The Reincarnation of Annie Brown

By W. Scott Mitchell

Eric’s relationship with Annie Brown left deep and long lasting psychological scars. With his life in disarray, Eric’s research attracts the attention of an underground international organization who believe Eric's discovery could ruin their financial operation. Erin, Jill, and others manipulate Eric's life offering a temporary alternative to his assassination.
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• Language: English
• Publisher: W. Scott Mitchell
• Release date: Dec 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310826542

W. Scott Mitchell

W. Scott Mitchell came of age during the cultural revolution and movements that dominated the 1960's. It was not until the late 1990's when he began to write fiction. He incorporates an aspect of philosophy and psychology into each of his novels. The subplots are discussed on his website for readers to consider as they review his works. He believes the subplot is an important part of the work. Mitchel hopes to attract readers who examine everyday human character as the focus of attention to larger social and personal issues within the subplot. For example, in "Emily's Last Obsession" sexual content is used not for the sake of sexual content, but rather to demonstrate betrayal, self deception, and psychological instability. In the novel "Coincidence by Design", a mystical experience is a tool to examine life after death. If you enjoy a glimpse "into the mind" of the character, then Mitchell offers an interesting opportunity. However, if you are looking for "shoot em up...blow em up" every three pages, then you might want to look elsewhere. "My background allows me to develop characters who must confront issues common to us all. Reflected in my novels are the twists and turns we often take in life. However, the predictability we crave is often missing. I invite you to post your comments and questions on my website at http://wscottmitchell.weebly.com/ or on my Facebook page."

Book preview

The Reincarnation

Of

Annie Brown

W. Scott Mitchell

Copyright 2011 W. S. Mitchell

Visit the Author online and share your reading experience

http://wscottmitchell.weebly.com/

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Other Books by W. Scott Mitchell

CHAPTER I

Who among us questions the great fortune that lands at our feet while being tormented in the struggle for higher position? To question this proposition requires someone endowed with sufficient foresight to understand that every good fortune comes with a price. Had I been the recipient of less good fortune and more foresight, I would never have found myself faced with the most confounding problems suitable for solution only by the wisest of people.

Despite a respectable education, I was not someone my friends would describe as a wise man. My foresight was limited to the most pressing task before me, with little concern for anything beyond. If I were to define my two most obvious God given talents, then one of them would be the power of observation and the other would be the ability to convert those observations into a truthful understanding of events.

Strangely enough, it was these two talents, and the influence of Professor Whitehurst, which brought me to a new and contradictory revelation best described as a philosophical paradox. Perceived truth is only an illusion based upon our erroneous observations. Optimism was not the third of my God given gifts.

To understand my ramblings, perhaps I should start at the beginning. I graduated from the University of Vermont with a double major in economics and philosophy. The economics degree was for occupational purposes and the philosophy degree was for self-indulgence. The combination of the two disciplines would authoritatively allow me to explain the reasons humankind is miserable when we are in the depths of an economic recession. That we hold this truth to be self-evident is only coincidental.

During my senior year, I was at last able to take a class under the tutelage of the famous Dr. Paul Whitehurst. His worldly connections extended from Wall Street to Washington’s elite, with international connections in London, Paris, and Cairo. I suppose in his younger days, we might have considered him a player.

I had, for reasons that escape me, been very successful in my economics studies. My final day of exams came, and Dr. Whitehurst’s test was the last exam I ever expected to take in college. By the time I finished the last exam question, I began to feel my philosophy education tugging at me. In a true spirit of rebellion, I wrote the scholarly professor a note that said, Does it ever strike you as odd that the prediction of economics is much like the accuracy of predicting whose dream will come true as they toss a coin in the wishing well?

To be truthful, I do not know if I were taking a metaphorical slap at his teachings, or if I was in fact asking him a question about the lack of certainty and predictability in economics. In either case, I stood from my desk and made the long final walk to the front of the classroom where Whitehurst sat at his desk reading an article. In a soft but audible voice, I told him I had enjoyed his class as I placed my exam face down in a pile of other completed tests. He presented an inquisitive look as he nodded his head in response to my statement. In words that could only be described as prophecy and in a voice that was both quiet and commanding, he assured me we would meet again.

I smiled briefly and made my way to the classroom door. Still trying to understand his comment, I paused briefly and glanced back at the professor. He was staring at me with an expression which suggested he could peer into my soul if he so desired. Feeling a little uneasy, I gave the same brief smile as before, through up my hand and exited the class.

Walking along the long hall and then down the stairs to the first floor, the realization of my situation now began to invade my more peaceful thoughts. I was finished with college. No longer would I walk through these buildings of the eighteenth-century college. My days of drinking beer, eating pizza and staying up to all hours of the night, talking about nothing and talking about everything, were coming to an end. I was far from being a nerd, but I was impressed with the knowledge my professors possessed and the road many of them had traveled. I enjoyed my brief stay in the ivory tower of academia, where we could look down on and make judgments about the rest of the world.

While there was a sense of relief in having completed my mission, I also faced the self-admission that I would very much miss this place, my friends, and a way of life that one can never recapture. As I walked through campus surveying the architecture of a bygone era, I knew I would also miss the sense of security the university had embedded into my very being. The other thing I would miss was the intellectual challenge and freedom. My graduation was four days away and then I would join the world of the mundane.

Most of my friends were excited at the prospects of moving on in life. They were ready for a meal more elegant than pizza and the prospect of actually having an income was a very appealing benefit. Many of my peers had already arranged for jobs, marriage, and had successfully planned their lives, at least theoretically. I had done none of these things, nor was I overly concerned, as I understood the concept that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

Perhaps I was a little envious of them, for they had direction, which was something I was now in great need of. My best philosophy professor once told me that the parade of life moves on. I could either march in time or be left on a vacant street. As I think about it, not one of my philosophy professors was very optimistic. Being completely objective, I may have lacked optimism, but I was rarely pessimistic, unlike my acquaintance, Erin.

Erin was a truly beautiful young woman, allegedly from another world or perhaps Sweden. At least once each week, she would sit on a stool outside the humanities building reading what I can only assume was the darkest poetry she could find. Many of the male students who came to her readings were from the math and science departments. I do not think they necessarily had as much interest in her craft as they had in her. On the other hand, in attendance were the theater arts majors who hung on her every word. From the lips of her beautiful face came words of hate, death, murder, and suicide. For me personally, I suppose her words of hopelessness and despair slightly diminished her beauty.

I heard her first reading in the spring semester of my senior year. It was actually a chance encounter as I was merely sitting on a wall waiting for my next class. The temperature was in the low seventies with a gentle southern breeze blowing across campus. She sat on her stool underneath an old maple tree while giving her dark recitation. As she spoke, I looked off in the distance contemplating the fallacy of supply side economics.

Periodically, she would capture my attention as her voice made a transition from a pure angelic quality to an utterly satanic screech. When her oration ended, the students headed off to other destinations. She came to the wall and sat down beside me for a few moments before speaking, You are not like most men on campus.

I was not sure if I should take her comment as flattery or an insult to my manhood. After all, I played a little football, ate pizza, and drank a few beers just like all of my friends. On the other hand, if she thought I was different, then perhaps I could use that information to break the proverbial ice and make her acquaintance.

And how am I different? I asked.

She stared at her stool under the maple tree as she responded, You were lost in my words as I spoke. You were totally absorbed in my being, yet only once glanced in my direction. I can infer that my poetry takes you to a distant state of emotional distress.

In one respect, she was right. Her words of death, sacrifice, and suffering did tend to make me think of supply side economics, but I doubt that is what she had in mind. Still, I felt compelled to offer some commentary on her performance. I was at a loss as to what she would consider complementary. If I praised her performance, then I might inadvertently deny her suffering. On the other hand, if I were to offer a negative critical evaluation, then I might make her suffer, which she might truly enjoy. Clearly this was a no-win situation for me. The first of many I might add.

I could make only one logical response and still keep my head above water. Your words truly stir the emotions that lie suppressed in each of us.

A warm and passionate smile appeared on her face for just an instant before a broad expression of sorrow appeared. I hope I’ve been successful in helping you to experience the inner pain you have so desperately wanted to let go of.

My mind was beginning to be clogged up as I was trying to develop a rational and thoughtful response. Did she really believe she had done me a favor by helping me experience a pain that I did not even know I had? More to the point, was I supposed to be happy about experiencing my unknown pain and should I therefore appear to be grateful?

Inspiration came to me without warning. I was a philosophy major and I could play games with the best of them. I could be just as depressing as she could and armed with the teachings of Carl Jung I replied, We are all condemned to the experience of the collective unconscious.

Obviously disappointed by my response, Erin replied, That‘s very true. We must experience the sorrow of current as well as past generations, but what I want is for you to have the opportunity to experience your very own personal pain in the here and now.

Perhaps she was suggesting I could achieve happiness if I jumped in front of a moving bus. Desperate for direction, I reverted to what I considered the last best chance I had of resolving my non-existent suffering. It would be very helpful if I could come back here on Wednesday and hear more of your readings.

She took my hand and stood up after having made the decision we could continue my therapy in the courtyard beside the student center. We picked up a cup of coffee and headed out to the nearly secluded courtyard where we sat in the grass and continued our conversation.

As I listened to her speak, two things became clear. My first observation was that she was a mentally high maintenance person. By this definition, it was difficult to extrapolate where she was either going to or coming from. Furthermore, I was very cautious not to offend her beliefs, which was quite difficult, as I had no clue as to what her beliefs were.

The second observation I made with far more conviction. She was very intelligent and communicated this concept not only in her speech, but also in the depth and range of her knowledge. During the remaining weeks in April, Erin and I met three or four times each week and were inseparable on the weekends. We spent most of our time in discussions covering a broad range of issues and ideas.

During the first week of May, we were unable to be together, as we were both preparing for and taking final exams, but we did formulate a plan to meet on Thursday afternoon, by which time we would have finished our last exams. I agreed to be outside of Cameron Hall, where we had met each other only one month earlier. Being the first to arrive, I sat on the wall to wait for Erin. I had been there for fifteen minutes or so when she arrived and sat next to me, facing in the opposite direction.

She turned her head to look at me and spoke in a soft voice. I can’t stay but a few minutes. My flight leaves at six-thirty.

The campus was almost empty as this was the last scheduled exam and most students had gone for the summer. Still, I was surprised she would be leaving so quickly and was disappointed with her news.

I didn’t realize you were leaving so soon. I thought you would be here for graduation

She smiled, Would things have been different for us if you had known I was leaving?

I looked in the direction of the maple tree and then back at her. "Yeah, I think things might have been very different.

She looked up in the sky as she responded, I think so too. I was planning to stay with you through graduation, but my grandmother is very sick and I need to see her before…

Her voice trailed off as she continued to look toward the sky.

Can I take you to the airport, I asked

She smiled and replied, I’ve already made arrangements, but thank you for asking.

I watched her face as she stared off in the distance. Her head turned so she was facing me. If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?

Absolutely. I replied.

She turned away to face the maple tree. Would you want to have a beautiful sexual relationship with me, if you knew it would lead to hurt and sorrow later on?

In all my verbal sparing with Erin, I rarely spoke before I thought about what she was really asking. This time I opted for my natural reaction, Can’t we have one without the other?

She looked directly at me and replied, You really don’t understand me, do you? I’ve spent a month with you and you don’t know who I am. It’s all about contrast. You don’t know how dark the night is unless you have seen the light of day. The blackness of my poems helps me enjoy the brightness of happiness. If you and I have a beautiful sexual encounter, then just think about how sad and lonely our summer would be without each other. I’m really going to miss you.

She rose to her feet and stood behind me with her hand on my shoulder. I looked up at her face and replied, I’m going to miss you too.

She smiled, Do me one last favor. I want you to stay right here on this wall until I am out of sight. This is the image of you I want to take with me for the summer.

I then looked at the maple tree. I’ll be right here when you come back in August.

At this point, she leaned over, kissed me on the cheek, and replied, You better be.

After she turned and started down the sidewalk, I watched her until she was out of sight. I sat on the wall for a while, remembering how badly I had misjudged her in the beginning. I was also contemplating our rather dishonest goodbyes. We were graduating and there would be very little chance that either of us would be sitting on the wall when fall came once again. Perhaps it was just our way of refusing to say goodbye.

I was still sitting on the wall when I heard the voice of my roommate’s girlfriend piercing the silence. She was a graduate math major and as part of her scholarship, she worked in the Economics department office. More specifically, she worked for Dr. Whitehurst.

Congratulations. You must have found a lucky penny and made the perfect wish. She said, with a hint of an Irish accent attributed to her mother.

I stood and turned to face her. Ah, Jill McKenna, my favorite little Irish friend has come to tell me I passed Dr. Whitehurst’s class.

She replied, You’re like a cow in the corn today. Not only have you passed your class, but when you check your email, you’ll also have quite a surprise.

I had no idea what she was talking about because passing the class was the only important news I expected to hear. So what‘s the rest of your good news?

Her grin was from ear to ear. I am not supposed to tell you this, but your application for graduate school was approved. You also received a full scholarship. All the details are in the email.

To say that I was shocked would be a gross understatement and Jill must have seen the look of confusion on my face. Jill, my little lassie, I didn’t apply to graduate school nor did I apply for a scholarship. I think you have the wrong person.

She seemed to shrug off my comments. Don’t play games with me. I saw your application for school and Dr. Whitehurst personally approved it. He is also the one who got you the full scholarship. By the way, read the email because he wants to see you in his office on Monday morning.

I shook my head as we walked along the sidewalk together. I had known Jill for three years and inaccuracy was not one of her faults. Still, I would have to reserve judgment until I had a chance to check my mail.

After having dinner with Jill, I arrived at my apartment around seven thirty in the evening. My roommate Gary recently moved to New York and my apartment was now sparsely furnished. I felt somewhat deserted and even Jill would be leaving for a few weeks the day after graduation.

After fixing a drink, I sat at my computer and opened the email from Dr. Whitehurst. It occurred to me this might be a joke played on me by my friend Jill. Still, I logged into my university account, knowing she would not have access to it. I followed several links until I was able to confirm the graduate school acceptance letter was in fact real.

My first inclination was to call Erin with my news but decided to wait until after my meeting with Dr. Whitehurst. My mom and dad would also be very excited, especially my dad. He taught history at the University of New Hampshire and had often encouraged me to apply to graduate school. During our last conversation, I explained to him I was not ready to make that commitment. I began to suspect my dad might have had something to do with my admission, only he agreed I should not attend until I was ready. With no satisfactory explanation available, I would simply have to wait until I met the professor on Monday.

My weekend was quiet and uneventful. On Monday morning, I woke early and headed out for my ten o’clock appointment. When I arrived at the economics office, I saw Jill seated at the receptionist desk. I went up to her and announced in a professional tone of voice, My name is Eric McKenzie and I have an appointment with Dr. Whitehurst.

She opened the appointment book and glanced down at the pages. After she turned several pages, Jill looked back at me also speaking in a professional tone, What did you say your name was?

With a look of desperation, I replied, Jill, find my name in the book or you don’t get the free lunch I promised you.

With no hesitation, she replied, Oh yes. I see your name right here. She then spoke in a hushed tone. Have a seat and he’ll be with you in a few minutes.

At ten o’clock Jill motioned for me to go in and see the professor. I stood at his office door expecting some type of acknowledgement that never came. After a minute or so I finally spoke, Good morning Dr. Whitehurst.

He looked up from his desk and then leaned back in his chair. Did you know that over forty five percent of the students who visit me will stand in the doorway for over four minutes waiting for me to speak? On the other hand, you spoke in just under eighty two seconds. That places you in the top five percent of students. But then again, I have one young female student who speaks before she even enters my office. That would tend to put you at a disadvantage of being the fastest speaker.

Maybe not, I replied. I actually started practicing what I would say to you last night.

He motioned for me to sit down as he questioned me. That must have been strange. How did I respond to your imaginary conversation?

I looked directly at him as I replied, You were noncommittal.

Dr. Whitehurst chuckled for just an instant and then suggested, Perhaps we should get on with our business. We turn down quite several graduate admissions each year. Our graduates usually end up in very influential positions within government and in the private sector. Most notably our graduates go on to work on Wall Street.

I was not sure how to approach the subject of my admission. I know the school has a very prestigious reputation. I wanted to ask you about my application.

Dr. Whitehurst spoke before I could continue. Your grades were good, but frankly, we had other applicants with higher GRE scores. During your senior year, you wrote a research paper for Dr. Carpenter. He was very impressed with it and brought it to me for my opinion. I too was impressed with your research and conclusions. When we received your application, I based my decision on your academic performance here at the University and I gave great weight to that research project.

I questioned him further. And about the full scholarship, how did that happen?

He nodded, We have certain members of the public at large who help our students devote their time to research and teaching. If a student is trying to maintain financial equilibrium, then their more academic pursuits can suffer. By the way, the school and your benefactor will expect you to work within the department in exchange for the scholarship.

At this point, I was curious. "Will I be teaching?

He had a resolute expression as he replied. I think you would be quite bored teaching freshman economics, but it is possible. For now, you will be acting as a research assistant under my personal direction.

He looked down at his watch and the continued. You should go to the administration office and take care of your registration for the first session of summer school. Unless you have other questions, I shall see you back here in a week.

Jill was already sitting down when I arrived at the Campus Shop for lunch at twelve-thirty. She asked me about my meeting and I explained what had transpired. During our conversation, I learned she would also be taking classes during the summer session. After lunch, we stopped at the counter, picked up a cone of ice cream, and went outside.

As we walked past Cameron Hall, I asked her to sit down with me. Once seated, she asked with a mischievous grin, Do you think we’ll make Gary jealous?

I don’t know about that, but I didn’t fill out the application for school. I never took the GRE test and I did not request a scholarship either. Dr. Whitehurst told me they had better qualified applicants, but I got in because of a research paper I did last semester. It doesn’t make sense. Schools don’t take people who don’t apply.

Jill shook her head. Eric, we went through this yesterday. I saw your application. I’m sorry, but I just don’t get the joke.

I replied with a more forceful tone. You don’t get the joke because there is no joke. Can you get me a copy of the application?

She thought for a moment before speaking. How many people know you attended a community college and then went into the Peace Corp for two years? You left the Corps after a medical discharge due to a leg injury. You are twenty-six years old. Funny, come to think about it, I thought you were twenty-three until I read your application.

I looked away for several minutes in bewilderment. Jill, I never told anyone at this college that I was in the Peace Corps. It wasn’t even on my undergraduate application. Except for my parents, no one until now knew I left because of a leg injury.

I had captured Jill’s attention. You told me your father was a professor. Maybe he put the application in for you.

I shook my head. He would never do something like that. In fact, he wanted me to go back to school, but he also thought I should work for a year or two before going to graduate school. Besides, we’re not rich, but he could afford to help me finish school even without the scholarship.

Jill appeared thoughtful as I contemplated my lack of privacy. She walked away from me and then turned around. If you are telling me the truth, then doesn’t it stand to reason something else is going on here? After all, what you’ve said would suggest someone has access to some of your confidential records.

Jill looked at her watch. Listen, I’m late for work. Why don’t we have dinner at your place tonight? Better still, why don’t you make dinner and I’ll come eat it.

I agreed, and she headed back to work.

Chapter II

Dr. Whitehurst left the economics building at four-thirty in the afternoon with Dr. Carpenter at his side. They stepped off the sidewalk into a grassy part of the lawn before Dr. Whitehurst glanced around to ensure their privacy. "Greg, can I assume you have made contact with the necessary people?’

Paul, I told you matters such as this take some time. We must work through the appropriate channels. You know that as well as I. Dr. Carpenter replied.

Dr. Whitehurst responded, Of course I understand the situation, but I don’t know if the others recognize the urgency of the matter at hand.

Dr. Carpenter replied with a sense of calm resolve. We have made the appropriate contacts and have initiated a reasonable course of action. Other than going home to have a quiet dinner, there is little else we can do at this point.

Greg, you are much too patient to work with someone like me. I don’t care to wait for the city to clear the snow from the streets, I don’t ever leave a mathematics problem unsolved overnight, and I don’t like wasting time waiting on strangers. Dr. Whitehurst complained.

Dr. Carpenter grinned. Paul, this is the very reason you keep me around. Patience is a virtue. I must be going, but I give you my word, I’ll contact you as soon as I hear something.

With a tone of resignation, Dr Whitehurst agreed. Perhaps you are right.

It was late on Thursday afternoon when Dr. Whitehurst left campus heading for the western side of the Green Mountains in Vermont. His mind was preoccupied with his trip. As he drove nearer to his destination, the sun was setting over the lush green landscape. He drove along Highway 7 until he reached the town of Pittsford. Having been in this small town on several occasions, he navigated with no hesitation and made his way through several back roads until he reached his destination.

He drove his Honda Pilot into the driveway of a large timber frame home, which was quite isolated from the other homes in the area. He continued around the circle drive lined with lush green vegetation, before parking behind several cars. As he approached the front entrance, a dim but adequate porch light turned on.

The front door opened, and Dr. Greg Carpenter greeted him. I glad you received my message.

Paul replied, Yes, I did, but I am not sure leaving a cryptic message with my receptionist was a good idea.

Greg motioned for Paul to come in the house. You seem on edge tonight. Perhaps a Brandy would settle your nerves. Let me introduce you to our guest, and then I’ll fix you a drink.

They entered the sitting room from the foyer. The deep burgundy Oriental rug combined with the dark walnut paneling provided a suitable background for the rather plush antique furnishings. After entering the room, Paul saw a tall, slender man with gray hair standing next to the fireplace.

The man at the fireplace looked up as they entered the room and Greg took the opportunity to make the introductions. Staring directly at Paul, Greg Carpenter spoke, In accordance with our standing policy, I cannot reveal your name to Harrison. However, I would like you to meet Senator Harrison Green. As I am sure you both know, I can use the Senator’s name because he is a public figure, who I am quite sure you already recognize. I should also point out that in accordance with our policy, this will likely be our only meeting or conversation with each other. Please be sure all your questions are answered fully before you bid farewell.

Paul shook hands with the Senator as Greg went to pour drinks. After Greg returned, each man sat down in one of the black leather chairs placed to face each other. Harrison was the first to speak. Also, in keeping with established policy, I do not know the name of the kind gentleman who has brought our refreshments. I can only assume my being here is related to my work on the Senate Finance Committee.

Greg responded to Harrison, Let me provide you with some background on why we have grave concerns. One of my undergraduate students has written a research paper. I won’t bore you with the technical aspects of it but let me explain briefly why this is important.

Harrison smiled, Please do, because I have written a few research papers and they never attracted this much attention.

Paul nodded, Once you learn the implications of this young man’s work, then you will appreciate the urgency of this matter.

Greg continued, His research model has the ability to predict the direction of the bond market fifty four percent of the time. He told me during a casual conversation that he was working on a new model that would accurately predict the market direction sixty three percent of the time.

Harrison only partially understood their concern. What you are telling me is that he can beat the bond market and make a substantial amount of money over time.

Paul chose to explain the issue in more detail. The A Priori economic team can only predict the market at a fifty six percent level of accuracy. Our young student is only two mathematical steps away from matching our system. If he is successful in reaching our level, then we could be in serious jeopardy. If he can predict the market with a sixty three percent success rate, then we will certainly be threatened.

I must confess that I have some prior knowledge of your student. One of my people in Washington is investigating your student and my operatives are very concerned. I understand the broader implications of what you are saying, but I need the specific threats to us. Harrison said with a tone of concern.

Paul glanced at Greg before he spoke. First of all, our process uses obscure variables and mathematics to make our predictions. Somehow, he has noticed the obscure variables, but has not taken the last steps in mathematics to improve his predictions. It is only a matter of time until he improves the math to reach our level of performance. He had a perfect score on his SAT math section. His math professors say he has incredible talent.

Harrison nodded with understanding, It becomes reasonable to assume that if he perfects his research and goes public, then he would not only throw the bond market into turmoil but also threaten our ability to control outcomes.

He could destroy every trading advantage we have. Paul replied.

Greg continued with the explanation. The A Priori deals with the market in two primary ways. First, we intervene in the market directly using our model. We can also control market action by the manipulation of the seemly-unrelated events we spoke of earlier. If these factors become public knowledge, then a first-year law student could trace years of illegal trading activity back to us.

Harrison let out a long sigh, In Congress, we call that following the money. This situation would seem to imply we have three options. We can recruit him, we can isolate him, or we can take him out of the game. Am I missing anything?

Greg responded with a voice of concern. We have no authority to act on any of those remedies except to isolate him, which is what we have accomplished for the moment.

Paul was looking down at the floor as he noted, Upon reconsideration, there is a fourth option. We could make him irrelevant. The only problem is that in doing so, it could cost us hundreds of millions of dollars to execute.

How on earth would that work, Paul? Greg asked.

Paul looked at Harrison and then at Greg. One of the obscure events which we use to predict the market is the London Inter-Bank Offered Interest rate. If we artificially adjust that interest rate through our operatives, then his model would not be very effective. But that could cost millions, it could throw a wrench into the normal markets and we could not keep it up forever.

Harrison shook his head. We would also run the risk of losing our effectiveness at controlling the markets. Therefore, we are back to our three options.

Greg was clearly distressed. "I don’t like any of the choices we have before us. Paul and I have arranged for him to enter graduate school. For the