The Gods of Greenwich (2 page)

“Tomorrow,” announced the tallest money manager, the one with the Stanford MBA, starter wife, and four kids, “I’m shorting Hafnarbanki at twelve hundred.”

“Tall” believed Hafnarbanki’s price was about to crash. His plan was to borrow stock and sell at twelve hundred kronur right away. If Hafnarbanki fell to five hundred, he would buy at the lower price, return stock to the lender, and book a tidy profit of seven hundred kronur per share.

“I’m in,” agreed the second man. He had a Napoleonic build, MIT degree in math, and hot-action mistress. “When we’re finished, these Vikings will know Hafnarbanki as Bank Hindenburg.”

“If you ask me, it’s more of an H-bomb,” scoffed Tall. He ordered three more ports. “Cy, what do you think?”

“That you two have mouths like billboards. Keep your voices down.” Cy was the most sober and the most alert, the money manager with a history degree from NYU. He smiled Joe Biden bright, his good mood at odds with instinctive caution.

“Hey, we’re with you,” soothed Napoleon, raising his glass to Cy. “We can’t lose, right?”

Cyrus Leeser grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, where he survived Irish Catholic kids and eluded “poison people.” Outside his family’s apartment on West Fifty-fourth, the heroin addicts were forever scratching through life in search of scag or the five-way—a cocktail of heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine, Rohypnol, and alcohol. He made it to college, graduated, and began a steady if unremarkable career as a stockbroker with the “thundering herd.” Leeser left Merrill Lynch in 2000 and cofounded LeeWell Capital. That was the beginning of his spectacular rise.

Most estimates placed Leeser’s net worth around $75 million. Some hedge fund insiders argued it was more. He owned a sumptuous estate and was married to Bianca Santiago, bestselling author and his trophy wife of sixteen years. He was an accomplished pilot, a philanthropist, a proud father of twin daughters attending Andover, the elite boarding school. He ran big money and recruited new investors every day, vowing never to set foot on West Fifty-fourth again.

“The only risk,” Napoleon suggested, “is that three hundred thousand people live in Iceland. And they’re all related.”

“It’s like some kind of Nordic Appalachia,” Tall agreed. “Webbed feet and shit.”

“These cousins can band together,” Napoleon continued, “buy stock, and prop up Hafnarbanki’s share price.”

“Don’t say the name of the bank,” warned Cy. “What is it you don’t understand about keeping your voice down?”

“You worry too much,” scoffed Napoleon. “We’re performing a community service.”

“How so?” asked Tall as another round of drinks arrived.

“By shorting dumb money so it goes away.” Napoleon clinked glasses with Tall and raised a toast, “To Hafnarbanki.”

Cy winced as he noticed a bookish man a few seats down the bar.

*   *   *

Furrowed brow, sleek black glasses, Siberian-blue eyes—Siggi Stefansson pretended to read his novel. The Americans annoyed him; the bottomless drinks, the clinking of glasses, the laughter that occasionally rocked the bar. It was all he could do to concentrate.

Siggi cursed the tallest foreigner under his breath. Then he cursed his girlfriend Hanna, who always ran late. The Icelander was forever sitting in bars, alone, reading books and drinking himself into drunken stupors with people he didn’t know. Or drinking with Ólafur. His second cousin was a regular at every gin mill in downtown Reykjavik.

Siggi could not help but eavesdrop, especially because the three Americans were discussing Hafnarbanki. He deposited his money there. It was the pride of Iceland, a national treasure, a legacy from a few fishermen who abandoned their nets in the 1930s for the glory of international banking.

The Americans almost seemed giddy. Siggi closed his book, taking care to dog-ear the page, and sipped his Guinness. He studied the man named Cy, who shushed the other two men from time to time.

Cy was in his late forties with deep crow’s-feet and basset-hound eyes. He was an imposing figure: muscular build, five foot eleven at least, and jet-black hair that flopped over his ears and touched his shoulders. He spoke little. But he conveyed power. Siggi judged Cy to be a man who could handle himself in any bar, whether drinking, fighting, or womanizing.

The other two Americans, however annoying, intrigued him. Drunk or not, they sounded smarter than most tourists. He heard the word “short” every so often, but he was not sure what it meant. Their toast seemed friendly enough:

“To Hafnarbanki.”

That was when Leeser caught Siggi’s eye. “Are you from Reykjavik?” the long-haired American asked. He was all smile and bleached teeth. He spoke in a disarming manner, as though asking for directions.

“Yes.” Siggi pushed his black glasses up from the bridge of his nose.

“Come on down and let me buy you a drink.”

*   *   *

Leeser prided himself on one skill. He could read people. When he was a kid, the talent helped him duck punches, both on the streets and inside his apartment, which was a hell all its own. Within thirty-five minutes, Cy was convinced he knew everything about the bookish Icelander with the craggy face and wavy blond hair.

Siggi was the youngest of three children. He was thirty-four and engaged to be married. He had been dating his fiancée for nine months and three days. He reminded the American of a young Michael Caine.

Cy knew Hanna’s name. He knew her studies were a source of conflict. Siggi wanted to get married right away. But Hanna’s law degree came first as far as she was concerned. Planning a wedding, Hanna argued, was out of the question given her course load at Reykjavik University’s School of Law.

Leeser’s interest in the Icelander had little to do with affability. It was all about damage control. Cy wondered what Siggi had heard, whether he was a threat. Ferreting out information, though, required finesse. The American gave a little to get a lot.

At one point, Siggi asked, “What brings you to Iceland?”

“I run a hedge fund.”

“I don’t understand much about them,” Siggi confessed.

“Few people do,” Cy replied in his most disarming, empathetic voice. “In my opinion hedge funds have three things in common. We manage money. We usually charge twenty-percent fees on profits. And we’re less regulated than other financial institutions, because we each work with limited numbers of wealthy investors.”

“But what do you mean by ‘hedge’?”

“Fair question. ‘Hedge’ is a misleading word. It makes us sound like money managers who protect against downside risk—in the same way landlords insure buildings against fire. I do. But not everybody does. Like I said before, hedge funds manage money for wealthy investors.”

“Well, that leaves me out,” Siggi noted, his voice wistful. “I have no head for stocks and bonds anyway.”

Cy relaxed. And then he discovered a bonus. Siggi owned a small art gallery, two blocks away. The Icelander traveled extensively, spoke fluent Russian, and catered to an exclusive clientele of Eastern Europeans. This discovery thrilled Leeser, a true lover of art, a collector with eclectic tastes. Cy covered both his home and office walls with emerging masters from everywhere.

“Would you like to see my gallery?” Siggi offered. “We can go when Hanna gets here.”

“Not me,” Napoleon replied. “I’m going to bed.”

“Me either,” agreed Tall. “Cy’s your guy. He wants to become Stevie Cohen.”

Tall was referring to the founder of SAC Capital Partners. Cohen, a billionaire and king among hedge funds, owned the greats. His collection, worth $700 million by some estimates, included masterpieces by Edvard Munch, Pablo Picasso, and Andy Warhol.

“I’m small time compared to Cohen,” Leeser added in a wistful, self-deprecating way. “Maybe one day.”

Siggi and Cy could have yakked about art all night. But Leeser stayed on plan and forced himself to learn more about the Icelander, to ensure the art dealer was no threat.

Cy knew Siggi was a happy drunk, incapable of holding his liquor. He knew the names of Siggi’s parents, not to mention his older brother and sister. He knew the Icelander felt a special affinity with his second cousin. There was only one detail Cy missed.

Cousin Ólafur worked for Hafnarbanki. He was the managing director of strategic development, the senior executive charged with mapping out the bank’s competitive strategy. When hedge funds attacked, his job was to mow them down.

CHAPTER THREE

WEDNESDAY
,
DECEMBER
19

“You’re taking too long.”

“Do your job, and let me do mine.” Rachel Whittier clicked off her cell phone, annoyed by his pressure. Who needed it? She had never failed her employer before. Two, maybe three more years of this aggravation, and she would tell him to take a hike. She would have enough cash and could stop moonlighting forever, or at least until she moved to Paris.

“Get your boots,” a deejay advised over the radio. “There’s a blizzard coming.”

Rachel gazed out the window of her Park Avenue clinic. All morning the squalls had threatened. Now avalanche-white nimbostratus clouds were dusting New York City with snowy powder. It was only a matter of time before they launched a full-scale assault.

The storm would snarl traffic. The taxis would skid on rutted roads, windshield wipers slapping this way and that. The cabbies would swear and spit and smack each other’s fenders, while pedestrians slipped on unsalted sidewalks and scuttled from store to store. But Rachel’s green eyes blazed with gelid detachment, trancelike, in a nether zone.

She was blasé about the holiday craze in New York City. She ignored Christmas decorations and the Salvation Army ringing their handbells on Fifth Avenue. Today was the day. It was time to go.

Rachel charged out of the break room, down the marble-lined corridor, and found Doc in Reception among towering ferns and back issues of
People
magazine. New York’s foremost plastic surgeon, fiftyish and too Hollywood for her taste, was braving the elements to grab lunch.

“I’m taking the afternoon off,” she announced. “See you tomorrow.”

Rachel was not asking. She was telling. She owned Doc. He was the one who prepared collagen syringes for her treatments. He was the one who bought lunch whenever she asked. Doc was the boss, the big biscuit in the pan. But he said yes no matter what came out of her mouth. And she doubted her honey Texan accent was the reason.

“Christmas shopping?” Doc inquired, ever the obedient dog with tongue hanging out.

“You’re on my list.” Rachel flipped her golden-blond hair and spun around to retrieve a purse and winter coat. She could feel Doc ogling her from behind, his eyes tracing the starched white blouse and cup of her white skirt. He appreciated her sway. She appreciated her power, the ability to milk desire for control.

Inside a private consultation room, which housed the staff’s closet, Rachel appraised her figure in a full-length mirror. She approved the fullness of her breasts. She cocked her head slightly to the right, unconsciously rubbing a raised, puffy, round scar on the back of her right hand. For a moment she scrutinized her thin hips, wondering if she had put on weight.

The moment passed. It was time to get started. She was starved, already savoring the hunt.

*   *   *

Harold Van Nest resembled, if such a thing can exist, the poster child for grandfathers. He was seventy-two and balding, all belly and no butt, bright and boisterous with an ever-present smile. Behind horn-rimmed glasses that made him look scholarly, his soft brown eyes danced with infectious good humor.

The women at the neighborhood dry cleaners remarked, “What an adorable old man,” whenever he left their shop.

Van Nest was a creature of habit. For twenty years, he had worn a red bow tie and tweedy suit—inhaler in his coat pocket—every Wednesday evening regardless of the season. He sat on the same stool inside the Harvard Club bar and sipped the same drink, always a Beefeater martini with two olives and instructions to “shake extra hard.” He recycled the same stories with friends from their glory days at college, and he insisted his punch lines improved with each and every telling.

At precisely 6:45
P.M.
Van Nest said good-bye to Franklin Sanborn II and William Wirt III, who was known as “Three Sticks.” He patted Hayward Levitt V on the back and reminded him that poker started at 7:15
P.M.
tomorrow night. They had shared the same game for the last forty years with Frederick Sterling Jr. and Samuel Harkness VI, both Yale graduates of similar vintage. Harold marched outside the club’s hoary wooden halls and into a New York blizzard on loan from Siberia.

He hated the cold. It stirred up his asthma. Gave him fits.

The red awning, white number twenty-seven, was losing its fierce battle against the driving snow. Monstrous flakes pelted Harold and buried his lenses. The drifts soaked his trouser cuffs within seconds and made Harold grateful for the rubbers covering his wingtips.

The club’s doorman asked, “May I get you a cab, sir?”

“Think we’ll have any luck, Robert?”

“Never failed yet,” the doorman replied, whistling between teeth and pursed lips. Almost at once, a lone yellow cab appeared from nowhere in front of the red canopy.

Van Nest scrambled for the taxi, the snow coating him from all directions. Robert opened the yellow door, and the older man felt a hand touch his elbow. He whirled around, sinking into the seat all in one motion, not sure what to expect. A woman with brilliant green eyes and a Paddington Bear mariner’s hat was standing over him.

“Get in and scoot over,” she ordered, her voice a compelling mix of sex, siren, and sergeant.

Ever the gentleman, Van Nest slipped across the black vinyl seat as instructed. He said nothing. He was dumbfounded by the sudden intrusion into seventy-two years of routine.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice softer and more inviting now.

“Upper East Side,” he replied, stumbling over his words.

“Me, too.”

“May I drop you somewhere?”

“I’m cold. I’m wet. And I could use a drink,” she said.