“I spent six years with the NYPD in the Bronx and met my wife on a ledge in a stiff breeze. Not much fazes me.”
Sure Logan was yanking his chain, Ryan stared at him. Logan’s expression didn’t change. “A ledge?” he asked, incredulous.
“Twenty-two stories over Park Avenue,” Daniel said. “Try not to give yourself a bleeding ulcer before this is over. We’re just getting to the good stuff.”
Daniel’s definition of “the good stuff” was very different from Ryan’s. The plan was simple: Ryan would use the social whirlwind of the New York summer season as a cover to get specifics about the scheme. He would claim that he’d figured it out, and he wanted in. There were massive amounts of money to be made, and no one would doubt that Ryan, with his lifestyle, both needed more money and lacked the moral compass to go to the FBI or the SEC. Hubris and greed. That’s what this was all about, and everyone knew Ryan had both in spades.
That’s who he had become. A decade on Wall Street and not a shred of his soul left. He looked out the window at the sky, where the summer solstice sun was finally setting, wreathed in clouds the same shade of red as Simone’s hair. A snippet of song floated into his head: It’s a long way down back to the place where we started.
He should be paying attention, because this wasn’t going to be easy. MacCarren didn’t save internal emails or instant message conversations, and the offices were routinely swept for recording devices. The success of the operation depended on his ability to get the people in charge to admit to the scheme either in writing or out loud while he wore a wire. In writing wasn’t going to happen, so he had to get close to the two men in charge, and get them talking. Daniel Logan had very politely informed him he would prefer evidence that stood up in court. It was pretty clear that the FBI would prefer not to come off looking like boneheads.
From Ryan’s perspective, the only thing worse than being a rat was being a half-assed rat. Finish what you start, he thought to himself. Finish it and finish it well.
It’s a long way down . . .
“I can’t get Sarah McLachlan out of my head,” he said to Daniel when the Special Agent in Charge, “Wilson” by his badge, and highly ambitious by the way he carried himself, set down the laser pointer, signaling a break.
“It’s a sign of stress. I’ve had Drake in my head for days.”
Most people rose and stretched, seeking coffee, planning food deliveries. The Jock disappeared with a white sack labeled SYMBOWL, and returned with a steaming bowl that smelled fantastic until Ryan’s stomach weighed in by lurching in disagreement. Daniel stayed seated so Ryan did, too. Daniel swiveled his chair to face Ryan, then braced one elbow on the conference room table and his chin on his bent fingers. “You understand what you need to do,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Yes. You’re going to set me up with a recording device. I take it with me everywhere I go, and turn it on when I’m in situations where I think I can get information. This isn’t rocket science.”
“No,” Daniel agreed equably. “But it is a situation that’s going to involve a swath of devastation and destruction through people’s lives. Reputations will be ruined, fortunes will be lost, and if we do our jobs right, MacCarren will cease to exist. People have died for far less.”
Ryan almost laughed. “No one’s going to kill me over this,” he said. “This isn’t the mob. It’s a bunch of investment bankers.”
“All I’m saying,” Daniel said, “is to be careful. Ask questions but try not to make them suspicious. Get involved, get inside, but avoid raising red flags.”
Walk a razor-sharp, hair-thin tightrope, in other words. “Trust me,” Ryan said. “When I walk into that office and tell them that I figured out what they’re doing and I want a piece of the action, that’s right in character for me. I’m smart enough to have figured it out, and I’m greedy enough to want some.”
Logan’s eyes sharpened. “Why didn’t you do that?”
He’d answered this question a dozen times since he’d walked into Logan’s office, but he got the feeling the man wouldn’t stop testing him until this was over. “I’m not a thief,” he said bluntly. “I’m competitive, driven; a shark, even. I’ll exploit loopholes until the SEC screams, but I’m no thief.”
It’s a long way down . . .