The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine (12 page)

The details were complicated, but the gist of this new money machine was not: It turned a lot of dicey loans into a pile of bonds, most of which were triple-A-rated, then it took the lowest-rated of the remaining bonds and turned most of those into triple-A CDOs. And then--because it could not extend home loans fast enough to create a sufficient number of lower-rated bonds--it used credit default swaps to replicate the very worst of the existing bonds, many times over. Goldman Sachs stood between Michael Burry and AIG. Michael Burry forked out 250 basis points (2.5 percent) to own credit default swaps on the very crappiest triple-B bonds, and AIG paid a mere 12 basis points (0.12 percent) to sell credit default swaps on those very same bonds, filtered through a synthetic CDO, and pronounced triple-A-rated. There were a few other messy details
*
--some of the lead was sold off directly to German investors in Dusseldorf--but when the dust settled, Goldman Sachs had taken roughly 2 percent off the top, risk-free, and booked all the profit up front. There was no need on either side--long or short--for cash to change hands. Both sides could do a deal with Goldman Sachs by signing a piece of paper. The original home mortgage loans on whose fate both sides were betting played no other role. In a funny way, they existed only so that their fate might be gambled upon.

The market for "synthetics" removed any constraint on the size of risk associated with subprime mortgage lending. To make a billion-dollar bet, you no longer needed to accumulate a billion dollars' worth of actual mortgage loans. All you had to do was find someone else in the market willing to take the other side of the bet.

No wonder Goldman Sachs was suddenly so eager to sell Mike Burry credit default swaps in giant, $100 million chunks, or that the Goldman Sachs bond trader had been surprisingly indifferent to which subprime bonds Mike Burry bet against. The insurance Mike Burry bought was inserted into a synthetic CDO and passed along to AIG. The roughly $20 billion in credit default swaps sold by AIG to Goldman Sachs meant roughly $400 million in riskless profits for Goldman Sachs.
Each year
. The deals lasted as long as the underlying bonds, which had an expected life of about six years, which, when you did the math, implied a profit for the Goldman trader of $2.4 billion.

Wall Street's newest technique for squeezing profits out of the bond markets should have raised a few questions. Why were supposedly sophisticated traders at AIG FP doing this stuff? If credit default swaps were insurance, why weren't they regulated as insurance? Why, for example, wasn't AIG required to reserve capital against them? Why, for that matter, were Moody's and Standard & Poor's willing to bless 80 percent of a pool of dicey mortgage loans with the same triple-A rating they bestowed on the debts of the U.S. Treasury? Why didn't someone, anyone, inside Goldman Sachs stand up and say, "This is obscene. The rating agencies, the ultimate pricers of all these subprime mortgage loans, clearly do not understand the risk, and their idiocy is creating a recipe for catastrophe"? Apparently none of those questions popped into the minds of market insiders as quickly as another: How do I do what Goldman Sachs just did? Deutsche Bank, especially, felt something like shame that Goldman Sachs had been the first to find this particular pay dirt. Along with Goldman, Deutsche Bank was the leading market maker in abstruse mortgage derivatives. Dusseldorf was playing some kind of role in the new market. If there were stupid Germans standing ready to buy U.S. subprime mortgage derivatives, Deutsche Bank should have been the first to find them.

None of this was of any obvious concern to Greg Lippmann. Lippmann did not run Deutsche Bank's CDO business--a fellow named Michael Lamont did. Lippmann was merely the trader responsible for buying and selling subprime mortgage bonds and, by extension, credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds. But with so few investors willing to make an outright bet against the subprime bond market, Lippmann's bosses asked Lippmann to take one for the team: in effect, to serve as a stand-in for Mike Burry, and to make an explicit bet against the market. If Lippmann would buy credit default swaps from Deutsche Bank's CDO department, they, too, might do these trades with AIG, before AIG woke up and stopped doing them. "Greg was forced to get short into the CDOs," says a former senior member of Deutsche Bank's CDO team. "I say forced, but you can't really force Greg to do anything." There was some pushing and pulling with the people who ran his firm's CDO operations, but Lippmann found himself uncomfortably short subprime mortgage bonds.

Lippmann had at least one good reason for not putting up a huge fight: There was a fantastically profitable market waiting to be created. Financial markets are a collection of arguments. The less transparent the market and the more complicated the securities, the more money the trading desks at big Wall Street firms can make from the argument. The constant argument over the value of the shares of some major publicly traded company has very little value, as both buyer and seller can see the fair price of the stock on the ticker, and the broker's commission has been driven down by competition. The argument over the value of credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds--a complex security whose value was derived from that of another complex security--could be a gold mine. The only other dealer making serious markets in credit default swaps was Goldman Sachs, so there was, in the beginning, little price competition. Supply, thanks to AIG, was virtually unlimited. The problem was demand: investors who wanted to do Mike Burry's trade. Incredibly, at this critical juncture in financial history, after which so much changed so quickly, the only constraint in the subprime mortgage market was a shortage of people willing to bet against it.

To sell investors on the idea of betting against subprime mortgage bonds--on buying his pile of credit default swaps--Greg Lippmann needed a new and improved argument. Enter the Great Chinese Quant. Lippmann asked Eugene Xu to study the effect of home price appreciation on subprime mortgage loans. Eugene Xu went off and did whatever the second smartest man in China does, and at length returned with a chart illustrating default rates in various home price scenarios: home prices up, home prices flat, home prices down. Lippmann looked at it...and looked again. The numbers shocked even him.
They didn't need to collapse; they merely needed to stop rising so fast
. House prices were still rising, and yet default rates were approaching 4 percent; if they rose to just 7 percent, the lowest investment-grade bonds, rated triple-B-minus, went to zero. If they rose to 8 percent, the next lowest-rated bonds, rated triple-B, went to zero.

At that moment--in November 2005--Greg Lippmann realized that he didn't mind owning a pile of credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds. They weren't insurance; they were a gamble; and he liked the odds. He
wanted
to be short.

This was new. Greg Lippmann had traded bonds backed by various consumer loans--auto loans, credit card loans, home equity loans--since 1991, when he had graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and taken a job at Credit Suisse. He'd never before been able to sell them short, because they were impossible to borrow. The only choice he and every other asset-backed bond trader ever had to make was whether to like them or to love them. There was never any point in hating them. Now he could, and did. But hating them set him apart from the crowd--and that represented, for Greg Lippmann, a new career risk. As he put it to others, "If you're in a business where you can do only one thing and it doesn't work out, it's hard for your bosses to be mad at you." It was now possible to do more than one thing, but if he bet against subprime mortgage bonds and was proven wrong, his bosses would find it easy to be mad at him.

In the righteous spirit of a man bearing an inconvenient truth, Greg Lippmann, a copy of "Shorting Subprime Mezzanine Tranches" tucked under his arm, launched himself at the institutional investing public. He may have begun his investigation of the subprime mortgage market in the spirit of a Wall Street salesman, searching less for the truth than for a persuasive-sounding pitch. Now, shockingly, he thought he had an ingenious plan to make customers rich. He'd charge them fat fees to get in and out of their credit default swaps, of course, but these would prove trivial compared to the fortunes they stood to make. He was no longer selling; he was dispensing favors.
Behold. A gift from me to you.

Institutional investors didn't know what to make of him, at least not at first. "I think he has some kind of narcissistic personality disorder," said one money manager who heard Lippmann's pitch but did not do his trade. "He scared the shit out of us," said another. "He comes in and describes this brilliant trade. It makes total sense. To us the risk was, we do it, it works, then what? How do we get out? He controls the market; he may be the only one we can sell to. And he says, 'You have no way out of this swimming pool but through me, and when you ask for the towel I'm going to rip your eyeballs out.' He actually said that, that he was going to rip our eyeballs out. The guy was totally transparent."

They loved it, in a way, but decided they didn't want to experience the thrill of eyeball removal. "What worked against Greg," this fund manager said, "was that he was too candid."

Lippmann faced the usual objections any Wall Street bond customer voiced to any Wall Street bond salesmen--
If it's such a great trade, why are you offering it to me?
--but other, less usual ones, too. Buying credit default swaps meant paying insurance premiums for perhaps years as you waited for American homeowners to default. Bond market investors, like bond market traders, viscerally resisted any trade that they had to pay money to be in, and instinctively sought out trades that paid them just for showing up in the morning. (One big bond market investor christened his yacht
Positive Carry
.) Trades where you fork over 2 percent a year just to be in them were anathema. Other sorts of investors found other sorts of objections. "I can't explain credit default swaps to my investors" was a common response to Greg Lippmann's pitch. Or "I have a cousin who works at Moody's and he says this stuff [subprime mortgage bonds] is all good." Or "I talked to Bear Stearns and they said you were crazy." Lippmann spent twenty hours with one hedge fund guy and thought he had him sold, only to have the guy call his college roommate, who worked for some home builder, and change his mind.

But the most common response of all from investors who heard Lippmann's argument was, "I'm convinced. You're right. But it's not my job to short the subprime market."

"That's why the opportunity exists," Lippmann would reply. "It's nobody's job."

It wasn't Lippmann's, either. He was meant to be the toll booth, taking a little from buyers and sellers as they passed through his trading books. He was now in a different, more opinionated relationship to his market and his employer. Lippmann's short position may have been forced upon him, but by the end of 2005 he'd made it his own, and grown it to a billion dollars. Sixteen floors above him inside Deutsche Bank's Wall Street headquarters, several hundred highly paid employees bought subprime mortgage loans, packaged them into bonds, and sold them off. Another group packaged the most repellent, unsalable tranches of those bonds, and CDSs on the bonds, into CDOs. The bigger Lippmann's short position grew, the greater the implicit expression of contempt for these people and their industry--an industry quickly becoming Wall Street's most profitable business. The running cost, in premiums Lippmann paid, was tens of millions of dollars a year, and his losses looked even bigger. The buyer of a credit default swap agreed to pay premiums for the lifespan of the underlying mortgage bond. So long as the underlying bonds remained outstanding, both buyer and seller of credit default swaps were obliged to post collateral, in response to their price movements. Astonishingly, the prices of subprime mortgage bonds were rising. Within a few months, Lippmann's credit default swap position had to be marked down by $30 million. His superiors repeatedly asked him to explain why he was doing what he was doing. "A lot of people wondered if this was the best use of Greg's time and our money," said a senior Deutsche Bank official who watched the growing conflict.

Rather than cave to the pressure, Lippmann instead had an idea for making it vanish: kill the new market. AIG was very nearly the only buyer of triple-A-rated CDOs (that is, triple-B-rated subprime mortgage bonds repackaged into triple-A-rated CDOs). AIG was, ultimately, the party on the other side of the credit default swaps Mike Burry was buying. If AIG stopped buying bonds (or, more exactly, stopped insuring them against default), the entire subprime mortgage bond market might collapse, and Lippmann's credit default swaps would be worth a fortune. At the end of 2005, Lippmann flew to London to try to make that happen. He met with an AIG FP employee named Tom Fewings, who worked directly for AIG FP's head, Joe Cassano. Lippmann, who was forever adding data to his presentation, produced his latest version of "Shorting Mezzanine Home Equity Tranches" and walked Fewings through his argument. Fewings offered him no serious objections, and Lippmann left AIG's London office feeling as if Fewings had been converted to his cause. Sure enough, shortly after Lippmann's visit, AIG FP stopped selling credit default swaps. Even better: AIG FP hinted that they might actually like to
buy
some credit default swaps. In anticipation of selling them some, Lippmann accumulated more.

For a brief moment, Lippmann thought he'd changed the world, all by himself. He had walked into AIG FP and had shown them how Deutsche Bank, along with every other Wall Street firm, was playing them for fools, and they'd understood.

CHAPTER FOUR

How to Harvest a Migrant Worker

They hadn't. Not really. The first person inside AIG FP
to awaken to the madness of his firm's behavior, and sound an alarm, was not Tom Fewings, who quickly forgot his meeting with Lippmann, but Gene Park. Park worked in AIG FP's Connecticut office and sat close enough to the credit default swap traders to have a general idea of what they were up to. In mid-2005 he read a front-page story in the
Wall Street Journal
about the mortgage lender New Century. He noted how high the company's dividend was and wondered if he should buy some of its stock for himself. As he dug into New Century, however, Park saw that they owned all these subprime mortgages--and he could see from their own statements that the quality of these loans was frighteningly poor. Soon after his private investigation of New Century, Park had a phone call from a penniless, jobless old college friend who had been offered several loans from banks to buy a house he couldn't afford. That's when the penny dropped for him: Park had noticed his colleague, Al Frost, announcing credit default swap deals with big Wall Street firms at a new clip. A year before, Frost might have done one billion-dollar deal each month; now he was doing twenty, all of them insuring putatively diversified piles of consumer loans. "We were doing every single deal with every single Wall Street firm, except Citigroup," says one trader. "Citigroup decided it liked the risk, and kept it on their books. We took all the rest." When traders asked Frost why Wall Street was suddenly so eager to do business with AIG, as one put it, "he would explain that they liked us because we could act quickly." Park put two and two together and guessed that the nature of these piles of consumer loans insured by AIG FP was changing, that they contained a lot more subprime mortgages than anyone knew, and that if U.S. homeowners began to default in sharply greater numbers, AIG didn't have anywhere near the capital required to cover the losses. When he brought this up at a meeting, his reward was to be hauled into a separate room by Joe Cassano, who screamed at him that he didn't know what he was talking about.