Storm Front

“Yeah, broke. And I’m not just talking rich guy broke, where I’m down to that last hundred million that I swore I’d never touch. Apparently, I went through that a while ago. I’m talking billions in the hole. Billions. I could fool people for a while because my name is Graham Whitely Cracker the Fifth, but you can’t stall them forever. It was all about to come crashing in on me.”

“So you call up your buddy, Senator Whitmer.”

“Wow, you’ve really done your homework. Watch out for that truck.”

Storm had wedged the Jaguar into a tight spot between an eighteen-wheeler and a minivan so he could scoot around a slow-moving Mitsubishi that had taken up permanent residence in the passing lane — a development that made Storm briefly wish the Jaguar had front-mounted rocket launchers.

“Anyhow, yeah, I had read Rodney Click’s paper. A bunch of us who are active on the Foreign Exchange Market did. We had even talked about it, in that way you talk about, I don’t know, Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. Everyone else sort of laughed it off. But I was toying with it in my mind. And, all the while, I was getting more and more desperate each time I talked to Teddy Sniff. Click Theory was looking like my only way out. Then I called up good ol’ Donny Whitmer and asked him for a favor and he said sure. Next thing I knew, Click Theory had gone from the Loch Ness Monster to this little goldfish swimming around in a bowl. It was right there for me. All I had to do was reach in and grab it.”

“Because you knew you could make a killing if you could dictate when Click Theory was going to come down,” Storm said as he settled into some clear road and accelerated.

“That’s right. I knew U.S. stocks would go in the dumper while precious metals and anything not connected to the dollar would go out of sight. So it was really pretty simple. I was selling short on everything I could, stockpiling gold and silver and non-U.S. currency, and waiting to make my fortune back.”

“And to hell with everyone else,” Storm said.

“No, that’s the best part,” Cracker said. “Rodney Click is a really smart guy, but he has a more theoretical understanding of things. He doesn’t fully grasp the way the ForEx works in practice. He overlooked certain corrective mechanisms that would have kicked in when savvy traders looked at the new landscape. If you understand those measures and you still have those six traders’ MonEx codes? You could wait a week and then completely reverse the effects of Click Theory. I would have made a mess, yes. But it would have been just a temporary mess. I would have cleaned everything up again. It would have all been over in a week, and at the end of it, I would have been whole again.”

“At the expense of the people you swindled.”

“Believe me, the people I was trading with can handle a few losses,” Cracker said. “Look, I know… I know what I did wasn’t exactly going to win me any Man of the Year votes, but I… I do a lot of good with my money, too. I give a lot of it to charity. I try to help the—”

“Save it,” Storm said.

“Okay, okay, I know, but I—”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen, Cracker, if we both get out of this alive — and that is still a big if — there’s going to come a time when I’m going to ask you to do certain things. Correction, I’m going to tell you to do certain things. You will do them without second thought, you will do them anonymously, and you will do them without hope of recognition or reward. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.”

They drove in silence for a minute or two.

“Can I ask something?” Cracker said.

“Yes. One thing.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see an FBI agent.”

“The FBI? Why the FBI?”

“Sorry,” Storm said. “You’re already out of questions.”

CHAPTER 30

EAST RUTHERFORD, New Jersey

The East Rutherford Field Office of the FBI is one of the less advertised posts of America’s mightiest law enforcement agency. It can be found alongside Route 17, a clogged commercial byway, tucked in among the big box stores, chain restaurants, and gas stations. It is housed in an unmarked office building that resembles a Tic Tac, because it’s long and white and some 1970s-era architect thought rounding the edges at each end would make his creation look distinctive.

And if you are a Wall Street trader, it is the last place you ever want to find yourself.

The East Rutherford Field Office is the home to the famous — or infamous, depending on your point of view — WCCU. The White Collar Crimes Unit. Often working in concert with the Securities and Exchange Commission, the unit employs some of the smartest agents the FBI has, which is important because they go after some of the most sophisticated crooks in America. Most of the agents who land in the WCCU are there because they have MBAs or other advanced degrees; and most, in truth, have a chip on their shoulder.