Fatal Exchange
Page 40
Right now he was on the phone with his man in Istanbul, who interfaced with the Iranian contact every few months. Another payment into a numbered account in Austria was required at the end of the quarter, and the man in Turkey wanted to ensure they were game-on.
They were.
They always were when Emil was running the money.
~~Chapter 2~~
Griffen pored over the pile of computer printouts stacked a foot thick on his scarred mahogany desk; a relic from the 1920s rumored to have been the infamous short seller Jesse Livermore's, that he’d acquired for twenty thousand dollars when he’d opened his offices. Its battered presence was a constant reminder of the history of Wall Street, and the brutality of the market’s whims. Fortunes had been made and lost in hours during frenzies, and Griffen, more than most, understood that you had to be driving the frenzies in order to come out on the winning side. To do so meant rigorous determination, exhaustive research, and most importantly, the ability to control what information made it into the marketplace, as well as the timing of its dissemination. He who controlled the printing presses controlled destiny, and Griffen bought ink by the barrel. He created reality, and his associates in the media parroted his spin without question. That's the way the markets had worked since the stock exchange was built, and he'd merely refined a time-honored tradition and applied it to his own specialized segment.
He absorbed the row of figures, mentally digesting the balance sheet and preparing a rationalization that would paint black as white, and make a loser into a winner. It would take some massaging to prepare a story where the endless bleeding of cash in this company's history could be sold to the rubes as having built a foundation for limitless success in the near future, but if anyone could make it happen, Griffen could. He was a master of putting lipstick on pigs, and convincing hapless investors that this time was indeed completely different.
In the only clear corner of the scarred table-top a forgotten cigar smoldered in a heavy onyx ashtray. The office, even though well-ventilated, had a perennial odor of leather, cigar smoke, and agitation. It was the smell of the market -- the smell of money.
Griffen kept long hours, driven by a love of the action involved in fiddling the system. There was never enough time to accomplish everything, never moments where he could let down his guard – and the challenge of staying on top kept him energized and motivated.
He’d triumphed in a world where only the most cunning and nimble survived. He’d amassed a fortune building manias and then collapsing them.
Unlike many traditional venture capital funds, Griffen’s investment group was nothing more than a large pool of cash which traded however he felt appropriate. A big attraction of his fund was that nobody asked where all the money came from; there were no annoying disclosures to make, no boxes to check, no forms to complete. Even in a world of Patriot Acts, reduced rights, and financial transparency, Griffen enjoyed complete secrecy in most of his affairs. That had always been the lure for him – as a young man, he’d seen a lot of possibility in Wall Street’s selective lack of regulation. He remembered it like it was yesterday.
A Yale graduate, he’d paid his dues by spending eight years as an analyst, and then later as a trader with one of the big brokerages, hating every second of it while building a network of contacts. In the late seventies he quit and launched his eponymous fund, partnering with a childhood friend from New Jersey.
Griffen had pitched several Italian union pension funds and waste management groups on a neat way to invest the deluge of cash pouring in from the surge in demand for their services; as well as from the expansion of cocaine and heroin trafficking on the eastern seaboard. The groups had been receptive to creating a veneer of respectability, and were enthusiastic in their response to his proposition; their money got laundered via his venture capital and stock trading activities and they saw a good return on the newly sanitized loot. It was a win for all involved.
With those early investors he’d found his first serious money, and from that point things accelerated as the newly respectable investors told their friends about their smart new investment advisor. Griffen soon had a runaway success, and was oversubscribed from his first formal funding raise. In time, legitimate clients were attracted by his spectacular results; and over the years, the Street forgot the hints of his questionable beginnings.
Building on his initial relationships, Griffen became a ‘go to’ guy for shady figures wanting an in on Wall Street biotechnology action. His door always open to the fringe players and the dirty money – a specialty that rewarded him handsomely. His unique customer mix and their powerful contacts shielded him from intrusion by the authorities, enabling him to refine his pump and dump game to a fine art.
Create a bubble, then pop it, and only he knew when it would collapse. It was simple, effective, and highly lucrative, albeit illegal and unethical. Then again, all great fortunes had great crimes at their root, and Griffen was simply using the same techniques the stock manipulators of the Roaring Twenties had used to build dynastic wealth. Just as icons like Joe Kennedy had created manias in worthless companies, then once the public was enraptured with their shares, kicked the chair out from under them and made millions as the stocks plummeted, so too did Griffen.
Human nature hadn't changed much in a few generations, and the same techniques worked, again and again. Only an idiot obeyed the laws, especially when the regulators were asleep at the wheel and virtually never enforced them. He was comfortable that he was a criminal -- actually reveled in the knowledge, truth be told. All the wealthiest of the Wall Street mob were gangsters at heart, in spite of the tripe the industry's PR machine put out day after day. It was just far more lucrative to carry a cell phone and a calculator than a machine gun, these days. Everyone at the top knew how the game was played. Big gains required big balls, and often meant crossing lines that lesser mortals were barred from even considering breaching. That was the game, and he was very, very good at it.
At the same time, he was on the invitation list for the Governor’s dinners and Mayor’s functions; rubbing shoulders with celebrities – a fixture in the New York social scene. His investors were highly appreciative of his continued performance and discretion, and always ensured he wanted for nothing. The best looking call girls, pharmaceutical grade cocaine, two hundred dollar scotch. If Griffen could imagine it, he got it; there were literally no limits for the man with the golden touch.
~ ~ ~
Steven watched in fascination as the screen normalized, and trading that had been erratic and plunging slowed to a crawl.
“Unbelievable. It’s like they flicked a light switch,” he muttered to himself.
He moved to the other screen and brought up a window. The message boards had also slowed to nothing. When the stock was being pummeled the boards had been saturated with hundreds of posts advising shareholders to sell, that somebody knew something, that institutions were bailing, that the stock was going to zero. Psychological warfare – all par for the course. Organized teams hit the boards, attempting to sow the seeds of panic and confusion.
Then, just as suddenly as the selling normalized, the panicked posts were gone.
The rest of the day’s trading wore on, slow, plodding, predictable. Once Griffen’s related accounts stopped trading back and forth to create artificial volume, the stock action was stagnant. The close was a non-event, down a few pennies. The polar opposite of the chaotic frenzy of the earlier part of the day, and further evidence to Steven of the omnipotence the manipulators wielded.
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