The Warning Read online

  “Worse than that, the big banks do an enormous amount of business with each other. When it comes to derivatives, all of the world’s major banks are holding hands. So if one starts to sneeze, they could all catch colds.

  “If one major dealer could not make good on its commitments, a dozen others could be threatened. Another participant might then withhold payments. If that happened with a dozen, the system would enter meltdown.

  “And the eruption could take place in three or four hours. This situation becomes much more serious because of how concentrated the wealth and this risk have become. One third of the world’s total monetary wealth is controlled by just two hundred funds.

  “In offices around the world, twenty-four hours a day, these fund managers hear the same news, hedge their bets with new risk derivatives, and prepare to jump at a moment’s notice. Everyone is trying to catch the market swing and move in the right direction. Everyone is watching the other. Two hundred players is not so many that one can move with much secrecy. This means that if one jumps, chances are others will too.

  “To have this much money all jump at once means that whatever swing the market begins to make will be amplified beyond all logic. A relatively small number of investors, mutual funds, investment banks, and Wall Street firms might see a new risk develop, and so they move together. The market reacts with a big dip. This notifies others of a move. The others rush out. The market dives. Panic ensues.”

  Buddy stopped. For once, the gathering of press and media seemed genuinely attentive. A voice from the back said, “Then what, Mr. Korda?”

  “Go look at the newsreels from the thirties,” Buddy said, wanting to weep with a sudden wave of frustration over his inability to do anything about it all. “Look at men selling apples on every street corner. Watch ten thousand people riot when fifteen jobs become available. See people harnessed to horse carts because working a man to death is cheaper than paying for hay or gas. Ask an old-timer to describe what it was like trying to feed a family. Then try to imagine what it might be like doing the same for your own loved ones.”

  –|| FORTY ||–

  Thaddeus Dorsett slipped the leather thong down tighter on his wrist. He had never held a cush before. That’s what the guard had called it. A strange, soft-sounding word for something so deadly. The instrument was about a foot long, with a springy handle ending in a bulbous, fist-size club of steel and lead, all bound in leather to make it easier to hold and quieter to wield. Thad’s other hand still burned from where he had slapped the weight down a little too hard. He whipped the handle and heard the humming sound as it sprang back, hungry and vicious.

  The guards had orders not to use guns. Too much noise, and not personal enough. He wanted Buddy Korda to see who was doing this. He wanted the man to see what it meant to cross Thaddeus Dorsett. He wanted Buddy’s last few minutes to be full of terrifying regret.

  The alley was perfect. Thad could not have asked for a better place to spring their surprise. There was only one route for Korda to walk the three blocks from his hotel to the Richmond stadium. One narrow road. What was more, the entire downtown sector was strangely subdued this Thursday afternoon. As though the entire city’s attention was focused on the nearby stadium.

  The stadium crowd had been loud and quiet in strange turns. Occasionally faint snatches of song or voices could be heard. Thad had watched the guards exchange nervous glances over this. Which was very strange. He would have thought those goons could be bothered by nothing at all.

  A guard came sprinting back from the hotel, confirming that Buddy had not left his room yet. The guards had brought in some extra hands to handle anybody who was unfortunate enough to walk to the stadium with Korda. Thad observed them leaning against the alley’s opposite wall, a trio of goons with the dull-eyed blankness of people who would do anything for money.

  Thad’s blood surged at the thought of finally getting his own. “Remember,” he hissed, “leave Korda for me.”

  No one bothered to respond. He had said the same thing a half dozen times already.

  Thad checked his watch once more, wondering how much longer he could stand the waiting.

  The guard by the alley’s entrance chose that moment to turn and wave his hand over his head. They were coming.

  Thad’s heartbeat surged to an impossible rate. He glanced at the faces around, saw no sign of tension or excitement or anything beyond hard-edged boredom.

  He accepted the black stocking mask handed out by the security guard. Thad watched how the others shifted the masks around so that the eye- and mouth-holes pulled down correctly. He felt a strange, stomach-twisting surge at the thought of what those guys had done to make this motion seem so natural. For himself, the mask felt tight and sweaty.

  His breathing sounded overloud in his ears as he started toward the alley’s entrance with the others. Up ahead, the guard raised his hand, the fingers extended, the thumb cocked back onto his palm. Four. There were only four of them. A piece of cake.

  His heart pounded like a blood-soaked gong in his ears. He raised the cush, ready to pounce as soon as they appeared. The road stretched out empty and void in front of them. He heard the scratch of approaching footsteps, the murmur of quiet voices.

  Out of nowhere, a fog drifted in and enclosed them, a mist so thick he could not see the wall he was touching. One moment all was clear and ready, and the next he could not see a thing. One of the thugs grunted in surprise. He heard someone else hiss for quiet.

  If anything, the mist grew thicker, tighter. Breath was hard to come by, as though milky fingers were reaching out and closing around his throat. The feeling was so strong that Thad reached up and ripped a larger hole in the clinging mesh, clearing it farther from his mouth. Still, it was tough to draw a decent breath.

  The footsteps were almost on them. Thad stepped forward, wanting to be the first to strike.

  Shadows coalesced in the fog, but from the opposite direction. They were coming from the stadium. Thad backed up in alarm. The shadows followed, far too tall to be Korda and his men. They looked like warriors carrying shields, which was impossible. Shields and clubs. Or swords. Warriors standing a full foot taller than Thad, and broader than the goons.

  A guard jostled him on one side. Or perhaps it was one of the thugs, backing up with him. Thad pulled off the mask. He could not breathe in this mist. Then he felt a wall behind him. He must have swerved sideways in the mist. Then the wall moved. Thad spun around and felt his heart squeeze shut at the sight of another shadow behind him. This one was bigger than the others, a behemoth looming over him, the club raised over his head longer than Thad was tall.

  “We’re surrounded!” The shriek was alien, even though he could feel it rip from his own throat. “Run! ”

  “They’re everywhere!” The guard’s voice was as hoarse as his own.

  “Get me out of here!”

  Thad felt a burning sensation on his hand, as if acid were seeping off the leather strap. He peeled skin off his wrist with his fingernails in his terror to get the cush off.

  He dropped to his knees. Yes. That was the answer. Get down low and let the others take the heat. He sank lower, crawling and scrabbling on his belly through the damp filth coating the alley.

  He heard shrieks and cries behind him. The sounds only made him crawl faster, through the blinding mist, wriggling on his belly so hard his clothes were shredded by the gravel underneath, finally catching a glimpse of light up ahead, as if he was approaching the end of a suffocating tunnel.

  Thad gasped a sob and stumbled to his knees. His fine Armani suit was drenched and filthy with tatters flapping from his elbows and knees. He did not even notice. He scrambled to his feet and fled in terror.

  –|| FORTY–ONE ||–

  Richmond that Thursday afternoon was experiencing a late heat wave. But it was not the temperature that made Buddy stop as he walked up the concrete runway and entered the stadium. Beneath a brilliant sun spread the largest crowd he had ever seen, m
uch less addressed. Every seat in the bleachers was taken. Faces and colors spread out in every direction until they became distant blurs.

  The playing field itself was lost beneath a seething mass of bodies. From the thirty-yard line back stretched row upon row of folding seats. Between them and the front stage, thousands of people gathered and stood and knelt and prayed.

  Clarke moved up alongside. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine.” It was a noisy, joyous, fervent cauldron of people and spiritual power. The Spirit was there and moving among the family of believers. “Just fine.”

  “Mr. Korda?” A harried young man wearing a badge and carrying a walkie-talkie scurried over. “Greg Knowles. Great that you could make it.” He took Buddy’s arm and began leading him forward, down the stairs and across the single patch of green not filled with bodies. “There’s one more speaker before you. He’ll be about a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes. We like to leave time for the Spirit to move at will.”

  “I understand.” Buddy mounted the stairs, shook a couple of hands, and seated himself on the stage’s back row. Strange that he could look out over such a gathering and feel no nerves. His fatigue and travel stress had gradually eased. Here and now, the outside world could not enter. Here and now, he was home.

  When it was his time to speak, a distinguished gray-haired minister known throughout the nation gave the introduction. “By now, most of you have heard of Buddy Korda. This past week the press has been full of reports about how this one man has begun to have an effect upon the stock market. How there has been an unprecedented buying of futures options by people who would otherwise never be expected to enter this high-risk market. Huge numbers of people. Phenomenal numbers. That is the word I have read over and over this week. Phenomenal. It is phenomenal, the papers and the television pundits say, that one small-town banker can have such an impact upon people. They claim that it is simply a sign of the times, that people are nervous and willing to follow anyone who claims to know where the market is headed.

  “Well, I am here to tell you that I have heard a tape recording of Buddy Korda’s message. And after that I saw a video. I imagine that many of you out there have. And both times I was completely thunderstruck by the power of God moving through this man.

  “We have a bank of television cameras out here in front of the stage today. Those of you who have attended our gatherings know this is not normal. But from what I have learned in a conversation with his home office this morning, today is the final day of Buddy Korda’s message. Tomorrow is the last day we can act on his advice.

  “I have every confidence that his message is correct, so much so that I have put all of my savings into something I did not even know existed before last week—something called put options. I am staking my reputation and my family’s savings that Mr. Korda carries a message from God. And if his message is correct, Monday is too late. Brothers, hear what I am saying. More important, listen to Mr. Korda himself. And if you agree, if you feel the Spirit’s direction, then I urge you to act. That is why the cameras are here. So that as many people as possible can hear and act.” He turned and nodded toward Buddy.

  Buddy approached the podium and the bank of microphones, greeted the crowd, and began. “I wish I could leave unsaid what I’m up here to tell you. Because what’s most important is what you’ve been hearing from the speakers before me, that Jesus must reign in your minds and hearts. He is truly the way, the truth, and the life.

  “But I can’t stop there. Not today. I feel called to be where I am. Yet what’s important is what you hear the Spirit say to you, not what words I speak. Remember that. I need to be the Lord’s messenger, and you need to hear confirmation from the Lord, not from me.”

  “This way, Mr. Korda. Here, let me take the towel.”

  “Oh, thank you.” It was Thursday evening, and Buddy was in the Washington offices of CNN. As he removed the makeup towel from around his neck and handed it to the production assistant, he glanced around. Here everything seemed to run at double time. People did not walk, they scampered. Voices were tense and high-pitched. All the expressions looked vitally important, immensely serious.

  Buddy allowed himself to be shepherded through a series of doors and into the side wings of a large soundstage. At its center was the familiar backdrop for Lonnie Stone Live. The production assistant pointed to a large screen situated to one side of the empty stage and said, “Mr. Stone is in New York today. You’ll be able to see him on that feed. The questions will be passed to you through a speaker set in the desk, see it there?”

  “Yes.” Buddy felt nervous tension transmitted from everything around him. Cables littered the floor. People moved lights and cameras about, barely casting a glance in his direction. He was simply the day’s product, to be spotlighted and handled and monitored, and then moved aside for whatever was hot tomorrow. There wasn’t time for anything else.

  “Okay, let’s just fit your mike into place.” The production assistant stepped aside as a sound technician clipped a tiny microphone to his lapel, ran the wire under his jacket, and gave him the control pack to slip into his back pocket. “Would you say something so they can adjust the sound level?”

  “I have never been on television before.”

  “Fine. That’s great.” She returned a thumbs-up through the control room window and ushered him toward the desk. “All right, let’s adjust your coat so it doesn’t bunch around your shoulders.” She gave the back of his jacket a hard tug and tucked it farther into his seat. “Try to hold to one position through each question, Mr. Korda. If you want to move, do so when Lonnie is talking.”

  “I understand.” The makeup was constricting, and under the lights it left his skin feeling as though it could not breathe. “How long—”

  “Eight minutes until you go on, and we will probably play this for five minutes today.” She glanced at her clipboard. “You’re back with us next week, do I have that right?”

  “On Tuesday,” he confirmed.

  “You’ll be an old hand by then, won’t you?” She gave him a practiced smile and moved back beyond the reach of the lights. Immediately a camera rolled forward and fastened its great square eye on him.

  Buddy gave a swift prayer for guidance and received the same response as at press conferences—a simple determined foreknowledge of what needed to be said.

  The minutes dragged on until the production assistant waved at him, counted down, and then pointed to the monitor. Buddy saw the seasoned smile and heard the famous voice say, “And joining us now from our Washington studio is Buddy Korda, a name that has become increasingly familiar, and in a remarkably short span of time. Mr. Korda, it’s a pleasure to have you with us today.”

  “Thank you for having me.”

  “Mr. Korda, do I have it right that you are predicting a major economic downturn to strike sometime next week?”

  “On Tuesday,” Buddy affirmed.

  “You’ll excuse me if I say that it seems a little strange. The markets are booming. The latest economic figures, released just yesterday, indicate that the nation enjoys the best economic health it has seen in years.” Stone picked up a sheet of paper and read, “Unemployment is down, wholesale purchasing is up, factory usage is at an all-time high. Today the market hit another record level, with the Dow climbing almost two hundred points.” He let the paper drop. “It seems as though the economy is not agreeing with you, Mr. Korda.”

  “There are a number of factors that could change that almost instantly.”

  “So you are suggesting, are you not, that people who hear your message should risk everything they own by going against the market, flying in the face of every pundit on Wall Street, and betting the lot on the market falling? Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you perhaps interested in changing your deadline, Mr. Korda? Perhaps give yourself a little breathing space?”

  “There is no need.” Buddy looked straight at the camera and put as much e
mphasis as he could on each word. “The reason I came into the studios today was to urge those who have heard my message and feel it is true to act. Tomorrow is their last chance.”

  “The markets will be open for business on Monday as well,” the interviewer pointed out.

  Buddy shook his head. “Monday will be too late.”

  The interviewer gave his familiar, hoarse chuckle. “I wish I was as certain about anything as you appear to be about this. Tell me, Mr. Korda, do you have any idea just how far the market will fall?”

  Buddy felt the door open. Not for emotional impact, but rather for a response. One given in astonishing clarity. “The Dow Jones average will close next week at less than nine hundred.”

  It took Lonnie Stone a moment to recover. “That is a drop of over eighty percent.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “In one week?”

  “That is correct.”

  Another moment, and then, “Mr. Korda, all I can say is, I hope you are wrong.”

  Buddy felt an overwhelming sorrow, a sadness for the people, the businesses, the nation. He shook his head. “I’m not wrong.”

  –|| FORTY–TWO ||–

  Four Days . . .

  Friday morning Thad Dorsett returned to the office a broken man.

  He sat at his console, watching the markets open with the speed of a grand prix roaring into action. He saw nothing but a blur.

  He started when the red light at the center of his phone console began flashing. Thad sat a very long time, trying to formulate a plan, struggling to draw his shattered parts together. Then he reached and picked up the receiver and punched the connection. “Dorsett.”

  “So how’d it go?”

  The question brought a first sign of hope. Clearly Fleiss had not caught the interview with Korda, which CNN televised nationwide. Thad ventured, “Not too bad.”