The Insider Read Online Free PDF Page A

holding up his hand.
    “What?”
    “Everything that goes on at McCarthy and Lloyd stays within the walls of the firm. You know what Bullock’s bonus was last year, but that figure doesn’t get to anyone who isn’t employed by McCarthy and Lloyd. Just the same way you wouldn’t discuss proprietary information about one of our clients with anyone outside the firm. If someone is caught discussing any of our business with anyone on the outside, it’s grounds for immediate dismissal. We are privy to very sensitive information around here on an almost hourly basis. We need to protect our clients’ privacy, and as the saying goes, loose lips sink ships.”
    Only in times of war, Jay thought.
    “Bill McCarthy is a stickler on that issue, and people have been terminated for violating the policy,” Oliver continued. “For getting drunk in a bar and saying things they shouldn’t have. Got that?”
    Jay heard an ominous tone in Oliver’s voice. “Yes.”
    “Good.” The warning was over and the friendly tone returned. “Let’s go.” Oliver moved out into the hallway, and Jay hustled to keep pace. “It’s the press that’s the real problem,” Oliver called over his shoulder. “They’re so damn hungry to find out about this place.”
    “I’m sure.” Jay was well aware that details of what went on inside McCarthy & Lloyd were not generally available to the outside world. The Wall Street Journal had nicknamed the firm Area 51 after the top-secret Air Force base in the Nevada desert where the government developed next-generation weapons and was rumored by conspiracy zealots to have interred the Roswell aliens. And reporters had dubbed Bill McCarthy “Howard Hughes” for his total abhorrence of publicity.
    “Of course, our desire to maintain a low profile only feeds the press’s appetite.” Oliver smiled. “Bill is a smooth operator. We get more publicity by saying nothing than we would by advertising.”
    The hallway suddenly opened up onto McCarthy & Lloyd’s huge trading floor—over an acre in size. In front of the two men lay row after row of lunch-counter-like workstations, each twenty feet long and facing a bulkhead, on the other side of which was another workstation of equal length. Four to five people sat elbow to elbow on either side of the bulkhead like patrons at a diner. Each chair was known as a “position” on the floor. In front of each position, and supported by the bulkhead, were several computer screens providing up-to-the-second data concerning stock, bond, currency, and derivative markets around the world. Also in front of each position were telephone banks with multiple lines so that the trader could buy and sell securities instantaneously. Televisions tuned to CNN were positioned throughout the room to give them information on world events, because a coup in Russia could trash U.S. markets as quickly as chaos at home—and vice versa. There was little decoration around the room, just a small country flag or two on top of the bulkheads of the foreign-exchange areas signifying the currencies traded there. Overall it was a bland and uninviting environment. But decoration was superfluous, and the people there didn’t have time for nonessentials. They were there to make money and that was all.
    Oliver stopped and pointed toward a far corner. “Over there,” he said, having to speak loudly over the dull roar of many voices, “is the equity desk—”
    “Desk?” Jay asked.
    “Yeah,” Oliver replied. “We don’t use the word groups or divisions on the trading floor. We call them desks .”
    “Okay.”
    “Those three workstations in the corner comprise the equity desk—salespeople as well as traders using house money. Along that wall is the fixed-income desk, and beside them is—”
    “Oliver!” A short, dark-haired young woman rushed toward them down the open corridor paralleling the length of the trading floor. She was clutching a single piece of paper.
    “Hi, Abby,” Oliver