They were halfway through the door when the receptionist came teetering across the polished floor as fast as her tight skirt would allow, calling out.
“Mr. Faber. Mr. Faber, sir. I need your security passes back please.”
And then Jo registered. Her rescuer was Ben Faber, the acclaimed television journalist, better known for his reports from the epicenter of volatile situations in unstable regions than for his coverage of City meetings. At least his eagerness to escape now made sense. For a moment, Jo experienced an inexplicable urge to bolt with him, but she reminded herself that her adventure lay inside these heavy doors, not without.
CHAPTER THREE
Jo hurriedly fell in with the pack of new analysts as they were being herded on a tour of the premises. Starting in the foyer at the front entrance of the building, they were steered behind the reception area towards a succession of meeting rooms, all expensively but conservatively furnished and giving the impression of an exclusive private gentlemen’s club, with their plush carpeting and aged leather sofas. Jo could envisage wealthy investors gladly relinquishing control of their fortunes into the capable hands of Butterfly Investments as the deal was sealed over expensive brandy and cigars.
The names of the rooms were distinctive; Eylau, Jena, Wagram. Outside Albuera, Jo nudged the person next to her, an unnervingly well-groomed athletic figure, and pointed questioningly to the name. As he leaned the considerable distance down to whisper in Jo’s ear, she noticed that not a single strand of his blond hair moved independently.
“Battles of Napoleon’s armies,” he whispered and then, extending a hand and flashing a flawless smile, “Zach. Zach Bryant, Yale.” Jo returned the firm handshake, but was somewhat peeved that an American was more knowledgeable about European history than herself. Perhaps the seeds of competitiveness had already been successfully sown by Simon Wright.
At the end of the corridor the group was confronted by a large expanse of white wall. The wall was blank, save for a keypad and panel discreetly located on the right hand side. Their tour guide, a bookish character in his late twenties who had, up until this point, been visibly uncomfortable with his allotted role, now brightened, straightened his lank frame and pushed his glasses over the bridge of his nose allowing him to make eye contact with his charges for the first time.
“And this, dear colleagues, is as far as visitors are allowed.” He paused, enjoying the dramatic effect. Jo suddenly had a vision of him as the eccentric Wonka outside the factory door as they all stood clutching their golden tickets. With a flourish, he swiveled toward the keypad and entered ten or so numbers in rapid succession. As he placed the palm of his hand on the panel next to the keypad, an opening appeared as the wall parted in the center, and, despite herself, Jo joined in the collective gasp at the scene that revealed itself. As they stepped over the threshold the wall closed seamlessly behind them.
The trading floor at Butterfly Investments resembled a cross between a space command station and a scientific laboratory with its array of technical equipment against a pristine mix of white and chrome. The contrast with the décor and ambiance of the area they had just left could not have been more extreme. Jo was overwhelmed by the vastness of the space. Although the area was over two stories high, it was completely devoid of windows. Instead, a sophisticated lighting system provided simulated daylight. At the front of the workspace there were six rows of trading desks. Each row accommodated twelve trading stations, with the requisite bank of flat panel screens, telephones and Bloomberg terminals supplying real time financial data and news. On the walls, high above the trading desks, massive screens displayed ever-changing quotes from the London Stock Exchange. The Tokyo and the New York Stock Exchange screens were static, reflecting the fact that trading had either ceased or not yet started for the day. Below these screens, a dizzying array of data and quotes from other international markets streamed ticker-tape style around narrow screens that encircled the room. The only deviation from these digital displays was provided by three station size clocks showing the time in London, New York and Tokyo.
Compared to the gentrified hush of the client meeting areas, the cacophony on the trading floor was overwhelming. Dozens of traders, sleeves rolled up, paced back and forth, barking orders into phones or to younger, frenzied co-workers who were running from desk to desk passing messages. Jo could decipher frequent expletives, uttered both in triumph and anger. Fragments of conversations were clearly audible, but hardly decipherable.
“GM converts - the 2's of 19 - are bid at 110 vs. 42 on the stock with an implied vol of 28%. Show me a 50% delta dec 42 strike call offer on 5 million shares,” snapped an imposing female into her phone.
“You should see it when New York opens,” said their tour guide, evidently relishing the mixture of awe and incomprehension on the faces of the new analysts. The group huddled together like a school of fish as they navigated their way through the intimidating waters of this new environment. At the other end of the trading floor the ceiling was lower, and a frosted glass wall spanned the entire width of the room. A second set of entry pads provided access to an extension of the laboratory like environment. Once the doors hissed closed behind them, the return to silence was almost as jarring to the senses as the shock of the previous mayhem. They were standing in a corridor marked with white columns on both sides, and hives of cubicles beyond the columns.
“Welcome to the only place that you will truly be able to call home for the next nine months – if you make it that far, of course. I would now like to introduce you to Maria, your new big sister and, hopefully, your best friend. May the best survive.” At this point, the reluctant guide retreated, crab like.
Maria Sanchez, a perfectly packaged, self-assured individual with cascading dark hair stepped forward. She took the time to look at each person directly before addressing the group warmly in a voice revealing rich Spanish tones.
“Good morning. I am happy to see you all here. I will act as your guide and mentor throughout your training program, supervising your assignments and your rotations between departments. First, let’s get you all settled at your new desks.”
The analysts identified their assigned cubicles by the presence of a single business card propped on the computer keyboard just below the pristine thirty-inch flat screen. Maria explained that it was company policy to provide only one business card for each trainee, since the analysts were given no opportunity to interact with clients and, as she delicately put it, over half the current group would bid ‘adios’ within six months. It appeared, therefore, that the cards on the keyboards were meant to be taken as souvenirs.
Jo sat at her desk confronted by tall grey partitions on three sides listening to Maria’s voice as she continued to offer information and instructions.
“Each of you should find on your desk a series of exam prep books which the company has generously provided for each of you. This is the material needed to help you prepare for the coming CFA Program Level I examination. I will now distribute your exam registration cards and study guides.”
The Chartered Financial Analyst exams; Jo was already familiar with horror stories from college friends who had graduated and pursued careers in finance. They recounted tales of endless months of late night studies and having their entire spring social lives wiped out over a three year period in preparation for exams in June.
Maria handed Jo the necessary paperwork and moved on. Jo scrutinized her card and then raised her hand with a tentative “Excuse me.”
The less tentative Zach Bryant drowned the beginnings of Jo’s question with a booming, “Maam? Yes, maam, the exam date is shown as this December. That is nowhere near enough time to prepare.”
“Sir?” replied Maria, the original warmth discernibly slipping from her tone, “yes, sir, you are indeed enrolled for the December examinations. The percentage of candidates that pass Level I is currently around forty. So if you fail, you will have the opportunity to re-take in June – with your new employer.”
Jo started to flick through the study guide. It consisted of eighteen sections each divided into an average of around twenty-five relatively friendly looking Learning Outcome Statements. Jo selected a statement at random from a section where she felt some confidence, Quantitative Analysis: it stated that the candidate should be able to “define shortfall risk, calculate the safety-first ratio, and select an optimal portfolio using Ray’s safety-first criterion.” Maybe not so friendly.
Maria moved on giving further instructions and handouts. “I am now providing you with personal itineraries for the coming month. Please adhere to them precisely. You must familiarize yourselves immediately with the areas of the building to which you are permitted access, and also with the departments, managers and trading desks to which you have been assigned. And remember, I am here to facilitate your training, but not to baby-sit.”
Attempting to digest everything, Jo became aware of a strange sensation in her stomach. By the time it reached her chest, the sensation had identified itself as rising panic, and Jo attempted to quell it before it reached her vocal chords. The panic, however, was reflected in her eyes and was instantly recognized by Maria.
“Look,” offered Maria, “I recognize that you are being asked to take in a great deal at once. I’ve been there. But if you feel overwhelmed…”
“Please pack your belongings and leave immediately,” interrupted an authoritative British voice. “Maria, I believe it’s almost time for my presentation. Please herd the new flock to the lecture theatre. Pronto!”
Jo caught a glimpse of a striding pin striped suit, and wavy steel grey hair. The waft of cologne was undoubtedly by appointment to the British Royal Family.
Charles Bray, eminent economist, mathematician, and co-founder of Butterfly Investments, had just swept by.
CHAPTER FOUR
The analysts were hastily rounded-up and herded back across the trading floor in the direction of the meeting rooms. The frenzy on the floor was such that Jo could not resist the temptation to imitate the bleating of a lamb, following which she spontaneously broke into a broad grin at her own humor.
As the group was ushered through a door marked “Auditorium”, Jo contemplated that Bray’s reference to a lecture theatre revealed that he hadn’t fully relinquished his affinity with academia.
The darkened auditorium resembled a small movie theater with a narrow stage at the front, and crescent rows of leather seats rising to the rear. The floor of the theater had a gentle glow, emanating from the low level lighting system. A single beam of light from above the stage, however, immediately captured everyone’s attention, it was firmly focused on the vacant speaker’s podium.
Once all the rustling of sinking into the plush chairs and preparing for the inevitable note taking had subsided, a hushed silence prevailed.
Charles Bray made his entrance through a concealed door at the side of the stage. He gripped the podium firmly with both hands and, with an almost imperceptible twitch of the little finger on his right hand, gave the signal for a dramatic change in the prevailing lighting arrangements.
Bray was instantly enveloped in shadow, while the analysts found themselves blinking in the brilliant light, as if abruptly awakened for breakfast on a London-bound transatlantic flight.
Jo’s curiosity regarding Bray had led her to choose a seat towards the front. From this position she could discern Bray’s intense concentration as he focused his gaze on each analyst in turn. When his attention fell on Jo, she was determined to maintain eye contact, but eventually his unrelenting stare got the better of her and she averted her eyes for a second. When Jo looked up again she realized that Bray was already scrutinizing the person next to her, and she felt irritated by the petty defeat.
Over a minute elapsed. Finally the lighting controls were abruptly manipulated once more, this time creating an ambience more congruous with a corporate presentation room. The sudden normality, however, was somehow disconcerting to Jo, as if it were not to be trusted.
Bray smiled the most affable welcome that his features appeared to allow.
“Well here you are! Your parents must be so proud of you. Well, are they?” The question elicited general grins, nodding of heads and a palpable feeling of relaxation from the new recruits.
“Well they should be,” continued Bray. “The good news is that their protégé has just graduated from kindergarten. The sad news, for you at least, is that their little darling has about twelve weeks to step it up to PhD level.”
Without uttering another word, Bray stepped deftly to one side and launched into a screen presentation. The first slide announced “Multiperiod Forecasts and the Chain Rule of Forecasting”. Jo stifled a yawn and contemplated that a seat further back in the shadows may have been a wiser choice.
Pages of introductory notes and formulae flashed across the screen as Bray fast - forwarded through the program before settling with an “ah” on a slide entitled, “Autoregressive Moving-Average Models”.
For someone with Jo’s aptitude and academic background, this material was basic. She could almost believe that she was back at Cambridge as she allowed Bray’s scholarly, droning tones to lull her into a state of semi-somnolence, her journey aided by the rhythmic scratching sounds made by the pencils of her scribbling colleagues.
In this meditative state, Jo gradually absorbed the figure of Charles Bray, reconciling her preconceptions with the reality presented. His expertise as a lecturer appeared to be the only vestige of his professorial persona. In its place there appeared a polished City banker in immaculately tailored garments, complemented by monogrammed cufflinks and a watch with a skillfully understated appearance that spoke volumes about its exclusive provenance.
Appearing about fifteen pounds lighter and with hair several shades darker than in photographs which she had seen in the Department of Applied Mathematical Economics, Jo had to concede that Bray’s metamorphosis was impressive. Had she not been familiar with his biography, Jo would have subtracted at least five years from Bray’s approaching fiftieth birthday.
The details of how and where Bray had cocooned himself remained elusive, and Jo wondered what her college teacher and great mentor, Professor Henry Radcliff, would make of him now. Until ten years ago the names Radcliff and Bray had been conjoined.
Despite the fact that Radcliff was over a decade older than Bray, they had followed remarkably similar paths, both entering Cambridge as mathematics undergraduates, quickly eclipsing their fellow students and going on to complete doctorates in impressively short times. They also shared a mutual academic passion, the application of mathematical theory to global situations, specifically in the realm of economics. Their respective fortes were complementary, with Radcliff’s focus on the analysis of worldwide economic trends, and Bray’s passion firmly rooted in the mathematics of the financial markets.
Radcliff, already a celebrated figure in his field, had championed his younger colleague, happy to propel him into the higher echelons of academic success. Together they had established a new department at the University creating a bridge between the faculties of Mathematics and Economics. It was in this department, under the close tutelage of Professor Radcliff, that Jo had spent her final year at Cambridge.
Radcliff and Bray published a series of papers based on their ground-breaking research. Their publications attracted the attention of both national and international financial regulatory authorities, prompting much discussion and analysis at a very high level. In some cases, they laid the seeds for significant economic reforms.
When originally approached by Butterfly Investments, Jo had spent some time investigating Bray’s background at Cambridge. Bray had given many press interviews expounding on the application of advanced mathematical theories to market inefficiencies.
Jo was hard-pressed to find any records of interviews given by Radcliff. Eventually, however, she discovered a newspaper article reporting an interview during which Radcliff was asked to comment on the significant imp
act of their pioneering work in the field of chaos theory on the current policies of the European Central Bank. It was recorded that Radcliff gave a modest shrug, and replied, “Of course, we hope our work helps; but what the world really needs is less chaos, not more theories about it.”
At a time when accolades, prizes and funding were pouring in, Bray’s sudden departure had come as a shock to the academic and economic communities. Specific reasons for the split were still unknown. Some members of the department were said to have witnessed an argument during which Radcliff had uncharacteristically raised his voice, stating emphatically that if Bray insisted on going forward then he would be forced to go public with the truth, even at the expense of the department. Bray had supposedly responded in turn by accusing Radcliff of acting like a parochial schoolteacher with no vision.
What “the truth” was, remained unsaid. Bray left the department and the University that same day, leaving accounts of the quarrel to be embellished in student lore. Within a month, Bray had also deserted his wife and his two teenage sons. Radcliff carried on alone, shunning publicity, but achieving even greater acclaim. Bray disappeared without a trace until his reincarnation as a city banker approximately five years previously, complete with a new, much younger wife.
As Bray’s presentation reached its conclusion, Jo returned with a jolt to her current surroundings. Looking at the blank pages in her notebook, Jo hoped that the presentation would not be followed by a spontaneous quiz, especially since her caffeine level was now critically low.
Fidgeting with his watch, Bray gave the impression that he was keen to make an exit. Nevertheless, he invited questions from the audience, and some members naively believed that Bray was actually interested in offering help.
In fact he delivered a curt, withering response to each questioner in turn. One final query, however, obviously piqued Bray’s interest. A lanky young analyst, whose voice rose steadily with his level of intimidation, summoned the nerve to inquire how Butterfly’s investment strategy related to the conclusion of the renowned economist Fama that stock price movements are unpredictable and follow a random walk, meaning that past performance in financial markets is no indication of future performance.
The Girl Inside Page 2