The Prince of Risk

40

Astor left home at 5 a.m. The office was 3 miles away. It was too early to wake Sully, and he didn’t want to drive the Ferrari or the Benz or even the Ford Fusion. For that matter, he didn’t want to get into anything with a motor. A brisk anonymous walk was his safest option. He took the stairs to the ground floor and said good morning to Don the doorman, who was eyeing him with suspicion, as if trying to figure out which Mr. Astor it was this time: the serious model of the last year or so, cordial, polite, in bed at eleven and up at five, or the ungoverned model of yore, back to his boozy, licentious ways.

“You waiting on Mr. Sullivan?”

“I’m walking it today.”

Don motioned at the rectangular package wrapped in thick brown paper that Astor carried under his left arm. “Sure you don’t need a radio car? That looks kind of heavy.”

“I think I can handle it.”

Outside, the morning was cool and crisp. Astor hesitated at the curb, looking up and down for anything suspicious. He stopped after a few seconds. He wouldn’t be able to spot a hit man if one walked up to him with a gun in his hand. He set out nervously, but his anxieties left him after a few blocks. The sun crested the horizon and its soft rays cleansed all they touched: the cobblestones fronting the corner café, the grime-encrusted grille protecting the liquor store across the street, even the brick walls layered with graffiti. All were colored shiny and new and radiated the promise that was the city’s greatest strength.

He headed south on Tenth Avenue for a few blocks before cutting over to Washington and making his way through SoHo and the Village. He had donned his usual outfit: navy suit, white shirt, lace-ups, with a necktie tucked into his pocket for emergencies. There was a good chance it would see some use today. He looked at every street corner, the familiar storefronts and restaurants, with a kind eye. He knew he’d been granted a second lease on life, maybe even a reprieve. At some point he’d come to believe that things happened for a reason. He wasn’t sure if there was a purpose to life, and if there was, what his might be. He was not so presumptuous as to guess why these things happened or to assume that a higher power was involved. He just knew in some inchoate but unshakeable way that life gave you signs and it was up to you to spot them and, more important, to act on them.

And so he knew that there was a reason he had not stepped straight into the elevator shaft and fallen to his death. He did not believe the reason was that he could go right back to work and continue devoting his energies to making as much money as possible. There was a bigger reason, and that reason was to find out what had happened to his father.

Astor kept it as simple as that. It wasn’t exactly a road-to-Damascus moment, but whatever-he wasn’t a saint. Just thinking about it made him uncomfortable.

Astor happened to glance up at a street sign.

Church Street.

“Coincidence,” he said aloud.

He kept walking.

“What are you doing here so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

“We’re in it deep and stinky, boss.”

Marv Shank peered from his desk. It was just past six and already his shirt was rumpled, his necktie askew, his cheeks dark with stubble that had eluded his razor. If I look half as bad as that, thought Astor, we are in trouble.

“Come on down to my office. We’ll see how we can get our boots clear of this.”

“They’re still going to smell.”

Astor put his hand on Shank’s shoulder as they walked the length of the office. “Ye of little faith.”

The trading floor was deserted. A stuttering fluorescent bulb lit the room, giving it the melancholy, abandoned feel of a ballroom after the fest. In an hour, thirty of the smartest men and women on the planet would be patrolling the area, people of seething ambition and robust intellect, plotting strategies, marshaling facts, placing bets on the most efficient marketplace in human history, filling the room with enough energy to light the island of Manhattan and the other boroughs of New York. For now, though, it was just the two of them up against it.

Inside his office, Astor switched on the light and set the package down against the side of his desk.

“What’s that you got?” asked Shank.

“That?” Astor settled into his chair, swiveling to study his price screens. “Insurance.”

Shank picked up the package, felt the edges, then set it back down. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yup.”

“And you just put it in your car and carried it here?”

“Actually, I walked it over. Didn’t want to wake Sully so early. We had a rough day yesterday.”

Shank turned paler than he’d been a minute before. “You walked it over?”

“It’s only three miles from my place to here. Who’s going to hassle me at five in the morning? Lots of people out and about that early. Safest time of day.”

“Yeah, I saw some of them loitering by the bridge, having their morning constitutional on my way in. Real safe.”

“No worries. I run that route all the time.”

“Now I’m feeling better. For a second there, I thought I was working with a raving lunatic.”

Astor considered this. “Not raving.” He squinted to read the numerals on the screen. “So what you got?”

“Same as yesterday. Rock-steady at 6.175.”

“So we’re looking at a six-hundred-million-dollar margin call at closing if this sticks. What do we have in the till?”

“After the fifty we wired to Zarek yesterday?”

“After that.”

“Comstock Astor has another thirty free. The rest is in equities.”

“Only thirty? Who allowed me to commit forty percent of the fund to one position?”

“That would be you, sir.”

Astor stood. “Loans from banks are out. No one is going to give us a cent until we get our head above water. That leaves two options.”

“Reventlow?”

“Or someone else smart enough to realize that our bet is correct and that sometime in the next seventy-two hours, when our man is elected to the Standing Committee, the yuan will start to lose value like air from a punctured tire and they will stand to make a heap of money.”

“That investor would also have to be smart enough to believe that you, a New Yorker whose entire personal knowledge of China comes from a six-month visit when you were twenty years old, knows more about the economic policies to be enacted than a ranking government official who just got off the tube promising that his country would continue to allow its currency to appreciate versus the dollar.”

“Precisely.”

Shank ran a hand over his mouth, a poor bid to conceal his skepticism. “What’s the second option?”

“You know what it is.”

Shank’s eyes had never been darker. “The Hindenburg.”

“Liquidate the fund. Sell off everything we have in Comstock Astor. Pay the margin call.”

“Shutter the firm.”

Astor nodded. “Who entrusts their money to a man who just lost two billion dollars?”

“I’m not coming up with too many names.” Shank sniffed and pointed at the rectangular package. “How much?”

“Not enough.”

“Anything else?”

“The house in the Hamptons. Cabin in Aspen. Cattle ranch in Wyoming.”

“I’ll buy the Ferrari from you.”

“Thanks, Marv. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Even if it added up to four hundred million-which it doesn’t-we couldn’t get the cash anywhere near in time. You know the rules. Twenty-four hours to pay up after the margin call is issued.”

“You can get ’em to stretch it?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it would be all over the Street like wildfire.”

“So we’re looking at option one.”

Astor saw a light go on at the far end of the trading floor. He stepped out of his office in time to see a small, ratlike figure scurry down the corridor.

“What is it?” asked Shank.

“Ivan. I need to speak to him.” Astor came back into the office. “Oh, and Marv. Set up a meeting with the China team at eight.”

“Those guys usually don’t get in till later.”

“Eight. I have to leave right after.”

Shank shrank back, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “Not again. I told you to keep out of it.”

“It’s not your call.”

“You’re damn right it’s my call. You have no business deserting the office today. And for what? To go on some wild-goose chase. Get real. If you don’t contact Alex and tell her about this, I’m going to.”

Astor had a fistful of Shank’s shirt and tie before he knew it. “You’re not going to contact anyone. Do you understand?”

Shank blinked madly, his hands raised, unsure of what had just happened, what his best friend was doing. “What the hell?”

Astor released him. He was surprised at his action, but he did not regret it. “Hey, Marv…”

“Yeah?”

“Mind your own business.”