The Gods of Greenwich Read Online Free PDF Page A

who worked hard, stayed late, and never complained. She had followed him from Goldman, loyal to the end, loyal to now.
    Last week she had asked, “I know things are tough. And I promise never, ever, to leave you in the lurch. But do you mind if I talk with Credit Suisse about a job?”
    Cusack needed some luck. Or he would be interviewing, too. He smiled crookedly, forcing his mood to brighten. His thoughts trailed to the single most important person in his life. She had never known financial uncertainty, though she faced hurdles he could only imagine.
    Do I tell my wife or shield her from all this?
    Cusack never answered the question. He picked up his phone and began dialing. Mortgage payments were one problem. He had others.
    THURSDAY , FEBRUARY 7
    Siggi Stefansson shifted on his stool inside Gaukur á Stöng, Reykjavik’s oldest pub. He was sipping Brennivín, the local hooch, brewed from potato pulp and caraway seeds. He thought it tasted like horse piss.
    Svarti dauði, Iceland’s term of endearment for the liquor, means “black death.” The nickname refers as much to the bottle’s black label as to the lethal alcohol content of 37.5 percent. But Siggi’s second cousin had insisted on Brennivín that evening. “I need to drown my troubles.”
    Ólafur, gone for the last ten minutes, returned from the men’s room and bellied up to the bar. He looked much like Siggi; blue eyes, wavy blond hair, a few hints of white at the temples. No glasses, he was heavier, and solid through the middle. There was none of the adult-onset gut that springs from the blocks once men hit thirty-five.
    Rubbing his stomach, Ólafur grimaced and said, “I’m a wreck.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “My portfolio.” At thirty-eight Ólafur was a rising star, a managing director at Iceland’s most venerable bank. He believed in Hafnarbanki and bought shares whenever possible, sometimes with borrowed money. He bet big and yearned for the glory of being right.
    “Hafnarbanki’s shares,” Siggi protested, “are trading over a thousand kronur.”
    “We’re already down fifteen percent this year.” Ólafur balled his right hand and rubbed it with the left, as though wringing out the cold.
    “Ouch.”
    “‘Ouch’ doesn’t cut it. How about we go with ‘I’m fucked.’” The banker drained his shot glass and signaled for another round of svarti dauði.
    “What’s wrong with Hafnarbanki?”
    “Business is fine,” bristled Ólafur. “But the damn hedge funds are bad-mouthing our stock and spooking everybody.”
    “Really?” Siggi considered next week’s installation in Connecticut, remembering the first time he met Cyrus Leeser. “Do you have any proof?”
    “A research analyst told me. Somebody asked him to hammer our stock. Offered him big money.”
    “Did he take it?”
    “No.”
    “So what’s the big deal?”
    “Somebody always takes the bribe,” asserted Ólafur, growing impatient with his cousin, who knew so little about finance. “It’s just a matter of finding the right whore.”
    “I have an American client,” Siggi began, “who runs a hedge fund.”
    “There are eight thousand hedge funds.”
    “My client was drinking with two other guys,” continued Siggi, undeterred by his second cousin’s self-importance. “They were talking about Hafnarbanki at the bar.”
    “What did they say?”
    “Something about shorting.”
    Ólafur leaned closer, all ears now, no longer annoyed with his second cousin. “Who’s your client?”
    “He wasn’t the one talking.” Siggi spoke faster and faster, withering under his cousin’s scrutiny. He cursed himself for blabbing. There was something foreign in Ólafur’s eyes, something feral. “Cy wasn’t the loud one.”
    “Cy who?”
    “He’s not a bad guy,” the art dealer replied, annoyed he could not control his nerves. “Cy just bought the second most expensive painting I ever sold. His friends were the ones talking.”
    “Shorting what,