Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

Just then the squawk-box on his desk crackled into life. 'Fred, what are you hearing?'

'That's John,' Fred said to me. And to the squawk-box, 'It looks good. We've received bids for six hundred million from New York alone. People seem to like the market.'

'Yeah, I'm hearing that from Chicago and Boston,' John's voice crackled.

'Are you going to take this one?' Fred asked.

'I'm sure thinking about it.'

I watched and listened as Fred took calls from several more clients, most of whom placed orders for the auction. Given the sums at stake, I was amazed by the calmness of Fred's voice. Quiet and measured, it inspired confidence and trust.

At twelve fifty-five, only five minutes before the auction, John walked over and whispered something in Fred's ear. He smiled. He looked at me and said, 'What you see now, you keep to yourself. Understand?'

I nodded. 'What's going on?' I asked.

'We're going to make a shut-out bid,' he said. 'We will bid for most of the auction at a yield so low that none of the other dealers will buy any bonds. Most of them have sold ten-year bonds short with the hope of buying them back during the auction. But they won't be able to because we will own them all. As they scramble to cover their short position, and as other customers realise that their orders will not be filled, everyone will be trying to buy the bonds. The market will go up and Bloomfield Weiss will clean up. Now, I must make a couple of calls. We want to cut our friends in.'

The first was to one of the largest corporations in America.

'Hallo, Steve, it's Fred,' he said. 'You put in a hundred million order for the ten-year auction. I think you should consider increasing that.'

'Why?' asked the voice at the other end of the phone.

'You know I can't tell you that,' Fred said.

There was silence. Then, 'OK, I'll play. Put me down for five hundred million.'

'Thank you,' Fred said, and rang off. They had obviously done this many times before.

He made a similar call to another large institution, which agreed to increase its order to three hundred million dollars.

I was intrigued to see Cash hovering over by John Saunders's desk. He must have heard something, because suddenly he rushed over to a nearby empty desk and made one phone call. I could guess who it was to.

At two minutes to the hour Fred got a call from a firm called Bunker Hill Mutual.

'Hi, Fred, how's it going?'

'I'm fine, Peter. But I don't think this auction will be. None of my customers are interested.'

'What do you think Bloomfield Weiss will do?' the man called Peter asked.

'I don't know of course, but I think we will bid to miss.'

Peter grunted his thanks, and put the phone down.

'Why did you tell him that?' I asked.

Fred chuckled. 'Oh, he always rings round all the investment banks just before an auction. He is as leaky as a sieve. If I told him what we are really up to, it would be all round the Street.'

The whole trading room lapsed into silence as the clock moved to one o'clock. It could be up to ten minutes before the results of the auction would begin to be known.

The minutes ticked by.

Then the squawk-box crackled into life. 'OK, it looks like Bloomfield Weiss owns all nine billion of this one. Get on the phones and tell your clients what is happening. Let's scare out those shorts.'

I looked around me. Smiles everywhere as salesmen eagerly phoned their customers to tell them the result. Within seconds the green numbers on the screens on Fred's desk started winking as the market began to move up.

Bloomfield Weiss, and its most favoured customers, made a lot of money that day.

I was a few minutes late for lunch, which was in one of Bloomfield Weiss's dining rooms. It was spectacular. Forty-six floors up, the dining room was high enough to peek over the building between it and the harbour. I had never seen such a view of New York Harbour. The sun shone off the light grey sea, ferries bustled back and forth between Staten Island and the terminal directly below. The Statue of Liberty thrust her torch defiantly up towards us, taking no notice of the two helicopters buzzing around her ears. In the distance the elegant curves of the Verrazano Bridge lay astride the horizon, a focal point for the dozen or so ships making their way out towards the ocean.

'Anywhere else, you'd have to pay a couple of hundred dollars for a meal with a view like this,' said Lloyd, as he approached me.

Silly me, for a moment I hadn't appreciated the dollar value of the view.

Cash was behind Lloyd, and next to him, a short balding man of about thirty-five with thick glasses.

The sight of Cash made me feel sick. I was furious with myself for ever being deceived by all that good humour and amiability. But I would have to talk to him as usual, forget what he had done to De Jong, what he might have done to Debbie.

'Hi, Paul, how are you doing?' he boomed, holding out his hand.

I hesitated a second before shaking it. Then I pulled myself together and replied, 'Oh, I am fine. Your colleagues here have been very kind in showing me round.'

'Good, good,' said Cash. 'Now, you met Lloyd this morning, but I don't think you have met my old friend Dick Waigel.'

The short, balding man shook my hand vigorously, and gave me an unnatural smile reeking insincerity. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said, 'Any client of Cash's is a friend of mine.'

'Now, why don't we all sit down?' Lloyd said. 'What would you like to drink, Paul, iced tea?'

I had forgotten that lunches in Wall Street investment banks were teetotal. I had found it difficult to get used to the American habit of drinking cold tea at lunch, but I supposed they found the English warm beer just as confusing. I thought I ought to enter into the spirit of the thing. 'Iced tea would be very nice, thank you,' I said.

For a while the conversation followed the usual tedious paths of these occasions; discussions were had on the weather in England, which was the best airline these days, how the market was quiet and how difficult it was to make money.

I looked around the restaurant at the other diners. They were at odds with the breathtaking view around them. Either big and beefy, or short and wiry, they ate their food rapidly, spearing errant pieces of steak with forks and shoving them into mouths lowered as close as possible to the table. They didn't look at all comfortable in the hushed surroundings. Conversation was not the relaxed murmur of a normal restaurant, but rather a series of staccato whispers. I could see a number of other clients amongst the Bloomfield Weiss executives, the difference in levels of aggression between them and their hosts was obvious from twenty feet.

As I scanned the room, my eye caught the profile of one of the men at a small table in the corner opposite us. He had his back to me, but was turning to talk to the man on his left. I knew that profile. Joe Finlay.

One of the people at his table must have seen me stare, because Joe turned round and stared straight back at me. He twitched the corners of his mouth up in that same quick false smile that he had used on me at the boat, and turned back to his food.

What the hell was Joe doing here? It was bad enough having Cash to deal with in New York, the last person I needed to see was Joe.

I leant over to Cash. 'Isn't that Joe Finlay over there?'

'Yeah, that's him,' said Cash.

'What's he doing here?'

'Same as all of us. Spending a few days in New York and then going to the conference in Arizona.'

'But you didn't tell me he was coming,' I said.

Cash looked puzzled. Then he laughed. 'Hey, Paul, I can't tell you the names of everyone going to this damn conference. You got me and Cathy looking after you. What else do you want?'

Cash was right of course. But Joe's presence still unnerved me.