* * *
Gallopy and several other large investment banks were based in Canary Wharf, in London's Docklands. I was soon on the Docklands Light Railway train speeding towards the financial centre. In the distance, through the glass front window of the train, the huge tall buildings came into view, overshadowing the pale winter sunshine. I got out of the train, went up the escalators, turned past the shops and gave my details to the security guards of Canary Wharf Tower. It is one of Europe's tallest buildings and Gallopy was near the top floor.
I had an appointment with James Whistfield, managing director of the commodities division. The receptionist pointed towards his office. It was on the other side of a trading floor that was about the size of two football fields. Hundreds of traders, sales people and analysts were sitting in front of computer screens, dealing, shouting and talking to clients. I walked across the floor and knocked on the door of Whistfield's office. He was busy on the phone and indicated that I should come in. While he was talking, I walked over to the window. Far below, I could see the Thames winding its way through London's eastern Docklands, westwards towards the ancient City of London and St Paul's. Further west, the Thames shimmered alongside the Millennium Wheel and Houses of Parliament, on the way to Chelsea.
Whistfield stood up and shook my hand. The office was cold because the heating wasn't working properly. I tightened up the buttons of my jacket. Unlike his traders with their shirts and braces, Whistfield wore a smart, dark blue suit and a plain, silk, light blue tie. He was about three or four inches taller than me. He had thick brown hair and eyebrows and a strong jaw; an ideal trading manager to rein in wild dealers. Whistfield looked me up and down. I was quite a sight. After being in a suitcase the previous night, my clothes were creased. He noticed me putting my hand over a stain, just below my left trouser pocket.
'I flew in from Cape Town this morning,' I said in an attempt to excuse myself. Unsmiling, he picked up a file on his desk and placed it on a table close to the window. At last he invited me to sit down. It was obvious what was going to happen. He would try to bully me.
'I see that you have some problems with Aquarium's account,' he said.
'I think that we both have problems with the account,' I answered, showing him that I was no pushover. 'My partner dealt with your New York office. Who was his broker there?'
'Ivan Smeerneck. You should know him. You're co-manager of the fund.'
'I've never traded with him. Smeerneck? I met him some time ago. He headed an energy firm. It was Wynchmore Energy, wasn't it?'
'We took them over at the beginning of last year,' said Whistfield. 'Surely you dealt with him?'
'No I didn't. I just met him once. I must have given his card to my partner. Aram Zabkian is the day-to-day trader. I'm involved in strategy and marketing. I leave all the details to him.'
'What happens when he's away?'
'He hasn't taken a holiday for a year.'
'So where is he now?' asked Whistfield, suspiciously.
'He's in Estonia. His mother is ill. Can I speak to Smeerneck?'
'He left the firm a few days before Christmas.'
The broker who handled Aram's trades gone? Something was wrong. I stared straight into Whistfield's eyes, saying nothing. If he was concerned - and he should have been - he was certainly not showing it. I didn't trust him. Whistfield opened the file and pulled out Aquarium's trading records.
'Fortunately our system allows us to swiftly obtain duplicates from our New York office,' he said.
He picked up a phone. 'Mr Miner's here. Can you join us?'
There was a knock on the door and another executive walked in. He was a small, worried looking Asian guy with a slight squint. He introduced himself as Sachin Menon.
'Mr Menon has been going through the records and has found a large loss on your account,' said Whistfield.
'That's why I'm here,' I snapped.
I examined the papers and saw that the losses on "Aquarium Volatility Account" had begun last summer, while the "Aquarium Account" was consistently profitable.
'Were you aware of these losses?' I asked, deciding to be aggressive and put the blame on them.
'Our New York office acts as an independent unit,' said Whistfield. 'They sent you the brokers' notes and statements.'
'Not to me . . . to my partner Aram,' I insisted. 'Had I known what was happening, I would have cut the losses immediately.'
I could see that they didn't believe me.
'In June the losses were only $10 million. Of course I would have cut them,' I insisted. 'At the end of December they had mounted to $241 million! Didn't your New York office know about it?'
'We're trying to find out. Smeerneck was in charge.'
'Why didn't your firm contact Leash Grobnick, my boss? You guys have made huge commissions out of Aquarium's dealings. Aquarium's a big fund. We're an important client!'
'Are you seriously trying to tell us that you were unaware of these losses, Mr Miner,' said Whistfield, countering my attack and showing me several statements. 'Take a look! "Aram Zabkian and Jack Miner, Managers, Aquarium Fund". If your partner was doing anything wrong, you must have known about it. Who do you think you're kidding?'
They had me there. No way to escape that fact. The statements were addressed to both Aram and me. I had to think fast.
'You guys must have known too,' I said. 'Now you tell me that Smeerneck has left? Why? On Aquarium's trading alone, he made Gallopy a fortune in commissions.'
They glanced at each other. I could tell that they suspected that Smeerneck was implicated.
'He's been suspended. For legal reasons we can't divulge the details,' said Whistfield. 'We're conducting an investigation.'
For the next couple of hours I sat in the office with Sachin Menon, doing our best to clear up Aram's mess. The deals were complicated. All sorts of sophisticated futures and options trades that were now mostly losses. Buying natural gas, selling oil, 'butterflies, straddles, collars and caps'. If only Aram had kept it simple. Menon was bright and he began to unravel the trades. The upshot was that Aram had concentrated on the natural gas and oil markets and had bought huge amounts on margin. We had to cut our positions drastically. Whistfield and Menon advised that we should sell our gas, oil, other commodities, shares and bonds gradually. Only a few at a time. Otherwise prices would slump.
Gallopy began to sell on that awful Friday. We hoped it would take a few weeks at the most; that prices wouldn't fall much. Maybe there would be a crisis in the Middle East or a hurricane that would cause prices to jump. Then, perhaps, we could get out at a small profit. The problem would then be solved and Aquarium investors would not lose money. On the other hand, if prices fell further, over-borrowed Aquarium would collapse.
Hopes of a price revival turned out to be fantasy. By the time I was back in the office late afternoon, oil had fallen to $55 and gas was below $8. Our positions were in the red. Our shares were tumbling and it was impossible to sell the junk bonds. Other investors were not prepared to buy securities of companies that could be damaged by a commodities slump. There was a risk that some companies could fail and their bonds could be worthless. Aquarium was trapped in the market quicksand.
I now had all the copies of the brokers' notes and statements and phoned Bank Kaboom, the Caymans administrator of Aquarium. They emailed me copies of the papers that they had received from Aram. They were the same as the ones that Aram had passed on to Amanda and I. Bank Kaboom was also unaware of the huge losses. Aram had kept them in the dark. The bank hadn't received any brokers' notes and statements of the "Aquarium Volatility Account". They had no idea that the account existed, let alone that Aram had parked $241 million losses in it. I don't know how Aram and Smeerneck managed to fool Kaboom, but that was the bank's problem.
Jenny called Florida, but Leash must have been on his yacht. She couldn't get hold of him on his mobile. I phoned him and also left a message, saying that he should contact me urgently.
I calm
ed Amanda, saying that everything was in hand. The brokers were helping.
Aram's housekeeper had refused to allow her to take away any post, but she had opened his business mail. There were no signs that he had dealt with more brokers. I told Amanda that I would try and figure out Aram's chaotic dealings over the weekend. She was relieved and left to go to a wedding in Shropshire.
After everyone had departed from the office, I went into the meeting room where there were now several large piles of brokers' notes and statements. I placed each pile into separate black bags.
* * *
Later, in the dark winter gloom, I loaded a taxi with my luggage and four black bags. It was Friday and Cape Town was already a distant memory. When I arrived in Hampstead, the taxi driver helped me drag the bags and baggage into my apartment. It was freezing and I switched on the heating system. Another shock; the water of my Aquarium in the living room was clouded. My magnificent tropical fish were floating under ice, dead. I had forgotten to arrange servicing of the tank when I went on holiday.
Periodically hitting my chest in tearful anger and frustration, I arranged the paperwork in neat piles on the living room carpet. Each pile was in date order in an attempt to match the deals of Gallopy, with those of Jamieson & Co and Blaby. I hoped that Aram had sold futures, options, shares and bonds through Jamieson and Blaby. They would then offset the purchases at Gallopy. I had to make Aquarium Fund profitable again, but I couldn't do so until I understood what Aram had done.
I tried to reach Aram yet again. No reply. Then I phoned Annushka and made contact, but could hardly make out what she was saying. She was crying, trying to tell me something in her Russian accent, but her mobile kept fading. Eventually I understood. The house of Aram's mother had burnt down. Both Aram and his mother had been killed in the fire.
I let the phone go and slumped on to the floor. Aram dead! Impossible! I rushed to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Chablis, opened it and drank the lot. Feeling sick, I rushed to the loo and vomited.
I came back, switched on my laptop and googled 'fire in Estonia', not expecting to find much in English. An Associated Press report from Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, had the story of the tragedy. Mirska Zabkian, widow of Indisius Zabkian, former Mayor of Tallinn, had died in a house fire. Aram, her son, had attempted to drag her out of the burning home. He died later in hospital from burns and asphyxiation. The report added that fires in Estonia had killed almost 11,000 people the previous year. The country had one of the worst fire safety records in Eastern Europe. Shell-shocked, I continued to scroll the Internet, not concentrating on what I was doing.
I tried to calm down; best to throw myself back into work and try to put Aram out of my mind. So I sat down on the carpet again and waded through the broker notes and statements to try and sort out Aram's complex deals. About half the positions were with Gallopy. But Jamieson & Co and Blaby also showed that Aquarium had extensive futures deals on margin and numerous options that could expire worthless. If prices tumbled further, resource shares would slump, especially the relatively unknown Eastern European, African, Asian and South American energy shares that Aram had bought. I would have to contact the brokers on Monday. Oil and gas had to rise or at the least remain steady. If they didn't Aquarium would be in big trouble.
A bank statement showed that the fund had borrowed $1 billion. Aquarium was leveraged to the hilt. It had bought futures and options on margin and had also borrowed extensively to buy shares and bonds. Losses would compound rapidly if prices continued to fall. Billions could be lost. I struggled on, trying to figure out the deals. In the end I had to admit to myself that I didn't have a clue what Aram had done. His dealings were unfathomable.
I wasn't functioning very well given the lethal mix of wine, jet lag, lack of sleep, sickness and stress. How could we drag ourselves out of this mess? Then it dawned on me. There was little point in pretending, or being in denial. It wasn't we who had to surface and recover. It was me! I was now responsible. Aram was dead. I felt sick again, ran to the loo and tried to vomit, but nothing came out. I threw off my clothes and sat down naked. The runny tummy and stomach cramps returned. Feeling sick and dirty inside and out, I remembered what Mum had told me: 'The best thing when you're feeling bad, is a hot bath'.
I turned on the taps and when the bath was full, slid in, dipped my head under the water, came up again and just lay there without washing myself. I switched on the hot tap again and felt drowsy from the steam. Memories and dreams floated in my head. I was a little boy, playing football with Dad and Mum on the beach. Then I was in the sea swimming far from shore. A wave, swiftly building up into a giant curved monster, crashed and overwhelmed me. I was twirling and whirling in uncontrollable cartwheels down, down into the deep. It was freezing cold, so cold that I was losing my breath and desperately clawing the water; struggling to swim upwards. I awoke with a start and pushed myself upright in the bath, gasping for breath. I must have been there for at least an hour. The water was cold. I had fallen asleep in the bath, without realising it and had slipped under water for a moment.
That would have made some headline: 'Fraudulent Fund Managers Die in Fire and Water.'
Shivering, I dragged myself out, ran into my bedroom, jumped into bed and pulled the covers over my freezing body. Gradually I felt warmer and I fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
It was about noon when I woke up that Saturday and looked at the mirror. My dull eyes were half closed and ugly dark hairs sprouted from unshaven cheeks and chin. My unkempt hair was like a matted dog's coat. Stumbling into the living room and easing my way through the paper piles to the kitchen, I thought of Aram. Why had he continued to buy after prices had risen so far? Why didn't he take profits? He never struck me as being that greedy and he certainly wasn't stupid. His death could have been an accident. More likely, it was murder. He must have made a deal with the Russian mafia and they wanted him out of the way. The big question, what deal?
I phoned Annushka to see how she and the kids were coping. Her mobile was on voicemail, so I left a sympathetic message telling her to call me. Sitting in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, I missed the company and comfort of my dog. I had a shave, felt fresher and drove to Martha's place to pick up Jazz. Martha wasn't there, so I decided to leave Pattie, in case she wanted to walk her own dog.
It was a cold, misty, January day. Black corduroys, a thick black jumper and a dark blue ski jacket and gloves, suited my mood and the weather. We walked past the ponds up a hill towards a clump of trees near Kenwood. Then we turned left and ambled along a wide path that was parallel to the wood. No running this time. I was too sick and weak.
After walking about a quarter of a mile, we turned left again, down a sandy hill into the open and through another wood. In front of us was Parliament Hill. The nausea that had bugged me in the past two days had gone and I felt a lot better. We walked slowly, ever so slowly, to the top. The sky had turned dark grey and specs of snow floated onto my jacket. The gloomy mist was so thick that I could hardly see the City. The Barbican, the Gherkin, St Paul's and Canary Wharf were barely visible. It was now almost four years since I had first seen the City from this hill. Then it was a bright summer day of hopes and dreams
Now I was super rich, going super broke. The light winter sleet started again and we shuffled slowly down the hill to a café where other dog owners were sitting. Instead of joining them, I sat alone, sipped my coffee and picked at my breakfast.
* * *
The sleet stopped and the brighter light made me feel a bit better. We walked towards the bleak, reddish brown brick wall surrounding the Lido swimming pool. Memories again. I had my first swim there after my first deals. Today, payback time. I couldn't bear to imagine what was going to happen. I had checked Friday's closing New York prices on my laptop and they had slid further.
We continued our walk along a pathway around the southern tip of the heath, past a railtrack on the left and an obstacle course and children's playg
round on the right. I went over to watch the children playing. Despite the cold, parents and kids were having a good time.
A tall blonde, in a beige trench coat and brown suede boots, was with a little girl. The woman turned and my heart stopped. It was Maggie Humford. I shuffled around the playground observing them for about ten to twenty minutes, building up courage to go up to her. Finally I tied Jazz's lead to the fence and walked into the playground. Maggie pushed the child on a swing for a time, pulled her from the seat and led her to a slide. Slowly and nervously, I walked up and said softly: 'Hi Maggie, how are you?'
'Jack! What are you doing here?' she asked, turning around, startled.
'Walking my dog.'
The little girl slid down the slide, ran up to us and partially hid herself behind Maggie's legs.
'Hi, what's your name?' I asked.
'Jacqui,' she replied.
'How old are you Jacqui?'
The little girl was silent.
'She's three in May.'
Her thick black hair and blue eyes jolted my memory, but I couldn't pinpoint what it was.
'She's cute,' I said.
Maggie smiled and Jacqui ran off to a climbing frame with us following. I was puzzled, remembering what had happened at the Crieff Hydro in Scotland. Hal Humford was drunk and had complained that Maggie couldn't have children. Perhaps they had adopted Jacqui. On the other hand, she looked a bit like Maggie.
'How's Hal?' I asked.
'We've split. I'm getting a divorce,' she whispered. 'Jacqui and I are leaving for Boston tomorrow evening. We'll stay with my parents for a while.'
Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) Page 31