by Ben Mezrich
David was so pleased with himself—and so swept up in the moment—that it wasn’t until he stood up out of his seat to match Reston’s toast that he noticed something suddenly unnerving. He was halfway out of his first-class mini-compartment, his glass raised in front of him, when his eyes swept past Reston and Mendelson to what appeared to be an empty seat at the back of the first-class cabin.
David was certain that the cabin had been full on the flight over from New York. He started to count off faces in his mind— and realized, with a start, which one of his travel companions was missing. In that instant, his feeling of victory suddenly dissipated, and a cold fear rose in his stomach. He didn’t know what the empty seat really meant, but he was certain it was more than significant.
For whatever reason, Dominick Gallo was not on board. He had stayed behind in Dubai.
It didn’t take long for David to realize what had happened. He had just passed through customs at JFK and was walking heavily behind Reston and Mendelson through the international terminal when he noticed the group of six board members about ten feet ahead of him. He couldn’t be sure which of the men had first noticed the bank of TVs hanging from the ceiling above the gate waiting area, but by the time David sidled up next to Reston behind them, they had all gone dead silent, watching what was unfolding on the screens above.
It took David less than a second to see that the televisions were all set to the CNN Financial Network. Since they were still in the Emirates Air section of the terminal, David had no trouble figuring out why. The scene on the TV screens seemed to be live—or at least recorded very recently. David immediately recognized the two sheiks, Maktoum and Muhammed, standing together on a raised platform in front of the newly christened financial center where the Dubai exchange would one day break ground. But the two sheiks did not hold David’s attention for very long. Because standing right next to them, beaming up at the cameras with an expression of painfully uncharacteristic delight, stood Dominick Gallo. Though the sound was turned off on the television sets, a ticker running along the bottom of the screen told David every thing he needed to know.
“Dominick Gallo, philanthropist, energy specialist, and the leading trader at the New York Mercantile Exchange, is partnering with the emir of Dubai to launch the first-ever energy exchange in the Middle East,” David summarized, his voice dull in his own ears. “And he’s personally bringing over a team of his traders to be the first to work the floor.”
Reston put a hand on David’s shoulder.
“That fucker. Well, look at the bright side, kid. This means the traders aren’t going to stand in the board’s way. You got your exchange.”
David closed his eyes, his mind racing as he listened to the other board members mumbling angrily to each other beneath the TV screens. Reston was right: David and Khaled had succeeded. The Dubai exchange would one day be a reality. Gallo had known that it was a battle he couldn’t win, so he had found another way: he had adapted and stolen the board’s thunder by announcing it first. But did that really change anything? David had still done something important. In the end, that was what really mattered—wasn’t it?
David opened his eyes and looked back up at the television screens. The camera focused in on the sheiks, then panned back to Gallo. And for a brief second it seemed like Gallo was looking straight down at David.
In that second, all David saw was a dark little butcher shop in Brooklyn reflected in the ancient trader’s deep-set eyes.
Chapter 42
Even during takeoff, the hundred-million-dollar jet’s twin Rolls Royce engines were whisper-quiet, more a whir than a roar. Khaled closed his eyes, letting the acceleration and the angle of the cabin push his body deep into the reclined leather seat, as he tried to picture the shiny, rocketlike airplane cutting upward through the atmosphere—a futuristic, winged machine thrusting away from an equally futuristic City of Gold, carrying him where the cranes and the skyscrapers could never reach.
Then he opened his eyes, turned toward the circular window to his right, and watched as the city receded, just as he’d ima gined it in his mind—shrinking but still fabulous, glistening even until the very last skyscraper vanished from his view behind a thick soup of clouds.
Khaled smiled, warmed by the sight of the city, his thoughts finally turning to David and to what they had, together, achieved.
After the horse race, Khaled had spent twenty minutes with the emir, discussing the Dubai Mercantile Exchange. He had been surprised when his discussion was interrupted by Gallo—but he had understood, almost instinctively, that it was really just a sign of how fully he and David had indeed succeeded. He hoped David understood as well; with Gallo acquiescing and the board of the Merc firmly in support of the project, there was nothing to stand in their way. It would take a few years to complete the construction of the building and to hire the right staff to run the place—but it was now an inevitability. The emir did not start projects he could not finish. And when the Dubai Mercantile Exchange finally opened—when that soccer stadium in the sand showed the world what the Middle East was really capable of— Khaled could only guess what might come next. The future, for once, seemed wide open.
Khaled turned away from the window as the jet banked to the right, charting a course toward the Mediterranean. The sudden motion took him by surprise, and he had to move quickly to keep the two manila envelopes on his lap from slipping down to the carpeted floor. As the plane leveled off at its new altitude—just above the tops of the clouds, racing forward through bright blue sky—Khaled lifted the two envelopes and turned them over, one at a time, in his brown hands.
Both envelopes were sealed, and had been since Ali Agha handed them to Khaled two days ago in his office at the Ministry of Finance. Khaled decided it was finally time to see what they contained.
He chose between the two at random and went to work on the first envelope’s seal. It came apart easily, and Khaled carefully removed a pair of five-by-seven black-and-white photographs. The first photo was grainy, but still quite easy to make out. It had a time-code in one corner, and it showed three unidentified men heading into the Mercantile Exchange building in Lower Manhattan. The three men were wearing zebra-striped jackets.
Khaled turned his attention to the second black-and-white photo. This one was a little less grainy, as if the photographer had finally gained control of his lens. The second photo also had a time-code in one corner—and clearly showed David Russo heading into the Mercantile Exchange building, not five minutes behind the three zebra-jacketed men.
Khaled knew who had taken the photos, and why. Ali Agha had reacted quickly, calling Khaled the minute he’d snapped the shots, saving the evidence for later. Khaled was glad Agha had acted on his instincts. If Agha hadn’t been there—Khaled shrugged to himself. There was no way to contemplate a past that hadn’t happened.
Mysteries within mysteries—what was real, and what was imagined? The three men in the photo were dressed as traders. It was unlikely that traders would congregate on the trading floor after-hours, but not unheard of. It was unlikely, but not impossible, that they would happen to be on the trading floor the same evening David had mysteriously arrived—also after-hours.
Khaled would never know for certain—but in the end, did it really matter? No doubt, David’s enemies had gone a lot further to try to stop him than either Khaled or the young American would ever know. But still David and Khaled had succeeded— and those very enemies were now reluctant allies. It was assuredly out of any of their hands. The Dubai exchange was a living, breathing part of the City of Gold.
Without another thought, Khaled leaned forward and opened a compartment attached to the table in front of his seat. From inside, there emerged a quiet whirring of mechanical gears. His uncle’s private jet wasn’t just one of the most luxurious and fastest airplanes in existence—it was also a sort of moving office, outfitted with all the necessities that that implied. Computer terminals with online access along one wall. Flat-screen TVs wi
th satellite receivers hanging from the ceiling. And a paper shredder, embedded in the table in front of Khaled, always charged and ready to receive.
Khaled took the two photos and fed them one at a time into the shredder. As he did so, his thoughts drifted to the next few days, then beyond, to his immediate future. First, he’d spend at least a week on his uncle’s yacht, relaxing. After that, he wasn’t really sure. Maybe he’d return to Dubai, back to his job with the Ministry of Finance. Or perhaps he’d ask his uncle to send him somewhere else. There were still so many parts of the world he wanted to see. He was certain there were more projects to be contemplated—more ways to continue making a difference, repaying his debts. His father had never been a man who felt comfortable staying in one place for very long; Khaled wondered if it was indeed a heritable trait.
As the jet continued to soar through the sky, Khaled finished with the two photographs and the paper shredder and reached for the second manila envelope. The second seal also came open easily, and Khaled removed yet another stack of photographs— five to be exact. Unlike the first set, these photos were in surprisingly good focus—especially considering that they had been taken from quite a distance and in the middle of the night.
Khaled leafed through the stack, his expression darkening. Ali Agha hadn’t taken these pictures; he had stolen them from the desk of a man who worked in the same building as David. Khaled paused over the least graphic of the set.
The photo had been taken from the side, by way of a telephoto lens. The two subjects were clearly visible—in fact, the shot was so clean that Khaled could make out every inch of bare skin, and it took him less than a second to identify the people in the photo: David Russo and the girl named Jasmine, intertwined in the snow on the banks of Lake Geneva.
That such a photo existed was disturbing enough, but to Khaled there was something even more bothersome about the shot. It wasn’t just professionally done—it was so perfect that it almost seemed staged. As if the photographer had known exactly where to be—and when.
Khaled stared at the photo for a full beat, then finally shrugged his shoulders. All in the past, he repeated to himself. Did it do any good to dwell on mysteries that no longer mattered?
As the jet banked one more time, then settled into a comfortable cruising altitude, Khaled took the second stack of photographs and carefully fed them, one at a time, into the shredder.
EPILOGUE
The minute David stepped out of the taxicab and onto the sidewalk that ran past the brand-new, ten-story, black glass office building on Fifty-second between Park and Madison, he knew something wasn’t right. It was more than just a feeling: the thought had been building since he’d received the text from Reston’s BlackBerry—this time confirmed and reconfirmed—telling him to meet the Texan at the unknown address and to bring a notepad with him. And now that he’d arrived, a little after noon on a brisk April Tuesday, he could see that his premonition had been correct. It was obvious from the way Reston was smiling at him as he stood in front of the glass revolving doors that led into the building. And it was doubly obvious from the fact that Reston had not informed David that it wasn’t going to be just the two of them—that in fact Reston would not be alone in front of the revolving doors. Anthony Giovanni was standing right next to him, dressed in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit, hands outstretched as he watched David approach from the curb.
“And there he is, the man of the hour. Looks like our boy’s all grown up, Nicky.”
David laughed as he reached the two men, exchanging Italian hugs and Wall Street handshakes.
“So you pulled it off,” Giovanni continued. “Nicky tells me the board was unanimous. Even Gallo put his claw mark in the ballot box. Not that it was any surprise—considering he’d already announced the project to the world media. But even so, quite an accomplishment, kid. A Merc exchange in Dubai. That’s gotta be a cause for celebration.”
David grinned. In truth, he was still recovering from the extended dinner and drinks session from the night before. Serena had surprised him by reserving a private room at one of their favorite Italian restaurants for the affair and inviting not only Vitzi and the gang but also—throwing David for a real loop—his mom and dad from Staten Island. Seeing his dad there enjoying the evening like everyone else had been a wonderful experience for David. It almost made him forget that Gallo had stolen the lion’s share of the credit for the work he and Khaled had done. And when his dad had told him that he intended to go to Dubai with David when the exchange opened in a few years’ time—to see firsthand what his son had accomplished—it had been beyond moving. The idea of his dad being able to get on a plane, to visit the Middle East—that would be the greatest gift David could imagine.
“Would have loved to have seen you guys there last night,” David said, back in the present. “Serena said she tried to get you both to come—”
“We were a little busy,” Reston interrupted, jerking his thumb toward the black glass office building behind him. “Working out a few minor details.”
David raised his eyebrows. He looked from Reston to Giovanni, then back to the Texan.
“Don’t tell me. You’re leaving the Merc too?”
Reston smiled.
“David, Anthony and I just leased the top two floors of this building. We’re going into business together. We’re starting a company—pooling what we know about oil and the contacts we’ve developed. We’ve raised a nice chunk of working capital, and now we’re going to change the world of energy, one step at a time.”
David’s eyes widened. Reston and Giovanni in private business together. Reston seemed purposefully vague about the nature of their company, but David had no doubt that together the two men certainly could change the world of energy. David wasn’t sure what Reston meant by “a nice chunk of working capital,” but he was fascinated just the same.
“And I suppose you want me to come work for you?” Giovanni reached out and put a hand on David’s shoulder. “No, kid. We want you to be our partner.”
David opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was twenty-six years old. He simply didn’t know what to say. Reston winked at him as Giovanni moved past the Texan and disappeared through the glass revolving doors. David finally found his voice as he glanced down at the object in his own hands.
“So what’s the notepad for?”
Reston grinned.
“What do you think it’s for? To take notes, Harvard boy. You might be a partner, but that doesn’t make you an equal. Write and walk, kid, that’s how you learn in this business.”
With that, Reston turned and followed Giovanni through the revolving glass doors, leaving David alone on the sidewalk— notebook in hand.
Fifty yards away and four stories up, a figure dressed entirely in black crouched low behind a partially obscured plate-glass window. The figure watched through a telescopic lens as David Russo tucked his notebook under his arm, stepped into the revolving door, and disappeared into the office building across the street.
When Russo was gone, the figure leaned back from the window—and for an instant a reflection flashed across the sheer glass pane. Though the lighting was bad and the figure was moving, for the briefest of seconds the image in the window was remarkably clear:
A woman, a high-powered camera, and a swirl of jet-black hair.
AFTERWORD
by John D’Agostino
Walking into the New York Mercantile Exchange for the first time was an exhilarating experience. Immortalized in the movie Trading Places, the sounds and energy are unmatched on Wall Street—or anywhere else in the world. While U.S. business may be run in the quiet halls of investment banks, when you walk onto the floor of the exchange, you just can’t help feeling that this is where the action is. Screaming men and women move millions of gallons of virtual crude oil from one place to another and back again. At the end of each day, when the pits are empty, the place is eerily quiet, and the floor is littered with torn trading tickets, a single
, lonely LED panel displays one of the most important numbers in the global economy—the closing price of crude oil on the NYMEX.
Even a casual observer of the trading floor, after a few moments acclimating to what seems like overwhelming chaos, begins to sense an incredibly well-orchestrated dance. Whether credit for this should be given to the traders themselves or to the chaos theory that explains the harmony of motion exhibited by ants is up to debate. What’s undeniable is that when you sit and watch the floor for any length of time, you start to understand why Wall Street rules the universe.
There’s a saying that an MBA and two bucks will get you a bus ticket. At the exchange, it’s worth even less. The floor is the realm of the self-made man—a place where education, race, gender, and religion all take a backseat to one’s ability to buy low and sell high more often than the reverse. What’s a Harvard MBA against the wisdom that comes from making or losing a BMW in five seconds? It was hard not to feel I had wasted my tuition money when a young trader summed up the esoteric topic of risk management in the best way I have ever heard by quoting Mike Tyson: “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.”
A grizzled veteran, seeing me stare at the floor like a deer in the headlights, summed it all up when he whispered to me, “It’s the best business in the world—if you can figure out a way to stay in it.”
