Perkins sent out a system-wide message in midmorning asking everyone to gather on the trading floor. He emerged from his office in shirtsleeves, head bowed. It was obvious to everyone that something bad had happened.
Perkins said he had just received a call from the U.S. consulate in Karachi. Howard Egan, their missing colleague, was dead. He had fallen during a trek in the mountains near Karachi, and the Pakistanis had finally discovered his body. He read the police statement. He said that Egan’s remains would be returned to the States, where the family would hold a memorial service. He was about to head back into his office, somber business done, but he stopped and turned toward the dozens of employees, most of whom had known the deceased only slightly, if at all.
“Howard Egan was a decent man; much too nice for our business. He loved his work. He was a risk-taker, always. In this case, he took a bigger risk than he could handle.”
He paused for a time, looking at the floor, as if he were going to say more. But the words didn’t come, and he turned abruptly and retreated to his Bloomberg screens.
They stood there for a moment, trying to take in the news. Someone in the back said, “Hear, hear,” as if Perkins had given a toast rather than a eulogy. People slowly dispersed back to their desks to begin once more the roar of trading, which didn’t take a break for anyone.
Shortly after his little speech, Perkins called Sophie Marx in the HR training room and invited her to lunch. He proposed to meet her at a restaurant called L’Oranger in St. James’s Street at one. That sounded reasonably discreet, so she said yes.
She felt mildly guilty about having a good time in London when her colleagues were in danger, so she emailed Gertz telling him that everything was going according to plan and that she hoped to have some answers for him soon. Gertz responded promptly. She wondered why he was still up; it was nearly three a.m. in Los Angeles. He told her to go someplace where she wouldn’t be overheard, so he could call her cell phone.
“Perkins likes you.” That was the first thing he said. She wasn’t sure from his tone whether he was pleased about it. She asked how he knew that so quickly, and he explained that Perkins had messaged his agency contact, Anthony Cronin, and that Cronin had told him.
“We have a delicate relationship with this guy,” Gertz continued. “I’m glad he’s opening the door, but be careful. This is a china shop. You touch the stuff and you’re going to break some of it. And then you’re screwed. We’re all screwed. So walk softly. Be professional. And don’t take too much frigging time. I need something to give to Headquarters soon, or we’re all going to be sitting on the crapper full-time.”
“How much time do I have?”
“A week, two weeks at the outside.”
“That may not be enough. This is complicated. And if I find a lead, I’m going to need to follow it. Don’t you think?”
“Sure, sure. Just get it done in two weeks. I’ve told Cyril Hoffman that you’re working on this. You, personally. You know what that means?”
“That it’s my ass.”
“Precisely.” He told her to have fun in London, and not to run up too big a bill at the Dorchester. Apparently Perkins had confided that to Anthony Cronin, as well.
The restaurant was deep in Clubland, at the corner of St. James’s and Pall Mall. Marx took a taxi, hoping to get there first, but when she arrived, she saw Perkins’s car idling outside. He was nestled against the banquette, reading the latest trading report as he did habitually, wherever he was. The entirety of the fund’s life seemed to be summarized by those numbers: What positions it had taken that morning, which ones it had sold. He put the market manifest aside when she sat down. She pointed to it and asked him why he found it so riveting.
“Trading is a narrative,” he said. “You can describe it on this piece of paper, but it’s more like a book. One part of the story is connected to all the rest. Right now we think the European Central Bank is going to start tightening again at the next meeting, which means Eurozone interest rates will go up. So we’re buying euros and selling European equities. As the euro gets stronger against the dollar, oil prices will go up a bit, so we’re buying oils. But if the dollar is off, that’s good for U.S. exporters, so we’re increasing our position in some large-cap U.S. equities, too.”
As he talked, he pointed to the trades that morning that had been driven by the “narrative,” as he’d put it. She tried to follow along, and occasionally nodded as if she understood what he was talking about. But most of the markings on the sheet just looked like very big numbers and she didn’t follow the trading logic, up or down.
“Let’s go back to the start,” she said. “How do you know the European Central Bank will start tightening at its next meeting?”
He smiled sheepishly, and she thought at first that she had asked a dumb question. But it wasn’t.
“That’s the secret sauce,” he said. “I can’t explain that. It’s how we make our money. When you know things, the bets aren’t so risky. Otherwise, it’s just a casino. If I wanted to gamble, I could do that in Las Vegas, without hiring all these people.”
They ordered lunch, and it was delicious, of course. This man only seemed to eat good food and drink the best wines. In this case, it meant pumpkin soup with cognac, served with chicken livers on toast, followed by a navarin of lamb. She waved off the sommelier, but Perkins said that it would be criminal to have the lamb without a glass of Margaux, so she relented.
Sophie had first-day questions about Alphabet, and he answered them genially. He told her that perhaps a half dozen of his employees were of Pakistani origin, including several in the IT department, and one in accounting. He promised to get their names and pull their files. And he explained Howard Egan’s routine: He had made his travel arrangements through Perkins’s secretary, Mona, and he drew on his own operating account when he was traveling; it was one of several accounts Alphabet maintained at Federation des Banques Suisses, but had its own routing number and depository arrangements. Normally, Egan and a private banker at FBS named Felix Stern were the only people with access to these records, but Perkins said he would try to get them, too.
She listened attentively, and took some notes in a wire-bound pad she had brought in her purse. As he talked, she recalled another conversation, several weeks before, when she had first heard the name Thomas Perkins. She had been sitting in Gertz’s office in Studio City, listening in on one of his phone calls. Perkins had asked, “What about the system?” but Gertz had blown him off. She had wondered about that at the time.
“I have a question,” she said. “What’s ‘the system’?”
There was a little flutter of one of his eyelids. He tried to cover with a smile and another tug on his Margaux.
“What are you talking about? I don’t know about any system. What system?”
“That’s what my boss said when you asked him about ‘the system.’ ‘Mr. Jones,’ that was the name my boss was using. You remember: He called you to say that Howard Egan was missing. Toward the end of the conversation, you asked him, ‘What about the system?’ And he said he didn’t know what you were talking about, just like you said a minute ago. So, being a curious girl, I want to know: What’s this system that nobody seems to know about?”
He shook his head. “How on earth did you overhear that conversation?”
“I was listening on the extension. Don’t be angry. My boss wanted me to hear the call. I think he knew we were going to be friends.”
Perkins had drained his wine and was starting in on his mineral water. He was trying very hard to act normal.
“I can’t talk about it, Sophie. I’m sorry, but it’s not my secret to share.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if you don’t know about it already, then there’s a reason. And it’s not my business to go blabbing about it. Surely you understand that. This is your world, your rules. I’m a bystander.”
“Will you check with Anthony Cronin?” she asked.
“I certainly will.” The easy smile had returned, not just a million-dollar smile, but a thousand times brighter. “You can count on it.”
Perkins proposed that they walk back to the office. It was a fine summer afternoon, with little flecks of cottony cloud padding the blue sky. He seemed to want to tell her about himself, to explain who he was and how he had gotten to this pinnacle: He had been a professor of economics long ago at MIT, he said, teaching students about efficient markets and portfolio theory. He had been a prodigy, in academic terms: the youngest among his
