Crash

by David Hagberg

  Perkins sat forward all of a sudden. “Can he legally share something like that with us?”

  “It falls into a gray area,” Treadwell said.

  Almost all of the board members were agitated.

  “Why exactly would the failure of banks in China affect us here?” Wilson asked.

  In Treadwell’s view the question was especially stupid, considering Wilson had once run an international freight hauling company.

  “As you know we live in a global economy, totally connected,” he said. “China’s gross domestic product is second largest in the world behind ours. Their system is a mix of communism and capitalism, but what’s coming will overwhelm even Beijing’s total control.”

  No one on the board of BP said a word.

  “Their banks have made enormous loans to projects that have no intrinsic value. Highways, tunnels, and railways to nowhere. Ghost cities with massive blocks of apartment towers with every unit empty.”

  “So why are they doing crap like that?” Alan Friedman, the CEO of a very large advertising agency, asked.

  “The companies borrowing the money were ordered to do so by the government. The point was to stimulate the economy. Construction workers get paid, and suppliers of bricks, concrete, asphalt, and water and sewer pipes, you name it, are at the trough too.”

  “Okay, I can see where you’re taking this, Reid,” Wilson said. “We trade with them in a big way. But big enough so that if their economy collapses, it would hurt us as badly as the subprime mess did in ’08?”

  “It will be worse than 2008,” Treadwell said. “Every indicator I have studied shows that our markets will sink like a brick, and the effect will cascade around the world. In the past the trade conflicts we’ve had with China have hurt us. This will be ten times as bad.”

  “So what can we do besides taking a cash position?” Sarah asked.

  “It’s already being done,” Treadwell said. How he would love to tell them about Abacus.

  11

  Dammerman had been seriously pissed off that he hadn’t heard from O’Connell all morning, ever since they’d returned from the stock exchange with Treadwell. She hadn’t answered his phone messages or texts, and no one downstairs in the data center had seen or heard from her either.

  Just before the board meeting, he’d ordered Masters to find the chief technology officer and if need be, drag her back into the light.

  “She outranks me,” Masters had sniveled.

  “I don’t give a shit. Just do it.”

  Now Dammerman sat impatiently at the conference table. Board meetings, in Dammerman’s estimation, were a total waste of time. But Treadwell insisted that BP’s COO be present at every one of them. “We need to show the flag, it’s as simple as that.”

  “It’s theater bullshit,” Dammerman had retorted.

  “You’re damn right,” Treadwell had agreed. “And you will be there at my side, and fucking well like it. Understood?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Dammerman’s phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. It was a text from O’Connell.

  I’m back.

  Dammerman thumbed his reply. Meet me in the DCSS in five minutes, and don’t vanish again.

  He leaned over to Treadwell, who was listening to Perkins flap his gums. “Gotta go.”

  Treadwell nodded.

  Dammerman pulled his bulk out of his chair and turned to go, but Perkins stopped him.

  “Are we boring you, Clyde?”

  Dammerman smiled. “I’m hanging on your every word, Jack,” he said. “But I have to put out a fire. Nothing serious, it just needs tending to.” He nodded toward Treadwell. “Listen to Mr. T. When he says it’s time to dive into the bomb shelter, we dive. Am I right, or am I right?”

  12

  Hardy was waiting for him outside the boardroom, and they walked across to the private elevator. Despite the casual dress style and other crap that BP affected to seem more egalitarian, the top executives did retain some of the old privileges, like their own elevator.

  “Are the Russians ready for our pre-strike meet?” Dammerman asked, keeping his voice low, though no one else was in the corridor.

  “Locked and loaded,” Hardy said. Like Dammerman, BP’s security chief had grown up in working-class Queens. As a cop he’d accumulated a lot of citations for valor, along with a number of brutality and excessive force charges, all of which were dropped. In one of the cases the supposed victim had simply disappeared.

  The Russian team of former Spetsnaz operators had shown up in New York three days ago, where they had gathered the needed material for their strike on the NYSE’s backup computer. Dammerman hadn’t had a face-to-face yet, leaving the recruiting, initial briefing, and first significant payment in dollars to Hardy. But he was a hands-on person, and he wanted to see for himself who these guys actually were.

  They got on the elevator. The shaft was glass that allowed a spectacular view of the atrium, with gardens that rose as high as the eighteenth floor and offices on the other side of the soaring open space. It wouldn’t stop until it reached the floor the exec who had pushed the button wanted to go.

  “We’re all on board?” Hardy asked.

  “Yeah, except that Reid’s decided to chase some skirt today, of all days. He’s a horny son of a bitch, but at least he’s got good taste.”

  “We’ll have eyes on him, in case you need to get in touch,” Hardy said.

  “Even if he’s in the saddle?”

  “Especially if he’s in the saddle.” Hardy chuckled. “Who is it this time?”

  “Rockingham’s daughter and head of marketing. And she’s not going to let Reid fuck her unless she gets something in return.”

  13

  The elevator opened at the data center, a place full of geeks and nerds who thought they were superior to just about everyone in the building, including the top-floor execs.

  Dammerman was comfortable around the traders and dealmakers and even the wonks, who understood what real power was all about—and had respect. But the kids down here respected nothing and no one except their bullshit computer games.

  O’Connell was at a desk in a far corner of the room, her long, delicate fingers trolling across her keyboard like a concert pianist’s, oblivious to everything and everyone, including the foosball game in full swing just feet away and Dammerman’s approach with Hardy in tow.

  As one of BP’s top executives, O’Connell had never behaved like the rest of the tech heads down here. She understood that Dammerman could fire her at any time just for the sheer hell of it, so she had been as deferential as any of the investment bankers on the thirtieth floor and above.

  Until she had become a key player in Abacus. Now the woman knew that she was dismissal-proof and had become cocky.

  Or at least she thought that her job was safe, but starting now Dammerman was going to teach her to think otherwise.

  “Hey, Julie,” Dammerman said. It was a name O’Connell hated with a passion.

  “Almost done,” she replied, not looking up.

  “I’ll wait for you, okay? But in the meantime, why don’t you un-sert your head from your ass?”

  O’Connell looked up, startled but still self-assured. “I’m trying to track what the Levin girl is up to. Francis and I are looking down her track to get a handle on just what the hell she’s been doing, and what she’s already guessed.”

  Cassy’s workstation was across the room and out of earshot for normal-level conversations, but Dammerman didn’t bother lowering his voice.

  “I know what the bitch is up to, she told me while you were out fucking around,” he said.

  “I had to call our people in Amsterdam; we need a couple of last-minute tweaks, and I didn’t want to use an in-house phone,” O’Connell said. “And don’t call me names.”

  “I’ll call you whatever I want,” Dammerman said, raising his voice.

  “Okay, Clyde, you can do this stuff, see just h
ow far you get. Okay?”

  Dammerman was at a momentary loss for words.

  “You want to push it, let’s take it upstairs to Reid and get his take,” O’Connell continued, her thin voice rising. But then she got control of herself. “Look, Clyde, we’re all in this together. So why not just play nice? It’ll be a done deal in less than twenty-four hours.”

  The racket rose from the foosball game. “Tell them to tone it down, Butch,” Dammerman snarled. “We’re paying them to work, not play games.”

  O’Connell gestured for Hardy to stay. “These kids are the people who make the system work. Without them we’re screwed. So leave them alone. Trust me.”

  Hardy ignored her and went across to the table. He said a few words, and the kids filtered back to their workstations, glaring at Dammerman as they filed past.

  “We have no rec rooms upstairs on the trading floors, do you understand?” Dammerman said. “Our people are too busy making money to play games.” He changed tack. “You’ve talked to Francis and you know the score. Can Levin screw us, or is she just tilting at windmills?”

  “She’s onto something, or at least she thinks she is.”

  “Can she get to Abacus in time?”

  “I don’t think so,” O’Connell said.

  “Or don’t you want to think so? Because if you’re wrong, we could be fucked.”

  O’Connell spread her hands.

  Dammerman leaned in closer. “If need be, we’ll throw you under the bus, and you can take the fall. Tell me what the fuck is going on. Is she good enough?”

  “She’s got Donni Imani helping her. And except for her, he’s just about the best we have.”

  “He’s the nineteen-year-old kid, right?”

  O’Connell nodded and looked up as Hardy returned. “Right. And between the two of them they might figure it out.”

  “And then what?” Dammerman asked. He’d already had Cassy’s take; he wanted to hear it from his top tech.

  “She’s good enough on her own to come up with an anti-virus program.”

  “Which means what?”

  “A computer worm that could get into the system and find and destroy Abacus.”

  Dammerman turned and looked toward where Cassy and Donni were standing side by side at her workstation. “Let them be,” he said. “Just let me and Butch know if she suddenly gets up and leaves, and the problem will be solved.”

  “Earlier this morning you said that if anyone got too close they might have an accident,” O’Connell said. “I thought you were joking.”

  “News flash,” Dammerman said, his voice low. “I’m never joking.”

  14

  Seymour Schneider had been keeping an eye on the monitors around the floor since the opening bell, when about twenty minutes ago the market started to trend down. Flat-screens tuned to CNBC and other channels were all alive with coverage of the latest bank woes in China.

  Rockingham was taking a sharp decline. Schneider wasn’t surprised to see the company’s CEO himself making his way across the floor. He turned away from the post making BP’s trades, but it was too late.

  “Where are Treadwell and the other BP people?” Rockingham demanded. He was clearly agitated.

  “Reid had a board meeting, and O’Connell had to get back to her office. They got you started, and the rest is up to the market. It’s how it works.”

  “Why the hell is the market taking a nosedive?”

  This was the part of the business that Schneider hated most, dealing with BP’s clients, many of whom had no idea in hell what the market was all about, how it worked. “China, Mr. Rockingham.”

  “China?”

  “Yes. A number of their banks are on the verge of collapse. We got the news less than a half hour ago.”

  “It’s not fucking fair. The traders have priced our stock too low for when we actually do start to trade. And what the fuck are we paying you guys for?”

  “Your product is popular in China, we know that. And you have factories there, some of which you want to move to Vietnam. But in the meantime some investors might be feeling that the Chinese bank situation will hurt you. At least in the short run.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  Nothing in life is fair, Schneider wanted to say. “Look, market gains are never in favor of the nervous investor. Hang on, it will get better, it always does.” In the long run, he wanted to say, but he held that comment off too.

  “How stupid can it get? Most of our product is sold right here in America.”

  Schneider was in no mood to hold the son of a bitch by the hand; there were other things going on right now that were a hell of a lot more important. “The market doesn’t always work with logic. Sometimes it’s emotions, you know? Pure gut feelings. Go with it, trust me.”

  “My daughter put her entire savings into our stock. A hundred grand. What the hell am I supposed to tell her?”

  “A hundred thousand?” Schneider said. “You can give her that much as a gift to replace whatever she lost, and it’ll be tax-free because it’s under the threshold. But you have a solid company, your stock will come back.”

  “We paid you people big money to make our opening happen,” Rockingham said, his voice rising. “For what?”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Schneider said. It was one of the brush-off lines he’d used more than once. What he wanted to say was: If you don’t want to gamble, stay out of Vegas. Or at the very least learn something about how the system works before you jump in. “I’m only one of the guys who trades stocks on the floor. You should talk to Reid.”

  “We have to do something,” Rockingham demanded.

  Schneider had had enough. He stepped closer. “Why don’t you take all your clothes off, to get everyone’s attention, and then run around shouting that what the world needs now is some good, rugged clothing, so that your company will become a long-term winner?”

  “I’ll have your fucking job for that, you little prick,” Rockingham shouted, but his voice was lost over the hubbub caused by the latest China news: Five more major banks had just taken a dump.

  “I hope you enjoy it,” Schneider said. BP had already extracted all of its IPO fees from the company, which meant Rockingham could do nothing to them. In any event, Treadwell would never fire him. “I’d love to chat more with you, Keith, but I have a meeting with Betty Ladd in five minutes.” Ladd was the president of the NYSE.

  15

  Schneider took the elevator up to the seventh floor, leaving the noisy trading floor in exchange for the peaceful, even reverent hush of where the real business of the market was conducted. Downstairs was theater; up here was the nerve center.

  He’d always loved the sense of history about the entire NYSE building, which had opened in 1903. A lot of care had gone into the architecture, from its fine Corinthian columns on the façade, to the expanse of the trading floor and the elegant rooms above. Pockmarks still remained out front from an anarchist’s bomb that went off in 1920, killing thirty-three people and injuring four hundred.

  The upper rooms had the studied care of a museum and had memorabilia like Jimmy Page’s guitar, which the Led Zeppelin founder had played on the floor when Warner Music went public in 2005. And a framed letter from Thomas Edison, who had perfected the telegraph system, called the ticker, that delivered stock prices. Also, housed in a cylindrical case of unbreakable glass, the original signed agreement that founded the exchange under a buttonwood tree a few blocks down Wall Street in 1792.

  He went down the hall to the 1792 restaurant, the exclusive enclave for NYSE employees and people from exchange-listed companies. One wall featured a large mural of the signing of the Buttonwood Agreement. Another had a framed menu from 1943, on which the most expensive item was a lobster salad for $1.25.

  The breakfast rush before the opening bell was long over, leaving only a few of the tables occupied. Betty Ladd was seated alone in a corner, thumbing a message on her cell phone. She was an attractive, well-put-togeth
er woman in her early fifties with stylish medium-length auburn hair, her trademark pearl earrings, and a dove-gray expensive suit with a white silk blouse.

  She had joined the exchange thirty years ago as an intern right out of college—when there weren’t any ladies’ rooms on the seventh floor.

  As Schneider approached, she looked up and smiled. “Have a seat, Schneider,” she said, laying her phone down.

  She often referred to people, especially men, by their last names as one small way of asserting herself in what was still a male-dominated profession. And she always drank super-hot coffee, to make another point that she liked her coffee the same way she liked her men. Her boyfriends were uniformly handsome and accomplished. Divorced, she didn’t seem to want to settle down, no matter how nice the men were. She had only been in love once, and it had ended badly. The man had turned out to be a rat.

  After an early stint with the exchange, she’d become a trader at Salomon Brothers, where she thrived as an “honorary dick” among the hard-charging male traders, known as “big swinging dicks.”

  She had become a tough woman in a tough profession, and no one screwed with her.

  “You called, I came, Betty,” Schneider said, sitting across from her. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I hear that Reid was on the floor this morning for an IPO. A little unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

  “He doesn’t always play by the rules, everyone knows that.”

  “The word is he even turned down a CNN interview.”

  “He has his shy side,” Schneider said. They were both playing a game, and both of them knew it.