The Trade Page 2

  "Nah. I suck at racquetball. I just like to run pretty much every day. You know. A couple of miles, clear the head, stay in shape. Stress management,” Jay said. Stan shook his head and escorted him into the facility. When he saw Jay loping around the track he headed back to his office. “He likes to run, but only slow, and always alone,” he said to his colleague.

  “We could use that for the insertion,” she said.

  “Yes. That would be good.”

  "So what do you think?" Stan asked the assembled investigators turned interviewers.

  "Pretty regular guy for a fucking genius,” the woman answered. Stan noted that she still had a foul mouth.

  "Yeah. Nothing out of the ordinary family-wise for one of your basic whiz kids,” the one man said. “His father drinks and his mother enables it, but they seem to keep it at home. When it got too bad he took to the books and the back roads.”

  "He's led a somewhat isolated life, doesn't have a lot of close friends, if any. His check will be easy to finalize. However,” the second man paused.

  "Yes?" Stan asked, sensing an alarm bell about to sound.

  "However..." the second man's tone changed. "He may have equivocated about one of his college colleagues. Our initial investigation seemed to indicate a close friendship with one Rick Hewlett. Yet in the interview he did not indicate this to be the case.”

  Stan mentally flinched. "Check up on it. Thoroughly. This Hewlett thing bothers me. See if they're homo for each other. If Calloway's lying and it's loyalty to his friend, that's okay, but... if it's anything else..." Stan Krantz trailed off.

  The 'else' hung in the air. The investigators assigned to Jay Calloway nodded their heads. Months of additional, unplanned work had just materialized, instantly vaporizing eagerly anticipated vacations.

  Chapter

  "Welcome to New York,” Bill Beck said to Jay Calloway. Bill Beck, the rangy manager from MacKenzie Lazarus had been standing at the bottom of the escalator at the arrivals area at La Guardia Airport holding a sign lettered with Jay Calloway's name.

  The flight from Virginia had taken less than two hours but had crossed more than just the few hundred miles of crowded, over-priced, east coast real estate. He had flown out of the secret shadow world of the CIA and into the high-visibility, flashing neon world of New York City. Jay Calloway instantly felt the different vibrations in the air. He wondered what his friend Rick Hewlett was doing out on the West Coast and whether Rick felt as out of place as Jay did.

  "Mr. Beck?" Jay asked.

  "Yes.” The two men shook hands. "Please. Call me Bill. Did you check any bags?" Bill asked.

  "No. Just carry-on. I heard New York City can be tough on checked baggage.”

  Here we go, Bill thought. Another kid who has heard it all about New York City. "Well don't believe everything you've heard about New York City,” Bill Beck started. "It's neither as good nor as bad as you've probably heard. It does tend to polarize opinions though,” Bill said. He'd met and interviewed several top candidates over the past few years. On paper this Calloway kid looked to be the hottest prospect they'd had in a while. His dissertation on stopping self-replicating computer viruses that were capable of performing polymorphic attacks was particularly interesting. And he appeared to have a cadre of loyal students that he might be able to bring along with him.

  In his head Bill heard the oft-repeated words of CEO Angus MacKenzie, Seize the leader, and you seize the followers. Calloway didn’t look like a leader, but then what do leaders look like?

  "We've got you staying in the Vista Hotel. It's in the World Trade Center. Nice rooms, good health club with an indoor track and pool. Close to a lot of the tourist places.” Jay was impressed. Bill Beck had done his homework. He knew what Jay's hobbies were and he wanted to make sure that Jay had a nice visit and saw the sites. It was obvious that Bill had been listening to Jay when they set up the visit on the phone.

  Jay and Bill stood outside the World Financial Center just across the street from the World Trade Center. Glass and granite stretched forty and fifty stories into the downtown Manhattan sky. Though dwarfed by the World Trade in height, the towers of the “World Fi” looked and felt like the more expensive, more high-powered center of world finance that they were. The three towers were similar, though not identical. They stood guard over the Winter Garden, a glass palace that housed palm trees and Italian marble. It was towards the Winter Garden that Bill directed Jay.

  “Prepare yourself for this,” Bill said. “The first time I saw it I couldn’t believe it. Palm trees in New York City. Opulence. There’s no other word for it. It’s like these guys, which I suppose includes me, want you to know exactly the extent of their wealth and power.”

  While Jay prepared himself to be both overwhelmed and disappointed at the same time, he also catalogued Bill’s description and admission, planning on comparing his words to the actual experience so he could calibrate Bill’s level of bullshit.

  The revolving door spun silently and delivered him into the marble, glass and chrome oasis. “Holy cow,” Jay said.

  “Welcome to the big time,” Bill replied.

  “Opulence” was indeed the right word. His head was still spinning from the unprecedented display of wealth he’d encountered working his way into MacKenzie Lazarus’ headquarters. As they left the cherry paneled private elevator, they entered an even more richly appointed foyer. Jay sank practically to his ankles in the deep Persian rug. Across the enormous entryway Jay spied a tall thin man standing nervously beside a “Welcome Jay Calloway” sign. Bill shepherded Jay towards the man and the sign.

  "Jay Calloway, I would like to introduce you to Dan Landford. Dan is the department manager for CTSG, the Currency Trading Support Group. His organization is the one into which we see you moving and for which we see you quickly becoming the senior system architect."

  "Nice to meet you Jay Calloway,” Dan said without enthusiasm. His tone surprised Jay, who had quickly become accustomed to Bill’s enthusiasm. Jay had no idea that ten years ago Dan had been the whiz kid fresh out of graduate school with the hot dissertation and hotter prospects. He'd seen ten years come and go and remained stranded at department manager while many of his contemporaries were well above him, some even retired as millionaires many times over. He was still a good technical man, but he knew his days were numbered. In Jay Calloway he saw his own mortality.

  "Nice to meet you Dan Landford,” Jay said, repeating the name of the tall, ugly man so he'd remember it. It was a Dale Carnegie technique. Jay had invested three hundred dollars in the Carnegie class before starting his interviews. He'd figured it would be worth at least five thousand in starting salary. He figured he'd need to remember every lesson to deal with these “east coast sharpies” as his mother called them.

  Two days later Jay Calloway had met with and had lunch with and jogged with what seemed like half of MacKenzie Lazarus executives and programmers. As a whole they seemed both flamboyant and secretive, wealthy, ostentatious, and uniformly edgy, exhausted, enthusiastic, and ready to retire as soon as possible.

  “So what do you think so far?” Bill asked.

  “I’m surprised at the access you’ve given me to people who are visibly and openly burnt out,” Jay said.

  "We like people to know what they're getting into here,” Bill said. "We don't want you to come all the way out here, commit to us, start work and then find out you don't fit in,” Bill explained to the weary candidate. “To put it bluntly, we expect our technical people to work hard in crushing anonymity, to burn out early, and then retire far away on an insanely large investment account that our professionals trade for you.”

  "It's been tiring already,” Jay answered. He felt himself wearing down. The strain of six days of interviewing with no video game playing and no talking with Rick was showing. He knew he'd have to be careful at this tense point in the process. No deal is done until the paperwork is signed, Jay reminded himself.

  “I won’t lie to you, it’ll
be harder once you get here. We pay the most, well above any other offer you’ll get, I guarantee it. But you’ll worker than even you could imagine, Mr. Ph.D. in four years.”

  “I appreciate your candor,” Jay said.

  "Tell you what Jay. Today's Friday, here's a plan, let me know what you think. We would like you to join us here at MacKenzie Lazarus. That’s no secret. I've got an offer sheet with me that has been cleared right up to the top. How about I give it to you right now and you look at it over the weekend? We'll keep you in the hotel.” Bill reached in his wallet. "Here's five hundred bucks and some baseball tickets for the Reds against the Mets at Shea Stadium this weekend. There’s a video arcade right on the first floor of the North Tower, right below your hotel. Play a little, have a good time at the game, think it over, we'll meet Monday morning and you can let us know, alright?"

  Jay was floored. He consciously willed his jaw not to drop open and hang there like some cartoon character in shock. Bill noted the reaction. He counted it as a good sign.

  "We'll be ready to receive your acceptance on Monday morning and if you're interested we can sign the deal, do your physical, which will include a urine and blood test, and set up a start date. You will pass a drug test won't you?" Bill asked.

  "No problem,” Jay said.

  Though the triple scourge of moonshine, weed, and meth had overrun his rural county, he had remained untouched by these vices. When he thought about it, he was unsure whether it was morals or simply luck.

  “Yes, I will pass a drug test,” Jay repeated. “But if I go to the ballgame, I will be having a beer.”

  "Good that you will pass, no problem on a beer,” Bill replied. He gathered up his things and made to go. The two men shook hands and Bill retreated into the hotel. Jay looked at the money. He'd never seen five one hundred dollar bills except on television, in a gangster movie.

  "Sweet Jesus,” he said aloud.

  Jay Calloway got his Saturday morning sightseeing started early. The Statue of Liberty was amazing. Graceful, stately, awe-inspiring. Jay loved it. He savored every moment of the boat ride across the mouth of the Hudson. Ellis Island moved him to tears. Some of his relatives had come through the facility from Europe on their way to work the coal mines and then oil fields in Ohio. Jay was having a great Saturday.

  After a quick change, Jay got the bellman to hail a cab.

  "Shea Stadium please,” Jay said to the cab driver. The cabbie's eyes registered tourist. No real New Yorker ever said "please" to a cabbie, and only a tourist would ride a taxi from lower Manhattan to Queens instead of taking a dollar subway ride. Jay didn't even flinch when they arrived at the stadium one hour and forty-three dollars later. He was walking on air. He felt like King Shit, the mythical creature of his childhood. He'd been whistling New York, New York all day. He found his way inside and was shown to his seat by a surly usher. Fifth row, right behind first base. Jay was in the best mood he could remember for quite some time. Better even than when his protégé student C. Daniel had won the regional programming contest and then been accepted into a doctoral program to further Jay’s work on self-replicating viruses.

  It didn't even strike Jay that he didn't know one person in New York. At the moment he was happy. The anonymous loneliness of the big city had neither taken hold of nor even brushed against him yet. Besides, the towering buildings somehow reminded him of the deep hollows near his home.

  Jay bought a hot dog and a beer from a vendor and settled in for the game. Doc Gooden for the Mets against Jose Rijo for the Reds. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful spring day in New York. Not even the jetliners flying over the stadium, taking off from and landing at La Guardia bothered him. By the time Barry Larkin hit a home run to put the Reds ahead in their half of the second inning, Jay Calloway had forgotten all about the CIA and had made up his mind he was going to work on Wall Street and continue to learn to love New York City.

  “Excuse me please. Excuse me.” Jay turned to look in the direction of the female voice attached to the apparition that was approaching down the aisle. "Excuse me, thank you.” The New Yorkers moved surprisingly quickly and courteously out of the way, a rarity in the City, especially at the ball yard, a testament to both the looks and assertiveness of the twenty something girl working her way down the aisle. Her long blonde hair fell down around her shoulders. Her navy blue eyes glanced at each man as they politely gave way. All eyes followed her as she got closer and closer to Jay. Few people in the area noticed a baseball game was still going on a mere hundred feet away.

  CRACK came the sound from the splintering bat. "Shit,” Jay cursed in the instant that it took to realize a sharp line drive was bearing down on the blonde apparition. The girl, with her back to the field didn't see it coming. Jay fought the instinctive urge to duck and instead reached out to knock down the screaming foul ball. He deflected it with his right hand, which instantly began to burn and swell. A kid three rows back picked it up and held it aloft for all to see.

  "SHIT,” Jay screamed. His right hand was an intense burning mitt of pain. He danced from foot to foot, shaking his stinging hand. Finally he shoved his hand into what was left of his beer, seeking something, anything that was cold. He sat back down, the game and the girl and the city forgotten. In the crystal clarity of the pain, the CIA came back to mind.

  "Are you alright?" he heard. Raising his eyes he looked directly into the deepest blue eyes in the kindest, warmest face he had ever seen. The face of the girl he'd just saved from the baseball.

  "Yeah sure,” Jay lied. With his hand in his beer he realized he didn't look okay. She signaled to the usher at the end of the aisle.

  "Two frosty malts and three beers,” she ordered.

  "Thirsty?" Jay ventured.

  The vision sat down in the empty seat beside him. His pulse rate jumped.

  "No silly,” she said. "The malts are to ice your hand, they'll be better than that nasty old beer, and the beers are for the pain.”

  "I’m not sure three will be enough," Jay managed.

  "We'll just have to wait and see then won't we?" she answered. Jay liked the way she said 'we'.

  "Tonia Taggert,” she said, introducing herself.

  "Jay Calloway,” he replied. “Forgive me if I don’t shake…”

  The newly introduced couple raised and touched their beers together.

  “Wait silly. You have to do that again. You have to look someone right in the eye when you toast. If you don’t, it’s seven years of bad luck.”

  She raised her beer again, found and held his eyes with hers, and softly said “cheers”.

  Six innings and three beers later Jay had discovered that beer could indeed dull the pain of a hard line drive. The big lead the Reds held also helped. But it was the beautiful girl beside him that did the most. She'd had a few beers of her own.

  "So Jay. The game's almost over. You want to split now and beat the traffic?” Tonia Taggert asked. Jay wasn't sure he'd heard what he'd heard. For the last four innings he'd been trying to figure out how to ask Tonia for her number.

  "I um uh, came in a cab,” he replied. He saw her eyes drop just the tiniest bit. He wondered if she thought he was giving her the brush off. Jay wondered if she thought he was married or involved or gay or something.

  "But if you're driving, sure I'll take off now with you,” he added. He saw the spark come back to her eyes.

  "Maybe I can buy you some dinner, thank you for saving my ass,” she offered. Jay didn't need much convincing, the mention of her ass was exciting enough.

  "You’ve already done enough, but, if you insist,” he answered.

  “I insist.”

  “Fine. Then anywhere's fine with me. After all this beer I could sure go for a pizza though,” he said.

  "Pizza?" she breathed wistfully. “My favorite, but I never ever get to have it any more. Okay. For you, anything.”

  The pizza was excellent. Over mounds of cheese and loaves of hot garlic bread Jay managed to tell Tonia his li
fe story, carefully leaving out any mention of the CIA. She listened attentively. They both had another beer and then he realized he'd talked all night and learned almost nothing about Tonia Taggert. Like her phone number.

  “So what about you?" Jay asked.

  "What about me?" she asked back. He saw her chin lift and tilt to the side. Her corn silk blonde hair swished over one shoulder.

  "What do you do? I mean, besides watch baseball and eat pizza? What's your favorite TV show? Where do you work, where do you live?" he asked all at once.

  “Well,” she started. Her finger drifted to her lips as she started to think about her answer. Jay noted the gentle fullness of her rich red lips. He knew the color was lipstick but he dreamed of them being that color forever. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. It had been six months since his last date and that had been a set up with a flat-chested sorority girl that his favorite student, C. Daniel Kinchon, had arranged as a pity date for Jay. He'd been too busy ever since. Computer viruses, video games, golf, and graduation, in that order, had taken up all his time. Girls were a long way down the list, especially since he knew he would be moving. Jay half listened to Tonia's answers, half dreamed about hugging her and kissing her.

  He tried to nod and murmur in all the right places. New York City was working its way back towards the top of his list.

  "You're not even listening to me,” she pouted. "You're thinking about something else aren't you. What is it? Football? Money? Getting me naked? You men are all alike,” she said. She shifted her seat back as if planning to leave. Jay acted quickly.

  "Tell me more about your little brother,” Jay blurted out. During his mental drifting he’d still caught something about her kid brother being a genius at computers. He hoped he'd saved the night.

  "Okay,” she relented. She started to talk about her brother, and then kept on talking. She talked about him for another ten minutes.

  "Maybe I'll meet him someday,” Jay offered. "Is he on the Internet? I could look him up there. Do you know his email address?"