Authors: Luca Pesaro
‘How do
you
know, when I can’t even be sure of myself?’
She was shaking and he stopped himself from taking her hand. ‘Everyone deserves a second chance. This is yours – don’t fuck it up.’
Layla sucked in a breath, staring at him. ‘Okay.’ A long pause, as he waited. ‘I’m sorry, Scott. I…’
His hand chopped the air. ‘No more, for today.’ It had been hard enough, for both of them. ‘We have some planning to do now.’
‘Okay,’ she said again.
Walker let a few moments pass, staring at a dubious painting: a woman stepping out of the ocean, clad in an ancient bathing suit. Saint Tropez, early 1900s, he guessed. He finished his cigarette and put it out, letting some emotion seep back in his voice. There were things that couldn’t wait, not after London. ‘We can’t waste any time. I want to destroy Frankel Schwartz for what they’ve done.’
She must have sensed the change in his mood and nodded again, still looking uncertain. ‘How… how did Luigi…?’
Walker shivered, lit another cigarette. ‘He was tortured, badly,’ he answered, the strain in his words impossible to hide.
‘Do you want…’
‘No. Pienaar is a monster, and I don’t want to think about what they did.’
Layla bit her lip and looked away, giving him a few seconds. ‘Is Mosha going to help you then?’
‘Maybe. But there’s someone else who is going after those bastards.’
He told her of his meeting in Rome with Hackernym, and about their recordings. Layla listened, looking surprised, before asking, ‘So you believe these guys?’
He thought of Friedman’s broken face, of his lies. ‘I
have
to believe them. It could be my lifeline.’
‘When are you going to see this Old Man?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘What if he just wants DeepShare? Maybe that’s the only thing they’re after, like Frankel.’
Walker fell silent for a second. That was exactly what he was worried about. But there were no other choices – he had to listen to them. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to see what he really knows, and what he’s planning to do.’
‘Do you want me to come?’
‘No.’ He ignored the hurt look on Layla’s face. ‘I have to do it alone, then maybe we can figure out the next steps together.’
The Old Man
Walker parked the rented convertible a few yards from the Pacific Ocean and climbed out, clutching his backpack. He hadn’t noticed anything suspicious on the way and he still felt reasonably certain that Blackspring had lost his trail since Rome. And it should be hard to track him now. He’d been paying everything with cash and charge-up credit cards in a different name, and the bastards had no reason to think he might be in California. Still…
He took a deep breath and let himself enjoy a moment of peace. The drive from Wilshire Boulevard in LA to Malibu had taken him only thirty minutes, the sun was shining and some of the morning chill still stuck to the wind. He took off his shoes and wandered along Paradise Cove, under the small pier and across the sun-loungers scattered in front of the beach restaurant. A couple of families with young children played on the sand or ran after inflatable balls as he savoured the fresh ocean air, gathering his thoughts. There were too many questions he couldn’t answer, too many doubts. Who was the Old Man, what was Hackernym really after, and what should he do if they wanted DeepOmega?
The software was his only bargaining chip, and DM’s legacy. Was he prepared to risk it, on the back of some vague promises? He remembered the rage, the sense of betrayal when he’d heard Friedman’s voice in the recording. Frankel Schwartz had schemed with Dorfmann’s London CEO, hired Pienaar to steal DeepShare and murdered two of his closest friends. There was no real choice – Omega was promised to Mosha anyway, in exchange for his help. Maybe not the full version, but enough of the algorithms to show how powerful it was.
Walker stopped and looked around, still uncertain. The restaurant beckoned, with its faux-fisherman’s charm, and he didn’t have another plan anyway. He bit on his tongue and hurried across the sand, into the bar area.
A pretty blonde girl was pouring beer for the only customer sitting near the entrance. Walker nodded to her and grabbed a menu, pretending to read it as he waited for his turn. Soon the bartender came over and threw him a fake smile. ‘Will you be having anything, honey?’
‘A pint of IPA, cheers.’
She took a second look at him, noticing his accent. ‘Are you English?’
‘Yes.’
‘On holiday? You ever been to California before?’
‘Sure.’ He glanced down at the menu, thinking. Was she the one he should ask, or…
The other customer, a massive man with tattooed arms, left his stool and approached them. He wore a friendly grin underneath a baseball hat, and nodded in Walker’s direction. ‘Don’t mind Pamela, she’s a bit nosy but the fried shrimps are awesome.’
The girl stuck out her tongue and left, disappearing around the bar. Tattooed-man slid next to Walker and downed his small beer in one gulp, before winking at him. ‘I think she likes you.’
‘Good to know.’
‘But I suspect you might not have the time.’
Walker sipped his own drink and shrugged. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No. But I was told you might be coming.’ He put out his hand and Walker shook it. ‘My name is Bill. Are you ready to see the Old Man?’
‘Of course.’
‘Follow me then.’
Bill led him out of the main entrance, to the carpark and behind the pier onto the long beach that curved back towards LA. They walked in silence for a while, across sheltered bays grazing the luxurious homes that littered the sand. Paradise Cove was the playground of movie stars and studio bosses, where billionaires from all over the world came to rest and hide near the ocean. Walker wondered how much a house would cost here, then was distracted as a former supermodel came bounding along the bank, running barefoot on the sand and surf.
Bill glanced back at him and turned away from the sea, opening a small gate that led to a spotless 1930s two-storey beach mansion. They crossed the small garden and waited under the porch, before a male nurse showed up to let them in.
‘Is he awake?’ Bill asked.
The nurse nodded. ‘Not longer than fifteen minutes, though.’
‘As if he’d listen.’ He signalled to Walker, heading through a sparsely furnished living room to stop in front of a pair of oak double doors. A second nurse sat at a low table, staring at several monitors. She handed them two gauze masks, barely bothering to glance up.
Bill shrugged. ‘Company policy. He’s very ill, but don’t worry – his mind is still sharp.’
He pushed open the heavy doors and Walker looked around the new room. Medical equipment and monitors hovered behind a high-tech hospital cot, still half-hidden from his view by the wide shoulders in front of him. A few stunning paintings hung from the walls – Walker recognised a
Van Gogh and a Picasso – before a raspy voice from the bed caught his attention.
‘Thank you, Bill. You can leave me with Scott now.’
Bill moved aside, letting Walker glimpse the shrunken figure of a sick old man trying to sit up. He was obviously dying, the face gaunt and discoloured, a few wisps of grey hair clinging to the gnarled scalp. An IV poked the man’s skeletal arm; the rest of his ravaged body was hidden under a thin white sheet.
Even so, there was no mistaking him.
‘Do you know who I am?’ The old man’s pale eyes still glinted with the famous, and feared, intelligence.
‘Of course,’ Walker croaked, surprised. Anyone who’d ever worked with money would know him. Gerard Soffet was more than a man, possibly the greatest living legend of the world of finance. An apex-predator, and one of the richest people on the planet. The genius who had built an empire gambling on markets for decades, with astonishing success.
Hedge-fund managers everywhere revered him, and politicians had feared his wrath ever since his raids on Currencies in the early nineties, crushing governments and central banks with the sheer force of his intuition, and money. For years now he had lived as a recluse, rumoured to be suffering from dementia.
‘I guess I don’t look much like myself any more.’ Soffet’s voice was creaky but his words still crisp. ‘Then again, I’d rather lose my good looks than my brains.’
‘
I’ve found the place they were staying at. She’s gone now, though
.’
Pienaar’s tone bubbled with an undercurrent of anger, as usual
.
Friedman ignored it, thinking quickly
. ‘
When?
’
‘
Three days ago. In a hurry, apparently. I could see if the old lady here knows more
.’
‘
No
.’
Friedman shuddered
. ‘
You’re leaving too much of a trail, and your methods…
’
‘
MY methods? I’m not the one who let Walker slip through in Rome. I get results
.’
‘
Do you, really?
’
Friedman’s hand went to his battered face. His guts churned but he forced himself to calm down
. ‘
It doesn’t matter, I don’t want any more blood, for now
.’
‘
They still think Walker’s behind everything
.’
‘
That’s exactly why you should calm down
.’
He was surprised at how much those words had cost him. He wanted revenge, badly, but now was not the time for losing his cool
.
There was a pause before Pienaar came back, his anger now apparent
. ‘
I’m fucking tired of this. If you don’t like the way I do things, just pay me off and I’ll get out of your hair
.’
Friedman sighed under his breath. He couldn’t afford to lose the madman, not now
. ‘
Look, Francois
–
she obviously ran after they found out about the broker. Where’s the nearest airport to you?
’
‘
Cagliari. It’s a small one
.’
‘
That’s where she’ll have gone. We’ll hunt through the passenger manifestoes and figure out what name she is travelling under. And then we’ll have them
.’
‘
Fine. But I’m not going to hang around much longer
.’
‘Why am I here?’ Walker sat on a metal chair near the head of the hospital bed. Soffet coughed a few times, then rasped a couple of shallow breaths and stared at him, his eyes watery.
‘You’re here to help me find a cure.’
Walker glanced around the room, uncertain. ‘I’m not a doctor…’
‘Not for me…’ Soffet chuckled. ‘It’s far too late for that. But for the system. The world is sick, Scott Walker. And I’m trying to make it better.’
‘With Hackernym?’
The old man nodded, his hand twitching. ‘The disease has spread too much, we need a powerful shock. To cure, sometimes you must destroy, first.’
‘And you’re after Frankel.’
‘Frankel Schwartz is nothing. They will suffer like the rest, when I bring the whole damn edifice down.’
‘What?’ Walker recoiled, his anger bubbling. ‘They’ve killed people – my friends. Friedman, Welsh, Pienaar – God knows who else is involved. They must pay for what they’ve done.’
‘And they will,’ Soffet sighed. ‘But they are not the cause, just a symptom of what’s been happening.’
‘Are you serious? Their entire fucking bank is a cancer. We all know Frankel has a finger on the
pulse everywhere, like a corrupt giant spider. Bribing politicians, cheating clients, manipulating the markets… Now it’s vulnerable for once, and we could take it apart for good.’
‘I like your fire, young man.’ Soffet smiled and coughed again. ‘But let me tell you a story, first.’
Walker shrugged, struggling to keep his temper. ‘Sure. Go ahead.’
‘What am I famous, or infamous, for?’
‘Your wealth…’ Walker hesitated, uncertain. ‘Philanthropy?’
‘No, Yours. I am the man who…?’
‘Broke the Bank of England.’ Walker nodded. ‘So?’
‘And that of Italy, don’t forget.’ Soffet attempted a grin. ‘But the way I did it – it’s not quite as it was told in the books. I had lots of
hidden
help.’
‘Hidden?’
‘Powerful people in Washington and Berlin did not like the way the European integration was going, and thought a few countries needed to be taught a lesson. I came up with the idea and they stood aside, happy to…
facilitate
behind closed doors. I couldn’t have caused a crisis and attacked the currencies of two large nations, not without having the US Federal Reserve and the German Bundesbank behind me. I knew everything before it happened.’
‘Seriously?’ Walker wondered if the old man had started to lose it, as people said.
‘Yes. There’s long been a cabal of central bankers, ministers, academics… You see them on TV, pretending to be working for the good of all, but there’s always a special agenda. These people… they are the ultimate guardians of the status quo – they groom their successors amongst themselves, taking care only of the needs of the elites. You can’t even become a famous economist unless you genuflect to their theories. They pick and choose, make governments fall… all in the interest of protecting the system.’
‘That sounds like the IMF, or the United Nations.’
Soffet glared at him. ‘Those idiots are only puppets, Scott. The real players, the Bilderbergs and their masters – they go deeper. I know them, I’ve worked
with
them for a long time. The last crisis, and the next one certainly – they were, and will be, partly planned. Years ago, they saw what was happening, and fed the cancer of subprime and excessive credit. They let the banks grow beyond any reasonable limit, because it was the ultimate opportunity to build their power and control social moods…’ The old man trailed off, wheezing.
Walker leaned closer. ‘Why?’
‘Why? Lehman Brothers didn’t have to go. They knew what would happen, and chose –
chose
– to break the world’s markets. It was organised, decided to teach everyone a lesson: now you mess with us at your own peril. And they won – they are uber-rich, unelected, and do not answer to anyone.’
Walker sat back in his chair, dumbfounded. ‘“Give me control of a nation’s money and I care not who makes her laws.”’