The hundred-times leverage made it the crack cocaine of trading. Ten thousand pounds in an account bought £ 1 million in firepower and every one per cent in market moves meant 100 per cent profit and vice versa. If you could call a one per cent move, you could double your money – or be wiped out. It was like roulette without the green and double zeros.
He dropped another billion on to the yen, which sagged a little. He was up £ 10 million and that gave him another £ 1 billion in leverage.
His mug was empty. “Stafford,” he called, and straight away the butler was beside him. “Got another tea and maybe some sandwiches?”
“Certainly, sir. I have in some fine Cheddar.”
“Great,” said Jim, watching the chart flitter.
The butler cast an eye over Jim’s big screens and at the charts that formed outline mountain ranges. “Very good, sir.”
*
Jim could hardly keep his eyes open. “ £ 99,872,312,” said the profit line, as the last six digits spun back and forth. It was three a.m. and he wasn’t going to close until he saw 100 in the millions column. The dollar-pound-yen trio had grown increasingly volatile over the hours he had been playing it and he had been forced to jump in and out of the market like a tap-dancing giant. “ £ 99,9” said the first three digits. He started to unload as the number grew to £ 103 million, then began to fall back. His closing was pushing the market against him, but it looked as though he’d get out before the total went below 100. His positions were shrinking as his profits were slipping. “Come on,” he growled at the screen, “you can do it.”
Suddenly the market changed direction and he closed his positions as they chewed through his remaining orders. He was flat – and a £ 101 million richer. “Pretty fucking cool,” he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. This was the way to go. If some lucky bugger could win £ 100 million with a single lottery ticket, why couldn’t the freak trader with two heads do a thousand times better by draining off a small part of the flow of the world’s financial Amazon?
In his bedroom, a new pair of silk pyjamas lay on his pillow, a present from Davas. In moments like this he liked to trace the chart of his life in the air with an index finger, but he was knackered. He flopped on to the duvet and fell asleep.
At eight a.m. Jim was back at his computer, feeling a little groggy. He’d been dreaming about Jane all night. The image of her gunning down the robber had stuck in his consciousness and replayed in his dreams, as had the way shehad knocked the other robber down with the pistol. Fuck me, he thought. Sterling was about to zoom against the yen, dollar and euro. He loaded the robots with £ 3 billion for each pair and set them off buying. The sterling juddered across all the foreign-exchange markets and spiked up a tenth of one per cent. He grunted. He’d better tune down the robots’ aggression next time.
His mobile rang. Caller ID said, “Withheld.”
Someone in the States perhaps?
He snatched it up. “Hello.”
“Mr Evans?”
“Yes,” he said, disappointed and instantly irritable. “What? Who is this?”
“It’s Dale Watkins. I’m in Risk at the bank.”
“So?”
“I’ve been asked to call about your trading.”
“What about it?”
“It’s a bit erratic?”
“How so? Do you mean it’s a bit too big for you?”
“Well, yes, actually.”
“Talk to Wolfsberg and don’t bother me again.”
He hung up.
The phone rang again. “I’m sorry,” said Dale, “but the line went dead.”
“It didn’t. I hung up on you.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I can’t call the CEO, as you probably know.”
The huge trades were going Jim’s way, as he’d expected. “OK, then, I will. I’ll expect your call in fifteen minutes if I don’t get through to him.”
*
Wolfsberg’s PA connected Jim immediately.
“Al,” said Jim, “I need your help.”
“I see,” said Wolfsberg.
He dropped another billion on to the yen, which sagged a little. He was up £ 10 million and that gave him another £ 1 billion in leverage.
His mug was empty. “Stafford,” he called, and straight away the butler was beside him. “Got another tea and maybe some sandwiches?”
“Certainly, sir. I have in some fine Cheddar.”
“Great,” said Jim, watching the chart flitter.
The butler cast an eye over Jim’s big screens and at the charts that formed outline mountain ranges. “Very good, sir.”
*
Jim could hardly keep his eyes open. “ £ 99,872,312,” said the profit line, as the last six digits spun back and forth. It was three a.m. and he wasn’t going to close until he saw 100 in the millions column. The dollar-pound-yen trio had grown increasingly volatile over the hours he had been playing it and he had been forced to jump in and out of the market like a tap-dancing giant. “ £ 99,9” said the first three digits. He started to unload as the number grew to £ 103 million, then began to fall back. His closing was pushing the market against him, but it looked as though he’d get out before the total went below 100. His positions were shrinking as his profits were slipping. “Come on,” he growled at the screen, “you can do it.”
Suddenly the market changed direction and he closed his positions as they chewed through his remaining orders. He was flat – and a £ 101 million richer. “Pretty fucking cool,” he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. This was the way to go. If some lucky bugger could win £ 100 million with a single lottery ticket, why couldn’t the freak trader with two heads do a thousand times better by draining off a small part of the flow of the world’s financial Amazon?
In his bedroom, a new pair of silk pyjamas lay on his pillow, a present from Davas. In moments like this he liked to trace the chart of his life in the air with an index finger, but he was knackered. He flopped on to the duvet and fell asleep.
At eight a.m. Jim was back at his computer, feeling a little groggy. He’d been dreaming about Jane all night. The image of her gunning down the robber had stuck in his consciousness and replayed in his dreams, as had the way shehad knocked the other robber down with the pistol. Fuck me, he thought. Sterling was about to zoom against the yen, dollar and euro. He loaded the robots with £ 3 billion for each pair and set them off buying. The sterling juddered across all the foreign-exchange markets and spiked up a tenth of one per cent. He grunted. He’d better tune down the robots’ aggression next time.
His mobile rang. Caller ID said, “Withheld.”
Someone in the States perhaps?
He snatched it up. “Hello.”
“Mr Evans?”
“Yes,” he said, disappointed and instantly irritable. “What? Who is this?”
“It’s Dale Watkins. I’m in Risk at the bank.”
“So?”
“I’ve been asked to call about your trading.”
“What about it?”
“It’s a bit erratic?”
“How so? Do you mean it’s a bit too big for you?”
“Well, yes, actually.”
“Talk to Wolfsberg and don’t bother me again.”
He hung up.
The phone rang again. “I’m sorry,” said Dale, “but the line went dead.”
“It didn’t. I hung up on you.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I can’t call the CEO, as you probably know.”
The huge trades were going Jim’s way, as he’d expected. “OK, then, I will. I’ll expect your call in fifteen minutes if I don’t get through to him.”
*
Wolfsberg’s PA connected Jim immediately.
“Al,” said Jim, “I need your help.”
“I see,” said Wolfsberg.
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