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earnings growth every quarter. Instead, the bank could formulate strategies that would play out over years.
    The corporate culture at Goldman stressed teamwork. The slogan “At Goldman Sachs we never say ‘I’” was taken seriously. Nonetheless, the bank rewarded individual performance with salary and bonus packages that were stupendous even by the lavish standards of the industry. Rob was at the point in his career when promising young bankers were given three-to four-year tours of duty overseas. The world of finance was global, and banks wanted their rising stars to gain experience in nerve centers other than Wall Street.
    In 1997, the most dynamic, hypersensitive financial nerve center in the world was Hong Kong. The myth of the “Asian miracle” still carried the force of doctrinal truth. For more than a decade, led by Japan, Asian societies had been honing their economic systems to the finest of points. The region had it all: the strong work ethic, the focus on education, the thrifty populace, and the ability to manufacture cheaply and export products that other countries were hungry to buy. Asia would own the twenty-first century—all the magazines and TV news shows said so. Everyone in the financial realm rushed to stake his claim. Banks loaned money, mutual funds bought stocks and bonds, investors built factories and office buildings, currency traders sold deutsche marks and dollars to buy baht and won and rupiah. On the receiving end, men who’d been driving motorbikes all their lives were suddenly debating the merits of various models of Mercedes-Benzes.
    This was the future, the experts agreed. Asia ruled. The good times were rolling and they were here to stay. The first ones now would always be first. If it was already too late to get in on the ground floor, there was plenty of space on the mezzanine. The world’s leading financial journals spoke with one voice: any dollar not invested in Asia might as well stay under the mattress.
    Hong Kong seemed the perfect place for a rising star like Rob Kissel to perfect his skills. He rejoiced when he learned he’d be heading there. “They only send winners,” he told friends. “This means I’m on the fast track to make partner. Hong Kong is the key to the mint.”

    Hong Kong also offered temporary respite from the Kissel family’s intramural wars. Rob was ready to take a break. The extended Kissel family raised dysfunctionality to an art form. Family gatherings became emotional bloodbaths. Between engagements, members sharpened their elbows—and teeth—for the next.
    In 1992, Andrew, who had graduated from Boston University and gone into the real estate business, married Hayley Wolff, a former world-class competitive skier whom he’d met at Stratton Mountain. She’d worked part time as an instructor, and Jane Kissel had been one of her pupils. Hayley was smart and tough and fashionably blond. She could turn from charming to acerbic on a dime. After graduating from the University of Pennsylvania, she’d obtained her master’s degree in finance at Columbia and was advancing toward a position as an entertainment-industry stock analyst at Merrill Lynch.
    Bill admired her accomplishments but was miffed that she’d married Andrew instead of Rob. It didn’t matter that Rob had never even sought to date her. Bill felt that Rob deserved the Ivy League heiress with the steel-trap mind, while “the waitress” would have been good enough for Andrew. Hayley, on the other hand, though she respected his intelligence and drive, thought Rob was a one-dimensional bore. She saw Andrew as a witty, wounded, vulnerable work in progress, battling bravely against the low self-esteem caused by his father’s contempt. She was convinced she could find his hidden better side.
    But it was Hayley’s pedigree—her “heiress” status—more than her attitude or personality that first caused problems with Bill. She was the daughter of Derish Wolff—Phi Beta Kappa at Penn,