Bulls Island (Continued)

I could see him in my mind. Traum was smug, rolling an unlit Cohiba from side to side in his mouth — doctor's orders, no more fumée — and another deal was struck. No, the chairman was not in the city. Chairman Traum was otherwise engaged, honing his finest skill by topping off our already bulging coffers. Traum, the antithesis of Bruton, was a great beast of a man with a roaring laugh, a mind-boggling compute speed, and a definite preference for the outdoors.

President Bruton was perfectly comfortable at the stateside helm in his steel-and-glass testimony of success. Bruton was another breed. Heartless and bloodless. But a genius with movie-star looks.

Everyone acknowledged that he oozed nuclear power. Even the most self-assured predator in the office dared not sniff around him. He would have annihilated them. Bruton was seriously married to a former supermodel with whom he had two small children and had never once stepped out on his wife. If he had, she would have annihilated him, to give you a sense of the family portrait. Tough bunch.

"Mr. Bruton will see you now," Darlene said.

I swallowed hard and opened the door to his office as she buzzed me in. He kept it locked . . . why? For fear that the boy from La Grenouille who was delivering his poached salmon and haricots verts and a bottle of Badoit on the side might be an Uzi-toting terrorist?

Please. My eye twitched again.

There he was. Bruton stood with his back to me as he looked out through the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, high above Rock Center, like a lord surveying his lands. Although not yet forty, he was one of the most influential men in the world of finance. He knew it but he did not take his reputation for granted. Every detail of every deal was scrutinized and given the nod by him. Bruton controlled the firm's oxygen supply, and to be in his presence was exhilarating as well as terrifying.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"