Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series)

by Neil Behrmann

  'And Aquarium and other foolish managers were the buyers,' I said, becoming increasingly angry.

  'Precisely! We had to sell our holdings to someone. Aram had an agreement with us. He had to keep on buying from us until we instructed him to stop. If he didn't obey . . .'

  'Faramazov would put on the financial pressure and threaten him and his family,' I whispered.

  Aram's complex deals began to make sense. Instead of taking profits, the scared sucker had bought. Prices began to fluctuate wildly while they were peaking. Our losses mounted, so he hid them away in the 'Aquarium Volatility Account'.

  'I suppose Ivan Smeerneck was also on the payroll.'

  'Yes. Smeerneck is an old friend of mine. Very useful. You met him through Pearl didn't you? Faramazov set that up. Pearl encouraged you to pass on Smeerneck's details to Aram so that he could be broker to Aquarium. Smeerneck helped us in two ways. First he built a relationship with Aram and helped us offload our positions. Second, you met Smeerneck and his senior dealer before Aram. This would convince a judge and jury that you were the instigator of the fraud.'

  'Very thorough!' I hissed. 'One thing I can't understand. If you wanted Aquarium to keep on buying, why did Discretione withdraw hundreds of millions of dollars from the fund in November and December? Why didn't you get out gradually? Sell bit by bit?'

  'Three reasons. If Discretione's investors had lost large amounts of money, we would lose them as clients. Second the Swiss National Bank would have held an enquiry. That would not have suited us. I had to get them out quickly.'

  'And the third reason?'

  'I decided that it was time to break you, Miner,' laughed Humford hysterically.

  'We have to dump our oil, gas, gold, shares and bonds. Everything to repay $1 billion loans,' I said. If we sell in a weak market, prices will fall further and we'll be left with massive losses. We could owe billions!'

  'You're on the road to financial hell, Miner. Ruined! They're going to lock you up and throw the key in a sewer!'

  With some difficulty, I controlled my anger.

  'You're also caught in the whirlpool, Humford. You've gone too far. Sure your Russian bosses made big money, but they are still committed to the raw materials market. What about their energy and mining companies? If prices crash, they could be in big trouble. Their shares and bonds will slump. Some of the companies might fail and lay off workers. The Russian government would then be involved.'

  'You're right. I realised that before you came. I went too far. That's why I'm packing. Booked on a plane to South America. They wanted me to withdraw money in stages, but I decided to protect our clients and finish you.'

  I looked at him closely. He had a wild look in his eyes and it wasn't the booze. It wasn't just because he had an irrational hatred for me. He had also lost Maggie and Jacqui. He was over the edge. To pull me down, Humford had deliberately screwed up his devious plan. After building Faramazov a model energy and resources castle, he had grabbed a sledgehammer and knocked it down.

  'What about Aram?' I asked.

  'He came here, just like you; complained that we had put him under unbearable pressure. Couldn't understand why Discretione had pulled money out of Aquarium. Why I reneged on my deal. He threatened to tell the authorities. I warned him that my bosses didn't play games.'

  'And you? What about you?'

  'Now he's gone and I'm next,' said Humford, pouring some more wine into his glass. 'I lost them money and I know too much.'

  He had a look of despair and I began to feel nervous. How could I forget Yapolovitch of Moscow Narodsky, hanging from Charing Cross Bridge; Journalist Marcia Mirikover, pushed under a train; Aram and his mother, caught in a fire.

  'Is your bank connected to Moscow Narodsky?' I asked.

  'Moscow Narodsky merged with Faramazov's bank after Yapolovitch died. It became Narodsky Faramon and it owns Banque Discretione.'

  At last all the pieces fitted together. We sat quietly for a minute or so.

  'You had a good life. Why did you do this?' I asked.

  'Because you're going down. You're finished, you bastard. You screwed my wife. Now that you know everything, you'll be watching your back for the rest of your life.'

  During his 'confession' I was boiling inside and now I lost it. Shouting and swearing, I jumped up from my seat, grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him up. He was bigger than me, but I had done a lot of weight training. I shook him, put my arm around his neck in a wrestling lock until he was red in his face and was choking. I wanted to finish him off.

  Then I thought of Jacqui and regained control of myself. I let go, slapped him and pushed him back into his chair. I must have hit his nose as blood started pouring out of it. I rushed to the bathroom pulled out some toilet paper and gave it to him. He mopped up the blood on his face, held his nose tight and tilted his head to stop bleeding.

  'Why don't you do it?' he said in a rasping voice. 'Come on! Finish me off!'

  'You're a nothing,' I growled. 'I'm not going down because of you. I'll fight back.'

  Despite my tough talk I knew I was finished.

  I had some blood on me, so I went to the bathroom to wash it off. I just kept washing and washing. The taps were on at full blast. Water was all over the place, over my clothes, the floor, everything. I calmed down and switched off the water and stood there for a few minutes, eyes closed, silent.

  The dog barked suddenly and scratched the door of the bedroom. I opened the bathroom and saw a stranger in the living room. His hood was down and he was wearing a black tracksuit and black gloves. His forearm was locked around Humford's neck. He was dragging him towards the balcony. It was clear what he was going to do. He would push Hal over the railings; make it look like suicide.

  'Stop!' I shouted, rushing over to them.

  Jazz, who was still in the other room, was barking like crazy, but I didn't have time to let him out. I grabbed Hal's legs and pulled. The man was in a mask, but I could see his eyes. They glared at me. I recognised those eyes. How could I forget them? I had first seen them on Charing Cross Bridge. The nightmare bridge. I looked down at Hal. He was unconscious. In that instant the man loosened his grip and sprinted to the balcony. I rushed after him, but he was too swift for me. He balanced himself on the railings and then dived towards the tree. It was about ten to fifteen metres from the balcony. The yellow light of the streetlamp shone on him as he reached out and clung on to a branch. He let go and as he fell, clutched a lower branch, then another and finally landed softly on his feet. Then he sprinted into the darkness. The remarkable acrobatic skills were the same as that show in Edinburgh. At Faramazov's party. It was Krepolovitch. It could only be Krepolovitch.

  I went back inside to see whether Hal was breathing. He was still on the floor, unconscious.

  I had taken a few lessons in martial arts and my instructor had told me about the 'carotid sleeper'. If you lock your opponent's neck in a tight enough vice, you can block the carotid artery. If you hold it there for only twenty to thirty seconds, the victim can die of heart failure. I prayed that Krepolovitch hadn't killed him, for Jacqui's sake.

  Jazz was still in the bedroom, barking, so I let him out to calm him down and stop the noise. He rushed to Humford and sniffed him. I was about to try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, when I heard banging on the door. The security guard, who had his own key, let himself in and saw Hal. The guard was a six-footer with thick powerful arms. He soon had me in a bear hug, so tight that I could hardly breathe. I tried to explain about the intruder, but he didn't listen. Jazz was barking and growling. The brute kicked the poor dog so hard that he landed three to four metres from us with a yelp and remained there whimpering. The guard relaxed the bear hug and searched me for possible weapons. He pinned both my arms behind me, pulled out the wires from the TV equipment and used them to tie my hands and legs. He called 999 and then placed his mouth on Hal's lips and pumped his chest. By then it was too late.

  * * *

  Hal was covered with my
finger prints and my DNA. His blood was on me. They took me for questioning at Charing Cross Police Station. The last time I was there, I had left a note reporting Yapolovitch's murder.

  It was hardly surprising that I was the prime suspect. Before Krepolovitch had arrived, I had almost strangled Hal myself. Given him a bloody nose. I had plenty motives, Maggie, Jacqui and financial. I asked the police if I could search my mobile for friends who could help. Bess's name came up. I remembered that her Dad was a criminal lawyer. Thanks to Bess, Jeremy Trilingham-Marsh agreed to act for me.

  I had a lucky break. The forensic pathologist found two hairs that belonged neither to Hal nor me. Krepolovitch was wearing a hood when I saw him, but Hal might have pulled it off in the struggle. I had told the detectives that Krepolovitch performed as an acrobat. They found that he was in a show at a theatre in Islington. Performers told them that Krepolovitch had left for Moscow late Saturday night because his father was ill. The forensic pathologist tested some hairs in the dressing room and the DNA matched the hair found on Hal's body. Unfortunately they couldn't extradite Krepolovitch from Russia. The police investigation would continue, but for a time I was off the hook.

  They let me out on bail. The entrance of the police station was crowded with reporters and photographers. I was big news. Two police officers escorted me, but they weren't in the murder team. They were the fraud squad. They took me to my flat in Hampstead and gaped at the piles of brokers' notes and statements on the living room floor. They put the papers in separate boxes and we went to the office. Amanda and other members of staff turned their backs on me when I walked in with handcuffs. The fraud squad put the papers on the meeting room table and started going through them. One of their staff accessed Aram's computer. They also examined all our personal records. Leash Grobnick wasn't there. He had decided to remain in America until the crisis blew over. The UK-American commercial crime agreement was unfair. They could only extradite people from Britain to the US. Not the other way round.

  The officers asked me a lot of questions and I did my best to tell them what I knew. I blamed Aram, but they didn't believe me. By then oil had slumped to $35 from around $148 a barrel at its top. Natural gas, which had peaked around $15 British Thermal Unit, a few weeks before and was $10 on Friday, had tumbled to $3. Oil and natural gas shares and bonds were in free fall and there were already reports that some companies could fail.

  Wire and press articles estimated that Aquarium's losses could easily be $5 billion and were mounting. The losses were well in excess of the money that investors had placed in the fund. They had lost everything. Aquarium was finished. Other funds that were caught in the crash would also fail, the reports said.

  * * *

  An anonymous friend put up bail. I guessed it was Stanley Slimcop. I wrote a third letter to him and Leila, apologised once again and thanked him for the help. Martha, who remained a good friend, let me stay with her. I jogged and walked Jazz and Pattie, wearing dark glasses. Aquarium ended up with losses of $7 billion. The banks sold my flat in London, apartment in New York, my Ferrari and everything else that they could get their hands on. I was broke. Leash Grobnick's LeashTrade closed down, but he, Amanda and other staff members were not charged. The Financial Services Authority fined LeashTrade and Leash $5 million each, record penalties at the time. Lots of investors sued Leash and the firm, but so far they haven't been able to recover much money.

  I lost contact with all my former colleagues, although I received letters from Cy and Maffie. As expected, Cy came up with the obvious: 'You will come out of this stronger'. Maffie wrote that she was disappointed in me; that I had lied to her. I replied that I hoped she would forgive me one day. I haven't heard from either Pearl or Sandy.

  After building me up as a celebrity when I was doing well, the media now trashed me as a rogue trader. The paparazzi followed me everywhere. One of the photos of me jogging had the caption, Teen Trickster Still Running.

  Jeremy advised me to plead guilty to fraud. He tried to persuade the judge that Aram was the main player and that I wasn't fully aware of all the details. The judge wasn't convinced and gave me seven years. I had expected that I would get three to four years at the most. Jeremy thought that the judge gave me a long sentence as I was the catalyst for the global financial crash. I wondered whether the judge had lost money.

  Gains from the bull market during the previous few years were wiped out. Several hedge funds, investment banks and pension funds lost billions of dollars. Hedge funds had to sell shares, bonds and other assets to meet their debts and repay investors who wanted to withdraw their money. The vicious circle widened. Share prices slid further, leading to more sales and financial bankruptcies. Global stock markets slumped. I used to play dominos with my Dad. Neatly stack them up on their edges and then flick one. They would collapse like a concertina. Aquarium was the single domino that caused what they called the 'The Teen Crash'. Governments, the US Federal Reserve Bank, the Bank of England, and the European Central Bank bailed out banks that had lent hundreds of billions to hedge funds and companies. Despite that, some small banks failed. Hundreds of stockbrokers, fund managers and businessmen were forced to sell their art, jewellery and homes to meet their losses. Property prices fell, causing further problems and financial grief for owners with big mortgages.

  A few people made money. No prize for guessing. They were Faramazov and his crowd. Issie McTavish came to visit me. He had heard that the Russians had hedged against losses on the commodity and stock market, by selling futures and options short. They had managed to extricate themselves from the turmoil and were not prosecuted for fraud.

  The financial slump hit the economy. During the boom there were huge takeover deals that were financed with borrowed money. Some companies overburdened with debt had to lay off their workers. People spent less, so shops and factories struggled or closed. By the time I was inside, there was a recession. Many people lost their jobs and the numbers of homeless grew. This time I wasn't one of the unfortunates who sought shelter under Queen Elizabeth Hall. I had a roof over my head, a bed and three meals a day.

  A year ago the markets settled down and the economy improved. Lower energy and commodity prices helped as they lowered inflation and costs of businesses. Central banks pumped trillions of cash into the system and share prices soared. The crisis was over for the time being, but unfortunately I couldn't buy the bargains.

  Martha, my steadfast 'Mum', brought me a book a few weeks ago: 'The Teen Crash' by Israel McTavish. Most of the chapters were about the fraud, but the book blamed the crash on the banks, brokers, hedge funds and other institutions. McTavish wondered how supposedly skilled fund managers and sophisticated wealthy investors could bet big money on a boy; a teenager who had not even completed school. The deluded market crowd had followed me because they thought that once a winner, always a winner.

  'It's all about greed and the fear of being left behind,' wrote McTavish. 'Greed of investors, greed of fund managers and greed of brokers and bankers who rake in commissions and bonuses.

  'From the South Sea Bubble and Tulip Mania to the 1929 crash, booms and busts in the 1970s and today; markets haven't changed, only the participants do. Lawyers and accountants, pension fund trustees, doctors, scientists, professors, business people, artists, actors, writers and journalists. Intelligent, qualified, skilled and talented individuals, all floating in a bubble, all fools in a crowd. A crowd that believes that one and one makes three, perhaps four or five.'

  The book quotes a scene from Thomas Hardy's Far from the Madding Crowd. A dog herds the sheep over a cliff and ruins the farmer. In 'Teen Crash', the dog went over with the sheep.

  'Greed makes fools of us all.'

  My Story

  EPILOGUE

  Months have passed since I gave Dr Klugheim the final chapters of my book. Mrs Small has edited it and cut out the swearing. I've done nearly three years in this hole. Four years left! I often think of Jacqui and wonder how she is.

  Mart
ha, who is still looking after Jazz, visits regularly. Gill Derby makes the long journey from Yorkshire whenever she can. Stan is in contact and says that he will help me when I get out. Leila is now a lot worse and doesn't even recognise him.

  The police are still investigating the murder and I remain a suspect. They are struggling to extradite Krepolovitch, as the Russian government prefers to try its villains through its own courts. Faramazov is in the clear. There's even talk that he's about to bid for a premier club.

  It's summer and it's boiling hot in the cell. The prison is overcrowded, but I can regard myself as lucky. I'm sharing a cell with only one guy. My new cellmate, Jake, arrived recently. He's a quiet, nice guy and leaves me in peace. Reads a lot. Doesn't talk much. I don't even know why he's inside. We swap books. He's keen on Dickens and Russian literature. Gave me Bleak House, which is about the useless legal system and Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Jake was fascinated with McTavish's book and lent me Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.

  Today I'm seeing Dr Klugheim again. The market's recovered and he's made lots of money. My Aquarium methods worked well for him. It would be great if he would give me ten per cent of the profits! Anyway, it's thanks to Mrs Small and Klugheim that I wrote the book. It helped me get through here. Maybe it's the start of something else. I could be a journalist when I get out. A reptile who knows what it's like inside. Maybe write a best seller.

  * * *

  I knock on Klugheim's door and am surprised. Jeremy Trilingham-Marsh is there with some other guy. Klugheim, in a dark blue suede jacket looks very prosperous indeed!