further after yesterday. He had stayed until 4 a.m., waiting with the young overnight editor until the Japanese markets opened—or, rather, didn’t open. He had sent everyone else home at midnight.
MacLean seemed to have vanished. Drew never did reach him at home, and Richard, the overnight man, woke him with the news this morning that MacLean didn’t show up at eight. Drew asked Richard to stay on and called Tom to take the early shift. He was always getting pinched by SBC’s deliberate understaffing. Worse, MacLean’s disappearance made him uneasy, although he kept pushing his suspicions out of his mind.
Preston, for once, was waiting for him. Drew smiled inwardly. Not much for him to do today, with the markets closed.
“How are you, Drew?” Preston said when the maître d’hôtel ushered the journalist over to the corner table. Preston, distinguished with his graying hair and navy blue pinstripes, remained sitting.
“Well enough, considering,” Drew replied. Actually, he didn’t feel too bad, except for this problem with MacLean.
“You’re looking good,” said Preston, prolonging the preliminaries. Drew was alerted. Preston usually plunged into the matter at hand, and there was a lot of matter at hand today.
“We’ve known each other quite a while,” Preston began. “You’re as straight as they come. It’s not something I could say for all of your colleagues.”
Drew felt a sudden queasiness. The stories one heard swirled through his head: the German real estate correspondent who had made 3 million marks buying property in areas before he wrote about them and then selling at a high markup; the Euromarket writer who regularly participated in the orgies thrown by the Oldham group in the Barbican; the celebrated case of the Wall Street Journal reporter who tipped off his boyfriend about the stocks treated in his influential column.
“What are you driving at, Morgan?” Drew asked. He might as well face it now.
“Someone was in the market buying right after the fixing.” Preston fixed Drew with his gray eyes. “They were buying here, and in Zurich, and in Frankfurt, and apparently in New York. Everywhere, in short. They were buying a lot.”
Drew examined his menu carefully, but when the waiter came he ordered smoked salmon.
“How well do you know your people?” resumed Preston.
Drew studied the banker. “Okay, I’ll level with you. We’ve had a fellow missing since yesterday afternoon.” He didn’t mention the lost telex.
“Could he have held the news back?”
“He was the filing editor.”
Preston cleared his throat and adjusted his napkin. “So that was it,” he said. “They must have made a fortune.”
The waiter brought their salads, and then the wine Preston had ordered. Drew scanned the room, filled with dark-suited men in twos and threes. The bright pastels of the dining room’s decor contrasted with the gray, wet spectacle visible through the vaulted windows.
“I suppose I’ll have to find him,” said Drew, after they had eaten in silence for a bit.
“Not much to be done now, I should think,” said Preston.
Drew changed the subject. “Anything going on today?”
“Surprisingly enough, yes. There was considerable profit-taking just before the Fed press conference, but there’s been a strong demand and sufficient selling to meet it. Of course, that’s all spot, because the futures markets are closed, and the lack of a fixing has dampened trading.” Spot was the cash market for immediate delivery and consisted of dealers buying and selling over the phone. The futures market was trading in contracts for future delivery and took place on an exchange, like Comex or IMM.
Drew said nothing. He usually found silence more effective than questions for extracting information.
“Kuwait seems active,” Preston added, after a pause. “They’re spreading the orders around, but there seems to be a lot of activity emanating from there.”
“What’s next, do you
MacLean seemed to have vanished. Drew never did reach him at home, and Richard, the overnight man, woke him with the news this morning that MacLean didn’t show up at eight. Drew asked Richard to stay on and called Tom to take the early shift. He was always getting pinched by SBC’s deliberate understaffing. Worse, MacLean’s disappearance made him uneasy, although he kept pushing his suspicions out of his mind.
Preston, for once, was waiting for him. Drew smiled inwardly. Not much for him to do today, with the markets closed.
“How are you, Drew?” Preston said when the maître d’hôtel ushered the journalist over to the corner table. Preston, distinguished with his graying hair and navy blue pinstripes, remained sitting.
“Well enough, considering,” Drew replied. Actually, he didn’t feel too bad, except for this problem with MacLean.
“You’re looking good,” said Preston, prolonging the preliminaries. Drew was alerted. Preston usually plunged into the matter at hand, and there was a lot of matter at hand today.
“We’ve known each other quite a while,” Preston began. “You’re as straight as they come. It’s not something I could say for all of your colleagues.”
Drew felt a sudden queasiness. The stories one heard swirled through his head: the German real estate correspondent who had made 3 million marks buying property in areas before he wrote about them and then selling at a high markup; the Euromarket writer who regularly participated in the orgies thrown by the Oldham group in the Barbican; the celebrated case of the Wall Street Journal reporter who tipped off his boyfriend about the stocks treated in his influential column.
“What are you driving at, Morgan?” Drew asked. He might as well face it now.
“Someone was in the market buying right after the fixing.” Preston fixed Drew with his gray eyes. “They were buying here, and in Zurich, and in Frankfurt, and apparently in New York. Everywhere, in short. They were buying a lot.”
Drew examined his menu carefully, but when the waiter came he ordered smoked salmon.
“How well do you know your people?” resumed Preston.
Drew studied the banker. “Okay, I’ll level with you. We’ve had a fellow missing since yesterday afternoon.” He didn’t mention the lost telex.
“Could he have held the news back?”
“He was the filing editor.”
Preston cleared his throat and adjusted his napkin. “So that was it,” he said. “They must have made a fortune.”
The waiter brought their salads, and then the wine Preston had ordered. Drew scanned the room, filled with dark-suited men in twos and threes. The bright pastels of the dining room’s decor contrasted with the gray, wet spectacle visible through the vaulted windows.
“I suppose I’ll have to find him,” said Drew, after they had eaten in silence for a bit.
“Not much to be done now, I should think,” said Preston.
Drew changed the subject. “Anything going on today?”
“Surprisingly enough, yes. There was considerable profit-taking just before the Fed press conference, but there’s been a strong demand and sufficient selling to meet it. Of course, that’s all spot, because the futures markets are closed, and the lack of a fixing has dampened trading.” Spot was the cash market for immediate delivery and consisted of dealers buying and selling over the phone. The futures market was trading in contracts for future delivery and took place on an exchange, like Comex or IMM.
Drew said nothing. He usually found silence more effective than questions for extracting information.
“Kuwait seems active,” Preston added, after a pause. “They’re spreading the orders around, but there seems to be a lot of activity emanating from there.”
“What’s next, do you