The Prince of Risk

90

Six buttonwood trees lined the pathway to the entrance of the New York Stock Exchange’s data center in Mahwah, New Jersey. The trees commemorated the storied buttonwood tree on Wall Street, where the first brokers of the infant United States had gathered in the late 1700s to trade shares. Septimus Reventlow thought it was a quaint touch. Ahead, a single set of doors provided entry to the building. No other doors led inside. There were no windows, either. The imposing stone structure looked more like a fortress or a monument to a modern-day pharaoh than the home of the world’s most sophisticated stock trading platform.

Reventlow walked easily toward the building. He had already cleared the security checkpoints without a hitch. First there had been the tall earthen berm and ironwork fence that surrounded the complex. Then there had been the three Delta barriers, each lowered only after he’d passed over the one before. None posed any problem. Reventlow’s name was on the visitors list. He was the day’s guest of honor.

An official waited at the door. Reventlow gave an alias, along with a matching identification, in this case a New York driver’s license. The alias matched the name of the vice president of a small investment bank that his brother had recently purchased. Like any similar institution, the bank desired to rent some space in the facility to house its own computers so they would be in close physical proximity to the computers that ran the Exchange. The proper term was colocation.

“All the Exchange’s proprietary computers are housed in a single twenty-thousand-square-foot room, or pod,” explained the official as they walked into the heavily air-conditioned building. “These machines match all buy and sell orders in the most efficient manner. We call them ‘matching engines.’”

“And these matching engines run the entire Exchange?”

“Eighty percent of it, and more each day. Of course, there are specialists on the floor who handle large block trades for their clients. But we’re able to assume more of that business, too. We also handle trades for the American Stock Exchange. All told, over three billion shares a day.”

“Impressive,” offered Reventlow.

“We’d like to put your hardware in a pod just down the hall. You’ll be sharing the space with a few other banks, but rest assured that you’ll be equidistant from our servers.”

“I wouldn’t want anything less,” said Reventlow. In the day of high-frequency trading, when millions of shares changed hands in seconds, the smallest difference in the time it took for a trade to be executed was crucial. Every thousand feet away from one of the Exchange’s matching engines meant an additional millionth of a second in transit time. While differences of a foot or 10 feet or even 1,000 feet conveyed no competitive disadvantage, differences of 10 miles or 100 or 1,000 miles did. Hence the need to allow banks to position their mainframes as close to the Exchange’s as possible.

“Do you think I might see the matching engines?”

“I’m sorry, that’s out of the question,” said the official. “I hope you understand.”

Reventlow reluctantly nodded. “Before I went into banking, I worked in systems design. I’ve heard this is a beauty.”

“If I do say so myself, it is. Tell you what, I can let you see our Risk Management Gateway. It’s the hardware we put in place to guarantee against any errors on your end.”

“So all trades pass through it?”

“Of course,” said the official, offended. “We consider it our prime competitive advantage.”

The official led the way down a hallway and into a large, brightly lit room housing six mainframe computers. Reventlow smiled in appreciation even as his heart beat faster. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a slim envelope, concealed it in his palm, and with his thumb opened the flap.

“According to parameters you set, these machines will filter every trade to make sure it complies with SEC requirements,” the official continued.

Reventlow leaned closer to a machine, raising a hand to touch the control panel.

“Please,” said the official testily, gently removing his visitor’s hand.

It was then that Reventlow raised the concealed envelope to his mouth and blew. A fine spray of cyanide powder flew into the official’s face. He breathed in once, gasped, then collapsed. Reventlow caught him and laid him on the floor. He stepped over the writhing man and walked to the last computer in line.

From his other pocket he withdrew a small flash drive. He looked at the slim black device and a boost of adrenaline warmed his chest and shot to his fingertips. In his hand he held the end result of years of planning, of countless sums of money spent, of his family’s boundless ambition and his country’s most daring scheme.

It had all come down to this moment. It had come down to him.

Inside the flash drive was the source code that would give China control over every machine in the data center, and by extension every machine connected to them. These included matching engines in London, Frankfurt, Singapore, Paris, Tokyo, and, as important, the backup data centers in Basildon, England, and Cincinnati, Ohio. The code would also infect every piece of hardware that did business with the exchanges. Every bank, insurance company, and brokerage. And from there, every client who did business with them.

In short order, China would have control over every stock exchange in the world and every financial institution that did business with them.

Reventlow found the control unit. He moved his hand over the main panel, neatly flipping it open. He saw the USB slot immediately. All he needed to do was insert the flash drive and the source code would transfer immediately, and untraceably, to the mainframe and enter the Exchange’s proprietary trading software. He breathed easier, knowing his job was done. No one would have the slightest idea that his family-his country-was clandestinely controlling the most powerful market in the world. The faintest of smiles pressed at his lips. It was so simple, really.

A footstep sounded nearby. Then another.

“Stop.”

Reventlow spun and looked down the row at Bobby Astor. “You’re too late,” he said, turning his attention back to the server. Desperately he tried to insert the flash drive.

“That means now.”

It was a woman’s voice. Reventlow looked in the opposite direction. A woman stood 10 feet away, her pistol aimed at his face. He made his decision. His fingers flew again to the computer. The flash drive pressed against the USB slot. Metal met metal.

The pistol fired.

Reventlow fell.

He was dead before the flash drive hit the floor.

“No,” said Alex. “We’re not.”