From Chapter Five

There is a simple saying in my business, and it's the same with any of the different products and/or commodities I've worked in, which is "When you're done, you're done." What this means in all simplicity is "Your word is your word." When you say "You are done" to a client or a trader, what you are saying is the deal is done with the terms as agreed upon, and it might as well be written in stone. Even though this may sound obvious, the reason is that when trading in high-dollar amount transactions, the deal is done the instant the words "You are done" are spoken. Many multi-million dollars' worth of business transactions are executed long before a legal contract is ever produced. So by uttering these three simple words, multiple transactions are initiated, and it is done on the trust that "When you're done, you're done," and you will not renege on it. Those who do break their word are blackballed in the business and might as well change professions, because nobody will want to do business with them again. Too much is riding on it and the risks are too great if you can't trust somebody's word.

There has only been one event in all my years of trading where I had to rescind my words and renege on my trade. The event was on an infamous day in the history of this nation. It was a Tuesday morning, and I was working two phones, one connected to a huge Swiss institution in Basle and the other with a trader on our desk in Minneapolis, who in turn was on-line with Lehman Brothers, the broker/dealer firm that ceased to exist in 2008. The trade consisted of 48mm of a five-year final bond issued by a US bank. I had been working this trade for the previous ten minutes or so. Finally it came down to the nitty-gritty and I had both buyer and seller at levels where I would make an acceptable spread. From my trader I received Lehman's price firm for thirty seconds, and I offered my level to the Swiss. As they accepted, both the Swiss and I exchanged the magic words "You are done." In the next second, as I was about to phrase the same to my desk, and they in turn to Lehman, the line was cut off. The time was 9:02:54 a.m. on September 11, 2001, when the second plane hit the South Tower.

My trader communicated that his line with Lehman had gone dead and that we were not done. I had to tell my client the same, as the horror of that day developed in slow motion in front of our eyes, for the world to see.

I never learned if the Lehman trader made it out alive.

From Chapter Twelve:

"Let's drink," was Yuri's solution to our new-found mutual appreciation of art. He stepped by me and stomped down the stairs. We found the same spot at the bar where we had met earlier unoccupied and sat down. This time the bar was well populated and the center of much animated talk and laughter. I stayed with my Perrier and Yuri, true to form, with his Chivas. For the amount of alcohol I had seen him consume, he was amazingly clear and lucid during the ensuing discussion.
I asked him what he knew about the Maiden Lane I had heard about during the introductory meeting we just attended.

Yuri downed his glass and asked for a refill. "Maiden Lane is from Federal Reserve to smooth purchase of Bear Stearns by JP Morgan. Maiden Lane get credit from Federal Reserve of New York to buy toxic portfolio of waste mortgages from Bear."

"Excuse me?" I tried to follow Yuri's words, but this sounded a bit too odd. "Waste mortgages?"
"Yes, you know, bad portfolio, toxic waste mortgages," Yuri clarified. Ignoring my smile, he carried on as if he was not interrupted. "This Maiden Lane happen right now and not yet public knowledge. Result is JP Morgan buy Bear and not have to buy bad portfolio and Fed give guarantee of zero loss to Morgan. Not bad deal, no?" This time he smiled, openly proud he knew about it and admiring how fiendishly smart the transaction was structured. He sipped his newly filled glass.

In order to be clear about what I was told, I rephrased. "So the Federal Reserve finances Maiden Lane, who buys the problem loan portfolios from Bear and then guarantees a zero loss to JP Morgan, who in turns receives the OK to buy all the good assets from Bear at ten dollars per share?"

"That's it," Yuri answered. "They try buy Bear at two dollar per share, but was trick to get to ten." He smiled and then added, "Make private the gains and make social the losses. Smart move." He grinned again.

I recognized the ingenious way to shield a Federal Reserve owner (JP Morgan) from exposure to losses while allowing it to basically steal a company (Bear Stearns) for a mere ten dollars per share and transfer the risk of the bad assets to the public.

From Chapter Twenty-Four:

I killed two men and was still in combat-survival mode, hyped by the adrenaline running through me. As much as I wanted to feel victorious, I just couldn't. It was one thing to train for battle and practice lethal techniques. It was entirely another to put it into motion and see the effects in front of you, two eyes staring into mine with a mixture of surprise and anger. To see the expression change to pain and fear, then just fear. Then terror.

I couldn't get Smiley's face out of my mind as his eyes finally gave in and rolled up, eyelids trembling, muscles slumping. Violence up close of this nature carries a strange intimacy, and even though he wished me harm, I said a prayer in my mind for him, and for his partner. But strange as it sounds, I felt more connected to Smiley and I wished him safe passage and asked we both be forgiven.

Meanwhile, I was hurt, dirty and bloody, and I had to get away as far as possible from the scene where I had left the Lincoln Navigator. Before anything else though, I had to tend to my injuries without attracting undue attention. Within ten minutes I found a convenience store not far from a Salvation Army and homeless shelter. A crowd of ragged men was huddled around an open fifty-five gallon drum with a fire blazing. It was late and freezing cold. I parked the truck out of the way and left Dakota as a deterrent in the cabin.

I bought bandages, dressings, super-glue, a bottle of peroxide to disinfect, and a black woolen cap that would keep me warm and hide the huge welt forming on my forehead. Then I stocked up on aspirin and other pain killers, a bottle of No Doze™ to keep me awake, more water, and I returned to the truck.

Beat up, nobody even looked at me twice, not wanting to be part of whatever trouble my injuries represented. Walking towards the truck, a few of the winos tried to get my attention in a conditioned reflex to hustle some booze money, but backed off when they saw me.

Judging from the cold hood, which I felt with a quick touch of my palm, I decided that the car next to my GMC had been parked there for considerable time. I put my stuff away, retrieved the screwdriver and within a minute had the plates removed from my neighbor and placed on my truck. Still hurt and increasingly exhausted, I sat in the cab with Dakota watching my every move while I used all the supplies I'd bought to clean up and bandage my wounds.