The Futures(42)

“Because it’s impossible to make any real money selling anything to the Chinese, that’s why. You know that. The tariffs and taxes eat into your profits like a parasite. It’s byzantine. The only way to make money is to find your way through that system.”

Brad started pacing again. Michael sat back on the couch calmly, waiting.

Brad wheeled around to look at Michael. “Your trip to China in August. For the Olympics, right? Did you go to a single event? Or was that all just a cover?”

“Of course I did. Swimming, rowing, whatever. Let me tell you, you meet all sorts of people at the Olympics. All sorts of politicians and government flunkies who are just so eager to rub shoulders with us Americans. The people in that country love us. They finally got a taste of capitalism, and now they can’t get enough. They know how much better things are over here. They’ll do just about anything to catch up. “

“Jesus Christ. Are we talking bribery, Michael? Did you bribe the fucking Chinese government?”

On the plane ride that day, we had encountered a particularly nasty bout of turbulence. I gripped the armrests, my jaw clenched. I hated turbulence. I kept counting to ten, over and over, waiting for the plane to steady again. Surely it would stop when I got to ten. That’s exactly how I felt at that moment.

“Give me a little credit,” Michael said. But before I could exhale, he continued. “Bribery. It’s such an unsubtle word. You can wipe that sneer off your face. I didn’t bribe the Chinese government. We worked out an arrangement that was mutually beneficial.”

“What arrangement?”

“Sit down. You’re making yourself all agitated.”

“What arrangement, Michael?”

“The appropriate Chinese authorities are now inclined to look favorably upon lumber imports from certain Canadian companies. Those imports won’t be subject to the usual taxes and tariffs. When WestCorp sells their lumber to Chinese buyers, they’ll keep one hundred percent of the revenue.”

“And what are they getting in return?”

Michael sighed. He seemed bored by the conversation. “WestCorp wanted the Chinese to drop the trade barriers. The Chinese wanted a few favors that some highly placed WestCorp executives were, luckily, able to grant.”

“What favors?”

“Like I said. The Chinese love us. They love our lives. They love North America. They want to come here, to live here, to buy homes here—well, not here here, not Las Vegas, this place is a hellhole. But Vancouver? Toronto? That’s a different story. These businessmen and bureaucrats, now they’ve got money to spare, but the one thing they still can’t buy is a normal life. They want their kids to be like ours. To go to Ivy League schools. To have good careers. They need visas. And Canadian immigration moves like molasses. WestCorp was able to help them out. Speed things up through back channels. They have something we want. We have something they want. It’s really not so complicated.”

“And you went to Beijing to make this happen. You decided to put the entire company at risk for this deal. I can’t believe this.”

“Yes, I did. And I would do it again. I don’t need to tell you how dismal things are. How pathetic our returns are this year. How much worse it’s going to get. Do you really want to go back to New York and tell half the company that they’re going to lose their jobs? China is booming. They need lumber, and the Canadians have a glut they need to unload. We’re just providing liquidity. We’re making a market. We applied a little pressure to make it happen, but it’s happening, and it’s working.”

Brad was silent for a long time.

“You’re not going to be able to keep this quiet much longer, Michael,” he said at last. “Pretty soon someone else is going to notice it, too, someone besides me, and they’ll start asking questions.”

“Maybe. But what they’ll notice is how much money we’re making. And what they’ll ask is why they didn’t think of this earlier. Does anyone really care how you get from point A to point B? Did you hear a single complaint from a single banker cashing his checks during the last five years? And we’re not stupid. We’ve been discreet for a reason. When people finally notice, the proof will be there. The profits will be there. I’m not going to apologize for doing my job.”

“You keep saying ‘we.’ Who is we?”

“Me and Peck, the analyst. That’s it. A few people have pitched in occasionally, but they never really knew what they were working on.”

“And does Peck know about the arrangement you have going?”

I closed my eyes and felt an insane rage—all of it directed at Roger. Most of me realized that this was ridiculous. Roger was the least of my concerns. But were it not for him, I would have been asleep and blissfully ignorant. Yes, I’d had my suspicions along the way. The trip to China. The overheard phone call. But I’d decided, a while earlier, to trust that Michael had a plan. He was the boss. He wasn’t going to do anything illegal. I kept my head down and did my job. It had worked, up until that moment.

“He knows I went to China,” Michael said. “He doesn’t know what I did there. I picked him for a reason. He keeps things to himself. And he’s ambitious, too. He wants it to succeed. I can tell. He’s perfect for this.”

“Michael, come on. He’s—what?—twenty-three years old? These analysts go out drinking every night. They can’t keep a secret.”