Someone working on the OptiMarx code had spent a lot of time and talent to get around the rules for these short sales. Wall Street discovered back in 1929 that if there were no restrictions placed on when short sales were allowed, unscrupulous traders would drive the price continually down, generating widespread panic while they reaped enormous profits on the mayhem they set loose. Rules were put in place to prevent such manipulation, and those regulations were even more important today when communications and trading were virtually instantaneous. A short-sale panic would be devastating on The Street now. It could even lead to a market collapse.

Catherine took a long swig of her lukewarm bottled water. She even had a tad of admiration for the intricacies of the plan itself. There was a lot of money involved here. No wonder someone had tried to kill her when they thought she was getting too close to their little scheme. People with the resources to set a ploy like this in motion had a lot at stake. They also wielded considerable power and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

Goldman paced from one end of the little hotel room to the other. She wished she still smoked. A cigarette might help her think. She grabbed a six-dollar Snicker’s from the room’s mini-bar instead and chewed absently as she pondered her next move.

The decision would be a big one. She had to make the right choice on how to handle this information. She could tell Alstair McLain, her boss, or Stan Miller, the second in command. Maybe she should confide in Chuck Gruver at the Exchange. She trusted him.

She sat back down in the chair in front of the computer and stared hard at the blue-white screen.

McLain was out. He was, after all, the one who wanted to shut her up and ship her off to Jamaica. She still couldn’t fathom that the head of the SEC Market Reg Department would be a party to such a brazen plot, but something was fishy there. She didn’t want to risk going to him if she could help it.

Chuck Gruver was not a good idea, either. At least not yet. She didn’t want to put an old friend in danger when there was little he could do at this point.

That left Stan Miller.

It was well after normal business hours down in D.C. and Stan wasn’t the type to stick around to work late. Most likely in one of those Georgetown bars he liked, seeing if he could grab one of the thousands of interns who gathered in D.C. like moths around a flame. Miller had a wife and kids out in McLean somewhere, but his exploits in the bar scene were the office gossip.

Miller was the best bet to call. Despite his playboy reputation, he seemed to be a straight shooter around the office.