by Roman Klee
Nathan could imagine what they got up to, but just in case he needed a little prompting, Chad sent him a text boasting about the size of his annual bonus and speculated that Nathan would be feasting on a big, stale bagel. He also helpfully attached a short video file, with a graphic clip of himself getting a blow job in the women’s toilets.
It was a year-old wager, another bet that Nathan had made in the heat of the moment and lost. And now Chad wanted him to pay up. In Nathan’s current mood there was more chance of hell freezing over, than of him giving a cent to anyone who worked at Solomon.
He knew where the partners were holding their celebratory party. Despite the ban on Solomon employees signing up for Twitter and Facebook, some details already leaked out. Nathan guessed the event would be carried off with relative restraint compared to the antics of the Delta Zedd guys.
Magnums of Grey Goose vodka, Dom Perignon, Cristal and Laurent-Perrier Brut Rosé would make up their drinks bill. And cover the cost of their eight-balls and hand selected call girls. Before someone made partner, taking on the color of a raging alcoholic was not encouraged. In fact, it was one way of making sure an ambitious managing director never made the grade.
All too easily, Nathan could picture the self-satisfied faces of the partners, sitting around the boardroom table on the sixtieth-floor. Whenever those guys entered a room, they really were the smartest.
And if proof were needed, in a few months time, like the purest form of liquid gold, millions of dollars would flow into their equity accounts.
It was a thought Nathan certainly didn’t want to dwell on, because he was not getting a bonus for his contribution to the Trust.
Cunningham said he was pleased with Nathan’s work, but he couldn’t see a way to give him a share in the equity so soon after making partner.
And Nathan knew exactly who was behind that decision.
So he’d be getting precisely nothing. Nada. Niente.
Nathan checked his bottom desk drawer. It was the only item of furniture he had managed to salvage from his failed marriage. His wife had taken all the most valuable pieces and then the bailiffs helped themselves to the rest.
He was left with the odds and ends, made up mostly of his first ever purchases from Ikea—the beech veneer now chipped and badly stained. Fortunately, by covering it with an old dirty tarp, the bailiffs had overlooked his custom-made rosewood credenza, with solid silver inserts and leather tooled top.
The drawers were locked and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where he’d put the key. He thought about using a hammer and chisel, and levering the bottom drawer open, but that would split and damage the wood. Then again so what, who cared anymore?
But Nathan didn’t remember where he put the tools, once proudly displayed in his old workshop at his Long Island house—there certainly wasn’t enough space in his Chinatown rat hole.
Most likely, he had packed them in a crate that resided in a room at the Big Apple Mini Storage—on the opposite side of town. Which reminded him, the invoice was due for payment before the start of the New Year.
When it came down to it, there was really no alternative. Nathan took a couple of sleeping pills and went to bed. He could lie in for as long as he liked the next morning because he had nothing to do and nowhere to go.
Even if it was Christmas Day.
Δ = T +3.8
Nathan’s cell phone eventually woke him. It was five o’clock in the morning. He grabbed the handset cradle from the nightstand, knocking it to the floor.
“Hi Thom … what’s up?” Nathan’s voice sounded quite bright, considering he deeply resented being woken up so early.
“You gotta get out! NOW!”
In his half drugged state, Nathan was more convinced than ever that his friend was being over dramatic just for the sake of it. Thom demanded an instant response, a knee jerk reaction, when sensible people were fast asleep.
“Sorry … what are you …?”
“They’re coming for us.”
“Who are?”
“Who do you think? Get down here and I’ll tell you. We need to move fast!”
“Where are we going?”
“Listen, there’s no time for explanations.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m outside, you got sixty seconds! Trust me.”
Nathan stumbled around his bedroom, collecting the first clothes he could find, convinced Thom was having some kind of flashback from his time in Vietnam—n-n-n-n-nineteen, none of them received a hero’s welcome. Best to humor the guy, they could then sort things out later.
When Nathan looked down onto the street from his bedroom window, he tried to spot Thom. Instead, all he saw were a couple of guys pacing the sidewalk, neither resembled his friend. Nathan was starting to doubt he could get out of his predicament. He needed to call in a few favors, but the way he figured things were going, it didn’t look like he had any left. Surely his situation was not completely without hope?
Nathan called Thom’s cell, and asked him what the hell was going on.
“Some jerk on the Brothers’ Zedd desk has run up massive losses—without risk analytic’s knowledge. It’s mega billions!”
“Impossible,” replied Nathan, his voice expressing utter disbelief. “They’ve every risk monitoring program invented. I mean their risk analysis is state of the art. I helped write the stuff.”
“I know it’s incredible, but I just got an email from an old contact, some of the stuff’s redacted, but he says the Brothers are so desperate, they’ll invent any crap story to get themselves off the hook.”
Nathan had gathered what he needed for his emergency getaway, but what struck him was hearing Thom use the word redacted. It was odd to say the least.
“So where are we heading?”
“Anywhere but New York City.”
“Hold on … I’ve an idea.”
Nathan retraced his steps to the kitchen and retrieved the black trash liner. He turned the smelly contents onto the floor and began sifting through bits of burger buns, gnawed drumsticks, blackened banana skins, paper plates stained with coffee and cola, pieces of leftover pizza and mold encrusted cheese.
Then he found what he was looking for. And his luck was holding. Because in his anger and frustration the previous day, he had only ripped the invite in two, instead of dozens and dozens of impossibly small fragments he could never piece together again.
Nathan reached for the Scotch tape, hurriedly matched both halves of the card as best he could and then retrieved the letter with its traveling instructions.
There was a large coffee stain over the first paragraph, but it was still legible. Jade Wright had invited Nathan and a guest for Christmas dinner at the Villa Esmeralda.
It was asking a lot to turn up without first replying. He could pretend he sent an email and it had gone to the wrong address. Or he could call Jade and explain how with one thing and another, he had forgotten to say yes, but still intended coming.
Nathan’s cell rang again. But instead of answering, he wanted to check something first. He remembered the handy smartphone app, Finda-Friend. On pressing the compass icon, Nathan could see where Thom was calling from.
The blue circle should have highlighted Saint James Place. Instead, it showed Montauk, Long Island.
The phone stopped ringing and then for some reason, Nathan noticed pieces of paper he had ripped up at the same time as Jade Wright’s invite. He began taping them together. And now he remembered retrieving the UPS mailing pouch in the men’s room at the Plaza.
There was a note: Redacted parts to be revealed later.
He assumed the package was some kind of warning from Orofino. Events had overtaken him, and he dismissed the incident as being unimportant.
Except Nathan was now holding evidence he never wanted to discover. It seemed unbelievable. He
held a Xeroxed page of the appendix that made up The List.
Thom’s name had been unredacted; he was an inactive Solomon partner. The guy always said that not making partner was the reason he left the firm; they had overlooked him and promoted another guy who didn’t merit it.
Thom called again, realizing Nathan was stalling.
But for the second time, his friend didn’t pick up.
Δ = T +3.8.1
Nathan thought he heard footsteps coming from the hall. He already sensed that it was far too dangerous to use the stairs. On paper, his apartment was an easy place to get in and out of without being seen. The building had several exits, two at the back and two in the front. But the good news ended there.
Not only was Nathan’s fifth-floor walk-up, a sixty-seven step climb, his apartment was partitioned so that he had no direct access to the fire escape. Sure it violated the City’s Fire Code, but his landlord seemed to be above the law.
His first problem was how to get next door. Crossing the hall and asking his neighbor for help was not an option, because the guy had already left to spend the holidays with relatives. And Nathan didn’t think it a good idea to break in.
He stood perfectly still, listening for footsteps again. Silence. He checked the street from his bedroom window. The two guys were no longer there, but he couldn’t see Thom either. Nathan wondered if it was now safe to use the stairs. Then he realized why no one was outside—they were in the building!
Nathan found the stepladder and extending it as far as possible, rested it against the kitchen wall. He climbed up until he could touch the roof hatch, releasing the padlock, he pushed as hard as he could. At first, the hatch didn’t budge, then with some more effort, he forced it clear of the opening.
He collected his backpack and hauled himself up onto the roof. This was new territory for him, but he figured it was the only way to safety. Nathan didn’t have a head for heights, and knew never to look down. He began to tremble as he got closer to the edge, imagining what would happen if he slipped and fell. He wanted to jump, but couldn’t. Instead, lying as close to the roof edge as he dared, he swung out his legs and slowly slid down the side of the building, until he was sure he was directly over the fire escape.
He let himself drop, while still supporting his weight with his arms, hanging on until he felt confident enough to let go. He braced himself for the fall, landing with a loud metallic clang on the top platform. By some miracle he was not injured, though his stomach felt like it had been skinned.
He zigzagged down the back of the building, releasing the final ladder and was now at street level. From the corner of the yard came the sound of scurrying rats, but thankfully no heavy footsteps.
Nathan had memorized Jade’s travel instructions to the Isla de Ballenas. He was not one of the privileged guests who owned their own helicopter, so he would not be landing on the island’s heliport. Neither did he own a stylish motor launch to drop him off at the private jetty.
Jade asked guests without helicopters, planes or boats, to gather at Hoboken Terminal in New Jersey. From the Lower East Side, it was a good twenty-minute car ride away. Nathan no longer had his Jeep, so he walked down Madison Street, confident of getting a taxi. But there wasn’t a yellow cab in sight.
He spotted a mountain bike, but it was chained to some railings. Where was his cordless angle grinder when he needed it? He carried on, conscious of the minutes ticking away. And then he saw a kid’s bike, most likely rejected by a disappointed child.
He got on it and started to peddle frantically in the direction of Pier 11, but suddenly remembered—there were no ferries from lower Manhattan when they operated a weekend service!
He had reached the end of Catherine Street and now more than ever, he needed another miracle. And then salvation! He ran out into the middle of the street, flagging down the only taxi with its light on.
Nathan realized he didn’t have enough cash for a ride to New Jersey, so he said to the driver, “Here take my watch. It’s a genuine Rolex. I must be in Hoboken in twenty minutes. You can have the bike as well.”
Δ = T +4
Despite the note from Billings, Alva Grenelund was confident she didn’t need to call a full meeting of the Management Committee. For one thing, its members would not thank her for interrupting their vacation plans.
Just to be double sure, Grenelund called Martin Gale yet again. He had a list of advanced math qualifications that could stretch across an entire page. The models were fool-proof, Gale kept on assuring Grenelund. Everything had been stress tested. The fair valuation parameters were correct. The algos had been thoroughly checked and all errors put right long ago.
This was just the kind of reassurance Grenelund was hoping for. In her experience, it was not unknown for compliance to hold up contracts because someone had a last minute reservation about a minor technicality of no commercial merit whatsoever. Grenelund suspected this was yet another case of bean counters and lawyers getting in the way of profit making.
She anticipated an easy meeting with Billings lasting no more than a few minutes. She would soon set the guy straight and then it was back to the St. Marks and the most amazing triumph of her Wall Street career.
They would certainly put her face on the cover of Time—their Person of the Year maybe. And if they weren’t interested, then Fortune, Business Week, or Forbes would surely want to make her their center page spread.
Grenelund returned to the Solomon headquarters on Lower Union Plaza. But when she arrived on the sixtieth-floor, she was surprised to see the tension etched faces of her compliance and risk managers, as they sat in silence around the boardroom table. There was no easy way of letting his boss down gently, so Bernie Billings started with the biggest problem.
“We can’t settle the L.A.Y.D.E.E.s trades. Our counterparties are refusing to pay up. They’re citing a retraction by Bloomberg of the Budd Wright obituary. There’s been no critical event.”
Alva Grenelund was puzzled. What was this guy talking about? Close of business was hours ago and now all they had to do was begin the settlement process.
Granted, the holidays would slow things up, but the back office had already got an indicative final value for the trades—Solomon had made a hundred billion dollars, several multiples of the firm’s equity. All this had been achieved under her watch and she was desperate for the scale of her achievement to be acknowledged not only by everyone at Solomon, but also by Wall Street and the global financial community.
“You tell them a contract is a contract. We’ll sue their big fat hairy asses off, if they don’t pay up.”
It was at this point that Billings had to mention the irritating small print in the standard terms and conditions governing all the Solomon OTC master contracts.
“Normally Alva, you’d be right on the money. But they won’t settle because they claim we committed fraud.”
Alva’s Grenelund’s face turned bright red.
“They’re saying someone wanted to influence market prices in the final minutes of trading and released the news to Bloomberg of Budd Wright’s death. If they’re right, we’re looking at a very different outcome.”
During her celebrations at the St. Marks, Grenelund was unaware that the Wright family had issued a statement flatly contradicting the Bloomberg report.
Budd Wright had not died, he was in perfect health and expected to make his first public appearance within a matter of hours to dispel all the false rumors.
The family claimed the delay in setting the record straight was because, unusually for Budd, he never responded to a voicemail message left on his smartphone and so had to be tracked down in person.
The fact that the billionaire was still alive, now fatally undermined Alva Grenelund’s carefully structured money-making scheme. But she was not ready to give up her prize so easily.
“But hey Bernie, they’re bluffing. N
o one’s gonna fall for this stalling tactic. We ripped their friggin’ faces off, for God’s sake!”
Billings could see his boss was beginning to fear the worst.
“They have to settle. For Christ’s sake, any muppet can scream fraud. But how to prove it? There’s not one shred of evidence.”
Billings remained silent long enough for Grenelund to question what she just said. Did they have proof? Did they know someone inside the firm who persuaded a Bloomberg reporter to release a news story that would miraculously reverse a losing trading position? How could anyone outside Solomon have known the value of the information, unless an insider helped them?
“But once the market’s closed they can’t reopen it. I mean, they can’t change prices just to suit themselves.”
Grenelund brushed over the small matter of how her derivatives team had been doing precisely that for years. Solomon dealers deftly marked their books any which way they wanted, changing the fair value of their tailor-made financial products, so they could write multi-million dollar bonus checks for themselves.
“Where contracts are exchange quoted, you’d be right Alva. But we’re dealing with bilaterals here. Different set of rules. They can rescind the contracts for fraud.”
Grenelund was not yet prepared to accept the slowly dawning realization of impending catastrophe.
“What about collateral? The last numbers I saw showed ninety percent of our trades were collateralized. Just sell the lot, add on our hedges and we’re covered.”
Bernie Billings did not want to sound like the angel of bad tidings, but he had further news on that front and it wasn’t comforting in the least.
“There were problems with our collateral and hedge monitoring algos. And our agent is telling us most of the collateral’s gone bad. A bunch of counterparties never signed the master agreements and there’re complex custodian and jurisdictional issues, enforcement is unlikely if not impossible.”