BEGAN WITH A special firm meeting. The first thing Brent noticed when he walked into the conference room was the look of barely restrained excitement on Biddle’s face. He turned to Owen Smythe, whose shrug indicated he, too, had no idea what was happening.
“First,” Biddle began once the last person sat, “a reminder that I’m going to be out of touch for the next ten days on a salmon river in Siberia. I’m leaving right after this meeting. I’ll have my sat-phone turned on about an hour each day, so you can reach me in an emergency. Betty will know the hours when I’ll be available.” Biddle smiled and looked around the room. “Call at your peril, gentlemen.”
There was muted laughter, but Biddle raised his hand for silence. “More important,” he said, his voice deepening. “The Holy Spirit spoke last night. The Lord told me that a moment of great darknessapproaches. Because of that we’re going short. I want us net flat by close of trading, and by tomorrow we will be short with ninety percent of maximum leverage. The market is going to crash, gentlemen.”
There was murmur of surprise. Brent looked around at the delight etched on the faces of the other partners. What could be so important that it would change the direction of the market, he wondered? What did Biddle know?
He ran over upcoming earnings releases and government economic data but came up with nothing. Still, there was Biddle at the head of the table with a wild glint in his eyes. Why was Biddle doing this? Were Brent’s clients about to be exposed to massive risk based on some delusion? He caught himself —his clients! Reminded of why he was here, he pressed the record button and cleared his throat. “Yesterday, we were unanimous in our assessment that the market would continue moving higher.”
“Yes,” Biddle said.
“We’re going to ignore that now and reposition the entire portfolio?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to know how you justify taking that kind of risk with our clients’ money?”
An angry murmur came from the other partners, but Biddle held up his hands for silence. “Because mine is the way,” he said. He smiled around at the others then clapped his hands, dismissing the meeting. “Have a good day, gentlemen, and God bless.”
Biddle walked out, followed by the other portfolio managers. Brent remained seated. No one, not even Smythe, would meet his eye.
TWENTY-ONE
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
BRENT SAT AT HIS DESK looking over the cash balances generated from selling out his portfolios a day earlier. His first instinct had been to refuse, but when he’d called Simmons to tell her about the meeting she had instructed him to go along. Still, it was utterly nuts.
He brought up Dr. Faisal’s account on the computer and looked at the performance. The account’s value had grown from seven hundred sixty five million to nearly eight hundred twenty million in the time he’d managed it. This morning the market was roaring ahead yet again; only Biddle said there was “darkness over the world” and they had to go short. He stood and started to pace, telling himself he’d be out of there soon enough.
His phone buzzed, and he reached over and jerked it off its base. It was Joe Steward, the firm’s head trader. “I’ve got everyone else’s list.Where’s yours?” Steward barked, meaning the lists of stocks Brent would be shorting.
“You’ll have it when it’s ready,” Brent replied.
“Get your ass in gear,” Steward said and hung up.
Brent tossed the phone back into its cradle and resumed pacing. It buzzed again, and he snatched it up. “What?” he barked, expecting Steward again.
Instead, it was Betty Dowager, her voice high-pitched, anxious. “I need to come down and speak with you.”
He assumed it was because Steward had called her to complain. She was probably going to patch Biddle through on the phone and stand there as a witness while he commanded Brent to go short according to God’s holy
“First,” Biddle began once the last person sat, “a reminder that I’m going to be out of touch for the next ten days on a salmon river in Siberia. I’m leaving right after this meeting. I’ll have my sat-phone turned on about an hour each day, so you can reach me in an emergency. Betty will know the hours when I’ll be available.” Biddle smiled and looked around the room. “Call at your peril, gentlemen.”
There was muted laughter, but Biddle raised his hand for silence. “More important,” he said, his voice deepening. “The Holy Spirit spoke last night. The Lord told me that a moment of great darknessapproaches. Because of that we’re going short. I want us net flat by close of trading, and by tomorrow we will be short with ninety percent of maximum leverage. The market is going to crash, gentlemen.”
There was murmur of surprise. Brent looked around at the delight etched on the faces of the other partners. What could be so important that it would change the direction of the market, he wondered? What did Biddle know?
He ran over upcoming earnings releases and government economic data but came up with nothing. Still, there was Biddle at the head of the table with a wild glint in his eyes. Why was Biddle doing this? Were Brent’s clients about to be exposed to massive risk based on some delusion? He caught himself —his clients! Reminded of why he was here, he pressed the record button and cleared his throat. “Yesterday, we were unanimous in our assessment that the market would continue moving higher.”
“Yes,” Biddle said.
“We’re going to ignore that now and reposition the entire portfolio?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to know how you justify taking that kind of risk with our clients’ money?”
An angry murmur came from the other partners, but Biddle held up his hands for silence. “Because mine is the way,” he said. He smiled around at the others then clapped his hands, dismissing the meeting. “Have a good day, gentlemen, and God bless.”
Biddle walked out, followed by the other portfolio managers. Brent remained seated. No one, not even Smythe, would meet his eye.
TWENTY-ONE
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
BRENT SAT AT HIS DESK looking over the cash balances generated from selling out his portfolios a day earlier. His first instinct had been to refuse, but when he’d called Simmons to tell her about the meeting she had instructed him to go along. Still, it was utterly nuts.
He brought up Dr. Faisal’s account on the computer and looked at the performance. The account’s value had grown from seven hundred sixty five million to nearly eight hundred twenty million in the time he’d managed it. This morning the market was roaring ahead yet again; only Biddle said there was “darkness over the world” and they had to go short. He stood and started to pace, telling himself he’d be out of there soon enough.
His phone buzzed, and he reached over and jerked it off its base. It was Joe Steward, the firm’s head trader. “I’ve got everyone else’s list.Where’s yours?” Steward barked, meaning the lists of stocks Brent would be shorting.
“You’ll have it when it’s ready,” Brent replied.
“Get your ass in gear,” Steward said and hung up.
Brent tossed the phone back into its cradle and resumed pacing. It buzzed again, and he snatched it up. “What?” he barked, expecting Steward again.
Instead, it was Betty Dowager, her voice high-pitched, anxious. “I need to come down and speak with you.”
He assumed it was because Steward had called her to complain. She was probably going to patch Biddle through on the phone and stand there as a witness while he commanded Brent to go short according to God’s holy
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