Storm Front

That, it turns out, is just as important as what ever formal training they bring to bear. The people they deal with seldom recognize they’ve acted unlawfully and rarely view themselves as criminals. The thief who steals money from a bank understands he is doing something wrong. The thief who illegally leverages a pension fund thinks he’s just pushing around paper.

As such, when you catch a white collar crook, there’s a certain amount of indignant, I’m-just-doing-whatever-everyone-else-does rationalizing to suffer through. And, to be fair, they’re actually right. They are just doing what many of their peers do but haven’t gotten caught at. The haphazard nature of it is easier to reconcile if you bring a certain attitude — and a certain moral rectitude — to the job.

Storm was coming to this place improvising to a certain extent. He had not yet made contact with the FBI — only his father had — and he did not know how cooperative or forthcoming the fibbies would be with someone who wasn’t of their number.

But he hoped they played nice with him. In order for the plan he was currently formulating to work, Storm needed — unfortunately — a rehabilitated Whitely Cracker, one who was financially solvent.

If nothing else, Storm could enjoy the irony of it: He was taking a trader to a place that would feel like prison as a first step to getting him out of it.

He pulled the Jaguar off the busy road and into the parking lot as Whitely stared at the building in stunned awe.

“I’ve heard about this place,” Whitely said.

“Oh?”

“You know how Boy Scouts sit around the campfire and tell ghost stories? This is the kind of ghost story they tell at my tennis club. About people who got taken here. They call this building ‘the Poison Pill,’ because that’s what it looks like and that’s what you want to have handy if you’re ever asked to go there for questioning. For people in my world, this is like the principal’s office, the dentist’s chair, and Pa’s woodshed — all rolled into one and then made a million times worse.”

Storm let the comment pass. He wasn’t in the mood for gallows humor from this man. Death wasn’t funny to Storm. It was a dull ache in the empty spot once filled by Ling Xi Bang.

Storm parked and got out of the car. With misgiving, he took the Dirty Harry gun out of his shoulder holster, knowing it wouldn’t make it past the metal detector. He tossed it in the Jaguar’s trunk, away from any skel who might wander through the parking lot and take a shine to it.

They entered the building, crossing the FBI seal on their way to a metal detector, a thorough wanding, and a briefly invigorating pat down.

Once they were through the outer layer of security, an agent asked if they had an appointment.

Storm didn’t. But he said, “I’m here to see Scott Colston.”

The agent frowned. “I’m afraid Agent Colston is out.”

“We’ll wait,” Storm said.

The man pointed them toward a stiff-backed wooden bench in the lobby. There were no pillows on it. The FBI did not particularly care whether its visitors were comfortable.

About five minutes into their wait, a phalanx of agents burst in through the front doors. Two of them held the double doors extra wide for a burly, goateed agent who was escorting a short, fat, balding man in a wrinkled suit.

A wrinkled suit and handcuffs.

If Whitey Cracker’s jaw hadn’t been hinged, it would have fallen to the floor. The look on his face was pure confusion, as if he was seeing someone incredibly familiar to him, but in the completely wrong place.

“Teddy?” Whitely said loudly, as Theodore Sniff and his escorts were waved through security. “Teddy, what are you… what are you doing here?”

The agents were stone-faced. The burly guy was gently prodding Sniff forward. The accountant was doing anything he could to avoid making eye contact with his boss.

“Teddy, what’s going on?” Whitely asked.

Sniff’s attention was now firmly fixed on the floor in front of him. They were passing by Storm and Cracker on their way to the elevator. But Whitely was finally starting to put things together: No moneyman was brought into the Poison Pill wearing handcuffs so he could get a good citizenship commendation.

“Teddy, what have you done?”

Still nothing from Sniff. Whitely walked toward the burly guy. “Excuse me, sir. My name is Whitely Cracker and this… this is my accountant. Can you please tell me why he’s being brought here?”

The man turned to Cracker, sized him up for a moment, opened his mouth, closed it as if he’d thought better of it, then ultimately decided there was no harm.

“Embezzlement,” he said.

“Embezzlement? But… but who is he embezzling from?”

The man looked at Cracker like he was a prize idiot. “Well, from you, of course.”

Cracker’s jaw was now through the floor, the subfloor, the basement, the bedrock, and drilling its way to the Earth’s core. The worst day of his life had somehow gotten worse: he was not only broke and hunted, he had been betrayed by one of his closest associates.