‘Good evening, Mykhailo.’
‘Martel? I thought I told you to sort out your problems yourself from now on.’
Martel winced at the irritation in Bodinchuk’s voice. ‘I have been trying,’ he said soothingly. ‘Believe me, I have been trying. But I think I need some professional help.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t want to get involved in a war against an investment bank. They’re expensive. You sort it out.’
‘But you are involved.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Calder knows that a Ukrainian killed Jennifer Tan and was following Perumal. He knows that Ukrainian was connected to you. He told me so yesterday. He doesn’t have hard evidence yet, but I think it’s only a matter of days before he goes to the police.’
‘I see.’
‘So, what I suggest is – ‘
‘Quiet! I’m thinking.’
Martel stayed quiet for about a minute. It seemed like an eternity.
‘All right, Martel. I’ll call my man now. This problem will be sorted out once and for all, I guarantee it.’
‘Excellent. I knew you’d – ‘
But the phone went dead.
In Kiev, Bodinchuk dialled Uncle Yuri’s number in the Crimea. They spoke for several minutes. Bodinchuk liked to chat with Uncle Yuri: it calmed him, made him feel less insecure, less vulnerable. He would prefer not to use the old man as often as he had recently, but this was turning into one of those instances where Uncle’s superior skills and one hundred per cent success rate were required. Uncle Yuri said he had been dozing after a strenuous afternoon playing with the grandchildren. He assured Bodinchuk that an excuse not to spend the weekend clearing out the garage under the watchful eye of his wife would be welcome. Bodinchuk told him that a jet would meet him at Simferopol and take him on to Salt Lake City. From there, Uncle Yuri would take a scheduled flight to Jackson Hole under whatever name he chose.
There. That was that dealt with. Bodinchuk turned his attention to the evening’s task. He was taking out an important government minister, softening him up to make sure that certain key contracts went to the right people. He wasn’t quite sure yet where the minister’s tastes lay: sex, drugs, booze, or just simple dollar bills. But it would not take him long to find out.
Vikram sat slumped in front of his computer screen. He was trying to calculate what price Bloomfield Weiss might come up with for the revaluation of the JUSTICE notes. The notes were so damned complicated there were at least four different ways of going about revaluing them, each highly dependent on the assumptions plugged into the model. But whichever method was used under whatever assumptions, the result was always a big loss. It was just a question of how big.
Vikram glanced around the room. A couple of the traders were laughing – gallows humour. No one had done a trade for days. Any confidence they might have had that Martel might pull something out of a hat had long since gone. The Teton Fund was history.
What would that mean for Vikram? He would have to leave Jackson Hole. That was probably a good thing. Although he loved the mountains, especially in the summer, when he could easily spend a whole day on his mountain bike losing himself in their embrace, he had never felt at home. He was one of only two Indians in the town – the other was a waitress. The native whites were not openly hostile to him, in fact they were unfailingly polite, but in Jackson Hole he felt like he was an exotic Asian, whereas in California he had felt like he was a Californian.
When the Teton Fund blew, it would take his savings with it. He would have no money, but at least he would have his brain. He was still young – there was still time to make his millions.
He would miss Cheryl. Man, would he miss Cheryl. Since that afternoon in New York only two days before, they had met three times. They were getting careless: they would soon get caught. He didn’t care. It was more than just sex, it was more than just the delicious thrill of screwing the boss’s wife, although both of those factors were still important.
He was beginning to realize that he loved her.
Would she leave her husband and follow him? Probably not. Vikram knew that although the passion had left their marriage, she was still fond of Martel. But then she didn’t know very much about him, did she? Not as much as Vikram.
It was suddenly clear to Vikram that the great, intuitive trader he had so admired was a monster. Vikram no longer wanted to be like this man; in fact, he wanted nothing to do with him. The signs had always been there, but Vikram had ignored them, or assumed that they were a necessary part of genius. Jennifer Tan’s ‘suicide’ so soon after she had begun causing so much trouble. Martel’s boasting about his friendship with Bodinchuk. Bodinchuk’s Ukrainian trailing after Perumal. And now Martel’s attempt to lead Alex Calder to his death.
Vikram had stood by and let it all happen. He was a smart guy, he could have figured out what was going on if he’d wanted to, he just hadn’t been prepared to admit it to himself.
He was sorry about Perumal. Although he had initially dismissed him as the Indian equivalent of a country bumpkin, the man had had a good brain. They had done some good work together. And now he was under twenty feet of snow.
Was it too late? Was Vikram already so complicit in all this death that there was no hope of going back? He wasn’t sure of the legal position. But he had his dignity to think about, self-esteem, honour, call it what you will. Vikram had done his best to ignore his Indian heritage. But his father had come from a high caste, a warrior caste, and the Rana name was one that he had been very proud of, something that his ancestors had fought and died for many times over the centuries. Try as he might to deny it, this family pride was embedded somewhere deep inside Vikram the Californian. He knew that if he was to leave Jackson Hole with his belief in himself intact he would have to do something. And do something soon.
At two o’clock in the afternoon Vikram left the office. On most Fridays this wouldn’t be too much of a problem. On the penultimate working day of this particular month it might be. But if Martel came looking for him, asking him to go over the possible revaluation numbers for the JUSTICE notes yet again, tough. He might come in to the office on Saturday. Or he might not.
The moment he was out of the office parking lot he reached for his cell phone.
‘Hello?’
He smiled at the sound of her voice. ‘Hi. It’s me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I left work early. I’m on my way home. Can you meet me?’
‘I’m supposed to be going to the museum.’
‘Please.’
A pause. Then a chuckle. ‘OK. See you soon.’
Vikram drove through the small town of Wilson, about five miles from Jackson, and turned on to a steep winding road. His house was at the very end, away from the people, surrounded by nothing but lodgepole pines and magnificent views. He parked his car outside, lit a fire, and opened a bottle of Californian wine, Insignia from the Joseph Phelps vineyard. It was Cheryl’s favourite, she said. Martel always insisted that they drink French.
He heard the sound of her Mercedes SUV drawing up outside, and his heart beat fast with anticipation as he went to the door to meet her. She stepped in, her face flushed, and put her arms around his neck. She kissed him long and deep.
He pushed her away. ‘Not yet, my darling.’
‘Why not?’ she frowned.
‘I’m worried about something.’
‘Not the darned Teton Fund.’ Cheryl’s frown deepened.
‘Yes, partly.’
‘Vikram! I’ve heard that too many times before. You take your clothes off right now, or I’m walking out of here.’ Her tone was half-mocking, half-serious.
The wine was open. The fire was burning. Cheryl was standing right before him. The enormous burden of the day’s worries suddenly seemed lighter. Vikram smiled. He pulled Cheryl towards him and ran his hands under her top, stroking the bare skin of her back. She shivered. ‘You first,’ he said.
Half an hour la
ter they were lying naked in front of the fire, wine bottle half empty.
‘You’re tense, darling,’ Cheryl said.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Vikram replied.
Cheryl pulled herself up on to one elbow. ‘Oh, oh. Sounds serious. What about?’
‘The Teton Fund.’
‘The Teton Fund! No one ever talks to me about the Teton Fund. I’m too stupid to understand the Teton Fund, even though it was me who helped set it up.’
‘You know I don’t think of you like that,’ Vikram said.
Cheryl smiled and kissed his cheek. ‘Yes. I know. Tell me. I’m curious.’
‘It’s not good,’ Vikram said. ‘I think the reason Jean-Luc has never told you about the fund is he knew you wouldn’t like what you heard.’
‘So, tell me now.’
Vikram told her. He told her slowly, gently. He told her about the enormous risks that Martel ran. About how the fund had been very close to disaster the year before when Martel had taken the huge bet against the euro, and how even greater disaster was now imminent. He told her about Jennifer Tan’s convenient death, about Perumal, about Martel’s relationship with Bodinchuk and about the real reason why Martel had taken Calder up the mountain.
She listened, her knees hunched up against her chin, her eyes never leaving Vikram as he spoke.
When he had finished, he waited for a reaction. For a long time there was none. Then she blinked.
‘Are you saying that Jean-Luc is a murderer?’
Vikram nodded.
‘Do you expect me to believe you?’
Vikram nodded again.
Cheryl pulled her knees tightly towards her chest and bit her lip. A touch of pink appeared in her cheeks. The pink of anger. She rocked back and forward.
Vikram stretched forward a hand to touch her thigh. She pushed it away. ‘It must be difficult to take all this in,’ he said.
‘You bet it’s difficult,’ she muttered. She looked straight at him, tears forming in her eyes. ‘You know what’s the worst part of all this?’
‘What?’
‘That you went along with him.’
Vikram sighed. ‘I know. I’m not proud of that. I’m not proud of that at all.’
‘You shouldn’t be!’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘Oh, Vikram.’ Cheryl’s voice was laden with contempt. But not just contempt. Pain.
‘I need to know something, Cheryl. If I do go to the police, if the Teton Fund blows up, I’m going to be in severe trouble. I’ll lose all my savings. Everything’s in the Teton Fund, more than everything. I’ve borrowed as much as I can to invest, this house is mortgaged to the limit. But it’s not just money. I’m sure I will have broken some laws along the way. When the Teton Fund goes it’s going to take a lot of people with it. One of them’s bound to be me.’
Cheryl was listening. Vikram touched her cheek. ‘I can do all that. But only if I know you’re with me. It’s a ridiculous thing to ask. If you get yourself a good lawyer, you might still come out of all this OK. So why should you stick with me? You’re right, I’ve stood by for too long. There’s a price for not standing by any longer. I don’t mind paying that price as long as it doesn’t include you. That’s something I couldn’t bear.’
Cheryl threw her arms around him. ‘My darling, you won’t lose me. Do what you have to do, you’ll never lose me. I’m just as guilty as you. I’ve lived off the fruits of Jean-Luc’s ego for the past eight years. I don’t need the money, I really don’t. I just need you.’
Vikram smiled. For the first time in a long time, perhaps in his whole life, he knew who he was and what he wanted. And she was right there in front of him.
The hospital bed felt wonderful. When Calder had arrived a doctor had examined his head and then his feet, and there had been some discussion about frostbite and hypothermia. Someone else had talked about insurance and filling in forms. He had told them about his back and they had taken an X-ray. Then they had let him sleep. Wonderful sleep.
He woke up to see a woman smiling at him. An attractive woman, a woman it took him a moment to recognize.
‘Sandy!’
The smile broadened and her blue eyes twinkled.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I told you I was planning to go skiing. They say Jackson Hole has the best skiing in the US, so I thought I’d give it a try.’
‘This is a great choice for a holiday, I can tell you. The perfect place to relax.’
‘I arrived last night and checked into your hotel. They said you were missing on the mountain. I was worried. Then they found you and I came here. You’d just gone to sleep when I arrived.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Calder said. ‘But I’m glad you came.’
‘You told me you didn’t need any help. It looks to me like you do. How did you manage to get stuck up a mountain anyway?’
‘You should ask Monsieur Martel that. Actually, on second thoughts, you’d better not.’
‘Speaking of the Martels, his wife came along an hour or so ago. She left you this.’ Sandy held up the vase Calder had admired at the Martels’ ranch, carefully swathed in bubble wrap. ‘She seemed pretty angry with her husband for abandoning you on the mountain.’
‘As well she should be.’
The door opened and a woman appeared whom Calder dimly recognized as the doctor from the morning. ‘Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?’
‘Better, I suppose,’ Calder said. ‘I’m still tired. And my back’s a bit painful. But my feet feel better.’
‘How’s your head?’
‘Fine.’ Calder reached up to touch the side of his skull. There was a bump under his hair. A pretty sizeable bump. ‘What about my spine?’
‘I’ve examined the X-ray. It looks good. We can see the earlier fracture and where it’s healed, but there doesn’t seem to be any additional damage. So there’s a good chance you’ll be OK. You should see your own doctor as soon as you get home. In the meantime, take it easy.’
Calder nodded politely. Somehow he thought there was little chance of that.
‘In fact, you can go now, if you want. You should stay in bed for a couple of days; your body’s been through a lot. Your friend Sandy says she’ll look after you.’
Calder glanced at Sandy. She shrugged. ‘Someone’s got to. You’re clearly not capable of keeping yourself out of trouble.’
*
It was ten o’clock at night in London and Justin Carr-Jones was still at his desk. He had another three hours to go before he would call it quits. He would be in over the weekend, but then so would some of his team, and the work he really wanted to do had to be done out of the view of any of them.
It was over a week since he had been beaten up and threatened on his way to work and then been accosted by Calder. Since that day he had received no more threats. He assumed Calder was in Wyoming, and he hoped that it was becoming clear to whoever it was had threatened him that it was Calder, not himself, who was making trouble.
But there were still the JUSTICE notes to deal with. He had known they would be a problem for over a month now. However complicated the structure, Carr-Jones had a feel for the profitability or otherwise of any trade. Before the last month-end, at the end of January, he had expected that the notes would be under water, but it hadn’t bothered him unduly. He had assumed that the Teton Fund was big enough to cover any losses. It was one of the most powerful hedge funds in the world, for God’s sake. When Perumal had had his accident, Carr-Jones had had to revalue the position himself. Given what he suspected had really happened to Perumal, it seemed wise to come up with a high number. The new computer system was still riddled with bugs, so it had been perfectly possible to revalue the notes generously without anyone noticing.
The market was lower now, and Carr-Jones had heard rumours that the Teton Fund had gambled all on its Japan trade. Vikram’s visit had spooked him, but he had held his nerve. It really would have been impossible to arrange any more JUSTICE deals, given wha
t the market was doing, and fortunately Vikram had seemed to understand that. Carr-Jones ran the numbers every day on Perumal’s model – a spreadsheet on his computer. As of Friday’s close the JUSTICE notes were down six hundred and thirty million. That was better than earlier on in the week, the market was rallying strongly, but the chances of the notes being anywhere near break-even on Monday were zero.
If the Teton Fund blew up, the losses on the notes would soon come to light. The hundreds of millions Bloomfield Weiss had lent them to buy the notes would be at risk; much of it wouldn’t be repaid. Bloomfield Weiss would have a big problem. Carr-Jones’s challenge, the challenge of his career, was to make sure that the blame for this lay everywhere but with him.
He had a plan. The first stage of that plan was to line up the fall guys. There were four of them. First was Perumal. Certain changes needed to be made to spreadsheets he had written and notes he had made to suggest that he had deliberately misled Carr-Jones and Risk Management about the risks he was running. Second fall guy was the computer system. This was easier. It cost forty million dollars and it still didn’t work. Third was Risk Management. That was no problem: Carr-Jones was an expert at intimidating, browbeating and blaming back-office departments. If they couldn’t work out that Bloomfield Weiss was so heavily exposed to such a dodgy credit risk as the Teton Fund, they weren’t doing their job properly. And the fourth was Derek Grayling, who hadn’t yet done any work on the Teton Fund, but, although he didn’t know it, was about to on Monday.
This led in to the second stage of the plan. Carr-Jones couldn’t escape the fact that he was ultimately responsible for the derivatives Bloomfield Weiss had done with the Teton Fund. What he had to do somehow was to be seen to be responsible for the solution and not the problem. This needed careful preparation.
Carr-Jones tapped out an e-mail to Risk Management complaining loudly about the state of their computer system and how he was worried that it was producing erroneous figures. He pointed out that some of the more complicated derivatives still had to be revalued on a monthly and not a daily basis. This was quite unacceptable. He was concerned that the potential risk exposure on some of these structures had been seriously underestimated. He demanded immediate action before the revaluation exercise on Monday. The e-mail was copied to Simon Bibby and Benton Davis. It was dated Friday, 25 February. Proof that Carr-Jones had been the first to spot the problem.
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