to the rear of the car, trying to get to the far exit. He reeled off one more shot, and it ricocheted off the wall, hitting a bystander, who groaned. The man sat upright in his seat, his shoulder spewing blood.

Someone shouted, “Oh, God!”

Finally O’Toole threw the woman to the side and ran to the rear as people darted out of the way into the seats.

Hauck went after him.

Naomi pushed her way toward the front entrance, shouting, “I’m a government agent! Everyone out of the way. Get down!”

O’Toole had made his way to the back of the car, turning once to fire. Hauck ducked under a seat and drew a line on him. At that very moment a black train conductor rushed out of the next car, holding a radio, shouting, “What the hell’s going on?”

Hauck stood up in horror and raised his gun. “No!”

O’Toole shot the man twice in the chest, the heavyset conductor dropping down to his knees, grasping a railing to hold himself up.

O’Toole ran out onto the platform.

Hauck pushed the few remaining people out of the aisle and rushed up to where the conductor was clinging to the railing. His large eyes glassed over. He was breathing heavily. A young Latino woman jumped out of a seat. “I’m a nurse.”

“Call 911!” Hauck said. It didn’t look as if the guy would make it. He had rolled onto his back. A bubble of blood came out with each labored breath. “Tell ’em there are two people down. Call for EMTs.”

She nodded, grasping her cell phone.

He jumped out of the train onto the platform. Two bullets clanged off the side of the train, whizzing past his head. He saw O’Toole running down the platform at the end of the long track. Everyone on the platform had hit the deck.

He started after him, looking behind him for Naomi.

He saw her. She had her back pressed against the side of the train, her gun at her side. She had a fixed, glassy look in her eyes and she seemed to stare right through him.

Then she glanced at her shoulder and muttered, “Ty…”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

Hauck froze, focused on Naomi, as O’Toole made his getaway.

“No, no, no, no!”

He rushed back to her. Naomi pulled herself a little unsteadily off the side of the train, the stunned look in her eyes trying to become a bit more firm. “O’Toole’s escaping…We’re not letting him get away, Ty. C’mon, let’s go!”

Then her legs buckled again and she fell back against the side of the train.

Hauck looked at her, his heart exploding. “You’re hit!”

Her left arm hung limp. There was a hole in her suit jacket right below her collarbone. She shook her head, pulled herself off the train. “I’m not letting him get away…”

“No.” Hauck restrained her by the other arm. “You can’t!” Blood had started to seep out from her jacket. He wasn’t sure how bad it was. She was showing a bit of disorientation. He spun and took a quick glance down the tracks and saw O’Toole heading for the end of the open platform. “You stay here. Someone help her!” he shouted. “She’s a federal agent. You get the police to come after me. You hear what I’m saying, Naomi? Get them to come after me!”

“No.” She grabbed her gun with both hands, her shoulder hanging loosely.

“You’re staying, Naomi. Do you understand? Help her,” he said to a man in a business suit exiting the train. “I’ll be back. You wait for the EMTs. Don’t let her leave.”

He didn’t wait for her answer. He took off along the track after O’Toole. He was maybe fifty yards ahead and had made his way to the far end of the platform. Beyond the station it looked like just open terrain. As he ran, O’Toole loaded a new mag into his gun.

Hauck raised his Sig and squeezed off two rounds at the fleeing man. Way out of range. They both kicked harmlessly off the asphalt platform.

O’Toole got to the end, hurdled a metal railing, and jumped onto the southbound tracks.

Hauck headed after him. The man who had killed April. He wanted to grind him into pulp with his own hands. But O’Toole was younger, fit, and didn’t have a leg that still carried metal from two gunshots from a little more than a year ago. Hauck followed him to the railing and hurtled over it himself, continuing on.

There was blood escaping from a wound on his own arm. A gash was visible under his torn jacket. Hauck didn’t even feel it.

O’Toole still had about fifty yards on him.

There was a train at rest on the northbound tracks. It looked like an empty commuter train, maybe a local heading up from Philadelphia. Dense woods bordered the southbound tracks. O’Toole could maybe hide out in them for a while. But he could also be trapped with nowhere to go. Across the northbound side there was a wire fence that ran six feet high. On the other side was the train station’s parking lot. If O’Toole could somehow get across, he could force his way into a car. That seemed to be his best way out. It appeared he was trying to find his way through the parked train. Or under it.

Hauck made up some ground behind him.

His heart raced tremulously about Naomi. He didn’t know how bad her wound was. He hated to leave her there. But she was right-there was no way he could let this man get away. Not now.

This was the end of the line.

O’Toole turned back and fired off a couple shots at him, meant more to keep Hauck at bay than to stop him. At this distance, his silencer wasn’t exactly helping his aim. Hauck knew that sooner or later the police had to arrive. All he had to do was keep O’Toole contained until they got here. Not let him escape. This had been his goal since the day he first heard April’s name on the news. Thibault. Hassani. Serbia. London. That had only been his way of finding her killer.

That had been his vow.

Around a hundred yards ahead, Hauck spotted a small trestle railway bridge spanning the four tracks. O’Toole seemed to be heading directly for it. If he could make it across the tracks he might manage to leap the fence, jump into the lot, and force his way into a car.

That was his best way out of here.

Hauck quickened his pace. As O’Toole made it to the bridge, Hauck stopped, took aim, and squeezed off two rounds at him. The first kicked off the tracks, clanging into the trestle. The second managed to find its mark, striking him in the leg. He pulled up with a hop, spun around, and fired three wild shots back at Hauck, all dinging off the side of the resting train.

Favoring his leg, O’Toole started to climb the bridge. He made it up to the crossing platform as Hauck, ducking out from behind the train, reached the stairs. He started to go up himself, heart pounding, not knowing if O’Toole might suddenly appear above him and fire down at him or lie in wait at the top of the platform.

He glanced back toward the station. Where the hell were the police?

In the distance, sirens began to wail. Halfway up the metal steps Hauck spotted flashing lights arriving at the station. He sent off three shots into the air to draw their attention. In the heat of it he no longer knew how many he had used. O’Toole was heading to the other side of the tracks. There wasn’t time to wait for anyone to respond. Hauck hugged the railing, gun drawn, and started up the stairs.

O’Toole would have seen the same thing. Hauck searched for him through the trestles. No sight. Which didn’t give him the best of feelings. As he cautiously made his way up to the platform, he positioned himself behind a metal stanchion. Three muffled shots came back at him, all clanging loudly off the iron rails. Hauck pinned himself against them.

The last shot felt like a flame against Hauck’s gun hand.

The Sig flew out of his grasp.

It fell over the side of the railing onto the tracks. He was unarmed.

He now had about a second to make a decision, a decision that might mean his life: whether to jump and run for it. O’Toole was a trained shot, an ex-Ranger. It would leave Hauck in the open, even if he managed to make it to the gun. Or to stay. He heard a train’s horn blare loudly in the distance. His eyes fixed on the gun on the tracks. He realized he had nowhere to go.

“Step out,” O’Toole said to him.

Hauck remained glued against the stanchion. He caught a glimpse of the police back at the station starting to come his way.

“Step out here, now,” he heard O’Toole say.

Hauck’s only hope now seemed to be to stall for time.

Warily, he stepped up the last step to the platform and came out from behind the post.

O’Toole was standing there, teeth clenched, the damning tattoo peeking out from his jacket collar. Hauck had to hold himself back from charging at him like a bull and hurling both of them off the bridge.

“The police are here,” Hauck said. “You’re done. We know who it is you work for. Strike yourself a deal. Turn yourself in as a witness.” He looked into the man’s desperate, raw-boned face, glancing toward the station. “There’s no gain in killing me.”

“Other than that’s what I was sent to do.” The man’s dark eyes carried a resignation Hauck had seen before. It was the narrowing realization that there was nothing left to lose. “And I don’t let down.”

To the north, Hauck heard the train horn again, this time getting closer. His gaze turned and he saw the first reflected light of an advancing train.

A gust kicked up and O’Toole’s army cap blew off his head. He reached after it, but it fell beyond his grasp and went over the side. He smiled, sort of a futile, hopeless acknowledgment, and looked back at Hauck. “You know, I didn’t set out for it to be like this.”

“No one does.”

The police were still a long way off on the other side of the tracks. O’Toole took a step back on the platform, his only chance.

He said, “I served my country.” His gun was trained on Hauck’s chest. “But you probably know that, don’t you? I was a goddamn kid out of Oklahoma and they taught me how to use a gun and a knife. And I did it well. I don’t back down.”

Hauck met his eyes with equal intensity. “Nor do I.”

“Why?” O’Toole winced from the wound in his leg. “What’s your stake in this anyway? You’re not even a cop anymore. The girl I know-but you, why do you even fucking care?”

“You killed someone…”

“I killed a lot of people.” O’Toole chortled.

A siren blared from the parking lot as cop cars streamed in. Now O’Toole’s only way out was to go through Hauck to the woods. “Sorry, man.” He pointed the weapon at his chest. Hauck stiffened. “You’re just one more.”

He never heard a shot.

All he saw was O’Toole’s legs begin to buckle and reach for his back.

The first shot slammed in between his shoulder blades, straightening him. The second hit him in the thigh, making him stagger backward. His foot caught only air and he slipped through an opening in the railing, lunged to right himself, his hand grasping the platform just as he was about to fall over the edge.

O’Toole’s gun toppled over the side.

Hauck looked down. He saw Naomi, on the tracks, her arms still steady and extended, her gun raised.

He reached down for O’Toole.

“Lift me up,” the man said. He was about to fall and was clinging to the railing.

The front lights of the oncoming train were approaching fast.

Hauck wrapped his hands around the man’s wrists and pulled against his weight.

“Come on,” O’Toole urged him. Hauck gazed into the struggling man’s eyes.

And then he stopped.

O’Toole just seemed to hang like a sack of wheat, trying to climb Hauck’s arm. His gaze flashed to the advancing train and he said, “I can bring people down. I know things you would want to know.”

“I already know what you know,” Hauck said. “You asked me why. And I said you killed someone…” He felt the rumble of the oncoming train. O’Toole’s face started to grow panicked, and he grasped Hauck’s arm more forcefully.

“I told you I killed a lot of people…”

“I heard you”-Hauck looked in his eyes-“but I only care about one.”

He dangled O’Toole over the tracks as the trestles started to rattle. “You shot her in the closet, with her daughter, back in Connecticut…”

“I was paid to do that. To make it look like a break-in.”

“Her name was April, you sonovabitch. And this is a promise I made to her.”

O’Toole’s face froze. His gaze shot to the train that was almost upon him. A sheen of understanding lit his eyes.

Hauck let him go.

He fell, a dead weight, bouncing onto the lead car of the train. There was a thud and the body simply fell off to the side and disappeared, dragged under the wheels as the Metroliner rumbled by.

Hauck watched, the bridge trestles shaking, and bowed his head. He didn’t feel anger or satisfaction, just resolution. It was a promise I made to her. He heard the massive train’s brakes hiss and watched it come to an abbreviated stop.

When he looked up again, Naomi was staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Hauck stood with her off to the side while the EMTs lifted O’Toole’s body. He pressed a damp cloth against the burn on his own arm. Naomi had her shoulder immobilized under her jacket in a makeshift splint, but she’d declined any further treatment. “I couldn’t hold him,” he said. “He slipped out of my grasp…”

“We could have used his testimony,” Naomi said.

Hauck shrugged. “We don’t need it.”

“What was it he said to you up there?”

“That it wasn’t always like this. That he served his country.” Hauck picked up O’Toole’s hat, from the 101st Airborne, from the track. “He asked why I was here. What was in all this for me.”

“And what did you answer?” Naomi asked. She looked up at him in the same direct way she had after O’Toole had slipped to the tracks.

“That I was in it for a friend,” Hauck said. He eyed her wound. “You ought to get that shoulder looked at. Take it from a pro.”

She shrugged. “The bullet’s gone clean through. Makes me seem tougher. Anyway, the day’s not over. We still have some work left to do.”

“Yeah, I guess we do.” He grinned. “Any chance we can go the rest of the way by car?”

Naomi smiled, looking at him, and started to head back along the tracks in the direction of the station.

“Hey,” Hauck called after her, “one more thing…”

Naomi turned, a hand over her eyes, squinting against the sun.

“I have a daughter.” He tossed O’Toole’s hat back on the tracks and caught up to her. “I bet right now she’d like to put her arms around you and thank you for a helluva shot. As would I.”

Naomi smiled. She turned and headed back along the tracks. “Told you I knew how to use this thing.”

CHAPTER NINETY

Only moments before, Thomas Keaton had stood behind the president on the White House lawn, outlining the details of the administration’s aggressive plan to brace the deteriorating economy.

His government car had just dropped him off at the guarded gate off Fifteenth Street behind the Treasury building, and he hurried through the marble three-story lobby where Alexander Hamilton, Salmon Chase, and Henry Morgenthau had all walked, followed by Mitch Hastings, his chief counsel, a group of House members expecting him upstairs.

Naomi stepped up. “Secretary Keaton…”

The Treasury head appeared caught by surprise. His gaze flashed to her arm, loosely hanging in a sling under her suit jacket. She stood, looking up at him, with a quiet but resolute stare that seemed to disarm him. “Agent Blum… I heard you were…”

“Heard I was what, sir, detained?”

“I heard you were injured,” he said, showing surprise. “But I’m relieved to see you’re okay. Come, walk me up to my office. I’ve just come from the president. I was told about Hassani. Dismal news…I’d like to hear your report.”

“This is Ty Hauck,” Naomi said. “I think you know his name.”

From against the wall, Hauck, his sport jacket ripped at the arm, came up to them. He stared into the shifting eyes of the white-haired government man who had come from years on Wall Street, where he had had a distinguished and lucrative career.

“Mr. Hauck.” Thomas Keaton extended his hand. “It’s great to finally meet you. You know Mitch Hastings. I’ve heard we owe you quite a debt of gratitude for what you’ve already done on this matter.” Hauck took his hand and stared into his eyes. The man seemed to flinch. “Walk with me. I’d like to hear what you both have to say.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Naomi said to him. “I was hoping we might spare you that and have that conversation here.”

The ruddy-complexioned, dark-suited Treasury man looked perplexed. “Spare me?” He glanced at Hastings.

“I’m afraid the secretary has an important meeting scheduled. There are House members who have carved out time from their schedules waiting for him there-”

“Which is why,” Naomi said, cutting him off, “it might be better if you heard what we had to say down here.”

An intransigence dug its way into Keaton’s jaw. Clearly, he wasn’t keen on being dictated to by an investigator. And one from his own staff. “Alright…” He stepped over to an isolated spot in the corner as people rushed by. “I’m listening, Agent Blum. Go on.”

Naomi cleared her throat. “You said you heard that Mr. Hassani was killed? Before we were able to pick him up.”

“I did. As I said, tragic. I also heard there was a lead on his killer.”

“There is a lead,” Naomi said. “But I don’t know if it would trouble you or not to know he’s dead too.”

“Trouble me…” The treasury secretary narrowed his eyes sharply, the steely gaze of rank bearing down on her.

“It always bothered me,” Naomi said, “how Hassani always seemed to have a step on us. When it came to apprehending Thibault in Serbia. What we had learned about his past, things no one else could know. What happened in London…I shared my feeling that there was no one I felt I could trust. I came to you directly with what I knew.” She stared solidly into her boss’s eyes. “You must’ve thought I was one helluva fool, Mr. Secretary. And maybe I was.”

“Agent Blum…” Keaton was growing impatient. “I’m not sure where you’re going with all this, but I remind you, despite all your good efforts, the arc of where your career is headed is still very much in play here.”

“My career…” Naomi nodded thoughtfully. “My career isn’t where I would be thinking right now, sir. I was thinking more of yours. Al-Bashir told us it was so much larger than terrorism-larger than anything I could imagine. And it took me a while to put it all together. To even have the will to think it…”

“I’m very interested to hear where your mind is going,” Keaton said with a glance at Hastings, his dismissive tone beating down on her.

She said, “The past two presidential administrations have stripped most regulatory control out of the system. Am I right? Banks acting as investment houses, dealing in complex financial products even an MBA wouldn’t understand. Leveraged with debt at forty to one. The rating agencies all looking the other way…We had the whole teetering house of cards, the worldwide economy, all holding together just as long as the system continued to grow. As long as one last house could be sold, one last mortgage approved, right?”

The secretary looked at her.

“And then it didn’t,” Naomi said.

“I’m not sure I need the lesson in current events, Agent Blum.” Keaton glanced at his watch. “Mitch, maybe you could-”

“Stay,” Naomi said, looking at Hastings. “I think you’ll find this interesting too. Suddenly China stopped rushing in to buy up our debt. Russia issued half a trillion dollars of notes built on future petro-rubles and the price of oil halved. The housing market dropped off a cliff. All you had to do was take a step back and see it-a train wreck about to take place. The real question wasn’t whether you could prevent it. It was who, in the end, would be saved? Separating the winners from the losers. Sort of a Darwinian thing, no? Except it wasn’t. You just rigged the deck.

“You put together the largest trove of stopgap funding the world had ever seen-almost a trillion dollars-and sold it as a bailout. A giant injection of liquidity to keep the economy in gear. When all it did was prop up the banks. Some were rescued; some were left to be swallowed up by the tsunami. Who decided? The ones that made the wrong bet-Wertheimer, Beeston, Lehman-they’re gone. While others got the brass ring. All you had to do was tip the balance just a little bit, if you could see it from high enough. To be one of the winners. Am I making any sense, sir?”

“And who exactly would those winners be, Agent Blum,” the treasury secretary huffed at her, “as seen from your lofty heights?”

Naomi realized the next years of her life would be dictated by what she was about to say. “Why don’t we start with the Gstaad Gang? Or, even better, sir, Reynolds Reid.”

The space around them in the vast lobby became suddenly quiet. Her voice echoed off the marble walls.

“I saw the names.” Naomi stared into his eyes. “Stephen Cain. Vladimir Tursanov. Al-Bashir. Hassani. Simons. The head of the largest investment bank in the world. All of them who were there. I suddenly realized they all had one thing in common. How could I have missed it? One thing: they were all Reynolds Reid.”

Thomas Keaton blinked.

“Isn’t that right, sir? All trained, grew rich, cut their teeth, at Reynolds Reid. And then it hit me.” She shook her head. “How could I have been so blind? It hit me that you should know that better than anyone, sir.

“Because you were Reynolds Reid too. You were a managing director there. You knew all these people. Not to mention Kessler of the New York Fed, and Carl McKnight, in charge of dispersing the bank relief fund…All of you were Reynolds Reid.”

Keaton’s jaw went slack and his eyes reflected the worry of someone about to take a great fall.

“We are the government, isn’t that right, sir? We are the Fed. That old bromide about GM…Now it’s ‘What’s good for Wall Street is good for government.’ Because you’re all embedded. You’re everywhere. We are the reason some banks are saved and others are left to fail. Maybe you weren’t all involved, but it’s clear: a nod from you, and no one was standing in the way.”

“It’s no crime, Agent Blum”-the treasury secretary’s gaze became granite-“that the firm has a long-standing tradition of service.”

“Service? It’s not service, Mr. Secretary. It’s the gradual takeover of the government by a bunch of insiders whose power and money are used to buy elections, weaken regulations, so their firms can one day profit at the expense of all these blind, unwitting shareholders, who we used to call simply taxpayers. It’s an oligarchy. Same as any little banana republic. Except just an extra couple of zeros at the end.

“The Gstaad Gang…” Naomi smiled. “We checked the hotel records. We found the names. Every one of them. Al-Bashir. Tursanov. Hassani. Simons. All but one, sir…Maybe that’s because he didn’t stay at any of the hotels. Maybe because he didn’t even remain in town overnight…”

“And who was that?” Thomas Keaton glared, his gaze that of a cat about to spring.

“Why, you, Mr. Secretary.” Naomi looked back at him. “You were the last one who was there.”

She glanced toward Hauck, and he finally opened the envelope he’d been holding under his arm.

In it were the security photos Marcus Hird had e-mailed to him yesterday. Photos taken at the base of the Gstaad main ski lift. Showing all the members of the group. Arriving separately. Shipman. Cain. Tursanov. Simons. Al-Bashir and Hassani. All heading up the lift to the restaurant, where no one would ever spot them. The time and date clearly displayed at the bottom. June 26. Last year. Almost eight months before the call from Hassani to al-Bashir that had started it all. Before Marc and April Glassman were killed. Before the world began to fall apart.

Hauck laid a final photo on the top of the pile.

The treasury secretary’s head flinched.

“You, Secretary Keaton.” The fissure in Keaton’s forty-year career cracked open in his gaze, the practiced solidity of his impenetrable veneer breaking. “You were the one who set it all in motion. The bank rescue plan. That’s exactly what it was meant to do. Insure the survivors, so they could pick over the spoils. You had the power-”

“Power.” Keaton’s voice echoed suddenly across the lobby. “What would you possibly know about power, Agent Blum, in your little office where everything has to fit into your black and white vision of the world? Power was once the by-product of violence. Coups, militias. Oily little bribes. Secret envelopes stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, offshore accounts…

“But now power, real power, Agent Blum”-Keaton’s eyes bore down on her-“lies in policy. In recognizing that whatever keeps the system afloat is what’s good for everybody. If Wall Street’s interests fail, we all fail! Do you understand? That’s what we do, Agent Blum-Reynolds Reid. We keep the machine going. Regulators, academics, legislation, they’re just the buildup in the cogs that slows it down. Someone had to keep it going. Someone has to manage the risk. It was out of control. It would have broken for all of us. Just simply think of it as maintenance, Agent Blum, if that concept works. For a while, it just had to be shut down.”

“Four innocent people are dead,” Hauck said, staring into his eyes. “Four others are missing. Kids. Not to mention millions who have seen their savings collapse or lost their jobs.”

“We saved the world,” the treasury secretary said, offering no apology. “We kept it from collapsing. I had nothing to do with those murders. This O’Toole person, or whoever did those terrible things, I’ve never even met him or spoken with him.”

“You’re right, you haven’t.” Hauck nodded, agreeing. His gaze shifted to Hastings. “But your chief counsel has.”

Mitch Hastings’s eyes grew wide.

“When you worked at the Council of the Economic Forum, before Treasury. Jack O’Toole was assigned to your security detail while in Iraq. Not once but twice. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hastings?”

The chief counsel loudly cleared his throat, adjusting his wire-rim frames. “I can’t recall…”

“Do you think when we requisition your cell phone records, and they show you have made calls into the same areas where we know O’Toole to have been, you’ll be able to recall?” Hauck removed something from his pocket. O’Toole’s phone. “Maybe to this cell phone. Is there any chance the record of calls at the Waldorf, where Hassani was killed today, will show one from a location that you can be traced back to?

“Don’t be so surprised,” Hauck said to Keaton. “You may have only tipped your pal Hassani off about whatever Agent Blum here brought to you, but your loyal counsel here, Mr. Hastings, he’s got real blood on his hands.”

Keaton took his arm. “Don’t say a word, Mitch. I have forty years in public and private service, Agent Blum. Whether I was in Gstaad or not, whether Mitch may have been overzealous on some matters in protecting some of our interests, we’ll see where all that goes. But for you, I assure you, this investigation is through.”

“That may be true, sir,” Naomi said. “But I’m afraid there’s another one just beginning.”

Three men in tan and brown suits came up from behind them in the lobby. Part of Anthony Bruni’s financial terrorism team.

“Sir, my name is Ralph Wells. I’m a senior regional director of the FBI, and I have here, pending notification of the president of the United States, a court order to search your personal records, computers, and cell phone for information related to a criminal conspiracy of investment bankers to defraud the United States government.”

“What?” The treasury secretary became apoplectic. He grabbed the document, his jaw going slack. He took a step back and sank against the marble wall.

“And in terms of this investigation, sir,” Naomi said, staring at him, “it’s also possible Peter Simons might have some interesting things to add about you too.”

Hauck’s eyes met hers. There was no longer determination on Naomi’s face but a sheen of triumph in her eyes. The face of al-Bashir’s son reflected there. The triumph that comes after a bloody battle. Where it’s hard to tell who has won and who has lost.

Except this time they both knew.