One Child (5 page)

Chapter

7

Midtown Manhattan, New York City

Five men and one woman were seated at the table when
Carson
Grant entered the boardroom at precisely nine o'clock Friday morning. He greeted each of them by name and shook their hands. Then he took the chair at the head of the table and opened a thin file.

"I'm glad you could all make it," he said.

One of the younger men, Asian with a thick thatch of jet-black hair and a wide face, said, "You're the boss now,
Carson
. You ask, we come."

"We're still a team, Chui,"
Carson
said. "In fact, you guys are lucky. If one of those other guys had snagged this job, you'd be in deep trouble. Nobody from outside the group could ever understand how you guys think." He looked at the lone female. "And by guys, I mean you too, Alicia. Especially you."

"Same old
Carson
," she said. "Except you're dressing a bit better and..." she looked around the ebony and glass room, "...living in some kind of nice digs."

Alicia Crane had been with Platinus three years longer than
Carson
, and they had worked alongside each other almost every day. She was Harvard educated and second only to Chui Chang in her skill at cutting math-based code, but her biggest challenge was fitting into the nattily dressed Manhattan landscape.
Carson
had told her on more than one occasion that she resembled fashion road kill. She couldn't have cared less.

"If you think
this
is nice, you should see my office," he grinned.

"Are you inviting me to your office,
Carson
?" Alicia asked. She was a fit and vibrant African-American woman with a sharp mind. And she liked to tease. "That could be grounds for a monster sexual harassment lawsuit."

"Dream on,"
Carson
said. "You and I have spent a thousand hours together in one office or another and nothing happened. I don't think you stand much of a chance of milking any easy money out of the firm. You're going to have to earn it."

"Damn," she said.

Carson
scanned the people at the table. In addition to Chui and Crane, who were whizzes in pure and applied math, there were four men, all between thirty and forty-five. Dan Loewen was a programmer who analyzed the tapes from the previous day's trading on the NASDAQ, BATS, Direct Edge and the New York exchange. NASDAQ alone generated fifty gigabytes of data on any given trading day. It was measured in nanoseconds, which is a billionth of a second. The amount of data was staggering, but it revealed other firms' trading strategies. Knowing what the competition was doing was crucial. As was Dan Loewen's legendary expertise.

Arthur Black was a forty-year-old bachelor who lived at Platinus. They all kidded him that he didn't have a place in Manhattan, and the couch in his room was actually his primary address. He spent his waking hours at Platinus reviewing Dan Loewen's reports and structuring their trading strategies accordingly. His group, totaling thirteen people, issued flash orders and immediate or cancel orders, or IOCs, to help establish Platinus as a market-maker. By being recognized as a market-maker - a firm that drove the market valuation - they were considered to be one of the big fish in the pond. A highly important role to play in the cutthroat trading business.

Allan Dannos and his team operated in the dark pools - exchanges where almost every order was iceberged. Iceberged orders were entirely anonymous, and it was in the dark pools that gamers sniffed out the large orders by using a mathematical equivalent of sonar to ping them. Once they located a large incoming order, they initiated a series of trades to front-run it, and grabbed the stock before the larger order, submitted by a slower trading firm, had time to close. If one was to compare Platinus to the US government, Allan Dannos's team was the CIA. Covert and dangerous.

What Ray Moore did at Platinus was much more visible. His team monitored global trends. They analyzed the tapes from Toronto, Tokyo, London and every other major exchange. Global positions were becoming increasingly important in the commodities and derivative markets, and Platinus was on top of every trend. Usually before the trend showed itself.

"
Fleming
thinks we're being gamed,"
Carson
said to the group. "That someone is beating us to the punch." He let the words sink in for a few seconds. To the people in that room, being gamed was the equivalent of an Olympian running a good race and coming in second. Silver wasn't the goal. Silver was the first loser. "They're seeing the patterns and initiating their algos before ours kick in. We're losing somewhere in the range of six to twelve million shares a day. That's about twenty to forty million a year in lost revenue, not counting the lost rebates from the exchanges. And that's only one other trader beating us by a millisecond or two. I'm sure we're being gamed in more than one arena right now." He looked around the silent table. All eyes were on him. "
Fleming
feels we're losing about a hundred million a year. We need to stop the bleeding."

"What's the approach?" Allan Dannos asked.

"Multi-pronged, as I see it. You guys are welcome to share whatever strategies you have, but I think the key to getting competitive is the algorithm."

"We have the best in the business," Dannos argued.

"We
had
the best,"
Carson
corrected him. "Someone built a better mousetrap. We need to catch them."

"Who is
them
?" Ray Moore asked.

"We suspect it's Goldman."

"Thought so," Alicia said tersely. "It's hard to keep up to them. They throw a shitload of money at research."

"So do we,"
Carson
shot back.

"You said the approach to fixing this is multi-pronged," Chui said. "What else, aside from the algos?"

"Trading strategies. We need to front-run more. To sniff out the big orders and jump in front of them."

"The algos cover that," Chui pointed out.

"To some degree,"
Carson
said. "But there's a human factor here that we need to address. We need to point the computers in the right direction. Identifying the highest liquidity is a key. And the lowest latency. Nothing replaces the human mind for seeking the big picture. We're looking for trends that are too big for the algos to see."

"I guess that's me," Ray Moore said.

"That's you, Ray,"
Carson
said.

"Shit. I wanted a week off with the girlfriend."

"Well, you can have one. But not until November."

"It's July,
Carson
." Moore rolled his eyes and shook his head. "It looks like
Fleming
picked the right guy to crack the whip."

Carson
grinned. "If you need a break, Ray, you let me know. The same goes for everyone at this table. We're going to kick some Goldman ass, and we can't do that if you're not at the top of your game."

The meeting ran for fifty minutes, then
Carson
shut his file. "That's it, we're done." He glanced at Alicia. "Can you hang back for a couple of minutes?"

They filed out and when the door was closed,
Carson
said, "I need you to strip a millisecond off the algo."

She looked confused. "We talked about that. It's a process-driven thing. Chui and I and our teams will work through it."

Carson
toyed with his pen. "I want you to shave off a couple of iterations. Streamline it."

Alicia stared at him. The edges of her mouth curled down slightly. "That's a quick-fix,
Carson
. And it's dangerous. It'll attack the integrity of the whole thing and possibly destabilize it."

Carson
rose from his chair and dropped into the one next to her. "Maybe, but I doubt it. We use seven iterations now. We sample the data seven times and take the average. Like a bell curve. If we cut it down to five we have the same curve. And we're a millisecond faster."

"It'll save a mil, but five iterations is sketchy. The algo needs seven to properly sample the data. A couple of glitches and we'll be basing our trades on erroneous information. You know this,
Carson
, I don't need to tell you. This algorithm is your baby."

Carson
waved his hand. "Like you said, it's a short term fix. We'll find another way to save time. But for right now, I need you to take two iterations out of the loop."

She was silent, her eyes boring into his. "Are you
telling
me to do this?" she finally asked.

"Yes."

Alicia gathered up her papers from the meeting and slipped them into her briefcase. "Anything else?" she asked.

He shook his head. "When can you have the changes made and implemented?"

"Today is Friday. I can spend some time working on it over the weekend and if there are no problems, it'll be modified, tested and functioning by Monday morning."

"Perfect," he said, then added. "I know this isn't the best fix, but it's temporary. We'll have a new, faster algo in no time. It's not like we're cutting back to three iterations. Slicing two out of the algo isn't the end of the world."

She managed a small smile. "I hope not."

Carson
watched her leave, then walked over to the window. The view of the park was from a different perspective than the one from his office, but equally as impressive. There was something about being forty-six floors above the sidewalk that gave him a warm feeling. It was difficult to define. Detachment. Entitlement. Power. Maybe just knowing that he had arrived. That he was part of the inner circle that shaped the financial lives of countless millions. That he had finally achieved the privileged position he had dreamt of for so long. He remembered one of his professors at MIT talking about privilege. That many of the school's graduates would find some degree of that in their lives. The man had linked another word to privilege. Responsibility. One didn't arrive without the other.

Carson
glanced down at his watch. Five minutes to ten. Not bad. Six teams of highly educated men and women were scrambling to find a solution to the problem he had laid out in the boardroom a scant fifty minutes ago. This was power. And privilege. He liked it.

"Responsibility," he said quietly to himself. "I'll get on that next week."

He left the boardroom, a smile on his face.

Chapter

8

Bryant Park, New York City

Bryant Park was quiet. An oasis in the giant slab of concrete and glass that was Manhattan.

A handful of the tables and chairs between the lawn and the library were taken, but at ten in the morning, most were empty. In two hours, the lunch rush would descend on the park and finding a place to sit on anything but the grass would be tough. A thick wall of trees blocked out most of the buildings that towered over the park on three sides. To the east, the massive windows of the New York Public Library reading room watched over the park. That was the direction William
Fleming
approached from.

It was precisely on the top of the hour when
Fleming
entered the park and scanned the rows of metal tables for Trey Miller. He spotted the ex-CIA operative sitting next to the stone railing overlooking the grass. Miller was late forties and resembled a host of other similar-age white men in Manhattan. His off-blond hair was cut short, but not military, and he wore camel-colored dress pants and a dark blue shirt. He was average height, between five-ten and six feet, and carried little extra weight. The one feature that set Trey Miller aside from the slew of stock traders and book publishers that roamed the streets were his eyes. Incandescent blue and unblinking. They took in every detail - every potential threat - every weakness. They missed nothing. They were the reason Miller had survived twenty-one years in covert ops.

Fleming
's shoes tapped out a steady cadence on the concrete as he cut past a group of men setting up a piano adjacent to the bar.
Fleming
glanced at the sky. Blue, without a trace of clouds. A good day to risk a bit of outdoor music. He reached Trey's table and sat without offering to shake hands.

"Hello, Trey."

"Bill."

Trey Miller was one of the few people who were thick enough with
Fleming
to call him by the shortened version of his first name. Their history was an interesting one, including how they met. When Miller left the CIA in 2005, he took an extensive mental dossier of names and places, and most importantly, incidents, with him. The agency was aware of the depth of knowledge Miller possessed and had to make a decision whether to kill him or leave him to flap in the breeze. Cool heads prevailed and they decided Miller wasn't the kind of man to kiss and tell. After a year of silence, one of the division heads decided to link Miller with William
Fleming
- a reward of sorts for keeping his secrets locked away. After all,
Fleming
was a man who paid well for professionalism and anonymity. Those were two things he could always expect from Trey Miller.

Miller had been firm at their first meeting. He didn't kill people anymore. He caused them some distress perhaps, but didn't kill them.
Fleming
had agreed and so far they had managed to stick to the rules. Miller handled sensitive issues for the billionaire, many related to
Fleming
's sexual appetite. Shutting up women who decided to chase the golden egg by blackmailing
Fleming
was a regular occurrence. Not that it really mattered if the details hit the trash mags -
Fleming
was single and could sleep with whomever he chose. Nonetheless, it didn't look good. So Miller dug up dirt on the women and their families, packaged it nicely and sat down with them over coffee. The results were predictable. They backed off and Bill
Fleming
went on to the next woman.
Fleming
's indiscretions were a good source of revenue for Trey Miller.

"What's up?" Miller asked.

Fleming
leaned back against the metal chair. It was still cool, the sun had yet to clear the buildings and begin heating the park. "I have something interesting for you."

"I figured as much. Moscow in August isn't the usual gig."

"A Russian mobster, Dimitri
Volstov
, cheated me on a deal. Tens of millions of dollars. I'd like to repay the favor."

Miller eyed the man sitting opposite him. There were two ways this could play out. One was to feign ignorance about
Volstov
, the other was to be honest. He chose honesty. He always did with
Fleming
.

"
Volstov
isn't tied in with the Russian mafia," he said.

A touch of color showed in
Fleming
's face. "Not now," he said.

Trey didn't argue the point. He knew of Dimitri
Volstov
and the simple truth was, the man had never been allied with organized crime. He was one of the oligarchs who fed on the breakup of the Soviet Union. A well-connected businessman who was allied with other billionaires like Roman Abramovich and his circle of friends. Trey knew they were a lively bunch with their fingers in everything from steel mills to world-class football teams, but they weren't the mob.

"He stole money from me,"
Fleming
hissed, leaning forward.

"Maybe. Probably. But that doesn't make him part of the Russian mafia. He owns the controlling share of
Murmansk-Technika
, which is a perfectly legitimate business operating out of Russia."

"Why is it so important that you correct me on this, Trey?"
Fleming
asked, settling back in his chair.

"Because if he
was
in the mob, I wouldn't touch this. Not a chance."

Fleming
's eyes narrowed slightly, his interest piqued. "Why not?"

Miller shrugged. "If I cross paths with the Russian mafia, someone is going to die. It could be a few of them, it could be me. But people would get killed. And I stopped doing that. Remember?"

"Of course. The one rule you brought to the table."
Fleming
smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "The Russian mob, they scare you."

"Damn right. I'm telling you, Bill, people will die if you stir up that nest."

"All right. Back to
Volstov
. Will you deal with him?"

"He's on my list of approved Russian billionaires. What do you need done?"

Fleming
ignored the sarcasm. It was refreshing in a way. No one else dared to talk to him like Trey Miller. "
Volstov
is the promoter for the U2 concert coming to Moscow on August 25
th
. I want you to ruin the concert. Take it apart. Embarrass him."

The ex-CIA man looked out over the park. He watched a couple throw a blanket on the grass and lie down next to each other. They sipped on coffee in paper cups and talked. The scene was banal to the point of making him sick. He glanced back at
Fleming
.

"
Volstov
is well-respected. He's competent and organized. He'll bring those qualities to the table with the concert."

"Probably,"
Fleming
said. "But he's not a concert promoter. This is all new to him."

"Still, he'll surround himself with a good team. My guess is that he'll pull this off and the concert will be a resounding success."

"Unless we cause things to go wrong,"
Fleming
said.

Slowly, Miller's head bobbed up and down. "I can probably do that." He was quiet for a few seconds, then said, "I'll need help. At least one person here and an entire crew on location in Moscow. That gets expensive."

"Money is no object."

Miller smiled broadly. "That makes things so much easier. Especially with such a tight time frame. August 25
th
is only twenty-six days from now."

"How much do you need?"

Trey pulled a small pad of paper and a pen from his pocket and jotted down a few notes and numbers. After the better part of thirty seconds, he said, "Let's start with seven hundred thousand. I'll probably need more, but I'll pay it out of my own pocket and bill you later."

"I'll wire you an even million." There was a long pause, then, "I don't want this traced back to me."

"Absolutely no chance."

"Excellent,"
Fleming
said. He stood and looked down at Miller who didn't bother standing or offering his hand. "If you send me an e-mail in the next few hours, you can expect the money this afternoon."

Trey nodded. "I'll call you if I need anything, but I highly doubt that will happen."

Fleming
turned on his heel and strode back across the concrete to West 40
th
, where a Navigator was waiting for him outside the Bryant Park Hotel. Two men in well-cut suits who had followed him into the park and watched while he talked with Trey Miller, slipped into a dark-colored car behind the Lincoln. A careful observer might have noticed the slight bulge in the men's jackets under their left arms.
Fleming
took his personal safety seriously. The vehicles pulled away from the curb and melded into the sea of yellow cabs.

Inside the Navigator,
Fleming
allowed himself a rare smile. Trey Miller was an asset without a tangible value. The man's ability to take on any task and find a solution was brilliant. He made a mental note to call his contact inside the Central Intelligence Agency - the man who had introduced him to Miller - and convey his thanks. Again. It wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps a week at his villa in St. Tropez would be a nice touch. His phone rang and he checked the call display. It was Jorge Amistav.

"Good morning, Jorge," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Good morning. I received the three and a half million and forwarded the necessary amount to my contact. The merchandise is being crated in Germany and is being tagged for delivery to Kandahar. I e-mailed the info to you. I'll advise you when it arrives so you can send your invoice to the Pentagon."

"Is that all?"

"That's it for today."

"Good work. Thanks for calling."
Fleming
killed the line.

Thirty-five million dollars for a single arms shipment. More money than almost every person on the planet made in his or her lifetime. His for knowing the right people and having a paltry five million dollars in cash lying about. God he loved money. He loved what it bought. The respect it commanded. Money didn't care who owned it, and a lot of it had found its way into his accounts. Now he lived by the golden rule.

The person with the gold ruled
.

It was his variation on an old adage. One he liked much better than the original.