The Girl From Home: A Thriller (9 page)

“And it was very much appreciated, Jonathan. But last year was last year, and this is now. And now my regulators are telling me that we need to raise capital because our investment in your fund puts us on the wrong side of some regulation. I'm not willing to dilute my stock by taking on fifty billion dollars in debt, so I'm going to exercise my contractual right to unwind my position with you. No tears. We can do business again—just not right now.”

Jonathan's mind is racing. He ping-pongs back and forth between sucking up and playing hardball. He decides to try the carrot one last time, largely because he has only one stick and that's a last resort.

“How about if we offer you a kicker to stay in? Favored nation status with Harper Sawyer? Name your price.”

“Sorry, Jonathan. No can do. I'm out.”

The fact that Ross didn't even make a counteroffer means there's no give there. This isn't a negotiation, and never has been. Ross wants his money, end of story.

Which means that Jonathan has to go with Plan B. Delay.

“Okay, Michael. You win. We'll cash you out. But we simply can't do it in the time frame you want. I'm going to need at least ninety days to make the first payment.”

Jonathan manages to say this with a straight face. He's hoping that Ross at least meets him somewhere in the middle. Even if Ross demands the first payment in thirty days rather than the seven called for in the redemption notice, it would be a godsend.

“Ninety days? Oh, no, I'm sorry, Jonathan. You're going to have to honor the timetable in the offering docs.”

Jonathan can no longer hold it together. “I'm not going to crater the fund,” he says sternly. “No way. That'll cost a lot of people a lot of money. And for what? So you can satisfy some bureaucrats? Michael, let's be real here.”

Whatever civility existed between them has now ended. Ross shakes his head, as if to say that Jonathan clearly has no idea who he's dealing with.

“How's this for real, Jonathan? Seven days from now, I'm expecting two hundred and fifty million dollars to be wired from your shop to mine. If that doesn't happen, my lawyers are in federal district court within twenty-four hours.”

Jonathan has only one play now, and it's the nuclear option. He's never pressed that button before, but then again, no one had ever threatened the survival of the fund before.

“Michael, all it takes is a single phone call from me to the
Journal
to say that the fund is insolvent, and thirty seconds after it's online, every single one of my investors will want out, too. You won't get your money because there won't be enough to go around. Like you said, we're at a four-to-one leverage here. And I swear to God, that's exactly what I'll do. I'd rather go out in a blaze of glory and have all my investors share the pain than fucking redeem you and then
still
go under two or three months from now.”

Michael Ross at first seems like he's considering Jonathan's ultimatum. But then he lets out a deep-down guffaw that leaves no doubt that Jonathan has overplayed his hand.

“Jonathan, you need to think through what you say sometimes. You really think I give a flying shit about losing what I got with
you
? We're paying seven billion in fines next week to settle some oil disaster fuck-up. Even if we lost every nickel in your little pissant fund, it doesn't rise to the level of our disclosure requirement. So please, don't delude yourself. This isn't a situation where we both have guns to each other's head. If I pull the trigger, your fucking head explodes. You pull it? At most, it's like a mosquito bite.” Ross clicks the lock on the car door. “Now, why don't you run along. Get the fuck out of here.”

*  *  *

Jonathan literally runs the five minutes back to the office. The rain is now coming down even harder than before, so by the time he reaches the trading floor, Jonathan has no misapprehension that he's a sorry sight, sweat drenching him as much as the rain.

He makes a beeline to Haresh Venagopul's cubicle.

“Jesus. What the hell, Jonathan? You look like . . . crap, actually.”

“Come with me.”

Jonathan doesn't wait for an answer and strides purposefully toward the men's room. Nor does he turn around to confirm Haresh is following him.

Once inside, Jonathan bends down to check under the four stalls.After verifying he and Haresh are alone, he walks over to the sinks and turns on all three faucets. Then he positions himself up against the door, blocking anyone else's entry.

“Whoa, okay, Jonathan, now really, what the hell is going on?”

Jonathan replies just loud enough to be heard over the running water. “Michael Ross wants to redeem. The whole fucking position.”

Haresh's eyes widen. “Seriously? What's the timetable?”

“He's not giving us any break on the terms. Bottom line, we need to raise two hundred and fifty million dollars by this time next week, and that much again in thirty days, with the balance of his investment due in full at sixty.”

Haresh noticeably slackens, as if he's just taken a body blow.

“Options,” Jonathan snaps. “What happens if we unwind the position?”

“That's not possible,” Haresh answers. “Actually, let me be more specific.
Possible . . .
but the position is about as bad as it could be right now. The ruble is trending down, and a redemption of this size will trigger the banks' rights to demand a pay-down of the credit line, which means we'll need to liquidate even more of the fund. Redeeming Ross means a loss of at least . . .” Haresh's eyes go back in his head, as if he's calculating. “Could be ten billion.”

Ten billion dollars. Might as well be ten trillion. Either way, it means the end of Jonathan's career.

Jonathan nods. He already knew this, but hearing it from Haresh makes it certain. “Okay, how about raising the cash,” he says.

“Seven hundred million? From where?” Haresh quickly answers.

“Baby steps. Right now, two hundred and fifty million buys us a month. We'll worry about the rest later. What's our borrowing power?”

“Uh, nothing. When we increased the leverage the last time, we exhausted the credit line. If anything, we're already overextended.”

“Really nothing? Or not two hundred and fifty million nothing?”

Haresh shrugs, now leaning against the sink. “I don't know, Jonathan. It depends on where you mark the position . . . I mean, with some creativity . . . maybe thirty million. Maybe.”

Jonathan allows himself a small smile. Progress. “Okay, so we're two hundred shy, give or take.”

“No, more like two twenty-five. Besides, what difference does it make if we owe Ross two hundred million or two twenty-five?”

“Don't worry. I'm going to raise the difference and pay him off,” Jonathan says matter-of-factly.

Haresh looks over at the running faucets half filling the basins, Jonathan's crude effort to avoid being recorded. “You need to be careful,” Haresh says. “You're entering Madoff territory here.”

*  *  *

Five minutes later, Jonathan is back in the rain, although at least this time he's brought an umbrella. He moves away from the assistants taking a smoke break, and although he's not quite alone, he assumes he's put enough distance between them that he's not going to be overheard.

His first call is his best shot—Isaac Goldenberg.

It's eight forty-five in Las Vegas. The phone rings five times, and for a moment Jonathan worries that no one is in yet, but finally Goldenberg's assistant answers.

“Hi, Marilyn, it's Jonathan Caine. Is Mr. Goldenberg in?”

“Oh, hi, Jonathan. No, I'm afraid not. He's in Macau.”

Damn. “What's the time difference there?”

“Fifteen hours ahead,” she says quickly. “So it's . . . eleven forty-five at night.”

Now Jonathan worries that Goldenberg is asleep. The guy's eighty-three, after all.

“Okay, I'll try him on his cell. Thanks.”

Surprisingly, Goldenberg picks up on the second ring. The man always sounds like he's got a mouth full of marbles, so Jonathan can't tell whether he's woken him. Not that Jonathan cares. He's thanking his lucky stars that this call won't have to wait until morning in China.

“Isaac! Jonathan Caine here in New York. I'm so sorry to bother you this late on the other side of the world, but I have this really tremendous opportunity and I'm calling my investors in order of magnitude, and I wanted to make sure that you had the first swing.”

Goldenberg chuckles, which causes Jonathan's heart to sink. He's pressing too hard.
Dial it back
, he tells himself.

Jonathan says more deliberately, “There's been a market uptick and we want to quickly capture all the profit we can on the position, and that requires additional capital. Harper Sawyer is putting up two hundred and fifty million, with a one-billion target commitment. I'm calling to test your appetite for some or all of that last seven hundred and fifty mil.”

Jonathan now waits. The next words out of Isaac Goldenberg's mouth will seal his fate.

What he hears is another laugh, and then Goldenberg says, “Well, let me check my coat pocket and see if I got that kind of change rattling around.”

“I got to be honest with you here, Isaac. You're going to hate yourself if you pass on this.”

This earns a much louder laugh from Goldenberg. One that Jonathan knows has nothing to do with Goldenberg actually being amused.

“Jonathan . . . first of all, we both know that you're definitely
not
being honest with me. I may be in China, but I hear that desperation in your voice loud and clear. I really don't want to know why, because, frankly, I figure you'll lie to me anyway . . . but I know that you wouldn't be asking unless you were pretty deep in it.”

Shit. It's all over.

“But here's the good news. I like you. I really do. And I say that even though all you Wall Street pricks think you're a helluva lot smarter than some guy like me who doesn't have a fancy MBA but just built a business from nothing. So here's what I'm going to do for you. The moment I get a guarantee, in writing, that you're going to double my investment in one year, I'm going to wire you one hundred million dollars. What do you say to that?”

Jonathan wants to scream
YES!
but he's got to play hard to get, or Goldenberg will know that Jonathan's troubles are twice as bad as he surmises.

“I'm sorry, but I just can't do that, Isaac. You know the bureaucracy here. It'll take me three months to get that kind of request through . . . and even then, I don't know if it'll get approved. Hell, I don't even know if what you're suggesting is legal.”

“Ah, I can see you're not getting it, Jonathan. I'm not negotiating. Either I get a written confirmation from you in the next sixty minutes that you're guaranteeing me a two-hundred-million-dollar payout next year, or I go with my gut, which is telling me to get out of the fund while the getting's good. And I bet that makes your problems ten times worse.”

The phone goes dead.

Jonathan's all smiles, however. He's now a hundred million dollars closer to averting disaster.

His next call is to Norm Solomon.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Caine?” Solomon says.

“Why don't you just call me Mr. Opportunity, because I'm a-knockin', Norm. I have the inside track on a position, and we're offering it only to our biggest investors. Between us—and I'll deny it if you tell anyone—Goldenberg and Ross are both in big, as is Harper Sawyer. I've got a sliver left, and thought you might want it.”

“So, I'm third, huh?”

“I don't think it's so bad to be behind the guy who's number five on the
Forbes
list and the head of Capital Investments at Maeve Grant. And not to burst your bubble, but I gotta tell you, you're nowhere near being our third-biggest investor. But there's a window that's about to shut, and I know you can move money fast and without a lot of commotion. I don't want my other investors' panties in a twist about why I didn't come to them first. So discretion matters here. A lot.”

“I see. And how much is this opportunity going to make me?”

“Two hundred million now, and you'll see at least three hundred in six months.”

Jonathan knows that Solomon can't raise two hundred million dollars. At most, he's good for half of that. Jonathan's only asked for more because he wants Norm Solomon to be the beggar here.

Sure enough, Solomon bites. Jonathan knew he would—the guy's greedy as hell.

“You putting that in writing?”

Jonathan decides to play along. In for a penny, in for a pound, and he's got to fabricate something official-looking for Goldenberg anyway, so what's another fraudulent document in the big scheme of things?

“Already drafted. I just need to know what name to put on the signature line.”

“That's Solomon, like the king. Only thing is that I'm afraid you're going to need to put me down for a hundred only. That's all I can do.”

Jonathan now has him on the hook. It was time to reel Solomon in.

“I wish I could, Norm, but I'm really looking at doing this in just a few big tranches, so my inclination is just to say no and go down my list. If I have to break up the opportunity, it'll cost me more. That last piece always does. God knows what I'm going to have to offer just for the tail.”

“Oh, c'mon,” Solomon pleads. “Do me a solid on this one, I really need a win.”

“You're breaking my heart, Norm.” Jonathan pauses for dramatic effect. “Here's the best I can do for you. If you wire a hundred mil by COB, you're in, but I'm not papering it. For that little, it's not worth the legal fees. But you have my word on the upside. Guaranteed.”