Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

In the first week the shares lost almost a third of their value and fell to $70. The second week saw the drop continue, but more moderately, and Roni believed that the parabola would now swing upward again. He stuck to his gamble, waiting until the expiration of the options. But the curve upward never came. The whole of Wall Street shook. It was hard to find a single stock that didn’t fall sharply.

When the option expired, Roni’s position wasn’t covered. Far from it. The shares were trading at $55, the sums he had invested were wiped out, and worse, he was obliged to cover the put option and buy tens of thousands of shares at $80, now twenty-five dollars above their market value.

Roni got the margin call from the bank — a telephone call to warn that the margin account was in the red, and he was instructed to pay up immediately: two million dollars. To cover the debt, he transferred cash from the company account and the accounts of his private clients — again forging Dale Savage’s signature — and purchased more options with a similar position. His rationale: After the fall in June came a correction. So the current drop must culminate in a rise. That’s what the pundits were saying, and what Roni told his friends in the risk-management department who came sniffing around. He turned forty that week but didn’t bother to celebrate. His nerves were too shattered for partying, and he didn’t have anyone to celebrate with anyway. He received the expected call from Gabi. It came during trading hours, and Roni told Gabi he was in the middle of something and would call him back in a few hours. He forgot.

A month later, the stock continued to plummet, by then to below $40. A large round of layoffs hit Goldstein-Lieberman-Weiss, and one of the people dismissed was Dale Savage. Roni survived the cut. He saw it as confirmation that he knew what he was doing, and that management knew it. Roni withdrew more cash from the accounts of his private clients and the bank and purchased more options and evaded calls from the risk-management bosses and the clients, who were already in a panic regardless of what he was doing. The position he opened this time was worth millions. He continued to gamble on a rise in the RIM price, and also threw in shares of Google, which did indeed launch its mobile operating system, as Meir Foriner had predicted. This time Roni was dead sure he wasn’t going to fail. The market had been falling for two months already, all the historical data indicated that after the market tanks comes a leveling out, which is usually followed by a climb. He received another margin call and, left with no choice, withdrew $1.5 million from his private account to cover the risk. By November, the RIM stock had already shed $100—two thirds of its value. Google plummeted to a low not seen in three and a half years.

In mid-November Roni stopped going in to work. He didn’t answer the calls from Jujhar Rawandeep, from Meir Foriner, from Alon Pilpeli, from Idan Lowenhof, and from others. While all of them did indeed have their own problems, Roni Kupper was one of their problems. Every time his BlackBerry rang, he felt it was making fun of him. He couldn’t pay rent and began to worry that his superiors and Israeli clients would show up at his apartment, so he took the Mercedes he’d purchased in better times and left New York. He traded it in for a cheaper vehicle at a car dealership in Ohio and lived on the twenty-some-thousand difference for two months — all his bank accounts and credit cards were blocked the moment he disappeared, and there wasn’t much in them anyway. He drifted from one motel to another, didn’t contact anyone (he took apart the BlackBerry and threw it into a garbage can at some gas station), and thought about what he was going to do with himself. In January he arrived in San Francisco. He couldn’t remember the telephone number of his Bosnian friend, Sasha, or his address, but went into the offices of the consulting firm where he worked and they helped him locate Sasha. The first thing Sasha said to him when he saw him was “You’ve gotten thin!”

Roni stayed with Sasha for five days, until one evening the Bosnian’s phone rang while they were watching a DVD and eating Chinese takeout. Sasha answered and then paused the movie and looked at Roni and signaled with a finger to his lips. “Shhh…”

He ended the call and said, “It’s some private investigator. People are looking for you. The Israelis whose money you looked after. They asked if you’ve been in touch with me recently. You didn’t tell me you lost millions from private portfolios. They want to take legal action.”

“I lost? They lost. Everyone lost. What do they want to charge me with?”

“He said something about unauthorized trading, exceeding credit ceilings, lies, forgeries. He said there are also witnesses to insider trading… Listen, Roni, I’ll help you as much as you need, but I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

Roni looked at Sasha and said, “Let’s finish the movie, and then I’ll decide what to do.”

In the early hours of the following morning, Roni dressed in his smartest Hugo Boss suit, put on a tie, polished his shoes, drove to the airport, purchased a ticket to Tel Aviv, and breathed a sigh of relief when his name didn’t pop up on the no-fly list. The first flight was to Los Angeles, where he boarded an El Al flight direct to Tel Aviv. After paying $3,600 for the ticket (business class, because after all, if he had to leave, at least let it be in style) and fifty dollars for two light blue cartons of cigarettes — he was left with two hundred dollars in cash in his pocket. Almost twenty-four hours later, he arrived at Gabi’s trailer in Ma’aleh Hermesh C.

The black asphalt that stretched and wound through the hills had seen a lot: the tires of cars and the tracks of armored personnel carriers and the clopping of donkeys and the patter of goats. A merciless sun had melted it and angry rain had crashed down on it and snow had softened it; rifle bullets and old Jordanian mines and large boulders and the teeth of D-9s and the concrete blocks of checkpoints and mud and stones had formed potholes and bumps. It had been painted a thousand shades of gray, it had been opened and closed to traffic. And that Thursday morning: an apocalyptic yellow in the skies, winds of such force that it seemed even the ancient trunks of the olive grove had yielded and were bending, and then relentless rain, which washed over everything regardless of gender, race, and religious faith, thundered on the windshields of cars and their metal skins, eventually drowning out the political babble on the radio, and the hands-free conversations went quiet. And even the in-car debates, for example the loud argument that was under way in Othniel Assis’s battered Renault Express between his daughter Gitit and his son Yakir, paled and surrendered and made way for silence, and contemplation, and admiration for the uncompromising power of nature and God, and a slight sense of fear of that same power, and, in the case of Captain Omer Levkovich, a frustrating uneasiness. Not only was he traveling in a David jeep, which was supposed to be brand-new and airtight but was allowing in cold air like an air conditioner in August, and not only was the deluge mocking the excuse for a roof and dripping onto selective parts of his anatomy — in addition to all that, when the jeep passed below Majdal Tur, its tire went over a ninja: two six-inch nails that had been bent and welded together. Omer sat on the wet seat, waited for the rain to subside, and said to himself, You won’t lose your temper, you’ll take a deep breath, you’ll fix the flat in no time and move on.

The military vehicle with the black license plates wasn’t moving, and the vehicle with the yellow plates passed it. Othniel slowed, considered stopping; he had traveled that road long enough to know that another ninja had exacted a price. He actually believed that the ninja layers were not Palestinians hostile toward Jews and opposed to the occupation but instead the sons of Younis, the owner of the tire repair shop in Majdal Tur, where most of the punctured tires went for fixing. When Othniel recognized Omer, he drove on. He had given the sector’s company commander the cold shoulder ever since the Washington Post article that quoted the “officer” badmouthing the settlers. Omer tried to claim that his statements were taken out of context, but Othniel hadn’t forgiven him, even all these months later.