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wasp’s sting.

3
    K rane Associates engineered her downfall. That was part of her cover story—the complete disintegration of her public life, the end of Stefani Fogg as Wall Street knew her.
    “I promised Max you’d arrive in Courchevel in a week,” Oliver Krane mused. “That gives us very little time. It shall have to be Monday, I’m afraid.”
    Stefani arrived for work rather late that Monday and paid scant attention to the multibillion-dollar fund she was allegedly managing. She spent considerable time chatting up old friends on the phone and took a very long lunch. Then she pled an afternoon meeting with clients and went shopping at Bergdorf’s. Oliver had mentioned Scotland. She figured she’d need some boots.
    Two hours later she arrived back at her office with a Persian lamb coat, four pairs of shoes, and a hatbox dangling from her wrist. Sterling Hayes, the chairman of FundMarket International, was waiting for her.
    “Stefani.”
    She had always despised Hayes—not simply for his expression, which was cadaverous, but for the caution that compelled him to wear braces embroidered with foxes and hounds.
    “Sterling!” she cried gaily. “It’s been
ages!
What can I do for you?”
    He did not shut her office door, but stood uneasily before her desk like a paid mourner. “I’ve been talking to Oliver Krane.”
    She frowned. Set down the boxes and bags. “That awful pseudo-Brit with the security service? He went public last year, right? How’s his stock doing these days?”
    “I retained Oliver Krane thirty months ago when I took over the chairmanship,” Hayes informed her dryly. “Krane designed the architecture of FundMarket’s security system. It’s highly sophisticated. We track electronic trades. Screen employee e-mail. Record phone conversations.”
    Stefani kicked off her shoes, opened one of the boxes and pulled out a pair of brown suede boots. “Yeah? So?”
    “Stefani—” He hesitated, his eyes on her feet. She was wearing houndstooth stockings, expensive and transparent, a checkerboard haze over instep and ankle. “We record every phone call. Every trade. We analyze the tapes for patterns on a daily basis. It’s the best defense we’ve got. You understand, don’t you?”
    She glanced up at him. “What are you trying to say, Sterling?”
    “This morning, Krane showed me his computerized records. He made the case that you’ve been trading on inside information, Stefani. For at least three weeks. You’ve been trying to beat the system.”
    An appalled silence.
    “I understand the pressure—your reputation, the
Galileo
slide—”
    “There must be some mistake,” she cut in.
    “Krane doesn’t make mistakes. I’ve seen his data. I can’t turn a blind eye, even for you. I can’t risk the SEC breathing down my neck. You know that, Stefani. You have to go.”
    She sat motionless, one boot on, the other dangling. “Over my dead body. Who the hell is this bastard Krane, that he can suddenly fire a major player at FundMarket International?”
    “He’s the bastard we pay to keep us clean.”
    “To do your shit work, you mean,” she slashed. “You can’t just throw me out like a used condom, Sterling. Fuck Oliver Krane!”
    Hayes glanced apprehensively at the trading room beyond Stefani’s door. Heads had swiveled in their direction. “Please. For the good of the firm …”
    “… You want me to roll over? Not a chance in hell, buddy.” Stefani tossed the suede boot to the floor and stood. “What’s really going on? Did Krane lose too much money in
Galileo
and scream for my head?”
    “This isn’t about Oliver Krane,” Hayes told her quietly. “It’s entirely about
you.”
    “Right,” she retorted with a harsh laugh. “Me, and Sterling Hayes. The Board almost handed me your job last year—remember? The Board
loves
me. One phone call to the right desk, Sterling, and we’ll see who’s walking out the door—”
    “Don’t make that call,” he said abruptly.