Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  When Cyrus was with his friends and Gil ever turned up, he would tell them she was his bodyguard. His friends rarely batted an eye lid at this since many of them had gone to the same Chelsea school and that school had also been the alma mater of the children of Russian oligarchs and several celebrities whose kids had chauffeurs, bodyguards and other folk who drove traffic wardens mental as they parked their reinforced Chelsea tractors outside the school’s front gate, blocking oncoming traffic and generally annoying the somewhat pampered residents of SW3. Gil quite liked being called Cyrus’s bodyguard. It reminded her of what she once was capable of. She used the gym in the basement and sometimes even sparred with JJ. She too was skilled in Jeet Kune Do and though her injury prevented her from launching a devastating roundhouse kick to the head, she could break your leg with one well planted foot, make you gasp for breath with a straight finger jab to the throat or do you severe visual damage with a targeted strike to the eyes. Cyrus did not know that Gil had these skills. He knew she sometimes trained with Dad and that they had known each other for ages. Cyrus simply knew that Gil was wicked back-up. It was cool in a weird way, having a bodyguard thought Cyrus. Just how cool, the curly topped youngster would soon discover.

  * * *

  Toby Naismith was lolling back on a black leather sofa chair, downing his third Sonic Screwdriver of the night in Nobu’s bar and restaurant in Berkeley Street. It was nearly 10pm and a good sprinkling of hedge fund types, bankers, beautiful people, wannabes and, possibly, hookers were in that night. The bar was heaving, the noise was cacophonic. Deals were being done in one dark corner or the other, hopeful bankers were hitting on their hot secretaries, it was all going on. Toby was there with a couple of broker-dealer mates that he did most of his currency and commodity trades with, one from Credit Suisse and the other from JP Morgan.

  Toby lived in a bachelor pad in Islington, he was a London boy, born and bred. He could have afforded somewhere more expensive as his bonus for the past few years had been substantial but he enjoyed the bohemian buzz of N5. He did a great job at MAM and he was happy to report to JJ. The warped-minded Scot had shown belief in him from the start and increased the risk capital he had control over after only twelve months of monitoring his trades. He liked JJ. His boss had never asked him awkward personal questions, never stitched him up, never nailed him about his somewhat dishevelled appearance much of the time and, most importantly, trusted his judgement when it came to pricing in the FX and commodity markets.

  “Hey Jay,” called Toby as he was trying to get the attention of his pal. “Will we order some food for the table, the Wagyu beef with those hot sauces and the Hamachi and jalapeno starter?”

  Jay nodded and then continued his deep conversation with Kai whom he had known for years, way back to when they were students at Birkbeck.

  OK, thought Toby. I guess I’ll be the dynamic motherfucker who goes to all the bother of trying to attract the all too good looking waiters or waitresses to take an order, despite the fact that it’s my credit card that’s behind the till racking up the bill. At least I’ll know I’ve ordered what I want. These two neer-do-wells can like it or lump it.

  Toby liked Jay and Kai. When the three of them were together he called them J-K, partly because it saved a millisecond of time compared to saying both their names in full and partly because it conjured up visions of that Jay Kay singer bloke with Jamiroquai. The songs were rubbish thought Toby but the crazy frontman had a passion for supercars so he couldn’t be totally useless.

  Toby looked like a man who liked his beef. He was slim once, maybe even twice, but years of sitting in a chair, looking at a screen had taken its toll. He was thirty-nine years old but looked well older than JJ who was three or four years his senior. He didn’t go to the gym, he didn’t swim, he didn’t cycle. He didn’t have kids to keep him on his toes either. Indeed, Toby was a bit of a sloth, but he had his hair, his own teeth and no STDs to tell of, despite a few risqué encounters and, relevant to his continued employment, his trading brain was as sharp as a great white’s teeth.

  Toby tracked down Fernando, the waiter. He had no idea whether or not he was called Fernando, but he had that dark, Hispanic look about him, like Antonio Banderas or that tennis geezer Verdasco. Or it could just be Nobu’s lighting and he was like Casper the friendly ghost in daylight. Toby placed an order and went back to J-K. They were out of their deep conversation, and K beckoned Toby a bit closer.

  “Tobester my man. What do you think about gold? You’ve got a great track record on it and we’re seeing a lot of activity in the hedgie space.” To Kai everything was a –ster. The Queenster, the Boltster, even the wifester and the kidster, if he had any. But he was a smart kid i.e. under thirty, and the guys at JP Morgan held him in high regard.

  “Ah, the barbarous relic,” replied Toby, recalling what John Maynard Keynes, probably England’s best ever economist, had called the shiny metal. “Gold is unique. It was once the centre of the international monetary system. No other commodity has ever been that. Central Banks hold it in reserve by the tonne. Indians love it (dot, not feather), rappers stick it in their teeth, Californians used to kill for it and children are told they’re ‘good as gold’, not platinum, or titanium or any other –um. So the first thing to realise about gold – is that it’s special.”

  When it came to business, Toby was always serious. There was no sign of any effect of his now four Sonic Screwdrivers as he continued to present the potted history of gold to J-K, whether they wanted it or not. He was one of only a handful of financial types who could speak while eating and not simultaneously spray half munched bits of food over his attentive audience. Toby had skills. During another mouthful of delicious Wagyu beef, Toby now turned his attention to the current position of gold.

  “Gold yields no income, it’s not a bond, it’s not an equity and it’s not a currency deposit. When global interest rates are high, holding gold in your portfolio has a substantial opportunity cost. If the price doesn’t go up then you’re left with a big bar of metal doorstopper. Today global interest rates are not high. Therefore, you can be patient holding gold, as it’s not costing you much to do it. There are two other non supply and demand characteristics of gold; one is as a financial safe haven and the other is as a geopolitical safe haven. In the 1970s, the gold price rocketed from $200 per ounce to $800 per ounce. Mainly this was because inflation was high, thus devaluing the real purchasing power of fiat currencies like the British Pound, the US Dollar, the Deutschmark etc. Inflation is low these days, so that form of purchasing power erosion is not in play. Geopolitical issues are influential because when there’s a coup here, a government collapse there, investors do not want to be exposed to the currencies, bonds or equities of those countries that are having or could have a coup. Gold is attractive under these circumstances.”

  J-K were clearly awaiting the punch line. Toby had a long sip of his Screwdriver and then followed it up with the last forkful of his beef. Nobu’s portions were a bit on the meagre side for a beefmeister like Toby.

  “Gold is $1,500 per ounce, today,” informed Toby. “My view is that it will be $2,000 per ounce by the middle of next year and maybe over $3,000 per ounce before we next get a Labour government! Whichever it is, my friends, I’ll be trading the holy crap out of it. Kerching!” Toby ended with a flourish and a spot of Sonic Screwdriver on his shirt as he raised his glass.

  With that done Toby relaxed back into the soft sofa and gestured that he wished the attention of Fernando. While the three traders were busy chatting away they hadn’t noticed that Toby’s Blackberry was slithering around on the table top. It was on vibrate but it wouldn’t have mattered if it was ringing as Nobu noise was the dominant aural force. Finally, when the device eventually cosied up to Toby’s tall cocktail glass he noticed it and picked it up.

  “Toby, is that you?” said one of those Antipodean accents that should come with subtitles.

  “Yeah, yeah. Who’s that?”

  “It’
s Marcus from Wellington. It’s five in the morning here but we need to talk now. We’re going to get royally shafted by those Greek numpties if we’re not a bit Usain Bolt, my friend. I’ll tell you what’s up and then you need to get JJ.”

  Marcus Whyte was MAM’s researcher, based in Wellington, New Zealand. He was virtually a one-man office, had been around for a long time and had worked with Toby for six years. He knew JJ for about three. Most of the time, he didn’t have a lot to do but Wellington, then Sydney were the first FX markets to open up in any given day so it seemed wise to MAM’s Board that they should have someone there, just in case.

  The only other time Marcus was notably useful was the weekend in July 2003 when the British scientist and expert on biological warfare, Dr. David Kelly, was found dead. It was a few days after he was cited as a source questioning the authenticity of the dossier on weapons of mass destruction that Tony Blair, British Prime Minister, seemed to use as his catalyst for war on Iraq. This news came after the European, UK and US markets had closed on the evening of Friday the 19th. It was likely to be a robust blow to Blair’s government and his own standing in the Labour Party. Markets love conspiracy theories and this one had a weekend to brew. Market traders, like Toby, knew they could do nothing about it at the weekend. The pound would surely get mullahed on the Monday morning. If you were short sterling then great, windfall profit coming your way but if you were long then wallop; half a year’s bonus could be down the tube in an instant. Foreign exchange liquidity on a Monday morning in Wellington would be poor. Normally, it would take trades of several hundred million pounds at a time to move sterling’s price significantly during European and American hours. In early New Zealand time, however, small trades of five or ten million would be impactful. In addition, often traders would leave stop-loss orders with their counterparts in Wellington or Sydney just in case an unexpected event flared up over a weekend. These orders set a pre-determined price whereby either electronically or manually a trader was taken out of a position if the price was hit. The difficulty from the aspect of currency management was that these stop-losses tended to be stacked. If, for example, a trader had bought 100 million of pounds versus the dollar at 1.5420, ‘cable in a Spaniard’ in FX lingo, but placed a stop-loss at 1.5390, the loss if hit would be under £200,000, not great but manageable. Problems tended to arise when there was a thin market (low liquidity) with stop orders placed close to each other. In this circumstance, the stop could be activated several big figures below where it should be. If the trader was taken out at 1.4900 instead of 1.5390, the loss would be £3,500,000 not £200,000. In the early hours of the Monday following Dr. Kelly’s death, Marcus Whyte had given Toby the heads up about early price action and volume in cable, saving MAM several million pounds.

  The standing order was when Marcus Whyte called you listened. Toby wasn’t just listening, he was on the move, jacket in one hand, mobile phone in the other as Marcus outlined the problem to him. Now he was standing in Berkeley Street, hailing a cab with his jacket hand and kind of tumbling in a non-Olympic way into the back seats. His phone was still glued to his left ear. “Markham Square,” Toby responded when the cabbie asked him their destination. A few minutes later Toby and Marcus ended their chat and Toby sent a text message to JJ. He knew he’d still be up though it was 11pm and he wanted to give him a little bit of notice that he was on his way. Toby was glad that he’d had his Wagyu beef at Nobu. This was going to be a long night and JJ usually only had relatively healthy fayre in situ or those lightweight snacks that Cyrus liked. Toby was only five minutes away now from JJ’s house. He would try to compose himself, pop a tic-tac or six in his mouth and do his best to recount all the key elements of Marcus’s news. Friggin’ Popadopadopolases Toby thought, not the best pleased with the way the night was developing. ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts’ the old saying goes. Well for him, JJ and the rest of MAM it was beware of Greek interest bearing bonds. Friggin’ Popadopadopolases.

  JJ was waiting at the front door for Toby.

  “Sorry for the text and the late hour JJ but we’re in a bind.”

  “No problem, Toby, come on in.” JJ was in his night time casual gear, polo shirt, cargo pants, no socks, and comfy leather slippers that could have passed for casual loafers. Toby’s shirt still only had a nodding acquaintance with his pants. JJ wondered if he slept in it.

  “Hey Toby,” called Cyrus. He had heard his dad’s colleague come in and JJ had told his son that game night was over and that he’d be up for a while. Cyrus didn’t mind, he was already pulverising his dad at virtual ten pin bowling.

  “Hi Cyrus. How’s it going? Still playing that tin whistle?” responded Toby.

  “It’s a flute, plank!” Cyrus retorted. He and Toby often had a sharp exchange of banter. Both of them enjoyed it.

  “Given that you’re here at 11.30pm at night Toby, does this mean you’ve done serious damage to my piggy bank?” Cyrus asked. He wasn’t that bothered about money but he was mature enough to realise that that opinion was held predominantly by people who had plenty of it.

  “Well, I haven’t but there’s a bunch of Greek fucks who might want to rob you and then sell you back your little bank of pig empty.” Toby was immediately embarrassed about dropping the F-bomb and looked at JJ, hoping for not too much disapproval.

  “Don’t worry, Toby, Dad’s from Glasgow. The F-word is not so much an expletive there as an everyday adjective.”

  JJ reluctantly recognised that Cyrus was right. In Glasgow it wasn’t a very sunny day, it was a fuckin’ beezer day. JJ had tried ever so hard to eradicate his casual use of the F-word, and the B-word and the C-word etc. but the boy knew his dad. There was no way Toby was in trouble. Well, at least not for his language.

  “OK, you two. Verbal fencing time over,” said JJ. “Cyrus, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good sleep. Don’t feel too bad about losing at bowling. Love you.” JJ was amused at his attempt at stealing the bowling crown.

  “In your dreams, big daddy. Love you more.” With that Cyrus headed up to his room for some peace and quiet or ‘piece of quiet’ as he used to say as a kid.

  JJ and Toby headed into the living room. Toby sat in one of the cosy, huge, armchairs. “Do you want a drink, Toby, or are we going to have to have the clearest heads possible?” asked JJ.

  “We’re going to need the clearest heads possible chief, but I’ll have one of those eighteen year Macallans, straight, if you still have it.”

  For a Scot, JJ didn’t drink much. He didn’t like beer at all and when he was at university he did have one term in his final year when he thought it would be seriously manly to drink Guinness. That whole term was a blur. The only good thing to come out of it was that he sat his final maths paper more or less drunk as a skunk and he was so relaxed, he just rattled through the exam and got a first. If Guinness TV adverts weren’t so good, he’d have offered his story as a sales pitch. JJ did like the occasional Macallans or even the peatier Languvallen. He used to drink it straight, never with ice, but now he diluted it with a splash of Canada Dry. He got Toby his and one for himself.

  “OK, Toby, what’s up that couldn’t wait till tomorrow?” enquired JJ as he settled down on the sofa opposite Toby. Toby took a sip or two, actually it was a glug or two, and began.

  “So the short and long of it is that, according to Marcus, that bailout vote in the Greek Parliament scheduled for a fortnight’s time might be tomorrow evening instead. Marcus has a pal, Theo Spiridakos, who is high up in Syriza, the official Greek opposition party. According to Theo, several of the PASOK party, the junior party that makes up the government along with New Democracy, are fed up to the back teeth with Prime Minister Samaras and, more importantly for us, no longer want to support New Democracy’s commitment to the bailout package. If you take the number of MPs that Syriza has and add it to the smaller opposition parties MPs then you would have 145 votes if they all voted in unison. ND has 127 seats and PASOK 28, making 155 in total. Marcus says his information i
s that 6 PASOK members are ready to switch their voting allegiance. That would give the opposition 151 votes and the government 149. Marcus said that, in Theo’s view, Alexis Tsipras, Syriza’s leader will offer the opposition minnows more or less anything to vote with him against the government. Tsipras’s plan is to win that vote, then call for a vote of no confidence in the government, win that, tell Merkel, the EU, the IMF and anybody else who cares to listen, to shove their bailout plan, default on their debts à la Argentina at the turn of the Millennium, come out of the single currency, whatever the legal ramifications, go back to their own currency, devalue by 40% vis-à-vis the implied current price for the drachma versus the euro, call it the New Drachma and, fucking hey presto, Greek exports will boom, imports will fall, unemployment will decline and all will be happy in the Hellenic Republic.” Toby felt the need for a few more glugs of Macallans at this point.

  JJ had listened to Toby’s tale without interruption. As each snippet of information came out, JJ’s brain was assessing, analysing, calculating. If the information was accurate then, at best, they only had till Friday, tomorrow, lunchtime to ditch one big bucket load of Greek bonds.

  “Toby, given that the entire crux of this depends on how worthy this Spiridakos fellow’s information is, what makes Marcus think that it isn’t some desperate spin doctor’s wishful thinking. The bloke’s in the opposition party, perhaps he wants a bit of market chaos to put pressure on the government ahead of the vote. In fact, would Marcus’s pal, who he may not have seen for ages, really tell him this kind of stuff?”