by Bobby Akart
Pulling out of the garage onto Eliot, he fumbled with the COMAND system and nearly struck the back tire of a bicycle—the backpack and winter coat laden student long gone by the time Sarge took a deep breath and exhaled. See! This is what I’m talking about. Finally getting his shit together, Sarge managed to navigate south onto JFK without taking out any of the Kennedy School of Government’s student body. An adjustment of the COMAND volume brought the voice of his friend Neil Cavuto to life.
“Markets closed flat today amid continued uncertainty about whether Greece, Italy and Spain would reach bailout agreements with Eurozone officials. After the markets closed, a rumor swirled that a tentative agreement had been reached, which sent DOW futures higher. However, conflicting reports out of Frankfurt made by Deutsche Bank officials said otherwise, driving futures back to a negative position.
“To discuss all of this, I have as my guest Jon Wellington with Barclays UK in London, how are you, sir?” asked Cavuto.
“I am chipper as usual, Neil, and glad to be on with you this evening,” said Wellington.
“What do you make of this news, and how does it affect the markets?” asked Cavuto.
“All day long it was like watching a classic Wimbledon tennis match of troubles, with investors volleying between radio silence from a closed-door meeting amongst Eurozone leaders on the Mediterranean members and the brightening outlook of a cease-fire agreement in Ukraine. Markets would push higher on the positive reports out of Ukraine and then fall lower on the uncertainty surrounding the Eurozone trio of trouble—Spain, Greece and Italy. Add to that a late-day press conference from the President regarding his use of executive powers and you had one bloody day of jittery stock trading,” said Wellington.
“So what should investors consider as a plan of action?” asked Cavuto.
“Neil, markets like stability. As we have seen over the last five to six years, despite relatively sluggish growth worldwide, markets have risen to tremendous heights. Unfortunately, we are one bad news story away from deflating this incredible run for stocks,” said Wellington.
“I’m a ‘glass half full’ kinda guy, Jon. What would you suggest for those of us who espouse to the ‘glass half empty’ outlook on investing?” asked Cavuto.
“In my experience, a ‘glass half empty’ investor is typically cautious and is likely to sell at the slightest hint of a market downturn. Then there are those few daredevil opportunists who fearlessly attack a potential downturn to turn a healthy profit. They short sell,” said Wellington.
Sarge was travelling south on Soldiers Field Road along the River Charles, enthralled by this conversation. His job duties did not require managing investments. Those responsibilities fell on the shoulders of others. But it was important for him to understand the mechanisms of the markets and how it affected the geopolitical landscape. He passed Boston University, home of Rhett the Wet Noodle Terrier. Lame-ass mascot. He turned his attention back to the conversation.
“Short selling,” continued Wellington, “is the sale of a stock the seller does not own, but has merely borrowed. It may sound like an odd practice, but it is actually done often by seasoned investors. Short selling is typically prompted by speculation or by a desire to hedge downside risk. It is a risky proposition for the average investor and is only recommended it be used by experienced traders who are familiar with the great financial risks.”
“Is now a good time to short sell?” asked Cavuto.
“Neil, no investor has a crystal ball. For the last several years, financial pundits have warned that the financial markets are overvalued and the central banks of the world, like the Federal Reserve, are out of bullets to deal with a financial crisis. Yet the markets keep rising. This meteoric rise is probably a function of all-time-low interest rates. Investors are willing to gamble their money in stocks rather than receive little or no interest in banking-related investments. But, to answer your question, in the absence of a ‘bad news story’ I referenced earlier, equities are still the way to go!” said Wellington.
Sarge thought to himself—investing like a bunch of drunks. They have no idea.
Chapter 5
December 15, 2015
73 Tremont Street
Boston, Massachusetts
Donald crossed Tremont Street and walked purposefully up the sidewalk toward the Park Street intersection. Parking was available at 73 Tremont, but Donald made it a habit to park off-site on his rare visits to the “Penthouse.” Donald believed in maintaining some semblance of a gray-man strategy, especially when meeting with his benefactors. Better to blend in with other visitors to the building.
Waiting on the traffic to clear the crosswalk, he admired the historic Park Street Church across the boulevard. Despite his lack of historic bloodline, which flowed through the veins of his “friends,” Donald was an avid Revolutionary-era historian. He and Susan had long ago graduated from the touristy Freedom Trail, which included well-known attractions like the Old North Church, the USS Constitution and the site of the Boston Massacre. They now explored a lesser known, but equally important layer of history that blanketed Boston.
Crossing the street, Donald checked his watch, noting that he was early. I insist on punctuality—the words rang in Donald’s head. He insisted on a lot of things. Beyond the curb, a tour guide dressed in the cold-weather version of traditional eighteenth-century garb began his presentation. Donald took a moment to listen. Despite its distinction as one of the Freedom Trail’s most prominent features, the Park Street Church was a historic gem that never grew old.
“Welcome, everyone, and thank you for daring the brisk weather to continue on the Freedom Trail tour. I see most of you stretching to look skyward at the magnificent steeple, which sits atop the historic Park Street Church here on Tremont Street. By the way, did you know Tremont is always pronounced trem-mont in Boston, not tree-mont?” asked the guide.
Heads nodded affirmatively, although Donald suspected none of them knew this until now.
“Rising toward the heavens, the two-hundred-seventeen-foot steeple, designed by architect Peter Banner, was once the first landmark travelers saw when approaching Boston. Today, the first landmark a traveler sees is a series of illuminated road signs reading ‘forty-five-minute delay on the Mass Turnpike.’ Things have changed, have they not, my friends?” asked the guide, to hearty laughter.
“Built in 1809, the church took a prominent role in the abolishment of slavery. Speakers came from all over New England to advance their mission of human rights. On July 4th, 1831, the patriotic song ‘My Country, ’Tis of Thee,’ written by Samuel Francis Smith, was sung a capella during a children’s Independence Day celebration,” said the guide.
Passing the tourists’ parked carriage—a red Hop-On, Hop-Off Trolley Bus—Donald continued up trem-mont, humming the words of the famous song.
“My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims’ pride, From every mountainside, Let freedom ring.”
If only that were still true. He somehow doubted the Founding Fathers would recognize the state of the republic they had left behind for the American people. Donald pushed his way through the impeccably polished, brass revolving door, pausing to wonder what would happen if he did a 360 and drove home. Nothing good.
Entering the lobby, Donald was struck by the magnificence of la grande entrée of 73 Tremont. After a major renovation in 1988 added several stories to the existing neoclassical granite structure, the building took on a character of its own. From the Carrara marble inlay floors to the forty-foot-tall vaulted ceilings, the lobby was gracefully appointed with polished brass, mahogany wood and elegant soft lighting. Despite a level of grace and style that would rival the finest five-star hotel, the lobby was sparsely decorated to minimize the chance of an impromptu street gathering. Everything in 73 Tremont had been designed with a purpose.
Replacing the historical bellhops of the former Tremont House were subtle reminder
s of the buildings twenty-four-hour armed security team. A careful look revealed numerous security cameras shrewdly incorporated into the architectural finishes—an odd feature for a building owned by a trust set up to benefit Suffolk University. Of course, Donald knew all too well that the building had little to do with the university.
“Good morning, sir, how may we help you?” asked a well-dressed concierge behind the reception desk.
Donald could feel the eyes studying him from above. I am not paranoid, just aware.
“Yes, I have an appointment on the thirteenth floor,” said Donald.
Two members of the building’s security team emerged from a shallow alcove to Donald’s right. Men in Black types. Definitely not your typical campus security arrangement.
“Your name, please?” asked the concierge, picking up a phone receiver.
Donald provided his name and waited several seconds. He wasn’t sure why they put him through this drill. They’d probably identified him a block away. The concierge listened to the phone and nodded, replacing the receiver. Two more men emerged from the alcove, bringing the total to five.
“Before these gentlemen escort you upstairs, sir, we must ask if you are carrying any weapons—including sharp objects. If you have any weapons, please allow us to check them for you,” said the concierge.
Donald had received his concealed-carry weapons permit shortly after his release from prison. He had never owned a gun prior to “going away,” but it soon became clear his new job duties would require personal protection. Within weeks of returning, he received correspondence from the Office of the Pardon Attorney in Washington, D.C., granting him a full Article II pardon and restoration of his civil rights, permitting gun ownership. An application to the Massachusetts Parole Board, marked APPROVED, arrived a few weeks later, completing the process. Everything had been prearranged on his behalf. He’d never seen the applications.
“Yes, I do have a weapon to check,” said Donald.
The concierge motioned for him to follow the men through a door, where he voluntarily surrendered his Springfield XD-S 9mm to the solemn gentlemen who hadn’t smiled—much less spoken. One of the security team members released the magazine and cleared the chamber before locking it away in a wall safe. After a brief search of his Hartmann signature tweed briefcase, they motioned for him to follow. Although Donald had been through this procedure a few times before, it never failed to reinforce the importance of the man he had come to see.
Three members of the security crew entered the elevator; one of them inserting a key into an unnumbered slot on the brass elevator keypad. They rode to the thirteenth floor in awkward silence. When the elevator opened, Donald strode confidently to the reception desk, which was hosted by two attractive, professionally dressed women. On closer inspection, Donald could see how they trained their eyes on him—no doubt performing a threat assessment. He suspected their security training equaled, if not exceeded the men escorting him. Though it had been nearly a year since Donald’s last visit to the thirteenth floor, he felt an increased security presence. One of the women broke eye contact to glance at one of his escorts, who simply nodded. Do they have mental telepathy too?
“Just one moment, Mr. Quinn,” she said, never taking her eyes off him again.
Pushing a button on her desk, she spoke softly into a wireless microphone attached to her jacket collar. “Mr. Quinn is here to see you, sir.”
The male escorts stepped back to flank the elevator while one of the women circled the desk. She pointed to an intricately carved set of mahogany doors at the end of the reception hallway. This is new. He took in the details of the woodwork. Sheep and sheepdog on a hillside. Donald searched for the meaning, knowing these functional works of art had been purposely commissioned. The security guard opened the right door before he could form a theory.
“This way, please,” she instructed, leading him past a wide bank of windows.
Of the many incredible views of Boston from the city’s high-rise buildings, none matched the view west across Boston Common from the top floor of 73 Tremont. From the thirteenth floor’s unique vantage point, one could also observe the Charles River, Commonwealth Avenue and the Massachusetts State House on Beacon Hill. The State House was particularly spectacular in the late afternoon, with the setting sun reflecting off the State House’s twenty-three-karat gilded gold-leaf dome. The dull winter scene blazed to life, drawing the viewer’s attention away from the bare trees and naked sidewalks directly below.
Opening another mahogany door, she motioned for him to enter his host’s office—the inner sanctum. With slight trepidation, Donald stepped into a world out of reach for most. Measuring more than forty feet wide, the office was bigger than most Americans’ homes. Gas fireplaces flanked both ends, rising through the two-story ceiling. The furnishings consisted of oriental carpets, dark chestnut furniture and overstuffed chairs, more resembling a gentlemen’s lounge than an office. On the broad leather inlay desk centered in the middle of the room, two crystal glasses sat beside an opened bottle of Perrier.
Donald stood silently, waiting for the man standing in front of a set of velvet-clad French doors to acknowledge him. Appearing deep in thought, his benefactor finally spoke.
“Hello, Mr. Quinn, thank you for coming,” he said, in the New England accent associated with people of aristocracy.
“Yes, sir, it is a pleasure to see you again,” said Donald. Not that I had a choice.
He didn’t expect the pleasantries to last for too long. The meeting had been hastily arranged. Something was brewing.
“I trust you have everything you need for your various projects,” he said.
“Yes, sir, and I hope my reports are satisfactory,” said Donald.
Donald always remembered to choose his words deliberately and concisely.
“Of course. Mr. Quinn, you will need to take care of something for me—immediately following the close of the markets today,” he said. “There are a number of transactions to be made, and you must use the highest levels of discretion.”
I knew it; this couldn’t be trusted to a phone call. Donald retrieved a small Louis Vuitton notebook from his suit jacket pocket.
“Immediately following this meeting, you are to execute the following transactions,” said Donald’s benefactor.
Listening intently, Donald took meticulous notes. The instructions represented the largest series of transactions he had executed to date. Donald had established a complex network of international brokerage accounts, which enabled him to effect secretive transactions—but never anything of this magnitude. He knows something. Donald jotted down country names in the left margin—Cook Islands, Dominica, St. Kitts, Turks and Caicos Islands.
The intricacy of the trades was significant, but not nearly as noteworthy as the sums of money involved—over one billion dollars. This would take days.
“Mr. Quinn, this must be completed before the opening of the Asian markets,” he said, jarring Donald’s attention from the notebook.
“Sir, I believe it is roughly five in the morning in Tokyo. Their markets open in about four hours. The New Zealand and Australian markets open an hour sooner, in roughly three hours,” said Donald.
“Mr. Quinn,” he said sternly, “you are prepared for this, are you not?”
Donald felt flush, taking a moment to respond carefully.
“Yes, sir, I have the systems and procedures in place. It’s the scale of the transactions that concerns me,” said Donald. “Currency trades of this magnitude will have repercussions throughout the global financial system. Although I have total confidence in the structure I have established for you, there is also the possibility of enhanced scrutiny from the Commodity Futures Trading Commission. Taking a six-hundred-million-dollar short position in the euro, coupled with a six-hundred-million-dollar long position in the dollar, will wreak havocs in the equities markets as well.” And I’d rather not return to jail, regardless of how comfortable you can make my stay.
“Mr. Quinn, I have thought through this request thoroughly, and I am fully aware of the potential for international examination. Nevertheless, you will move forward. In addition, you are to short sell all of my positions in the following equities,” he said, listing nearly a dozen U.S. and European companies. He said all. Donald quickly did the math—another four hundred million.
“Yes, sir,” was all Donald could muster.
“I will have you escorted to an office, where you can execute my directives. A secure line is available, and you will have the complete assistance of a member of my staff if needed. Do you have any questions, Mr. Quinn?”
Yeah, what the hell do you know that nobody else does?
“No, sir,” replied Donald.
Donald rose to leave. He took one more glance at his surroundings. So this is how you pay for this stuff?
As if reading Donald’s thoughts, his benefactor added, “I hope your wife and children are doing well.”
Oh yes, very well, thanks to you, sir.
“They are, sir. I thank you for the very generous gift on the birth of our daughter. She will benefit from a Harvard education,” said Donald.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Quinn. There is no substitute,” he said, turning his attention to the view of Boston Common.
That was it. He was dismissed. Donald let himself out without another word and was escorted by a young man to a conference room on the other side of the thirteenth floor. The room was well appointed, featuring a full bar and six wall-mounted televisions.