The Nakamura Affair (excerpt)
April 9, 2016 § Leave a comment
It is with unimaginable horror that I’m watching a small bird in the branches of the Japanese cherry tree outside that is in full bloom. The bird’s been hovering there for the last twenty minutes above my car, a brand new Agera, list price £1.2 million, which I’ve left parked in the cobbled courtyard below. I know what’s going to happen next but even as the bird opens up its bowels and lets loose a stream of white filth onto the Gallo yellow paintwork of my car, I feel my body go numb. This is tipping me over the edge. The bird turns its malevolent little face at me and stares, then zips up out of the courtyard, over the cluster of trees and into the grey wilderness of central London.
In a few minutes from now the president of the European Central Bank will announce the results of a survey into the European economy. Looking at them all, the other traders, they’re leaning back in their chairs, chatting unconcernedly. They look so relaxed. I feel sick.
I turn back to my screens—the ones that are flickering between two shades,
red- black – red – black – red – black.
It wavers from colour to colour as the numbers click up and down. Black means I’m up and red means I’m down. It can become hypnotic sometimes.
I check my figures. It’s gone through. A three quarters of a billion trade. It’s more than anyone’s put on all year. More than I’ve ever done in my life. I’m going against the market. And nobody here knows.
My eye zeroes in on the newspaper open on the following article:
Mayfair dog found dead
The body of Mervyn, resident cocker spaniel of hedge fund Pointfort House, was found hanging from a dog lead secured to a pipe, just before 7.30am in Albermarle Street, London, yesterday. According to friends and colleagues, Mervyn, 8, who had been missing since August 29, was hanged by Fawkes a pseudo anti-capitalist group protesting against financier excesses. Last week, the group attacked a cereal cafe in Knightsbridge, setting fire to hundreds of packets of Golden Grahams…
Senseless. Utterly senseless. And what is it that drives a man to kill a dog? What possessed them? I don’t know. But I feel there’s something dark lurking behind the pages. Something more behind this. Alas poor Mervyn I knew him well. I take a few deep breaths and pick up the slender, unread, copy ofSiddhartha lying in the corner of the desk:
“A journey of a young man from a life of decadence through the illusory joys of wealth to the nirvana of reality.”
My hands are sweating. God, my hands are sweating. I’m interrupted by the sudden blast of a hooter and a loud voice crying:
It’s eleven o’clock. Oh shit. It’s time.
Suddenly a nut-brown, blinking visage appears on the screen. He doesn’t look particularly awesome. In fact he looks like a mouse.But for the multitude of investors around the world, for the many hedge funders whose existence is tied up to the progress of money, he’s Superman. He is God. He is Mohammed. He is Giovanni Gio, president of the ECB.
I shiver. Porcupine prickles trickle down my neck. I start to feel adrenaline course through me. I tap my watch for luck.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Today we’d like to present our second annual review of the European economy. It’s the report that determines our forecast of the continent for the next five years. This report was compiled through deep analysis…”
The red and black flickers softly on my screen. It’s poised, ready to break one way or another like a beast on a leash. Like a pig. I start to breathe deeply, a technique I learnt at a yoga retreat at a Keralan spa. In my pure focus I centre myself. Slowly my imagination bears into my emotions and everything else fades away.
“We’ve compiled thousands of data points and assessed the status of each European economy and reached a deep insight…”
I slow my breathing. Slow it right down until I’m practically seeing stars, at the same time saying a little mantra to myself.
Bad, bad, bad.
“This statistical undertaking is unprecedented in our history. The work of our member states has given us a precise picture.”
Bad, bad, bad.
“Our people have carefully charted…and logged…to determine…our future.”
Bad, bad, bad.
“Based on our models…we’ve formulated…scenario of the state of economy. It is clear to us that in this year the situation in Europe is…”
Here it is!
“…better than ever before.”
A sea of red erupts on my screen. The market’s gone up by 200 points. My trade has fucking plummeted.
PLUMS, PLUMS, PLUMS, PLUMS!
“The study shows strong, steady growth…stable fiscal surplus…topping the high end of our estimates…”
“Buy! Buy! Buy!” comes the shout, as a wall of losses scrambles my screen knocking me deep into my chair. One second is all it took. I’m down by
The ECB president’s words are pumping fuel like a supertuned engine through the economic system and traders are scooping up money by the millions, rampaging the floor like horned ungulates. I need to get out of this as quickly as possible— sell, dump, unwind. But my mind won’t work. I’m swimming in a pool of formaldehyde.
Shake yourself out of it, Green!
I convince my hand, which is weighed down by stone, to pick up the phone and call my broker, Bob. Three rings and it goes to voicemail. I hang up.
The market’s moving. Faster and faster. I’m forty million down. I pick up the phone again and call another broker. No reply. Asshole. Where are they?
C’mon Green, calm yourself.
I channel my inner breath— breathe, pause, let the market reverse itself— this is just froth, adrenaline, over-excitement, it will come back down.
Bang! 200 points up!
I’m £50 million in the red. I’m being dragged by wild horses across a floor of cement. The market’s not stopping, it’s still going up. The numbers are revolving at a rate of knots, spinning wildly. Shit, shit, shit. Why did I go against the market? Never go against the market— isn’t that the saying?
“Daniel!” I scream down the phone.
“TG. How you doing buddy? Good news, huh?”
“Listen, shut up, I need you to shift a position.”
“Sure I can sell at…”
“No I need to sell.”
“I’m closing a short.”
I choke back the tidal wave of horror that’s swelling up.
“Can’t explain,” I say. “Client money. Exit. Quickly. Moving against me.”
“Okay, I can do eighty on the…no wait it’s just gone up to eighty five.”
Shit. Haemorrhaging money. Innards contracting.
“Eighty seven and a half now.”
I look at my screen. It’s red. Everything is red.
Jesus Christ. I’m getting decimated. I’m on the verge of tears as I ready to cut it, steel my hand when…hold on…
Something strange has just happened. The screen’s flipped. All the red’s disappeared. The monitor’s flashing black…my £60 million loss just vanished. It’s suddenly blinked to £70 million—gain. This can’t be right? Is there something wrong with my screen? I slap the monitor to make it work again.
“D’you want me to do it?” rabbits Daniel on the other end.
I smack the monitor again but it’s still black. What is it? Why won’t it? How do I?
“Tim I can execute…”
I’m trying to compute but the only thing I can think of, the only way this could happen, is if the market plunged.
“Daniel,” I say lowering my voice to a whisper, “what are you seeing on your screen?”
“Just wait.” I slow my speech and enunciate each word carefully. “Tell me, Daniel. What can you see on your screen?”
There’s a garbled noise on the other end of the line.
“Daniel, did you see that?”
The thud of a falling receiver.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”
A second ago it was up two percent. Now it’s fallen by five percent. My P&L is in profit. I’m up by ninety million and trying to understand then— zoom– the market plunges, the screen changes again, my account, whirring to black at a speed I’ve never seen before.
+ £130 million, + £160 million, + £180 million
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”
There’s a horrible silence in the room. To my left a trader with phone in hand, mouth moving robotically, open and shut, open and shut. The other, on my right, is pressing his keyboard the sweat falling through the little rivulets of his face. The noise has died. The river of testosterone’s evaporated as these adrenalized ungulates stop, their horns receding, shrivelling back into their bodies. Someone’s shrieking:
“What did the ECB say? What did they say?”
And: “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck….”
My line goes dead as a river of testosterone vomits onto the floor. Things around me have suddenly taken a turn for the strange.
My constipated bowels threaten to loosen themselves. But with joy! This is biblical. Someone’s selling in unheard of quantities. Somebody—something!—is pounding the market down, taking massive chunks from it. In a matter of seconds the euro loses fifteen trillion pounds. It’s swallowed up as markets dive, indexes plummet and, percent by percent, the world falls into the abyss. The traders don’t know where to look. Their screens are filled with red. Hope, like a flying brick, exits the room. The place is breathless as all the air swooshes out. Finally, three minutes later, after it’s had every ounce of life rung out from it, at eleven thirteen the bell sounds and the market is: CLOSED.
I look up at my screen.
I’ve just made £666 million.By mistake.
I look out of the window at the blossoms scattering on the ground by a cold wind that runs through the tree. I feel alive.
“It’s not Jaws. It’s a fucking whale!”
*The Koenigsegg Agera R can do 0-300kph in 14.53 sec and brakes back to 0 in 6.4 seconds. It owns seven world speed records. Only eighteen examples of the Koenigsegg Agera R exist. It’s name means “action” in Swedish. In Greek “ageless/infinite”.
** With its white cheeks and strikingly glossy black head the bird is clearly identifiable as a Great tit. Tits are passerine birds in the tit family Paridae. They are considered to be friendly and sociable birds. England has six varieties, ranging from the small Blue to the Willow with its sooty black cap and untidy bib, of which there are only 41,000 left in the UK. This particular one, the Great tit, is different. It has a sharp brutality, an aggressive nature that allows it to thrive in any environment. It will chase most birds from the bird table. It is a harasser. An alpha tit.