Qubit, page 40
“You see, it only takes one mistake,” explained Swaran, finally reaching for his glass. “Just one. He got greedy. We could have stayed with billion-dollar contracts and been content to make five or ten million. Then, if we lost once, we just lose ten million dollars.” Swaran drained the scotch in one frantic gulp. “But we kept borrowing the money.”
“I remember you saying that. I remember you saying—”
“Vipul called me an idiot. He questioned my manhood. He threatened to cut me out of the deal. I should have said, fine, fine, leave me out of it. But I am an idiot because I didn’t say that. And this last email…be as aggressive as possible. As aggressive. As possible. So I actually went to two banks at the same time.”
“So what actually—?”
“Now I’m holding contracts for forty billion dollars in Albanian leks that are presently worth several hundred million dollars less than that. Everyone was saying that the Albanians were expected to reject that debt restructuring. Everyone. Except Vipul. Vipul wanted me to borrow as much as possible to buy forward contracts exchanging dollars for leks. The currency has been dropping against the dollar all day, and it’s expected to be months before another proposal is on the table. But my contract pays off next week. Next week! At which point, I will be obligated to pay forty billion dollars for Albanian leks that may only be worth thirty-nine billion dollars. And we are fully leveraged!”
“I’m not sure I follow,” said Brij, his eyebrows furrowed. “What’s the bottom—?”
“The bottom line,” spat Swaran elliptically, finishing off the rest of his scotch. “Come Wednesday morning, we’re going to be several hundred million dollars in debt, one way or another.”
Brij followed his employer’s example, finishing his own scotch. He stared off into a suddenly uncertain future. “I…I suppose this means—”
“What it means is that you need to pour us another round, young man. That’s what it means. Then tonight, I shall put on my favorite jazz record, think of a young woman I met long ago on a vacation in Vasco, draw a hot bath, and slit my wrists.”
“It isn’t so bad, is it?” asked Brij, who’d frozen in place in front of the bar.
“Pour! Pour! Life is too short not to drink it away!”
Brij poured quickly, spilling a bit as he did so.
“They’ll come after the Rathods, too, those crazy bastards! And rightfully so. Technically, they’re creditors. But the banks will see right through that. Because of that conversion option. They’ll go after them because there’s money there. Every single business owned by some distant cousin’s wife, they’ll send an army of lawyers to Singapore and argue…what’s that word?”
Brij handed Swaran another glass of scotch. “Boss, hey, were you serious about—?”
“Look through. Reach through. Something like that. They’ll tell the courts it’s all just money laundering. Everybody with any connection to that family will be running for cover. Serves him right.” Swaran took another long swig. “We’re all just rats running for cover now.”
“Maybe the lek will—”
“I’ve still got some bonds,” Swaran said thoughtfully. “And the CDs. There’s the petty cash, too. All together, it might be enough to get by on. I could liquidate everything and then transfer the funds to a numbered account…”
“Wait, boss. Are you thinking of—?”
“But I’d need a new identity. And I’d have to leave my grandchildren.” Swaran sighed and finished off his second glass of scotch. “Ah, that girl from Vasco. I tell you, Brij, she was something else. Pour us another round, eh?”
39
* * *
Jurong East, Singapore • Katya's Apartment
Thursday, May 17th
5:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Katya awoke and shut off the alarm on her phone to avoid waking Lock. She had to reach over him to do so, and she carefully unwound herself so that she was sitting up, facing sideways, and watching Lock to be sure she hadn’t disturbed him. It was still dark out, but her eyes had adjusted enough that she could plainly see him, lying on his side, his chest rising and falling. She slid backward slowly, dropping one leg behind her and placing her foot on the cool wooden floor. Balancing with one arm, she slipped the other leg out and then stood up, carefully replacing the sheets and comforters. Lock never moved.
She stood naked in the darkness for a few moments, just watching him, then tiptoed around to her closet on the opposite side of the room and opened the door. After pulling on a T-shirt and panties from her dresser drawers and putting them on, she leaned over the bed and kissed Lock gently on the cheek. She went into the bathroom and shut the door, turning on the light. Opening her medicine cabinet, she reached for the mouthwash and rinsed and spit before looking at her reflection in the mirror. She ran her fingers through her hair, which had become more unruly than usual during their romp the night before, and smiled knowingly at her reflection. It was no wonder Lock hadn’t woken. She herself was dizzy with fatigue.
She made her way into the living room, still tinted with the night’s darkness, and sat down at her desk. A window with Lock’s email was still displayed. There were another half-dozen panicked emails from brokers. She opened a new window and checked her secure CIA email. After she’d satisfied herself that there was nothing that couldn’t wait, she got up and headed back to the bedroom. She eased her way back into bed and snuggled up next to Lock’s warm body.
Lock stirred. “What time is it?” he croaked.
“A little past five.”
“Christ.”
“You still have time. Go back to sleep.”
He rolled over, pulling Katya close. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”
ψ
Lock awoke to a midmorning sun shining in through a part in the curtains of the bedroom’s sole window. He sat up. Katya was still asleep, recuperating from their last round of lovemaking. He slipped quietly out from under the comforter and, finding his clothes in a pile at the foot of the bed, got dressed. He walked to the edge of the bed and kissed Katya on the cheek, lingering to stare at her, savoring the moment. Finally, he straightened and picked up his duffel bag, which he’d left next to the closet. He remembered listening to Katya argue with Haruo the day before, while he’d sat, breathless, on her bed. He took one last look at Katya’s figure, the white sheets tracing the outline of her hips, memories of the night before flashing into his mind, a blurred montage of curves and shadowy recesses and dizzying scents and trembling aches and secret, guttural sounds…he shut his eyes. He turned away. He opened his eyes.
Maybe someday. He walked down the hallway, quickly opened the door, and left the apartment.
ψ
Katya opened her eyes when she heard his footsteps moving away from her. She heard the door close.
He was gone.
She inhaled deeply, hoping to catch his scent still lingering in her bed. Warm dampness dotted her cheeks, and she cursed herself for being a child. “Damn it, Katya,” she mumbled, wiping her cheeks and sitting up.
She looked through the open bedroom door, into the hallway. If she went after him now, she could maybe catch him before his cab arrived. They’d live a life on the edge, fugitives, living the kind of love story you only saw in the movies.
But this wasn’t the movies. The reality was that Lock had almost no chance of making it, even with Li Shan’s help. And the two of them together, even less. Career suicide was bad enough. Spending the next decade in prison was too much to ask. It’s not like they’d end up together anyway.
By now, Haruo had likely pulled every string he had with the SPF. Every cop in the city would have Lock’s photo. Possibly hers, too. She’d be surprised if he made it even a day out there. But at least she’d given him a chance. That was something, wasn’t it?
Jurong East, Singapore • Katya's Apartment
Thursday, May 17th
7:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Lock had come and gone from Katya’s apartment enough to know how to find the nearest busy intersection while making things difficult for anyone who was following him. It was still early enough and cool enough that he could get away with wearing a hooded sweatshirt, hood up. He tossed the secure cell Katya had given him in an alley and made his way out to the intersection of Boon Lay Way and Jurong Town Hall Road and flagged down a cab.
He told the driver to head to the Starbucks on Orchard Road, near the Shangri-La hotel. When they arrived, Lock asked the driver to wait for him. He went in and sat in a corner, looking out the tinted window, facing away from the door or the counter. And waited. After counting a dozen orders being called out, he got up and left. Back in the cab, he dug out the paper with Li Mun’s address on it and showed it to the driver.
Lock watched out the rear window. There didn’t seem to be anyone following as they made their way down a highway and then over a bridge. If someone was following him, they were remarkably discreet about it. They passed something that looked like it might have been Disneyland—Lock felt like he had drifted into a dream.
The roads became drives, and apartment buildings became condos and then houses. The cab pulled around in a cul-de-sac and stopped. Lock looked out the window at a rambling two-story home with a winding walkway leading to a porch.
“This is it,” announced the driver.
“Wait here,” instructed Lock. “Keep the meter running.” He got out of the cab and had barely begun to take in his surroundings when he was confronted by two large figures wearing black T-shirts and sunglasses.
“You’re going to have leave here, sir,” said one of the men.
“I’m here to see Li Shan,” said Lock.
The two men looked at each other knowingly. “Beat it,” said the second man, advancing toward him.
Lock stepped back against the cab. “Can you just give her a message for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Tell her…” Lock realized he hadn’t actually thought out what he might say. He decided he might as well be bold. “Tell her I’m the one who handed her Vipul Rathod’s head on a silver platter.”
“Fuck you.”
“The woman who was here the night before last? I was the one who sent her.”
The second man stepped forward and placed his hand on the first man’s shoulder. “Wait in the cab,” he instructed Lock. He turned to the first man. “Keep an eye on him.”
Lock got back into the cab and waited.
“Where to now?” asked the driver.
“Nowhere. Just wait.”
“Your dollar.”
Not really, thought Lock, who didn’t even have a credit card.
A few minutes later, the second man reappeared and said something to the first. In turn, he knocked on Lock’s window, motioning him to get out.
They frisked him, walked him through a darkened foyer, and gestured for him to enter into the living room. Lock was struck by all the white and then struck again when he saw a beautiful young woman seemingly materialize out of thin air. She had long black hair pulled back in a silver barrette and a model’s face with classic cheekbones and ripe lips. Images of Katya from the night before flashed into his mind.
The woman looked at him through narrowed eyelids. “I’m told you had something to do with…the information I was given.”
“I was the one who set the meet.”
“How can I know that?”
“My name is Lock.” He held out his hand. “Presumably you’re Li Shan.”
She ignored his hand.
Lock disregarded the slight and walked past her into the living room. Might as well be bold. “Nice place,” he said, helping himself to a seat on the couch. “Let’s see. Regiment at eight. I think my friend arrived here around, oh, say, 3 a.m. Must have woken you up. You kept her here until you could verify that Vipul had arrived. She probably left here a little after eight.”
Li Shan approached him cautiously but didn’t sit down. “Why did you send your friend? Why not come yourself?”
“I was busy.”
“Why did you decide to give us that information?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Lock smiled ruefully. “Let’s see. He killed your father. And he nearly did the same to my daughter. Now he’s dead. How’s that?”
“That’s not what your friend told me.”
“Ah. Uh…let me guess. She told you that Vipul had stolen a bunch of money from some people. Which is true…but I had my own reasons. We had our own reasons.”
Li Shan blinked slowly but said nothing for a few moments. “Why are you here?” she asked.
“I need a new identity. And then I need to disappear.”
She smiled for the first time. Lock decided she was beautiful, the way a cobra is beautiful. Something to be admired for its sleek perfection—from a safe distance. “Is that all?” she asked.
“And also, I need to hide a great deal of money,” said Lock.
The White House, Washington DC
Monday, May 21st
9:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
“Let me see if I understand this,” Michael Ryan said, slumping in his chair. He felt as though he’d spent the last two weeks inside this same damned White House meeting room. Of course, it had been several different rooms, but they all looked alike to him.
“All right,” said Haruo Quartan, who sat next to Brackenridge.
Ryan thought Quartan looked small, out of place, and uncomfortable in a suit. It was difficult to believe he was a station chief. No wonder it had taken them two fucking weeks to track down a small-time mobster. Brackenridge, meanwhile, removed his glasses with his fat fingers and wiped his oversized brow on the sleeve of his jacket. Ryan knew Brackenridge looked uncomfortable for a different reason. It was his head on the chopping block. “This thug from Singapore—”
“He was hardly a thug,” interrupted Quartan with surprising and crisp assurance. “He studied economics at Oxford and got a master’s degree in finance from Harvard.”
“Whatever. He’s still from a crime family, right? I mean, basically, that’s what we’re talking about here, right? The Singapore Mafia?”
“Yes,” agreed Quartan.
“So this guy hires a hacker from Detroit to steal this technology. Which, by the way, renders all the encryption that safeguards our financial systems obsolete. So that’s my first question: How the fuck is that even allowed to happen? One nerd from Detroit?”
Much to Ryan’s irritation, Moya agreed, in his nasal-toned I-told-you-so way. “The president is also upset about this aspect of the case.”
Brackenridge was polishing his glasses for what seemed like the fifth time in as many minutes. “That’s not us. That’s the NSA.”
“Whatever,” said Ryan, waving his hand. “He then uses this technology, this quantum computer, to unleash all kinds of hell on Wall Street, until we’re forced to start giving him advance notice of decisions from central banks to avoid a complete fucking meltdown.”
“In rough terms, yes,” agreed Quartan.
Ryan nodded. “Thank you. So then this guy enlists a thousand other guys as business partners in these little investment firms and starts sending them investment tips. Based on the information we’re giving him.”
“Correct.”
“So he’s basically splitting up his investments into a thousand pieces so that we can’t detect any large bets based on that information. Which fucking worked, by the way, because, God knows, we tried to find something.”
“The volume of the currency markets is several trillion dollars a day,” volunteered Brackenridge. “It’s very—”
“Don’t you think I fucking know that? I’m the chairman of the God damn Fed, you—” Ryan cut himself off. He took a deep breath. “So he breaks his bets up into a thousand pieces with forward contracts, which are private anyway. There’s nothing obviously tied back to him. Or any one person, for that matter. Nothing we could go on. Then you guys turn the hacker—” Ryan gestured to Quartan, “—who hands over his email, exposing the whole thing.”
“Basically, yes,” confirmed Quartan.
“Okay, so here’s a question. Why the hell did it take so long?”
“We infiltrated his operation, turned a key operative, and then obtained incriminating evidence, in a mere ten days,” said Quartan.
“A mere ten days. This guy moved almost a trillion dollars in that time.”
“On the tenth day, we terminated the principal target, and our mole reversed the bank’s paper losses, giving them legal recourse to collect their losses from the various partnerships.”
“Legal recourse. That makes it all okay, I guess.” Ryan shook his head, as if the implications of that were unspeakable.
“The president is extremely concerned,” added Moya.
Ryan frowned. “Another question. The mole. He’s just gone?”
“We lost him, yes,” said Quartan.
“We didn’t lose him,” corrected Brackenridge. “We know he—”
“Let him answer the question. At least he gives me straight answers.” Ryan turned to Quartan. “So what you’re saying is…the guy who, you know, was the linchpin of this whole fucking thing, the guy who knows how to use the technology that basically gives him complete control of our stock markets…this guy is still out there?”
Epilogue
* * *
The State Department, Washington DC
Friday, August 17th
9:00 a.m. EDT (Eastern Daylight Time)
Katya made her way through the corridors of the State Department, saying hello to a few now-familiar faces as she passed. She wore a burgundy jacket and black slacks and walked deliberately, still getting accustomed to wearing heels on a daily basis. She reached her cubicle, pausing to study the curious site of her name on the black plastic tag next to the entrance.
