And West Is West (9 page)

Seated at the Lestons' kitchen table, Zoe is flipping through the documents as if she has missed something from an earlier perusal. She takes a cigarette from the pack on the table and lights up. Inhaling she grimaces. “I wish dad had put a photo of my mother in here.
Jesus
, I mean granddad.”

“He was both, Walter was, wasn't he?” Ethan asks, waving a hand to disperse the smoke.

Zoe's eyes snap to Ethan's. “What do you mean?”

“Just that. He adopted you, didn't he? So that makes him both your father and your grandfather.”

Zoe shakes her head at him. “That's insane.” She goes back to one of the newspaper articles. “You read all of this, right?”

“Alex read them to me on the drive up. I didn't really look at anything in there after that.”

“And . . . why not?”

“I don't know, Zoe.”

“Apparently, I don't know Zoe either,” she replies. “I thought I'd lost a sister, not a mother. After I left you the night of the dinner, Dad told me Susan was my sister. Could he have been
that
ashamed of having a pregnant, unwed daughter? Were people still like that in the eighties?”

“It wasn't like it is today. They condemned people for having AIDS,” Ethan says.

She puts down the news clipping. “Anyway, what did he expect you to do with this information? Because you were right. It isn't any of your business.” Zoe exhales smoke and then touches her throat.

Looking at her long neck, Ethan thinks of that famous bust of Nefertiti. He also likes the bump on the bridge of her nose, a family characteristic that comes from her grandfather's side of her family. Did her mother have a similar bump? Zoe is touching hers now, thoughtfully. Then she offers him the sympathy of her smile. “You must be tired, being up all night.”

“I got a little rest in the hospital.”

“Between the text, text, texting.”

“Well, I ran out of battery and forgot my charger. So I got some z's.”

“Still, I think you should sleep a little before you drive back. I don't want to be going to your funeral next.”

“I'm good,” Ethan says.

“Look,” Zoe says, taking up their plates. “The workday will be over by the time you get back to New York. Just go upstairs and use my old room. Don't worry, you'll be safe. I'm not using it because it's too creepy—my . . . grandmother kept it just like it was when I was in high school. I'll go put on some fresh sheets.”

While Zoe is upstairs, Ethan faces the folder on the kitchen table. It is open to one of Susan's report cards. Zoe's mother attended the Ethel Walker School and got straight A's, except for a C in phys ed. Beneath this Ethan sees a letter. It is addressed to Dr. Walter Leston from a Dr. Sarnoff.

Dear Walter,

Something awkward happened last Wednesday that I think you should hear about from me before there is any misinterpretation. Susan missed her session that afternoon, but when I was leaving my office I discovered her waiting in the parking lot by my car. As we had been getting nowhere in our sessions, I took this as an opportunity for an out-of-office interview that might be useful and drove Susan to your home, leaving her just down the street as she requested. During that drive, I had hoped that she might open up about the father of the child she is carrying, which she did not. I drove and we talked. Susan asked about my family and I told her a little but always circled back to her story, offering her tidbits about my life to try to draw her out about hers. By the time we had reached her street, I had learned nothing more about Susan while she had learned that I had married young, that my wife was schizophrenic, and that I had divorced her after she was institutionalized. The greatest shame of my life. This is all very embarrassing and unprofessional, so I felt compelled to make a clean breast of it. As such, I do not think it would be appropriate of me to see Susan again in a professional capacity. Be aware that she is a highly intelligent young woman. Should you decide to discuss this any further with me, I am willing. Also, I would like to recommend a substitute for my services so that Susan can continue her psychiatric treatment, which I believe is critical at this stage.

Yours sincerely,

Carl Sarnoff, MD

LATER THAT EVENING,
curled asleep in Zoe's childhood bed, Ethan opens his eyes. The room, pink in the daylight, is purplish with the night's ambiance. Then the atmosphere changes. Is it the door opening behind him? Ethan keeps still.

No. There is no one there.

He thinks about what he has read in Leston's folder. Not just Sarnoff's letter but something included especially for Ethan to consider: the doctor's financial documents. Walter, deep in the stock market, had disastrously cashed out in '08. Even this house has no equity. He has bequeathed Zoe nothing but debt. It is the injury atop the insult of her inheritance.

The weight on the bed shifts. Ethan tightens, pushes his face into the pillow. He dares not breathe. He is convinced this is a dream. And then Zoe is pressing herself against his back.

“Ethan?”
she whispers, pressing closer.

CHAPTER 15

California

Dear Mr. Aldridge:

Enclosed is your letter to Jessica, which you will note is unopened. I am returning it myself because I hope you have since heard from her.

Jessica was here in the hospital for a week, during which time I had two sessions with her concerning her hiking misadventure and recent separation from the military. What gives me concern is her lack of interest in therapy to help with her transition to civilian life. More troubling is her leaving the hospital without being discharged. As her consulting psychiatrist I urge you, if you do manage to contact her, to have Jessica seek support from any veterans' organization. Having recently been interviewed by investigators working with the Air Force, I know they, too, are concerned about your relative's disappearance.

Wishing you and your family the best,

Captain Shoshana Levy, PsyD

Jerry L. Pettis Memorial VA Medical Center

Loma Linda, CA

CHAPTER 16

Nevada

Voigt, taking calls, prefers to stand. Bluetooth in ear, he is looking through his blinds at a ground crew moving a Reaper out of a hangar. But he is speaking with a Captain Levy, who has called to inform him about Jessica's recent stay and disappearance from the Pettis med center. Voigt already knows that Jessica has sent Don a newspaper clipping about her hiking mishap. He has even read Don's return letter, which Dr. Levy is sending back to Don unread. The captain does not know that he, Voigt, is mentioned in the letter. And of course he cannot tell the doctor that soon, after it goes through the prison's censors, he will be reading
her
letter to Don.

“I've been in touch with Mr. Aldridge,” he tells the doctor, which is as much as he can securely say. “But I'd like to hear your straight opinion of Jessica's condition. Why did she walk off into the desert like that? Did she really get lost? Or was it deliberate?”

Captain Levy's voice is pleasant but direct. “She's not suicidal. She's too strong for that. She's confused.”

“All right,” says Voigt, relieved and not relieved.

“I also think she could be fearful.”

“Fearful?” Voigt turns away from the blinds. “Of what?”

“She'd told me why she was discharged. Not the specifics but that it had to do with a security breach. Now she's worried that she's a target. Paranoia might be a closer diagnosis. Although”—and here Levy pauses—“the paranoia might be justifiable and not delusional.”

Voigt has no response to this. Levy goes on.

“During her stay, Jessica did have a visitor. Someone from DHS.”

“Homeland Security?” This does not surprise Voigt.

“A Janet Sloan. More bureaucrat than agent. I believe she was trying to influence my diagnosis.”

Voigt twists his jaw. “How so?” he asks.

“She thought Jessica might benefit from institutionalization.”

“And what was your recommendation?” Voigt says.

“Oh, I told her Jessica would be fine in a day or so.”

“And . . .”

“I think I was about to be removed from the case when Jessica disappeared from the hospital. Good instincts, I guess.”

Voigt absorbs this. “Anything else?”

“Just one thing. Jessica mentioned you, Colonel. Said she'd trusted you.”

CHAPTER 17

Ulster County, New York City

Ethan's right arm traverses a wilderness of twisted bedsheet. “Zoe?” he says. But the house remains still. Growing more awake, Ethan feels as though he is surfacing through quicksand. His body is sore, aching, torn. Gingerly he touches the back of a shoulder. Blood.

He and Zoe had never before made violent love, but last night they had collided as though she were trying to obliterate herself, as though she needed to erase her memory.

Could he have refused her then, when she joined him under the sheets and the familiarity of her body defeated him? Beyond this he'd wanted her to know that, whatever her heritage, she was a whole and pure being. Was this some kind of love he had for her?

But Zoe wanted something meaner, to be split in two. Perhaps she had used him. And that was fine. Except now she was gone.

“Zoe,” Ethan calls more loudly.

Upright finally, he goes to a window and lifts the shade. Squinting, he tries to glimpse Zoe's fugitive form outside.

“Zoe!” he calls again, and then has a moment of panic. His BlackBerry, battery dead since yesterday, sits on one of Zoe's night tables, next to a digital clock decorated with stickers. There is a princess phone there, too. An antique landline. He dials a number and hears a voice that he sometimes finds amusing, sometimes obnoxious.

“Hashtag
mystery caller
—”

Ethan cuts John Guan off before he can start a riff. “It's Ethan. Everything cool? Did you cover for me?” He had left Guan a voicemail from the hospital room. UIB gives its employees five personal days a year, but nobody uses them. He'd already taken one for the funeral and two was bad form, indicating a lack of dedication. But this is not what's making him nervous. Being incommunicado for twenty-four hours is the big worry. Hopefully Guan has been watching his back.

“Yo, mofo. It be ten a.m. and tickin'. Where you at, homey?” Guan's attempt to sound ghetto is more exaggerated than usual. Not a good sign.

“Okay, John. What's wrong?” Ethan asks.

“Apocalypse now,” Guan says. “We've shut down the currency mainframe. It started buying rupees at ten times their value. The bank took a major hit. Don't tell me you got no alerts—oh, right, your phone's down. Bummer. Rumor is one of your algos spazzed.”

“One of
my
algos . . . bullshit.”

Guan's voice for once sounds serious, like there's a real person beneath all the blather. “There was another Middle East thing. You know this stuff better than me. Pakistan. Car bomb. Dead American contractor. This yada-yada-whatever group claiming responsibility. Revenge for the al-Yarisi drone hit. That's all your territory, bro.”

“Hold the fort. It'll take me two hours to get back to the city.”

“Yo, but like we are talking Fort Apache, white man. You better watch your scalp.”

Ethan hangs up and puts on clothes sour from the previous day and night. Tramping downstairs, he calls out again, “Zoe!
Zoe?
”

There is no reply, only a bang like the sound of a screen door. Following the noise Ethan comes to the kitchen. He stands a moment on the creaking linoleum. A cigarette smolders in a small dish filled with butts. A breeze wafts from the screened side door. Ethan pushes out onto a landing with steps that descend into the backyard. “Zoe!” he shouts from the railing. But there is no answer.

On the drive out of Ulster County, Ethan repositions his concerns. Zoe knows how to take care of herself. Again, he has been stupid about her. Again, she has taken what she has wanted and left him hanging. Meanwhile, he mentally backtracks through his last hours at work. Before he'd left to visit her, he had adjusted a formula that would signal the bank's computers to trade the rupee against the renminbi against the dollar, a triangular arbitrage, in the event of a terrorist incident, of which that Pakistan car bomb would qualify.

Through his mind's eye, Ethan reviews his code. He had made only simple tweaks, nothing that required testing or managerial verification, just no-brainer refinements. Of course, he had put in a fifteen-hour day and was jazzed on energy drinks toward the end. Could he have screwed up?

Nah.

Yet . . . what if he had shifted a decimal point the wrong way, keyed his algo to bid for rupees at ten times their worth? In the event of a terrorist attack, the bank would essentially be trading dollars at one-tenth their value. This would suck ass. This would cause a run on UIB's dollar holdings, costing tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands before the fail-safes shut the system down.
If
they shut it down.
Jesus
, he thinks.
The damage could be in the millions
.
Tens of millions
.

Dumping the Zipcar outside the UIB tower Ethan hustles inside to the elevator. On the twenty-seventh floor, rushing past cubicles as their occupants stare over the partitions, Dwayne Hoke rushes out and shoves him against a wall.

“What the fuck, Dwayne,” Ethan says as Hoke breathes into his face. A former lacrosse captain at Duke, his boss outweighs him by thirty pounds.

“Where were you yesterday, asshole? Penthouse conference room. Five minutes,” Dwayne says and walks off. Such public dramas are how Hoke maintains office discipline.

It might be easier to go back and jump down the elevator shaft. Nevertheless, Ethan continues his walk of shame past his co-workers to his office. It resembles Macy's after Black Friday. His desk drawers are upside down on the floor. His three computers are gone, leaving eviscerated cables. No doubt UIB data forensics is sifting every byte and scrap for evidence of something. Fraud, most likely. His bosses can be very suspicious: Barings in England had gone under because of one employee's unauthorized speculations. In France, Société Générale had needed governmental help to stay solvent after a trader went rogue. At J.P. Morgan, a bond trader called the London Whale hid billions in losses. Etcetera. Ethan wonders if he is soon to be mistakenly ranked among these villains, soon to be frog-marched to jail in handcuffs. Few things are salvageable in such a situation and a job is not one of them. One last time he settles into the caress of his thousand-dollar ergonomic programmer's chair.

Leaning back, Ethan notices a glint inside his desk where the center drawer used to be. Forensics has missed the penknife from the career fair where UIB recruited him, where they were poaching bachelor's of science students from the true sciences. Inscribed in gold on the black handle is the suggestion
CUT THE BS. GET YOUR MFE
. Ethan did and went after a master's in financial engineering, taking some serious financial aid from UIB in exchange for his future.

For the first time Ethan has a real use for the knife. He takes off his coat and, like an art thief, starts sawing Alex's
Demimonde in D Minor
out of its frame. It is his favorite of the three paintings of Alex's that Ethan has hung in his office. He won't risk losing it to UIB.

“Whoa, chief,” a familiar voice says. “What you be doin'?” John Guan has snuck up behind him.

“This is
mine
!” Ethan says, sounding even to himself a little crazed. In his windowless office Alex's paintings had connected him to a world beyond his number-splitting work.

“My man, you know you're bleeding through your shirt back,” Guan says. “The Hoke-man do that? There's talk of an incident in the bullpen.”

Ethan has
Demimonde
almost free when a pair of UIB security men arrive and one of them twists Ethan's cutting arm and efficiently places him facedown onto the floor.

“Sir, you are no longer authorized to be in this office,” his partner says.

Meanwhile the man who put Ethan onto the ground helps him to his feet. “Your bloody shirt is not on me, mate,” he says in his Australian accent and then helps Ethan into his coat.

Upstairs, exiting the penthouse elevator, Ethan and his guards traverse a glassy foyer monitored by Cassandra, who could be a Victoria's Secret model. As Ethan passes she offers him a smile. And then his guards simultaneously open in front of him the double doors to a conference room that gleams with polished wood and smells of leather.

Like all executive conference rooms in lower Manhattan, this one contains a table the length of a pier. New Jersey is visible through the glass wall, along with Ellis Island. In Ethan's five years at the bank he has entered this space only twice and has always been one among dozens. This time he completes a group of three.

Hoke lunges at Ethan like a hungry hyena. “Didn't hurt you downstairs, did I, buddy?” he asks and claps a hand on Ethan's damaged shoulder. Hoke pushes him the length of the table toward a man studying papers laid out on the reflective mahogany.

The stranger, who has high cheekbones and silver hair pulled into a ponytail, rises and offers Ethan his hand. “How are you, Mr. Winter. Ben Littletree from legal. We have documents awaiting your signature. After that, you can be on your way.”

“On my way?” Ethan asks.

Littletree lifts his eyebrows at Hoke.

“You're fired,” Hoke says, doing his best Trump imitation. “What did you think? The upside for you is that UIB's not going to take this to the feds.”

Ethan's nape hairs bristle. Pride begs him not to go down easily. “The feds? For a decimal point mistake, if it was even that?”

“I'm just saying, buddy,” Hoke says. “We can be really hard on you if you want. You should have seen the uproar around here when your program kicked in. Good thing the fail-safes worked. We're still looking into a conspiracy to manipulate.”

“A conspiracy?”

“With currency traders at other banks.”

Ethan shakes his head. Then he glances at the waiting paperwork. “Maybe my lawyer should see these first.”

Littletree takes over. “Mr. Winter, these papers simply restate what's in your employment contract addendum.”

“Meaning?” Ethan asks.

“Well, that you agree to indemnify UIB against any losses caused up to the amount of your secondary compensation.”

“Meaning?” Ethan repeats.

“Well, buddy,” Hoke says. Despite their weight difference, Ethan is ready to hit him. “That currency mainframe was down for twenty minutes before Guan got it back up. That's major dollars. It basically means you pay back your bonuses from the past few years. It's what we all had to agree to here, after the meltdown.”

The
meltdown
. Ethan has not seriously considered the meltdown since the protesters exited Zuccotti Park. In the banking universe, the meltdown is Roman history. But apparently some artifacts remain. After Lehman blew up in '08 and the world nearly followed, UIB tossed a bone to the Fed by tying employee bonuses to long-term performance, claiming a claw-back clause would prevent shortsighted trading.

Of course UIB's executives and stars were exempt from the clause. They could still day trade as aggressively as any aspiring white-collar criminal. But employees at Ethan's level—the counters and geeks—would have their bonuses clawed back if their trading ultimately resulted in red ink.

And so, calculating his bonuses as three-fourths of his income, Ethan is about to lose . . . let's see, carry the decimal point . . .
everything
. His six-figure bank account. His retirement investments. His platinum credit limit. Perhaps even his condo.

In the previous century the sin of losing money was forgivable. Bankruptcy was lenient. The rich were neither so rich nor so greedy nor so paranoid. But with the American century shrinking in the rearview mirror, the country has given up on being the land of second chances, or even first. Basically, the new millennium sucks for latecomers.

Ethan swats Littletree's papers off the table and turns his back on Hoke. The security team grabs him up and escorts him down to the gum-splotched New York sidewalk. He feels like a hatchling ejected from the nest.