by Roman Klee
There in the front row, was Consuelo DuBignon, sitting between the two Wright sisters, Carla and Mary Beth. Consuelo looked like she was fully engaged in the bidding. She held a Blackberry and was busy texting as fast as her thumbs allowed.
Nathan scanned the catalog notes. Predictably, they described the auction at the Palazzo Ducale as a unique occasion, because never before had anyone tried to sell a palazzo on the Grand Canal by public auction. Normally sales were handled discreetly and in private. Many Venetian families still believed in the right of primogeniture. Selling the family house (and selling it to an outsider) was an act verging on the sacrilegious—although most Venetians knew cash strapped families had been doing it for centuries.
Beneath Veronese’s art work, the bidding started at a brisk pace. At twenty-five million euros, the Palazzo Corner-Dondolo was still a bargain. So far, not a single local resident had offered even a modest initial bid—only Venetians with inside knowledge, understood why.
All the bidding was being conducted through Sotheby’s agents who stood on one side of the room, some working two phones at the same time, while others swiped tablet computers and whispered messages to colleagues. It looked like there were three contenders. No one knew for sure their identities, but they were most likely foreigners.
The price was rising in half a million euro increments, until one of the phone bidders dropped out. Now it looked like a two horse race.
Then a buyer’s agent seated in the middle of the room, decided to make the jump one million euros and called out, “Thirty million!”
This was matched by, “Thirty-two!” Then, “Thirty-five!”
With each new jump, the audience gasped.
“Forty!” Then, “Fifty!”
The auctioneer’s eyes really lit up, as he mentally calculated the size of the buyer’s premium. And luckily for him, there were two highly motivated buyers, prepared to battle to the death on the auction room floor.
“Sixty!” Then, “Eighty!”
This was starting to get out of hand. The jump moved up to twenty million; the Palazzo Corner-Dondolo was now bid at one hundred and forty million euros.
Two bids later and an Armani pant-suited buyer’s agent, looked like the winner. The auctioneer’s trained gaze surveyed the room. Maybe he expected someone to come up with a final offer. He repeated the price a couple more times. But then an odd thing happened.
The auctioneer didn’t bring down his hammer.
Instead, he made eye contact with a gentleman dressed in a new black Brioni suit, who had just entered the Chamber of the Council of Ten.
He discreetly shook his head and the next moment, the auctioneer declared the buyer had not met the seller’s reserve. The audience was left stunned. What was going on?
Then someone picked up a rumor that the guy in the black suit owned the palazzo.
Once the members of the press heard this, they really had a story. What sort of a person turned down a cool one hundred and eighty million euros? They started to search for the gentleman in black, who by now was believed to be walking through the Hall of the Great Council.
Then from out of nowhere, a group of security personnel appeared, blocking the path of the press pack, who were diverted to another exit. They were not the only ones feeling disappointed.
Nathan had finally worked it out. Consuelo DuBignon was Liz Wright. Although he still was not sure why she used two different names, clearly she liked role-play.
But in the confusion that followed the end of the auction, he could reach neither Liz nor her sisters or find the guy in the black suit. Once again, he felt like he had missed out. And then he received a text from Carla.
Nathan left the splendor of the Doge’s Palace and walked across St. Mark’s Square to the Caffè Florian. It was a fine fall day, so understandably the terrace was crowded. Nathan picked out Carla, flanked by her two sisters. This time she did the introductions correctly, but was not sure whether to bring up the subject of Nathan’s recent injury, especially as he had hurt himself once again, after accepting another of her invitations.
Sensing Carla’s unease, Nathan helped her out, brushing off the whole business as one of life’s little trials. There was no need to go over it.
Remember Nathan, you must become more than just a best friend. They ordered three espressi and a cappuccino and after a long wait, their drinks arrived. Carla said Dirk was propping up a bar somewhere along the back canals, celebrating with the team that won the Cup. They were from New Zealand and his bet had paid off. She didn’t appear to share her husband’s enthusiasm.
Nathan wanted to ask so many questions. It was tough to know where to start. But after handing Liz his card, the conversation switched to the only subject worth talking about.
Liz said how disappointed she felt, not least because her thumbs hurt from all her frantic texting. The Palazzo Corner-Dondolo would have made a great addition to the portfolio of her historic buildings foundation. Although, even she understood there were limits to how much something was worth.
A realtor from Sotheby’s joined them a little later and revealed what had really gone on in the auction room.
“It wasn’t popular with the locals.”
She explained that according to folklore, the fifteenth-century palazzo had been built on the site of a Knights Templar cemetery. The locals believed the place was cursed. One owner after another had mysteriously met with an untimely end there; it had been the venue for suicides, murders and assassinations.
“Venetians are nothing if not superstitious.”
“Well, I know someone who will be relieved,” said Carla.
“So, the palazzo remains unsold?” asked Mary Beth.
“Not exactly. It’s possible we’ll do a private sale. We think the buyer’s from your country.”
Well, thought Mary Beth, at least that narrowed it down to three hundred million people.
“I never told you, but the buyer’s a big player on Wall Street.”
That narrowed it down some more, but not by much. Mary Beth didn’t know who the person could be, because she never mixed with financial types.
Nathan had an idea; one name in particular came to mind. But he decided to keep it to himself.
Δ = T –07,320,240
Nathan was sure he remembered the time and place. But he was starting to have doubts. Carla had said Harry’s Bar at eight o’clock. He checked his watch again. And sent Carla another text. (She was sending him straight to voicemail whenever he called her cell and she had not replied to any of his messages.)
It was all very strange, and Nathan began to wonder whether anything serious had happened to Carla and her sisters.
The barman tried to persuade Nathan to have a Death in the Afternoon—absinthe mixed with iced champagne. He resisted and ordered a much less dangerous Bellini.
At Florian’s, Carla had said in a matter of fact way, as if there was nothing to make a fuss about: Dad’s here in Venice. We’re meeting up at Harry’s Bar later. Come along if you like.
How could he say no?
For a golfer, Carla’s comment was the equivalent of scoring a hole in one. Nathan had tracked down Liz Wright—Cunningham would be pleased. And he was about to be introduced to Budd Wright—Orofino could have no complaints.
As the minutes slipped away, the barman asked if Nathan would like to look at the visitors’ book. He had time to kill, so why not? The bar had earned a reputation for attracting celebrities since it first opened its doors in the 1930s. Nathan accepted the offer, but never got past the most recent page.
There it was, the critical evidence he needed.
Budd Wright’s signature in the visitors’ book.
It was as if the scales fell from his eyes; Nathan now had the kind of information that was literally a lifesaver.
Then he received a text from Carla:
I’m outside! Nathan gave up his seat, promising to return shortly.
They hugged, Carla greeting him with the words, “This is so embarrassing!”
She explained that when her father arrived at the bar and ordered a round of drinks he was astonished at the prices. Then he saw the menu and almost fainted. He canceled their reservation and they were now heading back to Anastasia for mostaccioli and meatballs and chocolate fudge sundaes. (Budd was having the low fat option.)
She apologized again. There was no time to explain the situation with Liz. But she promised to stay in touch. They had an early morning meeting in Zürich the next day, otherwise she would have asked Nathan to join them on the yacht.
Carla left Nathan standing outside Harry’s Bar, as she boarded the waiting Aquariva tender.
And Nathan felt sure he saw Budd Wright wave at him, before the guy disappeared into the forward cabin.
Nathan felt a little deflated at being left behind, though he was confident Carla would keep her word. But he also had several reasons to be pleased with the way things had turned out in the end.
He could now report back to Antonio Orofino that Budd Wright was alive and well. He was no longer at the Clinique Alpha-Omega—if he ever had been there in the first place. His daughters positively identified him in Venice. There was no better proof. Ignore all the other reported sightings.
There was only one technicality; Nathan’s message did not specify the country where Budd Wright had been sighted. He assumed Orofino would understand he meant Venice, Italy, forgetting that in America there were several towns called Venice.
So when Orofino received Nathan’s critical intel, for some reason, he understood it to mean Venice, Florida. He instructed a private investigator to corroborate what Nathan had found out, but the guy came back with a negative report.
As far as Antonio Orofino was concerned, all Nathan’s work now counted for nothing.
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Alva Grenelund was immensely proud of her firm, because working for Solomon Brothers was special. Some days, when everything went to plan, Grenelund felt like she had been singled out by a higher power. It was as if all the people who worked at Solomon were God’s golden children—with some more golden than others.
Grenelund considered herself truly blessed. Not only was Solomon the biggest and best of the bulge bracket Wall Street firms, it had sweetheart side deals with the tax authorities. Its hard working employees could avoid the injustice of paying high taxes thanks to special deductions and offshore insurance plans.
Grenelund believed the joy of paying tax was a privilege reserved for the ignorant masses; people so poor they couldn’t afford the fees of skilled accountants and smart lawyers.
When it came to looking after the health of her employees, Grenelund was proud of how she secured the first batch of scarce swine flu inoculations. The firm bought entire production runs so all its people got protection before everyone else.
Keeping the wheels of financial self-interest running smoothly was a national priority—the elderly and sick (Grenelund labeled them the non-productive) deserved to wait their turn.
Grenelund was one of the first to endorse Solomon’s policy of forcing partners to leave the firm when they hit their mid-forties.
Many wanted to give something back to the community by becoming public servants. And happily, their concept of public service meant occupying high up positions in key government departments at home and abroad.
Thanks to the value of nudging, politicians were encouraged to reach policy outcomes unswervingly favorable to the firm. Grenelund was also the main architect of the move to use quantitative techniques for analyzing the firm’s trading positions.
She had complete faith in CFO, Markus Markstaler (the traders called him Marky Mark) and chief risk officer, Martin Gale. Together, they made Value At Risk monitoring a firm wide obsession. Everyone had Marky Mark’s mantra posted near their workstations: Let Net Present Value take the strain. Let Mark-to-Model record the gain.
And best of all, now that Alva Grenelund’s personal lobbying had won the day, she could pick up the phone to the head of the Federal Reserve and ask her sugar-daddy-in-chief for an interest-free loan. As far as Grenelund was concerned, life could not get much better. Or may be it could.
Because Solomon’s senior partner believed she’d played a masterstroke. The firm’s analysts were instructed to write positive research reports about all Budd Wright’s businesses. The line to take was that the billionaire’s disappearance would be a temporary blip. Stock price weakness was a great buying opportunity.
Then she made sure the equity, bond and derivative trading desks were aggressive sellers of every financial instrument linked to Budd Wright’s holding company Brenton Davenport. Finally, through the partners’ secret Liechtenstein based Special Opportunities Fund, she flipped the trade, removing the hedge and built up a massive long position in Budd Wright L.A.Y.D.E.E.s—her confidence boosted after reading the latest report from CID.
Grenelund was convinced she had structured a deal that would make the firm more money in a few hours, than the Brothers had made in over a hundred years of patient capital accumulation. Calling herself a financial genius would be to undervalue her true worth.
Grenelund sat back and pictured the scenes of adulation. She was close to pulling off the Greatest Trade of All Time, the GT-OAT.
The idea that the Executive Management Committee would ever ask her to stand down was sheer folly. She was Solomon’s greatest CEO, her place in history assured. In the years to come, young traders would whisper her name in awe and speak of her as the Legend of Wall Street.
It was not yet time to write her epitaph of course, but could anyone wish for a better legacy?
Δ = T –06,629,040
Nathan sat in the ballroom of the St. Marks Hotel, convinced that what lay ahead, was no kind of reward for all his efforts. He was about to be inducted into the spoof Wall Street fraternity, Delta cum Phi. His turn was fast approaching. But a new inductee from England, was first up. He was singing You’ve Got to Bash-a-Banker or Two to the tune of You’ve Got to Pick-a-Pocket or Two from the musical Oliver.
Everyone banged the tables with their fists, which was the traditional way to show appreciation for an initiate’s efforts. In the spirit of the occasion, no one minded that many of the people in the audience were architects-in-chief of the banking crisis.
Pete Cunningham, who had put Nathan up for admission to Delta cum Phi, was busy telling his table a long story about the unfortunate owner of a smartphone.
The young man in question, Joe Aaronberg, had filmed himself and some friends gang-banging an eighteen-year-old girl called Maria, who they picked up in the Santa Cruz Casino in Gibraltar. He even recorded his little group bragging about what they planned doing to her beforehand.
Aaronberg realized a lot later, he should have deleted the file, but for some reason, never got around to doing it. The girl was traumatized. Then after her shock subsided, she became madder than ever and wanted revenge.
Aaronberg was a member of the Alpha Beta Theta fraternity at Princeton. He was still in his freshman year, when he got expelled because he repeatedly turned up drunk to lectures and urinated inside a professor’s car. (The guy flunked Aaronberg, after he handed in a paper about the fallacy of efficient stock markets, a conclusion that contradicted the professor’s precious theories.) The Princeton president then banned students joining either fraternities or sororities during their first year.
Aaronberg decided to spend the summer enjoying himself, but also needed money because his father had stopped his allowance. So he signed up to a yacht recruitment agency. It sounded like a great way to travel the world and get to meet the kind of people he enjoyed socializing with.
His father, Joe Sr. was a partner at Solomon. He had been making arrangements for his son to join the firm lat
er in the fall. Now those plans were on hold indefinitely. Joe Jr.’s behavior had brought shame to the family’s good name, and both parents were left devastated by how they would be received in future by members of their social group. Joe Sr. worried about the reaction of his Wall Street colleagues and golf club pals and his wife feared her reception at charity events.
Joe Sr. mobilized a team of heavy hitting lawyers. They offered money and any inducement they could think of to make the girl retract her accusation. When the girl’s family refused to stand down, the lawyers launched their next salvo. They threatened to make Maria’s life a living hell. The family would find it very difficult to lead a normal existence if they took things to trial.
They investigated the girl’s prior sexual history and said they would release this to the tabloid press in a foreign jurisdiction, beyond the reach of the U.S. courts.
They discovered that Maria’s mom had once worked as a hooker while bringing up her first child, and the girl’s father had served time at the Florida Coleman Correctional facility, for attempted murder and extortion.
As Nathan sat listening to Cunningham tell this story, he felt distinctly uncomfortable about what he was hearing. Some of the details sounded familiar. He had been in Gibraltar and nearly visited the Santa Cruz Casino, but didn’t in the end—though he knew a couple of guys on Anastasia who had.
Cunningham was surely talking about a completely different group. Nathan didn’t dare interrupt. His boss carried on explaining how Maria’s mom had been carefully rebuilding her life. She had remarried, this time to a Democratic Senator, and as a result, became a model of respectability.
She wanted to put the past behind her. This incident simply brought it all flooding back. It was inevitable in the end. She persuaded her husband to take the money, though Cunningham didn’t rate the chances of the marriage surviving as very high.