Authors: Luca Pesaro
‘The…’ Ben, or Brett, coughed nervously. ‘Scott, Yours… we can’t access that, I think.’
‘Really?’ Walker exhaled, and tried not to raise his voice. ‘You mean we’ve spent forty million dollars to buy some rundown shithole near the centre of Frankfurt, stuffed it with atomic clocks and Cray Supercomputers, and now we can’t use the damn thing?’
‘You know that line is dedicated to High-Frequency Trading. We… we don’t have permission.’
Walker swore again, more loudly this time. The High-Frequency group was effectively a bunch of rocket scientists holed up with monster-fast machines that traded the markets by themselves, trying to profit from fluctuations in share prices by executing billions of transactions every day. They were like an army of tiny piranhas swimming below the surface of the market, nibbling away at minimal amounts of money, unheard and unseen. Walker despised them: somehow they seemed to represent a lot of what had been going wrong in Finance during the last decade – borderline legal contraptions that were mainly used to create a tilted playing field. And dangerous, too, though as usual people were happy to pick up pennies in front of a steamroller.
The only good thing about the damn machines was that they were fast, so fast that the speed of light was a constraint. Because the extra few hundred miles of cable between the Stock Exchange computers and the bank’s floor in London caused a lag of 0.004 seconds, the Algos would have stood no chance. They had to be close. They had to be next door to the bloody exchange in Germany.
And they were, which meant they still enjoyed the market access that Walker desperately needed. ‘That’s just insane. We need to trade, and those guys will have to be shut off, if that’s what it takes,’ he growled.
‘It’s not my call…’
‘All right then.’ Walker glanced around the floor, looking for the overpaid, spineless idiot that
was supposed to be his direct boss. He saw him next to an overflowing filing cabinet a dozen yards away, near the back of the floor. Jack Morden was deep in conversation with God, or the next best thing in Dorfmann’s building. Standing close to him was the tall, wide frame of Chris ‘Beano’ Friedman, the chief executive officer of the London Office.
Sweet
.
Walker turned to Ben, or Brett. ‘There’s the guy with the authority. Go and talk to him.’
‘But…’ The techie swallowed. ‘Jack’s talking to Mr Friedman.’
‘Good. Even more authority, then.’ He could understand their nervousness. Friedman was someone who got things done. The man had been a legendary trader in the late nineties, and now ran a tight ship in Europe, always hands-on, always aware. He was quick, and smart, and hard. And he didn’t suffer fools gladly.
The floor-lights flickered off and on again, but at least the computers stayed alive. Walker scoffed, glanced at the techies and pointed over. They stared at each other for a second, then shrank smaller and shuffled towards the managers.
Walker grinned and headed for the trading floor exit, checking if the cigarettes were still in his jacket pocket. There was
one
thing he didn’t like about Beano.
Under pressure, the guy could turn into a psycho.
His angry bellows would echo across the floor as he swore and chewed some poor banker’s head off. Friedman had been known to throw telephones, chairs and once, memorably, a pink umbrella belonging to one of his daughters had gone through a flat-screen monitor.
And right now the pressure within Dorfmann Brothers was at submarine-depth level. At least Beano would get the IT morons to hook up to Frankfurt – unless he killed them first.
As he approached the glass doors a new crowd of traders, researchers and salespeople started flowing through the entrance. It looked as if a school bell had rung, but instead of screaming children you got a bunch of well-dressed investment bankers. Everyone’s phones had beeped with the roll call at precisely eleven the night before, and nobody wanted to be seen coming in late, not on a day like today.
Walker nodded and smiled at a few worried faces, then left the floor in search of his first coffee of the morning.
Months Earlier…
The billion-dollar meeting was in a grubby pub down in Charlton, The Sun In The Sands
.
Judging from the outside the place looked as if it had seen better days, probably around the end of the fifties. But from the inside, probably not. The Englishman tried to hide his distaste and approached the bar, nodding to the over-tattooed, flabby barmaid
.
‘
Pint of bitter, love
,’
he said
.
She nodded and started pouring as he looked around. The American sat wedged behind a tiny corner table, studying his glass of beer. A small group of builders downed lagers near the pool table while a twenty-something black man hunched over the bar, tapping away on a smartphone. Slouching against the stained wall, a drunk kid in a hoodie burped loudly. Faded pictures from the blitz hung around the wall. Dreariness oozed from the ceiling
.
The Englishman dragged his drink along the counter, sipped it and stepped over, sitting down in front of the American
. ‘
You wanted to see me
.’
‘
Yes
.’
A pause
. ‘
What we’re trying to pull off is still massive, but things are moving along nicely now
.’
‘
How?
’
‘
I’ve already got four on the Board. I only need another two
.’
The Englishman nodded, giving nothing away. When the silence lengthened he just took another sip of his beer. The American stared at his dirty glass, considered it for a second and gave up
. ‘
Now they want proof though, something tangible. It’s a big step for them
,’
he said
.
‘
Blackspring is on the ground, but it might take a while. A few weeks, months maybe
.’
‘
That’s not be a problem, as long as you can deliver the machine. You know I trust your vision, but… they’ll need some data, soon
,’
the American sighed
.
‘I see.’
‘
Here, have this
.’
The American opened a small box and pulled out an odd-looking mobile phone. The handset was thicker than normal, and about twice as tall
.
‘
What is it?
’
‘
It’s military grade. Sat-phone, untraceable, effectively impossible to intercept
.’
He glanced around and grimaced
. ‘
At least you won’t drag me to these shitholes when we need to talk privately
.’
The Englishman took the offering and stood up, his pint still half-full
. ‘
Fine, I’ll let you know as soon as I have better samples
.’
Seconds later he stepped into the sticky, humid air of a warm London summer and hailed his driver from the carpark
.
Inside the pub, the American slipped to the toilet to wash his hands. The kid in the hoodie smiled, winked at the barmaid and rushed out, a heavy gym bag slung across his shoulder
.
Coffee with DM – 6.26
A.M.
Walker hurried through a security scanner near the middle of Dorfmann’s circular entrance hall, glancing at the tropical plants that cascaded from the first-floor balcony. He couldn’t see any yellow leaves yet, but winter
was
coming. And if DeepShare had it right, this time the Crisis could be almost terminal. He shivered, concerned about the direction in which things appeared to be travelling. Very little had been learnt from the previous disasters; China was in a mess and Europe no better, but the financial world rumbled on uncaring. He wondered again if it was time to get out of banking, whether the nausea at the bottom of his stomach would disappear then. But if big events were coming, he wanted to have a front-row seat. And maybe, one day, with DM’s DeepShare…
A couple of guards grunted at him when the metal detector beeped but Walker ignored them, rushing to the exit. Idiots. He was leaving the building, for God’s sake – what would be the point of taking a bomb OUT of a bank?
The problem was that everyone felt itchy. Security had been comprehensively tightened in the last couple of years, up to and beyond airport levels. As the economic downturn deepened, social tensions had escalated and the hostility towards bankers was now reaching dangerous levels. Groups like Hackernym were growing bolder, and BreakWallStreet marches and occupations mushroomed around New York, London and most Eurozone capital cities.
Walker stepped out of the building into the crispy autumn air just as Broadgate Circle was starting to brighten after dawn. He tried to shrug off his unease, and lit the cigarette that was already dangling from his lips, looking around to check which coffee kiosk had the shortest queue.
Sharply-dressed City-dwellers were flowing into the banks and brokerages around the plaza, most with eyes down and no desire to speak, their minds focused on what was about to unfold in the European markets. Walker joined a few Dorfmann analysts and was waiting for his turn at the counter when he noticed a narrow-faced woman staring at him from one of the stone benches that dotted the Circle. He locked eyes with her and took a step in her direction but the smart-suited lady picked up a copy of the Financial Times and stood up, gliding away through the crowds to the far side of the Circle.
Do I know her?
An older man bumped him from behind and Walker realised the queue had shifted; then he glimpsed a skinny figure in a brown overcoat scurrying to a Dorfmann side entrance and raised his
hand in greeting. ‘DM, there you are! Let’s get a coffee.’
The forty-year-old Swiss-Burmese glanced around, his head turning as he tried to focus back to the real world. Even though Walker saw DM Khaing most days, he was still taken aback by the sheer intensity of the man’s eyes, and the gauntness of his features. The mathematician was starting to look like a mad hermit left out to dry on the slopes of Mount Sinai.
Walker slid forward, waving his hand. ‘I’m here, you big geek.’
‘Scott. Go away, I’m late.’ DM’s voice had a raspy quality, and was much deeper than anyone would expect from such a slight frame.
‘You’re always late. Don’t worry – I’m sure some of your grunts have already fired up the monster.’
‘DeepShare’s been running all the time. But I’ve got a meeting with Fontaine on the beta version…’
Walker chuckled, steering his friend towards the nearest kiosk. There were only a couple of people ahead of them in the queue. ‘Fontaine has other things to worry about this morning. Your meeting will get pushed back, we have a derivatives trading pow-wow in fifteen minutes.’
‘The Italian election?’
‘Of course. What does Deep say, now that the results are in? And didn’t you get a text on your office BlackBerry last night?’
DM shrugged. ‘The mainframe is still crunching scenarios – we should have something back after the first couple of hours of trading. When the market patterns are clearer I’ll get an alert ’ – he smiled tiredly – ‘and no, I didn’t see the text. You know I switch the phones off when I get home. I was working.’
‘Yeah, what else?’ Walker pointed to the pretty girl behind the counter, waiting for their order. ‘What do you want?’
‘Earl Grey.’
‘That’s not a
breakfast
tea.’
DM looked sheepish. ‘My sleep patterns are a bit odd.’
Walker grunted and threw away the butt of his cigarette. ‘Very odd, like you hardly sleep at all. Or eat, even.’ He nodded to the girl preparing the tea. ‘A chocolate croissant as well, before this man faints. And a double espresso. Cheers.’
DM’s appearance was even more dishevelled than usual, his skin sallow, a shadow of
blue-black stubble on his normally clean-shaven cheeks. Walker paid and picked up the hot drinks as his friend bit into a chunk of the warm pastry. They sat on a bench close together, keeping their voices low. You never knew around bankers and brokers.
‘Are you all right, mate?’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘About what? Come on, DeepShare got the election results perfectly. It’s the first Class A Event it predicted, and the timing was spot-on.’ Walker took a quick drag of his Marlboro, exhaled. ‘Four months ago a Rossini victory was unthinkable, but we saw it…’
‘It’s not just that. Tsun, in Hong Kong… he’s gone.’
‘Gone – where?’
‘No idea. He hasn’t showed up at the office since last Wednesday, and no one has seen him.’
Walker shrugged. Tsun was one of DM’s head quants in Asia, but he wasn’t exactly reliable even at the best of times. ‘He’s probably holed up somewhere in Macau with a couple of whores, as usual.’
‘He’s gay.’
‘So what? I’m sure they cater for that at the casinos.’
DM glared at him. ‘You’re just over-excited because you’ll make a killing today. Besides, you nudged Deep in the right direction.’
‘Still, it worked.’
‘Yes. It’s great at making money, and now we have proof. But that was never the point.’
Walker sighed. The man was such a perfectionist. ‘I know. And we’ll put in even more work – whatever you think is necessary. Still, it looks like you’re getting close to saving the world, you idiot. Smile, at least.’
‘Maybe a
little
closer…’ DM grinned at some internal joke and looked up at the clear sky, losing his focus. Within a few seconds he drifted off, his croissant forgotten.
Walker sipped his coffee and waited. He was used to this. The mathematician lived in his own world, a sort of alien universe where fractal patterns, chaos theory and deep internet data-mining flashed in bright primary colours through his synapses. All the time.
The unholy mixture of a genius and a prophet, DM was the architect of a machine that spoke, God-like, about the future. A machine that had haunted his dreams since a broken childhood, when, as a young boy, he had been chased away from his mother and his country. Walker had been
helping on the unofficial – and secret – DeepOmega for years, and yet parts of his friend remained submerged, locked into pain-toughened steel safes. The truly brilliant were often obsessive, but DM was going to hurt himself if he didn’t slow down.