The Last Trade (30 page)

2

New York City, 8:15
A.M.

I
t commences in a brokerage house in Sydney, with a fifty-million-dollar U.S. short position laid against Transmediant! placed by a firm in Berlin called Iliad on behalf of a Philadelphia-based client account.

Within minutes, dozens of other substantial but smaller shorts are placed on Transmediant!, from Tokyo to Mumbai, followed by many more even smaller positions heading east to west with the sun as markets open and others begin to close across the planet.

The Transmediant! plays are shadowed, almost without fail, by tens of thousands of other shorts on the other six securities that were alluded to on Danny Weiss's board. Most of the ancillary activity is originating in Hong Kong. And then, without any tangible link or reason, besides the fact that investors are smelling the scent of blood in the waters of a particular industry, sector, or an entire market, there commences frenzied shorting and across-the-board selling, starting in Asia, then Europe.

The Nikkei loses 5 percent in less than two hours of midday trading, London more than six before curbs kick in. Some exchanges and securities attribute their sell off to sovereign debt concerns or the bad set of numbers—employment, housing starts, confidence—du jour. But most of the panic, at first, never enters the human psyche. It's the by-product of an unprecedented volume of automated trading spreading virally across multiple market centers, across tens of thousands of computers capable of dumping in milliseconds what once took days.

Only when the cumulative effect begins to register with human beings, as the markets prep to open on the East Coast of the United States, does anxiety and fear begin to stir. Once awoken, that anxiety and fear spreads across the Atlantic like a tsunami. Like a plague. Like the fallout of a bomb.

It's no surprise that by the time Rick Salvado emerges from his limo in front of the New York Stock Exchange at 8:45
A.M.
, primed to ring the opening bell at 9:30 with Benjamin Krupp, the CEO of Transmediant!, and a phalanx of other executives and financial leaders attending the opening of the DAVOS WEST event uptown, his smiles are met with downward glances and panic-stricken frowns.

One of Krupp's PR guys waves Salvado over to their group and explains the situation. Less than an hour before the market is to open, exchange officials and others at the Fed are discussing whether to implement trading curbs or circuit breakers to slow the velocity of a potential economic catastrophe. They're considering a one-hour trading halt in the cash market and a corresponding trading halt in the derivative markets, all of which are based on substantial movements in broad market indicators.

What everyone is trying to figure out, the man explains, is just what has triggered the seemingly random substantial movements. There's been no especially dismal set of jobs or production numbers released in the past twenty-four hours; no major corporation posted a significantly lower than expected earnings report; and despite what everyone is surmising, the major economies of most of the nations of the free world are, for the moment, relatively stable.

Inside a VIP lounge overlooking the trading floor, Salvado asks the head of communications for the NYSE, “Anyone know what's causing it?”

The man manages a gallows laugh. “You're asking me? Shit, I thought if anyone, you'd know.”

A financial reporter for Reuters, tagged by a field producer with a video cam, asks, “Rick, can we get you on the record for a quick sound bite to discuss what we might be in store for today.” Tommy Rourke gets between the reporter and Salvado.

“Give him a break, guys,” Rourke says. “He just got here.”

Under his breath Salvado whispers to Rourke, “What do I tell these people?”

“Gotta stay positive, Rick. Too late to change now.”

Salvado turns to face the reporter. “Look,” he says, “I'm here to talk about the biggest financial and business gathering in the history of New York, held in the coolest corporate public space in the world, owned by my pal Ben here,” he says, pointing to Transmediant!'s Krupp, who teeters bug-eyed on the other side of the room in deep jittery conversation with a circle of advisors.

“Okay,” replies the reporter. “How about we ask how you and Mr. Krupp feel about the fact that on the day you are to ring the bell, the day of a historic event, the world markets are tanking and the value of a share in his company has plummeted more than 40 percent?”

“How about you take your remote and go fuck yourself,” Salvado answers, staring directly into the camera. Then, turning to Rourke and the NYSE communications guy, he says under his breath, “Transmediant! is already down by half?”

Rourke shrugs and says, “Everything's down half, pal.” The PR guy claps his hand together and forces a smile. “This is a problem. Plus, how do you ring the opening bell for a market that, technically, if they impose curbs, will remain closed?”

Salvado's phone rings. He holds up a hand, excusing himself, and steps away. It's Roxanne. “Rick, I'm getting bombarded. The press. The conference people. Your investors are freaking. They want out now. Chilton at Goldman has called three times. He's worried about the fund, if it can handle this with all the longs. If we go under, he said it would not bode well for Goldman, either.”

He hands the phone to Rourke. “Tell them I stand by my positions. No one even knows what's causing this. Say this could very well be some kind of market anomaly like a black box–induced flash crash. I don't know. Turn this into a statement with confidence. A smile. A steady hand. Give it to PR and make it an electronic release. Tell them that Rick Salvado still believes.”

When he turns back around, a reporter from CNN is in front of Salvado. “Can you give us a version of what you just said, for
Morning Edition
?”

He is about to blow them off as well, but after making eye contact with Rourke, he catches himself, recalibrates the value of the proposition. “Sure. First give me a minute to talk to my pals here.” Three grim-faced men are waiting for him. One is second in command at the exchange, and the other two not far behind.

“What do you think, Rick? We have no info on this at all, other than, according to Treasury, a bunch of rumors and chatter. But it's bad. Like some kind of micro arms race is being waged. Computerized arbitrage.”

Salvado squints, clicks his tongue. “Shit, you all know much more than me, and have much more information at your disposal, but my two cents? If it was me, and I had no hard evidence of anything, no overseas catastrophe, no explicit threat, no institution straddling the abyss, on the day of a major happening that transcends finance, after all we've been through, I'd open the goddamn thing. On freaking time. Last thing we need in this country is another collapse, or even a scare. Get a bunch of us to stand up, not just me and Ben, but some G20 guys, Trump, the mayor, and Zuckerberg go on camera and project confidence, downplay this and get things moving. I mean, the NYSE should be able to withstand a rumor storm, right?”

3

New York City, 8:39
A.M.

M
iranda is led through the bowels of a midtown office building and into a storage room. A bearded man with an unholstered pistol and a thick Russian accent points to a straight-backed office chair and tells her to sit.

“I want to talk to Rourke,” she says.

The man shoves her onto the seat and trains the pistol on her face. “Rourke,” he says, mock laughing. “There is no Rourke.”

After they took her out of the Chelsea, she was certain they were going to kill her and dump her somewhere on the west side, but they didn't. “You still have value,” the Russian tells her. “Diminishing by the second, but if we reach your husband and he becomes a threat and he knows that we have you, we have leverage.”

A welt has risen on her cheek. Her head throbs from a lack of sleep. To the dismay of the Russian, she begins to cry, overcome by the weight of what she's been through, what she knows, and the certainty that she and her husband and many others are about to die.

4

New York City, 8:48
A.M.

T
he TV anchors share facts they don't understand in voices that lack their usual swagger.

Havens and Sobieski watch it bearing down on them while frantically working to stop it.

The overnight dip. The approaching storm. The imminent crash.

One talking head wonders if black box algorithms have somehow overloaded the exchanges, if thousands of speed-of-light auto traders attempting to stay one step ahead of the meme have simultaneously placed a blizzard of sell orders. One anchor wonders about cyber warfare. A guest calls it, as if she's overheard the NYSE PR official, “computerized arbitrage.”

Under his breath, Havens simply calls it “a disaster.”

“What do you know about Transmediant!?” asks Sobieski.

“Beside the fact that it's another Salvado favorite? It claims to be the future of media and entertainment. Convergence specialists, bringing together new models and combinations of entertainment, content, branding, and tech. Decent numbers. Modest growth projections. Et cetera.”

“So it fits in with the other six?”

“Yeah. No. Four of them, anyway.” Havens remembers the point he wanted to make about the relationship between the real estate and insurance stocks. The outliers in the mix. “Hey,” he asks, “is there a way with this program to track which NYCRE real estate holdings are insured by CGI?”

“With this? Yeah.” She's already typing. Havens watches the TV.
POSSIBLE TRADING CURBS BEFORE THE BELL
scrawls across the bottom of the screen, followed by
COMPUTERIZED ARBITRAGE?
followed by
BLACK FRIDAY?
Then come the futures, a sea of red symbols.

Sobieski waves him over and jabs at the screen. “Here's a list of every company that's part of NYCRE. And here's a list of the companies from that group who are on record as having some level of an insurance relationship with CGI.”

Havens leans in. “Of the seventy-eight real estate companies on the first list, at least nine are insured in some degree by CGI.” As they look closer at the nine, one jumps out.

“Transmediant!” Sobieski says, straightening up and backing away from the screen as if it's on fire.

Havens moves to the keyboard and takes over while she paces, processing this new packet of information. He calls up the Transmediant! stock profile. “Down almost fifty percent before opening. Heavy volume. One of the ups that appeared all three times on Hindenburg Omen days in the past month.” He opens the Wiki page, the Hoover profile. The company Web site. “Worldwide headquarters in midtown Manhattan,” he reads aloud, “at the newly renovated, landmark Transmediant! Conference Center and Theater.” Then, “A NYCRE property.” Now he stands as well. “And look . . .” He points at the corporate logo at the head of the home page on the company Web site. She leans back in. “Transmediant!” Havens repeats.

“With an exclam, in red,” Sobieski adds. “Just like Weiss's board.”

They're hovering over the screen, shoulder to shoulder, looking for more. Sobieski says, “I had an English teacher in ninth grade who said a good writer never uses an exclamation point unless the world is on fire.”

“Well, apparently, this one is especially well placed.” Havens points at the screen, beneath the logo, at the copy under a headline that reads:

 

WHAT'S NEW AT TRANSMEDIANT!

Transmediant! to host the inaugural
DAVOS WEST (World Economic, Security, and Technology) Conference

Join the world's financial and tech elite @ Transmediant! Theater and Conference Center in NYC October 21–23.

“There it is,” Havens says. “Book 22. There's our ‘Death in the Great Hall.'”

5

New York City, 9:10
A.M.

T
wice the Russian's phone rings. Each time he leaves the room to take the call. Each time he turns to her at the door and says in broken English, “If you try to leave . . .” and finishes his thought with a wave of his pistol.

After the second call he returns with another chair and Deborah Salvado. He sets the chair down beside Miranda, looks at Deborah, and points at the chair. Deborah's hair hangs wild over the right side of her face, and her left cheek is also red and swollen. The women nod at each other but otherwise say nothing. What a strange fate, Miranda thinks, dying in this place alongside this woman.

Not until the man returns to the hallway to take a call does Deborah look up. She has tears in her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“We have to get out of here, Deb.”

Deborah nods unconvincingly. With trembling fingers she brushes the loose strand of hair from her cheek.

Miranda stares at the man in the doorway. She considers rushing him and making a desperate dash to freedom, down the hall, up the stairs, onto the street. She imagines herself bursting out the front doors, flagging down a police car, and then what? Even though she knows she's about to die anyway, she knows such a move will also end in death, only sooner.

Deborah speaks as if reading her mind. “Don't even think of it. That pistol is an automatic weapon. They told me. You'd be torn to pieces before you got halfway to the stairs.”

“Then what?”

Deborah whispers, “They're going to blow something up.”

“This guy?”

“This guy. Rourke. My husband and whoever he's with.”

“Today”

“Soon.”

“Where?”

“Here. Then, once they have no use for us, they'll kill us.”

“How do you know?”

Deborah lifts her chin toward the man. “I know because I just heard my husband tell him to. On speaker phone.”