T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“No? You’ve spent, what, two days in his company and you know him that well?”

“People change. They learn, they grow. Not often. But it happens.”

She waited for the bitter retort, but to her surprise all the older woman did was sigh the one word. “Cairo.”

“Should I have gone with him?”

“No. I suppose you might as well follow your instincts. Let me know what the detective says. And remember what that woman told you. Be careful.”

Wednesday

If you have the security right, you can do just about anything and do it safely. My task this morning is to be an enabler, and to help you protect your data and maintain the integrity of your sources.”

Colin was two-thirds through his standard monthly spiel to the corporate fresh meat. All but three of the newly hired were finding it hard to stay awake. Which was very good, since he had designed the little talk to bore them senseless. It was his very own introductory course in corporate drivel. After this half hour, they’d do a moondance in feathers and warpaint in Hayek’s front office before ever seeking Colin out again.

“The next step in data service is authentication, which is your way of ensuring the system that you are who you say you are.” He walked around the room handing out plastic blanks like unfinished credit cards. “These are your very own scratch-and-sniffs. Scratch the silver line there, then memorize your ID number. Don’t write it down. Don’t forget it. There is a five hundred dollar penalty for losing your number, and a five hundred dollar reward for finding someone else’s. You will receive a new one every quarter.”

In his early days, Colin had found the nine-digit numbers scrawled in every imaginable place. He had used the rewards to finance the down payment on a new car. Since then people had wised up. “Access control is the other side of the coin. The Hayek Group uses a program known as Resource Access Control Facilitator, or RAC/F. This is a standard roll-base enabler and monitors all departments on an independent system. You will be permitted entry only to your designated portions of the mainframe’s data bank. Those sections you will find outlined on pages six and seven of your personalized folder.” Only one of them bothered to look. “If you require anything outside those areas, you will need to speak to someone with dedicated access.”

The final pair of eyes glazed over. Total oblivion had set in. Proof that Dilbert clones were not born, but molded. “Today’s final point deals with data confidentiality, which is the system’s way of ensuring anything you write or, for you traders, any deal you make, remains hidden from all except those with. .”

His pager was set for silent alarm and vibrated against his belt. He glanced down and saw it was a call from Eric on the trading-room floor. Anything from the floor during office hours was to be treated as critically urgent. Colin looked out over the room. Not a single face showed any awareness that he had even stopped talking. He was momentarily tempted to just walk out in mid-sentence, see how long they would remain caught in soporific stasis. “To finish up, our internal corporate data system must be treated as a secure world. Our electronic premises must have each and every one of you acting as vigilant guards at all times. Any questions? All right then. Welcome to the Hayek Group.”

Colin flew down the outer corridor. If it was a true emergency, seconds might mean millions. He slipped into the back of the trading room and waited to be noticed. Dealers raced and shouted their way through a normally frantic day. Eric caught his eye, lifted one finger, used it as an arrow to plant Colin where he was. Eric juggled two telephones as he went back to punching numbers into his board. Then he called over to his senior trader, “I’ve got a broker on the line from London. Looks like we might have an arbitrage opening up here.”

That caught everyone’s attention in the spot trade section. The word meant different things to different kinds of traders. For currency hounds, an arbitrage was basically a gap between one group’s offer and another active bid. With e-trading, arbitrages grew smaller and flashed out quicker. But canny traders still found them. And grabbed them with iron teeth of greed.

Alex, the senior spot trader, scooted his chair out far enough to see the trio of aisles that made up his world. “Who’s the shop?”

“Won’t say,” Eric replied. “But Rawls is the broker. A troll might be at work here.”

This meant Eric was probably up against a minor Swiss player who was keeping his sale confidential by acting through a currency broker. It had taken Colin months to understand both the lingo and the action. The study had become a hobby, something tied to his e-world but beyond it, another linked universe that amplified the high. The “shop” was either a bank or fund active in currency trading. These days there were two classes of shops operating out of Switzerland. The gnomes were the top-league traders, biggest of the big. Credit Suisse alone handled over six hundred billion in assets. Contests with gnomes usually turned into scalding experiences. It was critical when trying to play an arbitrage to make sure a gnome was not involved.

Trolls were something different. Trolls were would-be gnomes. they operated in regional Swiss banks and pretended to a knowledge they often did not have. A true gnome would not allow a troll to open his car door, much less have access to a gnome-type lead. Which meant occasionally trolls would open arbitrage pockets big enough to hold a truckful of profit. Eric handled dollar-euro, and the euro had been on a wild and woolly ride since its introduction. Instability like this bred occasional chances for big profit. And bigger losses.

“They’ve put up a bid for eighty million dollars at fifty.” Eric spoke in hushed tones, even though his phone mikes were muted.

“What’s the market say?”

“Stable at thirty points higher.”

Thirty points was a spread of one-third of a cent, a huge difference for a relatively calm day. The senior trader rose to his feet. Alex quietly addressed his cadre, who waited poised at the cliff’s edge, every one of them ready to leap. “Call one friend each. See if there’s something out there we don’t know about.” The traders scattered.

Eric said, “I’ve found a bid on-line for fifty at ten higher.” This meant he already had a buyer for fifty million of the anonymous seller’s eighty million, at ten points above the offered price. After commission it represented a marginal profit, less than a quarter-million dollars, but not bad for a sixty-second play.

“Buy eighty, sell fifty,” the senior man ordered. “And put your broker on the horn.”

Eric routed one of his phones through the speaker above his central screen. He shut off his mute button and said, “I buy your eighty at one-fifty.”

“Sold at one-fifty,” intoned the dull voice over the speaker. “You in the market for more?”

All brokers spoke like they were coming off a ten-week drunk, the effects of living on the knife’s edge of spot trading. One-fifty was a reference to the final cent and points, or hundredths of a cent. The rest of the exchange rate was not mentioned unless the shifts came in violent increments. Then the rates were not spoken but screamed. Colin had seen it happen twice, and both times the trading floor had become a battle zone.

Eric was already flashing the sell order on his keyboard. He covered his phone mike. “Bought and sold.”

“Right.” The senior trader rose up and hissed to his team, “What have you got?”

He received a chorus of head shakes. One woman muttered, “According to Lehman, dollar-euro is holding stable.”