The Gods of Greenwich (33 page)

“We’ve never had a down year.”

“We hedge the portfolio.”

The one thing Cusack never said: “My boss is a liar and a snake no matter how good your investment results looked before this year.”

Cusack shut down his computer. He thumbed his nose at 179 unanswered e-mails in Microsoft Outlook and started toward the etched glass doors of LeeWell Capital. He was already mulling over take-out with Emi—spring rolls, fried rice, Moo Goo Gai Pan, and other cornerstones of Chinese comfort food—when Nikki’s private fax beeped.

It signaled an incoming message. Beckoned him to take a look. If beeps were visual, this one was a big, bold sign that read, “Please close your eyes, keep walking, and pretend you never saw what I’m about to print.”

*   *   *

The fax machine sat on Nikki’s desk outside Cy’s office. A bank of stomach-high files barricaded it from view. Most days, Cusack would have continued out the door. And during office hours, Cy’s assistant would have shuttled the document to her boss.

Nikki was gone, though. She left hours ago. The fax’s ringtone reminded Cusack he was alone. It was as good a time as any to check for the Mac laptop with the video from the Foxy Lady. He tried every drawer in Nikki’s bank of lateral files. They were all locked.

Cursing his bad luck, Cusack watched the cover page print. He listened to the document burp its way through the fax, the retching sounds of a dying technology. The firm Dillon and Henshaw, located in Paramus, New Jersey, was sending two pages.

Underneath the address, someone named Ron had scrawled,
For your files.
Cusack almost left. He hated paperwork. He stayed, not sure why, as the second page slowly bleated out of the fax. It proved to be a death certificate—cold, clinical, and indifferent to the message.

Manner of Death: The box for “accident” was checked.

Surviving Spouse: The name “Margery” occupied the space.

Medical Examiner/Coroner: Alexander Griswold had signed his name and certified the death.

When Cusack found the deceased, he read the name three times just to be sure his brain was operating on the up and up. The dead man was Conrad A. Barnes.

There was no question about the odds. It had to be the same guy Emi mentioned. The name was right, same spelling as the unibrow in the
New York Times
obituary. The date was right: September 19, 2008. Even the location of death was right: New Jersey.

Cusack stapled the two sheets and placed them on Nikki’s chair. He turned off the lights and headed into the night. He wondered whether Cy had taken the day to mourn a friend’s death.

Even a liar and a snake can have friends.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

TUESDAY
,
SEPTEMBER
23
BENTWING AT
$32.76

“Meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes, Ólafur.”

Hafnarbanki’s shares, trading at 625 kronur, had dropped more than 11 percent in two weeks. Hedge funds were not buying the stock. Nor was anyone else, not even the Qataris. Guðjohnsen had asked Ólafur to take a walk, away from wandering eyes and curious ears all through the office. There was a problem, and Ólafur knew it. But he had no idea what.

The chairman’s face ordinarily remained expressionless, the kind of bland white mug used to serve coffee at diners around the world—even Iceland. Guðjohnsen appeared pensive today. Like he belonged upstairs in the office. “Where do we stand on your war?”

“LeeWell got the message,” Ólafur replied. “Cy Leeser has lost over one hundred million dollars on Bentwing since January. When his fund collapses, no one from that godforsaken rat turd named Greenwich will ever short Hafnarbanki again.”

The silver-haired chairman appraised Ólafur, eyebrows raised, as the two men walked through the streets of Reykjavik. The younger man found the chairman’s expression curious. He had no idea what his boss was thinking. They walked in silence for two, maybe three minutes. Ólafur decided,
This is weird
.

Guðjohnsen finally asked, “Anything else I should know, Ólafur?”

“The Qataris love us. They’re making money on the Bentwing short, and it’s only a matter of time before their investment in Hafnarbanki pays off.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself,” noted Guðjohnsen.

“Our stock,” affirmed Ólafur, “will bounce back.”

“No,” bellowed the chairman. He stopped walking. With eyes like gun sights, he fixed on his subordinate and repeated, “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“You killed us,” hissed Guðjohnsen between clenched teeth.

“What are you talking about?” Ólafur lost all awareness of people in the streets. For a moment, he thought his boss daft.

“Your heat-seeking missiles,” the chairman cursed, “came back and locked on Hafnarbanki.”

Ólafur said nothing, stared blankly.

“Have you ever heard of the International Institute for Financial Transparency?” asked Guðjohnsen.

“No, sir.”

“I pay you to know these things,” observed the older man, shaking his head. “But because you don’t know, I’ll explain. The Institute is a financial services firm that publishes research reports, including a few on Hafnarbanki.”

“So does Merrill Lynch.”

“The Institute released a report last Friday,” the chairman continued, “that landed on the desks of editors-in-chief at
Morgunblaðið, Fréttablaðið,
and
DV.
”

“Okay?” Ólafur kept his words short. They could sink him later. He avoided the temptation to say, “Unknown research houses send their reports to everybody, including Iceland’s newspapers.”

“The Institute sent the same report to every member of Parliament.”

“What did it say?”

“The usual, Ólafur. Fifteen pages of leverage ratios and portfolio analysis. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did a copy-paste job from Merrill Lynch. Except for one thing.”

“Which is what, sir?”

“Page seven examines our relationship with Sheikh Fahad Bin Thalifa.”

Ólafur felt his knees buckle.

“The report says his investment in Hafnarbanki makes no sense. That our relationship with him is too cozy. That the timing is suspicious.”

Ólafur clenched his fist and kicked at the sidewalk, frustrated by his loss for words.

“The International Institute for Financial Transparency,” continued Guðjohnsen, “questions whether we negotiated a backroom deal at the expense of our depositors. That’s what every member of Parliament is reading today.”

“Anzvíti!”
Ólafur exclaimed, which is a cross between “damn” and “bastard” in Iceland. “Who are these people?”

“I doubted you’d know. According to my sources, a hedge fund from your ‘rat turd named Greenwich’ owns the Institute. The fund uses it to release nasty research on stocks they short.”

“We’ll expose them,” the younger banker cursed. “We’ll bury them.”

“I told you,” grimaced Guðjohnsen, “you already buried us.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“My phone is ringing off the hook with reporters or friends in Parliament. I expect a criminal investigation to start any day.”

For the first time in his career, Ólafur understood what it meant to get his ass kicked. He said nothing, tried to regroup, and wondered what Sun Tzu would have counseled.

“Fix your problem,” the chairman growled. “Our loan to the Qataris totals thirty-eight billion kronur.”

“My problem?”

“Need I remind you,” Guðjohnsen continued, his voice growing angry and loud, “the loan is non-recourse. The sheikh can default and we’re stuck with Hafnarbanki’s shares.”

“You approved that loan, sir.”

“That’s not how I remember it.” Guðjohnsen waited for a few suits to pass as he squared off with his subordinate and rubbed his hands in a washing motion. “If the state prosecutor cries fraud, you’re not taking me down.”

“The Qataris will work with us.” Ólafur suppressed his temptation to throw a punch at the seventy-year-old man.

“They’re already working with
you
.”

“What’s that mean?” Ólafur shot back. He added, “Sir,” to punctuate his question.

“The sheikh paid your cousin five million dollars for a painting.”

“That was part of the plan to win Leeser’s trust and get information.”

“Or line your pockets, Ólafur?”

“It’s not like that,” he protested.

“I’ll tell you what it’s like. Your warning to hedge funds is shit. Our market value is down over four billion euros since January. And you sold a five-million-dollar painting to one of our most important customers.”

“I can explain.”

“Save your breath. I only need to know one thing.”

The two men were now standing outside the 101 Hotel on Hverfisgata, the place where everything began to unravel. The junior banker, after a long game of silence ping-pong, asked, “Which is what, sir? What do you need to know?”

“How you intend to clean up your mess.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

LEEWELL CAPITAL
 …

“Shut the door,” Cy ordered Victor.

The words “meeting” and “beating” had become synonymous at LeeWell Capital as the markets crashed. Leeser returned Tuesday morning and summoned Cusack and Victor into the conference room first thing. He sipped coffee from an Andover mug, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white. He chambered hollow-point words that mushroomed when they hit, exacting maximum damage on the soft targets of ego and personal pride.

Cusack assumed his boss had taken Monday off to attend a funeral for Conrad Barnes. Or to focus on Bianca, who had converted the front lawn into Leeser’s personal closet. But if there was lingering sadness or problems at home, Cy never revealed either. He was neither happy nor depressed. He was calm, a technician. He appeared oblivious to the Bentwing shorts, like he had found new resolve from three days off.

“Okay, ladies,” said Leeser, with take-charge persona. “I pay you to think. Not to lounge with your pants around your ankles, hoping for some personal growth.”

Lee winced. Cusack shifted uncomfortably.

“Jimmy, I want you to take another run at New Jersey Sheet Metal.”

“They put us on hold. You know that.”

“I don’t give a shit. You’re the one with cash flow problems. So earn your keep. Make some calls. Set up some meetings. There’s big money when people flip out. Get us in front of every dollar we know, and that goes double for Durkin.”

“You got it.” Cusack felt his ears go red.

“Is Caleb on our calendar yet?”

“Working it. We canceled two dates already because his schedule keeps changing.”

“Stay on it, Jimmy. I don’t want a problem with my loan payment come February.”

The color drained from Cusack’s face. His ears stayed red.

“Your turn,” announced Leeser, turning to his head trader. “Is there activity on Planet Victor this morning?”

Lee shrugged his shoulders. The gesture was more “here goes” than “screw you.” Then he shocked both his colleagues. “Well, for one, I’m in Cusack’s camp. I say we sell everything in the portfolio and go cash.”

Jimmy whipped around, surprised.

“What about Bentwing?” asked Cy.

“You sit on the board. We can’t sell until the middle of October without running afoul of the SEC. But when the time comes, when the window opens, I’d blow out Bentwing, too.” Victor finished by asking, “What do you think, Cy?”

“That yours never dropped.”

Lee’s eyes widened. The rebuke caught him by surprise. He said nothing. His hands fumbled for the hammer, which was nowhere to be found.

“When Eddy or Numb Nuts wants to trade, offer market color, or whine about their wives,” Cy continued, “you swagger. You attack. You pour on the insults until they’re bawling on some shrink’s couch over their pathetic little lives at that joke of an investment bank formerly known as Merrill. Same for Goldman and the other cretins. We don’t work here. We fucking own Greenwich.”

Cusack and Victor both stared at their boss. His face was burning fiery red. The veins in his neck throbbed with enough 911 intensity to scramble a dozen paramedics.

“Why?” asked Jimmy. “What’s the point?”

“If you act like a loser in this market,” explained Leeser, “you’ll be the first to get fucked. I know. I’ve been here before. So cowboy up, ladies. We’re not selling a damn thing.”

“Glad to see the confidence,” pouted Victor. “Care to explain why?”

“You think this is sharing circle, Vic?”

“I’m just asking,” he replied.

Cusack detected the slightest quiver in the head trader’s voice.

“If you must know,” crowed Leeser, “I cured our problem with the hedges. Now get out of here and make me some money.”

*   *   *

On the way back to their offices, Cusack turned to his boss and said, “Sorry to hear about Conrad Barnes.”

Cy paused for a moment and said, “Come into my office.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Do you know Conrad?” asked Leeser.

“No. I was here late last night and saw his death certificate. I assume he’s a friend.”

“How’d you see my fax?” Cy knew the machine was hidden deep inside Nikki’s workstation.

“The pages sailed.” Cusack decided his white lie deserved a trip to confession. “I picked them up off the floor.”

“Conrad and I had business dealings from time to time.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Emi said he was a good guy.”

“Does she know him?”

For just a second, Cusack thought Leeser was losing his take-charge vitriol from the conference room. “No. But he helped Emi catch a cab to MoMA the night of your party. She recognized his picture in the Saturday
Times.
” Cusack absently rubbed the two-star pin on his lapel. “My wife was probably one of the last people to see him alive.”

“That’s creepy,” Leeser observed.

“That’s what Emi said.”

“Where’d she see him?”

“The Bronx Zoo. Emi’s a scientist there.”

“I see,” said Leeser.

“His death sounds gruesome.”

“The family’s pretty choked up, Jimmy. I’m helping his wife sort out their estate.”

“That’s really nice.”