by Davis Bunn
Traders had invented capital-relief derivatives as a short-term fix. These credit derivatives allowed them to transfer some of this risk to another bank.
There were two kickers, as far as the Jasons of this world were concerned. First was that the acquiring bank received a very high rate of return. Second, the legal framework was iffy. And intentionally so.
The purchasing bank was not actually buying the tainted asset. Instead, the asset remained on the books of the original bank and a derivative of the asset was sold.
The question was, if things went south, who would have to pay up? And the answer was, unless things went south, the question did not matter. At least as far as the acquiring bank was concerned, the cloudy nature of the acquisition lowered the risk while creating a higher rate of return.
Esther had heard traders laughing over the hazards, proud of their new way of slipping things under the rug.
If deals went bad, the lawyers would spend years fighting over who held the downside. But this was precisely the sort of high-risk venture that had brought down Enron. Hiding risk did not mean it went away. Sooner or later the markets would turn against the trade.
But none of this mattered, so long as the markets held steady. As far as Jason and his team were concerned, this was as close to a win-win situation as they could find in today’s market.
Esther watched the summary of currency and interest-rate swap positions sweep around the walls. Finally the target moment arrived. The portal shut. Only a slight uptick to the currency markets signified the completion of that trade, meaning the bank had survived. She did a swift calculation. Jason’s gamble had netted the bank one hundred and eighteen million dollars. In seventeen hours and forty-three minutes. She knew that was all the board of directors would care about. The potential downside would be overlooked.
Doing business was all about taking measured risks. Jason and his team had been proven right. So the money would stay on his books, and he would go hunting for the next gamble.
Three minutes later, Jason’s secretary opened the door and smiled her apology. “It looks like he won’t be able to see you today after all.”
Esther slipped past her and reentered the trading floor. The atmosphere was jubilant now. The traders cavorted like a high school team that had just won the state championship. Esther slipped down the back aisle, completely unnoticed. She glanced up to the narrow balcony that ran along the western floor. Occasionally the board or other senior executives would slip in to observe the animals in their feeding frenzy. Today the balcony was empty.
The truth was there on full display. What they all refused to see was how close Jason had brought the bank to utter ruin.
And now they had a green light to do it all over again. The only thing they could see was the future commissions this represented.
But only if they stayed lucky.
As Esther left the trading floor, she felt as though she were being trailed by cinders and smoke from a fire not yet lit.
It was only a matter of time.
5
The trading floor’s southern exit led to a hallway and the glass bridge passing over Seventh Street. The bank’s satellite building was an older structure that had once contained a textile warehouse. Esther’s division had been relocated here in the early days of Jason’s reign. She minded, but only a little. Jason’s attitude toward his analyst team was guarded and mostly hostile. He did not want them telling him what the risks were. He liked to think he already knew everything he needed about such threats. What Jason wanted from his analysts were two things, and two only. Where the next opportunity for profits lay. And how to increase his division’s gain while remaining legal. And if not legal, how to keep his actions under the SEC’s radar.
The majority of Esther’s team were typical geeks—too fat or too thin, sallow-faced, and scraggly-haired. They were also astonishingly brilliant, excellent at their jobs, and intensely loyal to both her and the bank.
They did their best to fit into some version of banker attire. But Esther doubted if her four males had ever spent more than ten dollars on a tie. Or if any of the women besides Jasmine fully understood the art of applying cosmetics.
When Esther returned to her division, she was greeted by sixteen very tense and worried faces. They all knew what the day’s trading success really meant. And there was nothing she could say to reassure them that was not a lie.
Jasmine reported, “Some hack from the executive floor was in here looking for you. Apparently Reynolds Thane wants to have a word.”
“When was this?”
“About five minutes after you left. What was Jason after?”
“I have no idea. He . . .” Esther stopped in mid-flow.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. I’d better go see what our chief wants.”
Esther returned to the main bank building and took the elevator the traders referred to as the Boss Rocket. Previously it had halted only at the lobby and penthouse levels, but then Jason insisted a new stop be inserted for his floor. Esther considered this a very strategic move. Every board member was suddenly made aware of the tectonic shift of power. For the nine quarters since Jason’s promotion to division chief, investment banking had generated more profit than the rest of the bank’s activities combined.
As the elevator shot her up to the thirty-fifth floor, Esther tried to formulate a response to what the CEO was bound to ask: What was her take on the risks embedded in Jason’s trade? Esther still felt caught by Jason’s silent warning and had no idea what to say. Which was hardly the mind-set to carry into a meeting with the bank’s president. But when the doors opened on the board level, Esther realized it no longer mattered.
Reynolds Thane stood in the elevator’s lobby with another gentleman in his late sixties. Both men possessed the ruddy sheen of out-of-season tans. Reynolds gripped an imaginary putter while the other man smiled indulgently. Sir Trevor Stanstead was CEO of a British conglomerate that owned the third largest bank in Europe. The group had recently acquired four percent of CFM’s shares. The following month, Sir Trevor had been named to CFM’s board.
Sir Trevor had snow-white hair and a genteel manner that most people found charming. He dressed in tailored clothes even when headed for the golf course, like now. Sir Trevor wielded ultimate power with refined grace. She was certain Trevor Stanstead eviscerated his enemies with polished charm.
Reynolds smiled benignly. “Ah, Ms. Larsen, they found you. Excellent. Sir Trevor, this is Jason’s top analyst.”
Trevor Stanstead had a piercing gray gaze the color of a polished blade. “I say, well done, Ms. Larsen.”
Reynolds held the private elevator doors open for his guest. He clearly had no interest in Esther joining them. “We’ll need to reschedule our chat, Ms. Larsen. Perhaps early next week. Speak with Grace and set it up.”
Esther waited for the doors to shut, then moved over to hit the button for the slower-moving elevator. When she stepped inside, she felt as if the bronze walls were closing in on her.
As the floors pinged past, Esther said to her fractured image, “They are already celebrating.”
When she exited on the seventeenth floor, her phone chimed. Esther had downloaded a special ringtone for Jason’s calls and messages, the opening bars of Wagner’s “Flight of the Valkyries.”
The message from Jason was five words long.
Find me the next one.
6
Ten minutes into her homeward journey, Esther’s phone rang. Patricia Saunders said, “Tell me I’m not interrupting something important.”
“I just left the office.”
“Good. Do you have plans for tonight? I’m asking because my sister is coming over for dinner, and we thought . . . well, would you like to join us? I know it’s spur of the moment, but I’ve found the tactic works better with busy people. My husband included.”
Esther did not need to think it over. “I would like that. A lot, actually.”
Forty-s
even minutes later, Esther pulled into Patricia’s driveway. She was twelve minutes early, but it appeared that others had already arrived. She turned off the motor and sat there, listening to the night through her open window. The urge to join them in the house was as strong as hunger. Even so, she remained where she was, captured by the memory of losing her parents. She rarely permitted herself these recollections. But tonight, surrounded by a soft Carolina spring, she remembered. She remembered everything.
When she was eight, her mother had departed this earth. That was how their father had described the event that had ended her mother’s battle with cancer. Like the woman had stepped away for an evening or a weekend. Nine months later, her father died from a heart attack. Esther had been small and quiet even then, able to tuck herself into the shadows of their home’s central staircase and hear how one person after another described her father as having spent nine months trying to live with a broken heart.
Sitting in the parked car, Esther recalled how angry she had felt at the time. Her mother had suffered and died. But her father? He had chosen to abandon them. How was that even possible? Esther had not cared about all the reasons, how wonderful her mother had been, or how much her parents had loved each other. None of that had mattered at all.
What Esther remembered most about the entire episode was how she never cried. The anger did not let her. This rage carried her through the terrible transition to her grandparents’ home. They were very quiet, very set in their ways. Her mother had been so full of joy. She had spent hours humming snatches of tunes as she worked. Esther knew even then that her mother’s music represented a lifetime of filling the empty spaces created by her taciturn parents.
Nowadays Esther rarely listened to music. There was always the risk of having a song come on the radio that her mother had hummed, and being wrenched back to those awful days.
Two things had saved her back then, both from her own rage and the home’s constant silence. One had been her love of numbers. The power of math had formed a compass heading during those difficult early years and on through university, graduate school, and into a profession she loved. Until recently.
The other remedy had been Nathan. Her brother had fit himself into the role of guardian and caregiver. Esther knew there was bitter irony in where Nathan was now, repeating his father’s pattern. And once again she was helpless to do anything about it, except give to him without reservation.
Esther knew it must have been challenging for Nathan to love the child she had once been, withdrawn and perpetually hidden behind her walls of abandonment and rage. So she did not criticize him now. She had not raised her voice even once in the face of his silent defeat.
Esther closed the window and exited the car. As she started up the front walk, she silently repeated the familiar refrain. She would lovingly grant Nathan the freedom to make his own choices.
So long as she kept her job.
Esther always enjoyed spending time in Patricia’s home. Tonight’s visit carried a special poignancy. As soon as she entered, Esther felt struck by everything the home contained that her own did not. Laughter rang from the living room. Aromas drifted down the front hall. Patricia greeted her with a warm hug. All the components of a life that many people took for granted.
Patricia said, “Lacy is back from school. We didn’t know she was coming until about two hours ago.”
Their daughter was a junior at Chapel Hill. “Anything wrong?”
“She won’t say.”
Esther asked, “Issues with her boyfriend?”
“That’s my guess.” Patricia lowered her voice further. “Speaking of which, my sister’s brought a friend.”
“A man friend? A single man friend?”
“Well, yes.”
Esther saw the unease Patricia was trying to hide and guessed, “You knew about this when you invited me.”
“Oh . . .” She waved her hands like her fingers burned. “Donnie says I’ve never been able to keep a secret or tell a fib in my entire life.”
“You can tell one,” Esther corrected. “You just can’t get anyone to believe it.”
“Yes, I knew Rachel was bringing him. Yes, I told her it was okay. Yes, I am being manipulative. Are you mad?”
To Esther’s surprise, she could honestly reply, “No.” Then she added, “Not if I don’t have to like him.”
“You don’t even have to speak to him.” Patricia showed dimples. “But he is kind of nice.”
“Kind of?”
“Okay, he’s hot. There. I’ve said it. Even Lacy thinks so.”
“How old is he?”
“I have no idea. Late thirties, I suppose. But that didn’t stop my daughter from describing him as a ‘major drool.’”
They both were laughing as they entered the living room. Which made Esther’s shock impossible to hide.
“Esther Larsen, I’d like you to meet—”
“Craig Wessex,” she said.
He was taller than she would have imagined, but of course she had only seen him seated. And he was even better looking than he had appeared in silhouette, leaning in close to Nathan, poking her brother’s arm.
He frowned at Esther. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
7
Esther replied, “I saw you at the clinic today. You were with my brother Nathan.”
Craig nodded slowly. “Of course. I can see the resemblance. And the nurse said you had stopped by, but then needed to leave.”
Patricia looked at Esther. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
Esther’s heart sank under the weight of everything that would now come out. The whole mess with her brother, her past, everything. But Craig must have seen something in her expression because he said, “Nathan is a topic for another night.”
“Of course,” Patricia said. “Duly noted. Filed under tomorrow or the next day.”
And just like that, they moved on. It was remarkable how smooth the transition went.
The evening proceeded at a comfortable pace. As usual, Esther did not join in much of the conversation. She was grateful no one saw any need to press her. Patricia’s sister Rachel was an art historian working for the regional museum, her husband a professor of American history at UNC-Charlotte. Which was how they knew Craig, a divinity student who showed a quiet passion for almost every topic. His cheekbones punched hard against the skin beneath his eyes, and his brows were shaggy as an old dog’s pelt. But his most remarkable feature was his eyes. They were gray like a mist at dawn and almost translucent.
Patricia’s daughter Lacy looked like the walking wounded. Esther was rather certain now from the few comments the young woman made that she had been emotionally crushed by a man. The family’s response was far more interesting to Esther than the reason for Lacy’s severely bruised state. They showed the silent care of people who intimated with their every gesture that they were there for her, that she could turn to them whenever she chose, for whatever she needed.
Over a dessert of pecan pie and fresh-brewed coffee, Patricia asked Craig about his return to school. “How does it feel, going back?”
He smiled. “Don’t you mean, why did I do it at my age?”
“Oh, all right, yes. That’s exactly what I meant.”
Craig replied, “The direct answer is, my wife left me and took our two daughters with her.”
An intense silence was followed by Patricia asking, “What happened?”
“She fell in love with another man. That was, let’s see, four years ago.” Craig hesitated, then added, “My daughters . . .”
Rachel said quietly, “They don’t like him.”
“Probably better to say they’re having difficulty adjusting,” Craig said.
“They wouldn’t need four years to adjust,” Rachel replied. “His two girls are convinced their stepfather doesn’t want them around.”
Craig sighed, but did not speak.
Patricia asked Rachel, “You know his daughters?”
“The older gir
l, Samantha, is friends with my daughter,” Rachel explained. “They miss their dad, and they don’t like their current situation.”
Patricia asked Craig, “Why can’t they live with you?”
“The courts say they should stay with their mom.” Craig’s voice was very low.
Patricia asked again, “So why did you return to school?”
“After the divorce, I spent eighteen months going through the motions. Finally I accepted that my former life no longer held any meaning. I was working seventy-hour weeks for nothing. So I moved on.”
“What did you do back then?” Donald asked.
“I was an accountant.”
Esther spoke for the first time. “What was your field?”
“I was a corporate auditor with KPMG.” He was watching her openly now, for the first time that evening. “I heard you work for a bank.”
“CFM,” she replied, the shorthand for Carolina First Mercantile, so widely used it was now on the bank’s letterhead. The bank actually preferred it. The board thought Carolina to be too provincial a heading for a global brand.
Craig asked, “What do you do?”
“I am head of risk analysis.”
He leaned back in his seat. “What department?”
“Investment banking. Primarily the currency markets, but these days we deal with all forms of derivatives.”
“The old lines of demarcation are being erased,” Craig said.
Esther noticed the intensity of his focus. “You worked on bank audits?”
“Never had the pleasure. But I was a partner, and KPMG handled external audits for a number of financial groups.”
“Not us,” Esther said.
He smiled. A new quality entered his voice, the spark of former days. “Not for a lack of trying. My former partners would have traded their firstborn for that account.”
