by Davis Bunn
Craig cast a worried glance her way. “Dean Molier, Esther Larsen.”
“Dr. Larsen, I wish I could say this was a pleasure.” He turned to Craig and continued, “Apparently several people who attended yesterday made calls of their own. Almost a third of our trustees are here.”
“You want to call it off?”
“What I want . . .” The dean stopped at a chime from Esther’s phone.
She had coded in a ringtone shared by everyone on her team, a refrain from Tubular Bells. Esther said, “Excuse me a moment. I have to take this.” She took two steps away and answered with, “This better be urgent.”
“That doesn’t go far enough,” Jasmine replied. “Can you get access to the markets?”
“Hold a sec.” Esther turned and asked the dean, “Does your building have Wi-Fi?”
“Of course. The code is UNCC Guest. ID and password both.”
“Thanks.” She settled onto a side bench and drew her laptop from her case. “Okay, Jasmine. I’m good to go.”
“I’m shooting you a link.”
“Got it.” Since Esther was outside the bank’s system, there could be no access to any of the confidential data links. Instead, Jasmine had given her the address for a public Bloomberg site.
“The Shanghai index opened and just tanked,” Jasmine told her. “Hong Kong followed. The Chinese government closed both markets. Jason went with the second option this morning, which means all the underlies are based in Japan, Singapore, and Australia. They had already laid out the full two billion when this happened. We’re freaking out over here.”
“How are the other Far East markets?”
“Stable so far. Wish I could say the same for our boss. He’s climbing the walls. And blaming us for the fiasco.”
Esther checked a couple of the news sites hosted by business analysts whose perspectives she trusted. They all noted the same stability while acknowledging the crisis. A lot of adrenaline-drenched opinions were being bandied about, but the data held firm. “I’m going with the data.”
“Excuse me?”
“Go tell Jason I think the investment remains solid.”
“Are you looking at the same intel I am? Because this looks anything but solid.”
“Jasmine, take a deep breath.”
“This could be just the tip—”
“Stop!” Above the laptop screen, Esther saw attention turn her way. But there was nothing she could do about that. “I don’t have time to deal with Jason. Which means you have got to get a grip.”
Esther hardly ever lost her cool, one of her defining traits. Speaking sharply now had the desired effect. When Jasmine eventually responded, she said, “Okay. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Here is what you tell Jason. Last year’s tumult resulted in almost all foreign capital being withdrawn from the Chinese stock markets. Tell me you understand what I’m saying.”
Jasmine dragged out the words against her own panic. “The downturn is contained.”
“So long as the Chinese currency remains stable, there is limited international fallout. That’s why the other markets are not responding like they did last year. International banks currently hold almost no exposure in either Shanghai or Hong Kong. Close to zero. And that is exactly what you will go tell Jason. Clear?”
“Ah, yes. Yes. Okay.”
“Have the team keep a minute-by-minute watch of all the eastern exchanges. Ditto for the currency markets. The instant you see a shift, you phone me. Got it?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Now go pull Jason down off the wall.” Esther cut the connection, shut her laptop, and rose to her feet. Only then did she realize how silent the atrium had become. All eyes were on her as she walked over to the dean and said, “Perhaps we should begin.”
The morning’s alarm only solidified Esther’s certainty that she was making the right move. She did not have clear answers yet to Craig’s questions. But Esther was certain the issues he had raised were crucial. She was not doing this for herself. The issue was far too large for her objectives to be either personal or selfish. So why was she up here, in the uncomfortable position of addressing a completely packed assembly hall? What was her desired outcome? She did not know. Not yet.
She watched Donald Saunders slip into the hall late, accompanied by three men and two women, all in the regional hospital’s whites. An older gentleman she vaguely recognized from the Sunday gathering waved his cane and gestured to empty seats beside him. Once again Esther felt she should know him, but this was not the time to hunt through mental data.
Craig fumbled her introduction, but Esther found she did not mind. She stepped up beside him and covered the microphone with one hand. “Why don’t you sit this one out?”
“Are you sure you don’t need me?”
The question was made tender by how Craig did not realize what he had said. Esther replied, “Just sit in the front row so I can focus on you.”
As Craig left the podium, Esther’s first words to the crowd were, “Some of you may have heard my side of the phone conversation in the atrium. A few hours ago, the Chinese stock markets went into serious decline. This is the second such massive downward spiral in less than twelve months. Beijing has already responded the same way they did last time, by freezing the exchanges and injecting billions through their central bank.
“During the previous crisis, most of the global markets teetered on the brink. Berlin, Paris, London, and the Dow Composite all dropped by more than seven percent in two days. This time, the markets are holding stable. As I just told my assistant, over the past ten months almost all foreign asset managers have reduced their exposure in the Chinese markets to near zero. This means the crisis will mostly affect local investors. But because so many small shareholders have financed their investments through personal loans, the impact inside China could be severe. In order to maintain political stability, the government will probably order state-owned institutions to prop up markets by buying more shares of endangered companies. This tactic works, but carries considerable long-term risk. And that’s all I will say on the matter for now.”
She opened her laptop and positioned it on the podium beside the microphone. “I’ve been asked to speak to the issue of a potential global crisis. As you’ve no doubt already heard, I do believe this is going to happen. I’ll begin by addressing directly the financial analysts in the audience. This will mean entering into the mathematical realm of risk structure. I know some of you will not understand, and I apologize. But this is a rare opportunity for me to present my evidence and have it checked out by people who can challenge any errors I might have made. If I am correct, I think you will all agree this action is justified.”
A bearded young man in socks and sandals slipped up to the podium, offered her an apologetic smile, and plugged in her computer to the podium’s system. He touched a pair of switches, then offered a thumbs-up to someone at the back of the room. The overhead lights dimmed, and the image on her laptop’s screen appeared on the giant screen behind her.
Esther’s laptop had an internally illuminated keypad. As she typed she gave a brief overview of Sunday’s discussion. She had always been able to talk and type at the same time. What was different today was how a third part of her brain remained distanced from the entire process. She observed herself, saw the calm demeanor, and listened to her steady voice.
On the screen behind her flashed a series of calculations. Like most mathematicians, Esther used software that allowed her to press several keys at once, forming the notations and symbols of formulas. She told the gathering, “What you see here is a single grouping of algorithms, a mathematical procedure used to solve a problem that involves a high number of variables. It is named after its creator, Mohammed al-Khwarizmi, an Iraqi mathematician and a member of Baghdad’s royal court in the eighth century. Algorithmic calculations involve a carefully defined series of steps that take the investigator fr
om an initial state, through a series of clear and concise stages called the execution, to a measurable outcome.” She looked up from her keyboard, glanced at the larger screen, and added, “Though some of you might question my use of terms ‘clear and concise.’”
The sound of laughter stopped her. She looked around the darkened room, pleasantly surprised by the crowd’s response. Occasionally she had wondered if she even possessed a sense of humor.
She went on, “The sort of algorithms taught in introductory calculus are known as ‘deterministic,’ which means that each transition from one portion of the calculation to the next is set out in advance. Such computations terminate in a final state, a clearly defined outcome.
“What you see here is different. This is known as a randomized algorithm. This means that along the way, between the initial input and the final outcome, there are vacuums. These random variables, or auxiliary inputs, aren’t known until the moment when they are inserted into the calculations. And whatever these random variables might be, they all can have a major impact on the final outcome.”
At this point, Esther cut off the computer. There was a rustling sound in the darkened auditorium, then a single spot of light focused on her face. “There are two things you need to understand before we go any further. First, these are not the algorithms employed by my bank. Those are proprietary, and my revealing them to any outsider is prohibited by law. These are a new series of algorithms I have designed specifically for the purpose of looking at the global markets.
“I do not consider the global economy to be a unified whole. But I do think the economies, the trading markets, and the current banking system are all interlinked. Joined by satellite, fiber-optic cable, hedge funds, and global investment banks. The fate of one market now determines the futures of all the others.”
She turned on the computer, started typing again, and added, “I hope you are paying careful attention, because there will be a test.”
16
Reynolds Thane was big on turf. As in, he wanted to control the situation before the first word was uttered. He was seated now in his favorite chair, positioned so that his guest faced the bronze Rodin. He poured Sir Trevor tea from an antique silver service that had once been used by Russian nobility in St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace. Reynolds enjoyed relating the remarkable tale of how the service came into his possession. He treated each of his precious belongings as a component of his own story.
But Reynolds did not speak of such things now. He knew Sir Trevor viewed him and his possessions as typically American. Sir Trevor’s family had been rich for centuries. Four hundred years ago, Sir Trevor’s ancestors had owned some minor fief in the middle of nowhere. But they had wisely recognized the Plantagenet’s time as rulers of England was over. They backed the usurper. And when the House of Orange took control, Sir Trevor’s family was amply rewarded. Reynolds had visited Sir Trevor’s country estate on several occasions. The Jacobean manor was nestled among three thousand acres surrounded by an ancient stone wall. Sir Trevor treated any treasures that had actually been purchased as merely symbols of new money. Sir Trevor thought those who possessed new money had not yet learned the subtleties of wielding power.
Reynolds asked, “Milk?”
“Just a thimble.” The Limoges cup was so thin, Trevor’s fingers were visible through the china. “Tell me about this lady. What is her name again?”
“Esther Larsen.” They had been through this before, but Reynolds did not mind. He was coming to understand Sir Trevor a little. Beneath his mild-mannered exterior beat the soul of a cautious assassin. “A genius. She entered the University of Chicago at fourteen, then earned her doctorate from Caltech, now here.”
“You know what they say about geniuses.” Trevor sipped, nodded approval of the tea. “They’re useful only so long as you keep their wings clipped.”
“She has a brother. A tragic tale by all accounts. Lost his wife in an accident. A basket case ever since. Apparently loves playing the parasite.”
“Is that enough to keep her in line?”
“She spent a small fortune acquiring a home in Dilworth and renovating it to the nines. Quite simply, if we threaten her employment, she loses the house and her brother dies.”
“I suppose that should be enough of a hammer. Just the same, we’ll need to keep a close watch on her, given these latest developments.”
Reynolds tasted his own tea. “You would have made an excellent wartime strategist.”
“Or a spy. I actually considered that in my youth. But my father threatened to sever the family purse strings. And spies these days are paid such a pittance.” Sir Trevor smiled. “Tell me about her professional abilities.”
“Esther tends to focus on the negative.”
“Hardly a surprise. She is, after all, paid to assess risk.” Sir Trevor poured himself a fresh cup. “Thank you again for sharing those three new proposals her team developed. I had a trusted young man take a look. He said they all held unique potential.”
“If the markets hold for another two hours, we will net ninety-three million from this latest trade, despite the Chinese markets tanking.”
Sir Trevor leaned back in his seat. “Can she be bought?”
“We’ll need to ask Jason,” Reynolds replied. “He’s waiting for us in the conference room.”
But as they stood, Sir Trevor halted him with an outstretched hand. “You can of course confirm that none of Jason’s chosen candidates have any close family ties.”
“All good traders tend to be lone wolves,” Reynolds said. “Jason assures me these five take that trait to the extreme.”
“This is very important, you see. Vital. We can’t have anyone asking questions if things . . .”
“Go south.” Reynolds nodded.
“Quaint, but correct.” Sir Trevor indicated the door. “Shall we?”
The first moment Reynolds Thane knew he could happily forge this partnership had occurred while watching Sir Trevor handle Jason Bremmer fourteen months ago. At the time, Sir Trevor had been nothing more than a competitor, one who could well have planned to steal Jason away. And to his credit, Trevor did not try to fob off Reynolds’s concerns. Sir Trevor’s silence was message enough. Either Reynolds trusted the Brit or he didn’t.
Sir Trevor had revealed a killer’s charm, taut and subtle and pleasant to observe. Jason’s one dominant mood was latent rage. But within half an hour, the man had relaxed enough to actually enjoy himself.
At the end of that lunch, Reynolds confessed, “I have just watched a master at work.”
Sir Trevor accepted the compliment with a regal nod. “May I share a little secret with you?”
“Please.”
“The English private school system is loathed by most, and rightly so. I was taught young and well by masters in the craft of ruling others. My headmaster at Eaton was a terrible snob, but he also possessed a remarkable ability to pierce the veil.”
Reynolds had reserved CFM’s executive dining room for this meal. Theirs was the only table occupied. The waiters knew not to enter unless summoned, and the room was swept twice daily for bugs. It was a place made for sharing secrets. “I envy you that early start.”
“You’ve managed quite well on your own, I daresay.”
“Clawing and scrambling and taking years to learn what you were taught in your youth.”
“Fed it with a silver spoon,” Sir Trevor cheerfully agreed. “But I missed a good deal in the process. I seriously doubt you would grow faint at the sight of blood.”
“Not if it belongs to an enemy,” Reynolds said. “And neither would you.”
“But reaching that point cost me a very great deal. Now then. Where were we?”
Reynolds knew he was being handled, but he did not mind in the least. “Early lessons and silver spoons.”
“My headmaster. Yes, thank you. The old gentleman must have seen something in me, for I had the great good fortune to be taken under his wing. He had served in the cab
inets of two prime ministers and spoke with the quiet authority of a man who knew what it meant to send men off to die. He told me something I have never forgotten. Something that has served me well in any number of confrontations with people like your Bremmer.”
“I’m listening,” Reynolds said.
“Most people live broken and fractured lives,” Sir Trevor said. “And remain willfully blind to any chance they might have of healing and moving on.”
Reynolds had the odd sensation of their being in sync. “They pretend their internal situation is someone else’s fault. They blame their plight on destiny. Or past burdens. Or present circumstances.”
For a brief moment the man’s ice-hard gaze melted a fraction. “I see it would be a great misfortune to underestimate you.”
“The headmaster,” Reynolds reminded him.
“Quite. The old gentleman tested me rather harshly. Forcing me to identify the cracks in other people’s personality or character or past. Which meant learning their innermost secrets. Which led to developing the talent of disguise and discreet manipulation.”
“The best of Britain,” Reynolds said. “The lessons that made you rulers of the world.”
“At least for a time. Of course, you know what formed my headmaster’s next instruction.”
“Never threaten outright. Never reveal all you know.” Reynolds used these tactics every day. “Be certain they know you hold the ax, and that you are willing to use it. But only if absolutely necessary.”
Sir Trevor exposed what Reynolds thought was his first glimpse of a smile. “I’m so glad to know my hopes in you were not misplaced.”
The selection process took all of ten minutes. Long enough to assure the three men and two women whom Jason had brought together that what they had heard was indeed true.
Most top traders were big-city mutts who possessed enough drive to stay clean and get out. They had learned to compress their wounds and old pain into a single nuclear fury that seared away all barriers. Their loyalty was strictly on a pay-as-you-go basis. They were ruled by an insatiable hunger, a vacuum at the core of their being. They surrounded themselves by a world that reflected this internal void. Whatever they earned, however rich they became, their lifestyle always required more. They were never satisfied.
