Chapter Thirteen #2
They entered a large hall that had been set up for dancing.
The floor remained empty despite the string quartet.
Groups and couples milled at the edges like expensive wallflowers, making their job easy.
He and Vanka worked the room. They bullshitted and bluffed their way through conversation after conversation.
With every new chat, they shifted positions, photographing everyone from every angle.
Modern technology had made this part of intel-gathering very dull.
Spiker touched Vanka’s elbow and whispered into her ear, “On your right, two o’clock.” His eyes closed and lingered long enough to feel his breath against her neck. Nothing felt like it had always felt before, and that awareness hit him harder than the best champagne.
A slight shift in her posture exposed more of her neck to his mouth. The impulse to touch his mouth to her skin set a fire inside his chest. Vanka pivoted and saved him from what he couldn’t explain.
Spiker, by her side, listened as she enthralled a group of businesswomen with a cryptocurrency story gone wrong, while simultaneously siphoning personal details.
Women were more complex marks than men. They didn’t give up their well-guarded personal information as quickly.
There had been a time when he had mistakenly believed this had to do with Vanka’s appearance, and yeah, sure, looks often helped, but they didn’t change what he believed to be the truth.
Whether or not a woman found Vanka attractive, that woman was always going to be more careful than a man drawn to another man.
Vanka adjusted her earring and signaled that there was nothing left to learn from this group.
Spiker interrupted the conversation with an apology and stole his wife away.
They moved with fluid ease, slipping closer to their host. Spiker wanted to get a read on the guy and understand what motivated Buck to focus on him.
It couldn’t be as simple as baiting Robin Hood.
They moved closer to Alec Oliver. Spiker studied him as Vanka engaged a new couple, shifting their small talk so he could continue photographing the room.
The job was monotonous. Vanka made conversations effortless.
She was his favorite chameleon, and when she locked her gaze onto his, she was his favorite person.
If he quit, he’d lose her. The fact hammered in his chest and dulled otherwise noteworthy conversations, where stock tips amounted to insider trading, dark-money decisions were meant to evade financial oversight, and health advice equated to a chitchat about embargoed FDA decisions.
What Spiker heard could have triggered an SEC all-hands-on-deck alert.
But it simply went in one ear and out the other.
Vanka touched his wrist. Now was the perfect moment to approach Alec Oliver. With only a passing glance, they agreed to make their move. Spiker had to focus, and without much choice, he took Vanka’s hand. Locking his fingers together with hers was his best shot at curbing his mind’s distractions.
She squeezed his hand and manipulated the steady flow of schmoozing until Alec Oliver was locked in their direct line of sight. He looked their way; the couple with whom he’d been speaking had lost his attention.
Spiker seized the moment with a confident lift of his chin, from one alpha to another. Oliver took the bait and moved to greet them.
Body language fascinated Spiker, and—to make a more melodramatic point—his ability to read microscopic human behavior had kept him alive. In a hundredth of a second, he and Oliver had an unspoken agreement to converse. It was a mandatory go-ahead that allowed them to make an unremarkable approach.
The men’s hands extended.
“Alec,” Spiker offered, “Brian Fagan. Fagan Asset Management.”
Their handshake connected. The slight muscles under Oliver’s lower eyelids contracted. Even though he likely couldn’t recollect their pseudo-fictitious company name, the two men shared the mutual understanding found between a company CEO and a hedge fund owner.
Alec Oliver retained a majority of the stock in the company that transformed his social networking app into a record-breaking IPO, but that hadn’t come without precarious concessions.
Investors demanded that the app’s community of users exist as part of a larger online platform and that a board of directors be elected by shareholders.
Spiker wondered how much thought Oliver had put into what that might mean. Could a twenty-year-old on the cusp of billions understand that his future would include shareholder demands, government compliance, and hedge funds specializing in hostile takeovers?
“And this is my wife,” Spiker continued, “Em Fagan.”
Vanka angled toward Oliver and extended her hand, giving him a glimpse of the bare skin that sliced down her back. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Fagan.” Oliver fondled her hand more than he shook it. Spiker pretended not to notice. Their connection lingered, and Spiker’s disgust multiplied. Oliver lacked self-control. He was too young, too green, maybe even too-fawned-over, to disguise his lurid curiosity.
“We hold a 0.02% stake in Monarch,” Spiker added.
That got Oliver’s attention and finally broke his hold on Vanka’s hand. However, an irreverent cockiness still dilated his eyes. “That’s not a small piece of the pie.”
“It’s an excellent position to hold,” Vanka agreed.
Oliver grinned. “Your accent is amazing.”
“Everything about her is amazing,” Spiker countered.
Vanka played her part, dishing out a quick laugh and smile, but cut him an uncertain glance.
“Our investors,” Spiker continued, “for the most part, agree.” He waited for the “most part” to subtly knock Oliver down a peg or two.
Oliver’s jaw ticked. “There’s always a small contingency that likes to complain.”
“They’re no less chatty than those heavy-handed fund managers.” Vanka scoffed as though she were a British Marie Antoinette and touched Oliver’s elbow. “Activists, I call them.”