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.
Griffen 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.
He 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.
Griffen had 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, his 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.
Chapter 3
“Wonder how they’re going to enjoy having their bullshit exposed?” Steven muttered.
Avalon looked up from the floor, evaluating whether there was a promise of a treat in the statement. Finding none, he resumed his well practiced canine repose, uninterested in whatever drama was unfolding with his master.
Trading had concluded hours earlier, and the stock chat forums Steven monitored had largely gone silent, other than to rail at the
obvious manipulations of the stock and the conspicuous absence of any regulatory intervention. After wolfing down lunch, Steven had returned to his workstation and spent the rest of the afternoon typing furiously on his keyboard, putting the final touches on the website he’d been working on for the last month.
He was able to use off-the-shelf modules for it, and had designed it to be easy to read, informative, and balanced, eschewing hyperbole and hysterical language in favor of an almost academic tone. He figured that in order for it to have maximum impact and be taken seriously, it had to avoid any whiff of being kooky-sounding or angry, favoring instead a dry, factual approach. Studying the layout of the home page he tweaked a few small items, resizing some of the margins and image files to be more visually appealing and easy to read. Satisfied with the way the fields lined up, he clicked ‘save’ and decided to call it a day. He looked at his watch, then reached his arms over his head and stretched, finally finished with the huge project he’d taken on.
Steven padded over to an overstuffed chair in the corner of his den and sat down, assuming a familiar position – hands clasped in his lap, eyes closed, head slightly bowed. His breathing subsided to a few intakes per minute, shallow breaths, hardly discernible. His blood pressure dropped, heart rate slowed, awareness of his surrounding receded until he was in a psychic vacuum absent any thought or mental activity beyond simply being.
Meditation had been an important part of his martial arts discipline for eighteen years. The experience inevitably left him feeling cleansed and focused, and he found it helped every aspect of his performance. Synapses were better aligned, reflexes improved, responses more immediate.
He stayed in a meditative state for twenty minutes, until some distant part of him signaled a return to awareness. His vital signs gradually increased, breathing became deeper, and after several moments he opened his eyes, revitalized and refreshed.
The first few moments were always dreamlike, almost the same as walking out of a quiet museum or a church after mass; the senses re-calibrating to motions and sounds and near- constant stimuli.
Rising from his tranquil spot in the corner, he ambled over to the sliding glass doors and considered the view. It was dusk, and the sun was beginning its spectacular descent into the glittering sea.
Avalon lollopped over to greet him, hopeful for an outing. They walked onto the patio, taking in the non-stop passage of tourists and locals skating and rolling and pedaling past his vantage point. He noticed Gilbert, the resident homeless guy who invariably shuffled along this very route every evening, engrossed in discourse with invisible companions who assisted him with his inspection of the garbage cans lining the path.
Steven went inside and rummaged through the refrigerator for last night’s leftovers and searched in his pockets for a few small bills. He knew Gilbert would never beat whatever afflicted him, but to Steven’s way of thinking, it didn’t matter. Sometimes you win...
He hopped over the gate and greeted Gilbert by the little bench on the strand, as was his custom. They talked a while, and Steven handed him what he had to offer, which was always gratefully accepted. Avalon, adept at following Steven over the gate, looked up at him hopefully, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth.
“Don’t worry, boy. There’s still some chicken left for you.”
They returned to their little patio to watch the show. Catalina Island shimmered in the distance and remote oil platforms jockeyed with tankers in the shipping lanes for preeminent position for the evening’s sunset performance.
He registered the garage door opening and closing, and soon felt hands on his shoulders.
“You’re a lucky bastard, my friend.” Jennifer had already changed out of her work outfit – khakis and black blouse – and into sweat pants and a tank top.
“Rather be lucky than smart.” They’d been dating for a couple of years, a comfortable relationship that had developed a rhythm that satisfied their needs.
Jennifer considered his profile before looking over to the desk with the pile of research and notepads inside the house. She knew about his web project. “Aren’t you worried about waving a cape in front of the bull?”
“These dirt-bags are selling junk to widows and orphans, wiping out life savings, and ruining the market,” he said as he leaned back and closed his eyes. “I’m just leveling the playing field. No big deal.”
“When are you planning to put it online?” she asked.
“Why not tonight?”
“I don’t know, Steven. I’ve had a bad feeling about this since you started with it.” She pulled away and was quiet for a moment. “Where do you want to go to dinner?” she finally asked, moving the dialog to neutral ground.
Steven pulled at his chin. “Hmm…let’s go down the strand and do Italian. A little chicken Marsala never hurt. Yum yum yum. A little wine, a little song...”
“Sure. I’ll throw on some shoes and grab a sweater.” She stared at the top of his head for a minute, the ocean breeze tickling her face as she thought about saying something more, then she sighed, and turned to go back into the house.
The website had been structured as an expose of the junk science and questionable nature of the technology Allied was touting and the suspicious trading patterns the stock routinely enjoyed. Steven had conceived the site after finding sites targeting the shady dealings of large Wall Street banks, like GoldmanSachs666.com. If a site like that could expose the underhanded actions of Wall Street’s icons, he figured he could create one on a smaller scale and illuminate the crookery in play with Allied and the Griffen gang. If the misdeeds were memorialized in one place, his theory was it would be easier for anyone investigating to spot the manipulative patterns in the trading, as well as the obvious chicanery that was the network's standard operating procedure.
His new website detailed the questionable nature of the science the company claimed to be developing and pointed out that many of the company’s proponents were a network of physicians, scientists and stock promoters who’d been active in other, ultimately worthless shams that had cost investors everything. It also pored over public filings and exposed the ownership of the company’s stock, highlighting the massive role Griffen played.
All in all, it presented a compelling argument that trading in Allied was anything but fair and honest, and went into significant detail to link the players in the nefarious pump and dump scam.
Damaging stuff to be sure, but a hair shy of proof. Oh well, nothing was perfect. The time had come to put the site up and fire a salvo across the opposition’s bow.
When they got back from dinner he uploaded the site files to an internet service provider in Texas. He’d deliberately chosen a company in a different state so anyone interested in silencing the site would be looking in the wrong places. He’d registered the domain name using the address of a now-defunct Irish pub in New Orleans, and created a blind account for e-mail contact. It all added up to making the site’s creator invisible and impossible to trace.
www.AlliedExposed.com went live at 12:04 a.m..
He knew it would likely take a while until it propagated and was available for viewing everywhere, but figured that within six to eight hours most areas of the country would be able to view it. Before going to bed, Steven typed a post on one of the most popular internet message boards, inviting readers to the website. With any luck some exposure would get the regulators and the mainstream public interested in the doubtful technology and trading chicanery, resulting in some badly needed enforcement of the anti-manipulation rules. Steven just hoped it would go viral after his fellow message board denizens spread the word around. He’d done all he could at this point by collecting the data and highlighting the abuses; it was in the public domain now, and would take on a life of its own – or die – based on forces outside of his control.
Steven powered down his system and scratched his head, realizing for the first time how late it was. But the deed was now done, and he felt like a weight had been lifted from his
shoulders. It was a job well done, and could actually have an impact on the ultimate outcome of the pump and dump scheme. He supposed he'd know soon enough.
Exhausted, he padded up the stairs and began his bedtime ritual of tooth brushing and giving Avalon the final treats of the day, and after studying his bloodshot eyes in the mirror and registering how much time he'd been in front of the computer, barely made it to the bed before he started snoring.
Chapter 4
Griffen was thoroughly livid. He wasn’t accustomed to being challenged, and certainly wasn’t used to being publicly mocked and put on display. His livelihood and success depended on obscurity, on being able to operate in the shadows without prying eyes disturbing his plans. He knew how to play the media game. He understood exactly how effective propaganda could be, and didn’t like it directed at him.
The last thing he needed was some website documenting the blow by blow of his promotion of Allied, and exposing his network. He, more than anyone, grasped the power of information control; and he realized there was a potential disaster in the making the second he heard about the site. There was way more at stake than just the one company’s fortunes. His funds enjoyed invisibility from regulators by virtue of the unseen hand of one of his investors, and publicity and exposure invited the kind of attention he didn’t need. The website posed a massive threat to his entire operation and was an obvious disaster in the making. This had to get stopped cold, or he’d be incurring significant risks he couldn’t afford. And with those risks could come ugly consequences.
Zero Sum Page 3