On the Edge

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Shall we go back?’ Calder asked.

  ‘No,’ said Sandy, sliding her arm through his. ‘I love the snow.’

  Calder smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This isn’t much of a ski holiday, is it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Action. Adventure. I got to see Vancouver airport. It’s everyone’s dream vacation.’

  ‘I’m very glad you’re here,’ said Calder.

  ‘I saw you doing your bit for Jen when no one else cared. I admired that. I thought you deserved some help.’

  ‘Well, one more day and then you can be up on the slopes. Looks like the snow will be great. When do you start in New York?’

  ‘A week tomorrow. But I’ve got a ton of stuff to organize. I haven’t even gotten an apartment yet – I’m planning to stay with a friend until I find one.’

  ‘It’s a shame,’ Calder said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That you’re going to New York. I mean it would have been nice to see more of you, if you were staying in London.’

  ‘I thought you spent all your time flying around in little airplanes?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Calder smiled. ‘Much as I love the airfield, it does screw up my social life.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the little airplanes would fly as far as New York?’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ Calder said. ‘But big aeroplanes do.’

  He glanced at her. She looked down at her feet, embarrassed. A particularly large snowflake landed on her nose. She brushed it off with her gloved hand.

  They walked on in silence, not sure if they had just said something important, or nothing. Calder was intensely aware of the pressure of Sandy’s arm through his.

  ‘Is that a restaurant?’ Sandy said, pointing to a squat log cabin emerging from the gloom.

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘Can we go in? I’m starving, and it would be nice to have some real food.’

  The restaurant was warm and cosy and shrouded in snow. It was also almost empty. As she shed her winter garments, Sandy seemed to glow in the warmth. They sat at a corner table and ate and drank and talked and watched the snowflakes pile up on the window-sill outside. Calder’s mobile phone didn’t ring once.

  When they left the restaurant, several inches of snow had settled on the sidewalk, and the street surface was white. It wasn’t much after nine o’clock, but in Jackson on a Sunday night, that was late. They struggled back towards their hotel through the snow. On the small ski-mountain on the edge of town piste-bashers were already crawling up and down the steep incline, headlights on, taming the night’s wild flakes into the domestic surface of tomorrow’s nursery slopes.

  Calder felt Sandy stop. ‘Alex?’

  He turned. Her lips touched his for an instant. She smiled, her eyes shining in the light from a streetlamp, wisps of hair and snow brushing her face. For the first time, he noticed a faint smattering of tiny freckles on her nose. At that moment, to him, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  He kissed her.

  She was tender with him that night, at first, almost shy, careful not to hurt his wounded body. And he was careful with her, sensing that it had been a long time. But once he had entered her, their hunger for each other overcame their inhibitions, and their bodies writhed and thrusted in a breathless tumult of lovemaking.

  36

  In Japan it was already the next day: Monday, 28 February. Unfortunately for Martel, it was not a leap year. But the Japanese stock market was doing well and the Nikkei moved up another two hundred points to six thousand nine hundred.

  In London, Carr-Jones scanned the screens as soon as he arrived at his desk just before seven. The market rise boded well for the Teton Fund revaluation. As did the fall in implied volatility on the options exchanges. Implied volatility is an esoteric number derived from options prices that roughly equates to the market’s view of how volatile the market will be in the future. A high number was bad for derivatives like the JUSTICE notes, a low number was good.

  Despite the good news, Carr-Jones knew that the JUSTICE notes would still be showing a whacking great loss. So he put his plan into action.

  At seven thirty Derek Grayling wandered in. At seven thirty-five Carr-Jones told him to revalue the JUSTICE notes using the computer model he would find on Perumal’s machine. The model that Carr-Jones had doctored.

  At eight ten he received a call from the head of Risk Management, responding to his e-mail of the previous Friday. Carr-Jones gave the man a bollocking. Risk Management’s failure to implement the new computer system adequately meant that there were serious market risks going unreported. The head of Risk Management, who was used to Carr-Jones arguing passionately that he was overestimating the risk attached to derivatives deals, tried to argue back, saying that his department had relied on information from Carr-Jones’s traders to evaluate the risk exposure on the JUSTICE notes and others. Carr-Jones cajoled the man into insisting that it was Perumal who had given them the relevant information. Once he had hung up, Carr-Jones made a note of that for the record.

  At eight thirty-five Derek Grayling presented Carr-Jones with a revaluation of the JUSTICE notes showing a loss of only four points.

  Carr-Jones glanced at the paper. ‘This makes no sense.’ His voice was full of derision. ‘Where did you get that number?’

  ‘From Perumal’s model.’

  ‘And you think the loss is only four points?’

  ‘That’s what the model says. John double-checked it.’

  Carr-Jones ostentatiously scanned his screens. ‘With the Nikkei at where it is today, the loss is going to be more like twenty or thirty points. We could have a real problem on our hands. John! I want you and Derek to work on a revaluation of the JUSTICE notes. I want it accurate and I want it by ten o’clock.’

  Carr-Jones sat back and left them to it. At ten o’clock he would have the true number for all to see. Then all hell would break loose. A demand would go through to the Teton Fund to provide more collateral in either cash or government bonds. And he would call Bibby in New York to explain how his knowledge and experience had helped him uncover the most appalling systems cock-up and to warn him that there was a big problem brewing with the Teton Fund.

  Then, at nine thirty on the dot, Carr-Jones saw a group of men in suits approaching his desk. One of them was Simon Bibby. There were two derivatives traders he recognized from the New York office and, scariest of all, some New York internal auditors.

  ‘Got any results on the JUSTICE reval?’ he barked to Derek Grayling.

  ‘Not yet. But it’s looking bad,’ came the plaintive reply.

  Carr-Jones leapt to his feet and crossed the trading floor to meet Bibby, a deep frown on his face. It was vital that he spoke before Bibby could say anything. No time for small talk, market talk or any other talk. We’ve got a big problem, Simon.’

  Bibby glanced quickly at Carr-Jones. Bibby was a sharp political operator, the sharpest. In that moment, Carr-Jones knew that his career was being decided.

  Bibby paused for a second to make up his mind. He gave Carr-Jones the tiniest of smiles, and then he turned to the people accompanying him to make sure they were listening. What’s the problem, Justin?’

  If it hadn’t been so vital to maintain his frown, Carr-Jones would have let out a whoop. Bibby was going to let him get away with it!

  ‘I’m worried about a big trade Perumal Thiagajaran did a couple of months ago. I think the Teton Fund’s going to blow. And none of our systems have picked it up.’

  ‘That’s what we’re here to sort out,’ said Bibby. ‘Have you done the reval yet?’

  ‘We’ve done a first run through using Perumal’s model, but it didn’t make sense to me. The model’s misleading – I don’t know why, but frankly I’m suspicious. John and Derek are rechecking the numbers now. They say it looks bad, but we don’t know how bad yet.’

  ‘OK, fellas, get to work,’ said Bibby to the two New York derivatives traders. John and Der
ek watched in panic as the men descended upon them.

  And so Simon Bibby and his loyal lieutenant, Justin Carr-Jones, began to sort out the Teton Fund mess.

  Calder was woken by the insistent ring of the telephone next to his bed. He rolled over and bumped into a warm naked body. Sandy. He smiled and reached over her to pick up the phone.

  ‘Zero?’

  It was Nils. ‘Hang on.’ Calder put down the phone and walked around the bed so that he could talk without squashing Sandy. She stirred and reached out an arm to touch his naked thigh. ‘I tried to get hold of you yesterday.’

  ‘I got your message,’ said Nils.

  ‘Where are you?’ Calder could hear the sound of construction equipment in the background.

  ‘In Broadgate Circle. It’s safer than talking in the office.’

  ‘I understand. I just wanted to tell you we found Perumal.’

  ‘Found him? You mean the snow melted?’

  ‘No. In fact, it’s still snowing out here now. We found him in Vancouver.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Very much alive. And we asked him about the e-mails. He says he’s never heard of Bodinchuk.’

  ‘Well, of course he says that.’

  ‘The thing is, I believe him. Is there any way we can get hold of a hard copy of the e-mail?’

  ‘Tricky. The Derivatives Group is buzzing around like a wasps’ nest. Bibby’s over here with a couple of heavies from New York. I’ll try and stay late tonight and see if I can get back into Perumal’s computer, but I wouldn’t be surprised if these guys work till midnight. They have that look about them.’

  ‘Do what you can. But don’t worry, it will all be over today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The deal Perumal did with the Teton Fund is going to blow up.’

  ‘So that’s what Bibby’s doing here.’

  Calder told Nils briefly about his plans to confront Martel that afternoon with Sidney Stahl and Perumal. ‘I’ve put in a good word for you with Stahl. That can’t do you any harm.’

  ‘Says you,’ muttered Nils. And he was gone.

  Uncle Yuri rested his rifle on a rock and kept his eyes on the house below. Snow had been falling steadily for most of the night, although it had eased off in the last couple of hours. Snow was good: it would quickly hide his tracks. It also meant that Vikram would have to do some shovelling to get his car out. Here, at the end of the small road, it would be a while before the plough made its visit. It was also nicely isolated, out of the sight of neighbours.

  Inside the radio erupted into life a few inches from Vikram’s ear. He opened his eyes, his head muzzy. He had lain in bed wide awake for most of the night worrying about Cheryl and Martel and the Teton Fund, and then fallen into a deep sleep an hour before the alarm went off. As he woke his worries came crowding in again. He was convinced the Teton Fund wouldn’t survive the day, in which case it would be better to go to the authorities immediately. He’d need a good criminal lawyer: perhaps he should fix that up before turning himself in. Where did you find a good criminal lawyer in Wyoming? In any case, that would take time, and it was important to be sure that he had offered his cooperation before the Teton Fund blew.

  He hauled himself out of bed and into the shower. The water cleared his head. He decided he would go to the Teton County Sheriff first, and then get in touch with Ed Forder, a lawyer he knew in town. Ed could fix him up with specialist help if he needed it. Ten minutes later he pulled on his clothes. He didn’t usually eat breakfast at home: he picked up a coffee and low-fat muffin on the way to the office. This morning he planned to eat in at the café, and go straight on from there to the Sheriff’s Office. He opened the curtains and looked out at the whiteness gleaming in the soft grey of dawn. It had snowed heavily overnight. As he busied himself putting on coat, hat and gloves and fetching a shovel, he thought that whatever happened, whatever chain of events he set into motion that day, he knew Cheryl would stick with him. He could face any future if it was with her. He smiled. He would get through the day.

  The glimmer of morning light was just spreading across the snowscape when Uncle Yuri caught some movement from within the house. Sure enough, the side door opened and Vikram appeared, bundled up against the cold, wielding a shovel. He was less than a hundred metres away.

  Uncle Yuri pulled the trigger once. There wasn’t even a cry as Vikram’s body folded into the newly fallen snow. Twenty minutes later, as he climbed into the cab of his pick-up and started it up, Uncle Yuri turned to see a column of smoke rising above the trees half a mile away.

  One target dealt with. One more to go.

  Martel looked out of his window for a glimpse of the Tetons, but he couldn’t see them. It was snowing over there, on the other side of the Snake River, and by the look of the sky it would soon be snowing again on his office building. Martel wished he could see the mountains on this day of all days. He needed their strength.

  He had started off the morning in the trading room, but the atmosphere in there was so awkward that he had retreated to his own lair. There were one or two questions being asked about Vikram’s absence, and he didn’t trust himself in his current mood to maintain the correct façade of concern. With the weather as it was, it was quite possible that Vikram had been snowed in. But Martel suspected that none of them would ever see him again.

  He smiled. Bodinchuk’s man certainly knew his stuff. Soon, very soon, Alex Calder would finally be dealt with as well.

  Cheryl would be devastated when she found out about Vikram. Serve her right. She would get no sympathy from Martel. She had forced him to spend another night in one of the guest bedrooms. There may be a few more of those, but he would win her back eventually. He wouldn’t confront her about Vikram; he would wait until her grief had subsided and then he would be there for her. With her lover gone she would need his comfort and support.

  Martel began to pace. He was severely wound up. Things were finally breaking his way. First the call from Stahl, that unbelievable stroke of luck. Three hundred million of new money just in time. Martel’s chest swelled with pride. Sidney Stahl was acknowledging how great an investor he was: there could be no better accolade than to have one of the most important men on Wall Street fly out to pay him homage.

  The cash position would be tight, but the market was up and implied volatility was down. If only Bodinchuk had let Vikram live a few hours more so that he could have run the new numbers. It all depended on the revaluation from Bloomfield Weiss, due any moment.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Vikram’s assistant, looking timid. ‘Since Vikram isn’t here yet, I thought you ought to see this.’

  Martel snatched the fax bearing Bloomfield Weiss’s logo from her trembling hand. The revaluation was there. A loss of twenty-three points. Four hundred and sixty million dollars. Which meant that Bloomfield Weiss was demanding three hundred and sixty-eight million of new collateral for their loan. With three hundred million from the Artsdalen Foundation, that left sixty-eight million to find. Fortunately, the market rises of the previous week had released nearly a hundred million dollars which was no longer required as collateral on his other positions. He would make it!

  He bounded into the dealing room. ‘Hey guys! We’re there!’

  His traders turned to face him. There was shock on every face.

  What is it?’ he said, knowing the answer.

  ‘It’s Vikram,’ Andy said. ‘There was a fire early this morning. He didn’t make it.’

  Martel’s elation was doubled, but he fought to control it. He froze his face. Then he manufactured a frown. Then he slumped into Vikram’s chair. He put his face in his hands. ‘Mon Dieu,’ he said. Then in a whisper: ‘Merci mon Dieu.’

  Under the guise of a desire for privacy to hide his grief, he stumbled back to his office. As soon as the door shut behind him he let out a cry of victory and held his long arms outstretched.

  He was a genius. There was no other word for it. He had overcome ov
erwhelming odds, odds that would have crushed lesser men, to come up with another brilliant trade. Vikram had doubted him. But where was Vikram now? Martel knew the Japanese equity market was going nowhere but up, he just knew it. And when it did, the profits would come rolling in. The Artsdalen Foundation would make hundreds of millions, so would Bodinchuk, and Stahl would hail Martel as a guru of the markets. The whole world would have to acknowledge his skills. He would eclipse George Soros, eclipse all other hedge-fund managers.

  What would be next, he wondered. The US government perhaps? They had been cutting taxes and spending more and more on defence, letting their budget deficit spiral out of control, ignoring the mumbled warnings of the markets. Well, the markets would have to show the US government who was boss. And how would they do that? Through Jean-Luc Martel, of course. It was a brilliant idea. He would work out the details later.

  He had been lucky, of course he had been lucky. But that was a part of his genius. He was special, someone was watching over him, helping him when all hope seemed to be lost. Perhaps it was God, Martel’s own personal God. Or perhaps it was the mountain. He looked through the grey and white of the outside world to a miraculous streak of blue through which he could just glimpse the peak of the Grand Teton itself. Only for a second or two, and then it was gone. Yes, perhaps it was the mountain.

  His phone rang. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jean-Luc? It’s Nils.’

  ‘Ah, Nils. Good to hear from you. We have a great job waiting for you.’

  ‘It’s that that I wanted to call you about.’

  ‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you? I can assure you the performance fees here will be significantly higher than any bonus Bloomfield Weiss will pay.’ Martel chuckled. ‘Significantly higher.’