The Clayton Account Read Online Free PDF Page B

disperse –’
    ‘Good,’ interrupted the father. ‘For once I’m glad of your lazy ways –’
    ‘Jesus, Dad! I only –’
    ‘Shut up and sit down.’ His father waved away the usual queue of excuses. ‘Now here’s what you’re gonna do.’
    Tom Clayton took the Underground from High Street Kensington to Liverpool Street and was at his desk by seven-thirty. Soldiers, priests and bankers, they used to joke. At work each morning at the crack of dawn, and for no discernible reason. But that was the culture. If you didn’t cover your patch from sun-up till sun-down, some young turk would take it and make sure he got noticed.
    Dog ate dog, and Clayton loved it.
    ‘Hey, Tom, how was New York?’
    Vladimir Kreutz. Junior trader, irritating little man, wearing thick-framed designer glasses and brightly coloured dealer’s braces. He didn’t ask, ‘How was the funeral?’ Or, ‘How’s the family?’ Just, ‘How was New York?’ No room for sentiment here, thought Clayton, but what the hell. He ignored Kreutz – in any event no reply was expected. It was just a passing remark, a brief attempt at civility to punctuate the serious business of earning this year’s bonus.
    ‘Hey, Tom, you’re back! How’s your dad?’
    ‘Dead,’ replied Clayton, his gaze still fixed on his computer screen, looking up the deals made in his absence.
    The enquirer was Grinholm, Tom’s boss. He spoke with the relaxed dulcet tone of his native Georgia and was taken aback, for once.
    ‘Hey, sorry, must have got it wrong. Heard he was ill, or something.’
    ‘Nope. Dead.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Tom. Look if you need a few days …’
    ‘It’s okay, Hal.’ Clayton looked up, sensing Grinholm’s genuine embarrassment. His boss was standing there, in his cheap suit and worn shoes, stroking his goatee. You’d never guess he was the highest paid member of the department. ‘Really. I’ve sorted things out already,’ said Tom, adding kindly, ‘He went suddenly. No pain.’
    ‘Right. Okay …’ Grinholm faltered. ‘Well, like I said, if you need any time, or anything …’ And with that the boss departed for the relative comfort of squeezing money out of people.
    ‘Thanks, Hal.’
    Tom Clayton was number two in Derivatives. They dealt in big sums and often sat on the fence. Heads I win, tails you lose. There were millions to be made, provided you got it right. When told of his father’s death, the first thing he had done was rush to the bank to tidy up all his positions. One did not leave an exposure unattended for ten days; all deals were firmed up and locked away before departure. Last year Tom had grossed $860,000. Over $3,000 per day worked, 80 per cent of it made up of a performance bonus, since his basic salary amounted to just $120,000 a year. Ten days away meant $25,000 opportunity-cost and, since he wanted to go to Switzerland this week, it would be best not to start too many deals until his return. So call it forty grand down the pan. But that was only the official version. In Tom’s secret world the onslaught continued relentlessly: sterling rising, markets rising … and the Clayton–Langland gamble was millions in the hole.
    It’s all a matter of bulls and bears. Like the rising horns of a charging bull, bull markets drive prices up. Bear markets, thrusting down like an angry grizzly’s claw, send prices tumbling. The speculator’s game is guessing market moves on the outcome of which fortunes changed hands. Tom bet heavily against sterling. He was picnicking with the bears, and so far only bulls had come to his party. He closed his eyes briefly to will away the ghosts, then turned his attention to Zurich. He selected a computer program and entered: ‘$567,384.22.’
    The cursor moved and asked for a Value Date. Tom keyed in: ‘30–06–1944’.
    The date was accepted and the cursor moved a line. ‘MATURITY DATE ?’
    Clayton wanted fifty-four years. He entered the date.
    The cursor moved into another box.