But the real improvements were in the interior.
Astor slid the door closed and took a seat in one of three Recaro leather lounge chairs. A 60-inch high-definition screen formed the wall separating the driving compartment. There was a sleek wood table, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, a Bang & Olufsen sound system, and an iMac built into one sidewall. A couch in the back extended into a bed. There were enough bells and whistles to raise the final sales price to a lick over three hundred grand. Astor had nicknamed the vehicle the Imperial Destroyer, after Lord Vader’s ship. A hedge fund manager wasn’t officially on the dark side, but he wasn’t too far off.
“Turn on the tube,” said Shank, cracking open a beer. “I’m counting on some good news to salvage a piss-poor day.”
Astor hit the remote and the large screen came to life. It showed the same backdrop as that morning, a navy proscenium with American and Chinese flags and a wooden dais in the center. At precisely 8:15, the U.S. trade representative took the stage in the company of a diminutive Chinese technocrat.
Astor punched up the volume as the trade representative began to speak.
“After three days of full and frank discussions, I am pleased to announce that the Chinese government remains committed to its policy of allowing the yuan to slowly but steadily appreciate against the dollar.”
“What the…?” said Shank.
“Quiet.”
“And that it is the government’s stated desire to stimulate the growth of its domestic consumer market by allowing the importation of cheaper foreign products. It is the government’s decision to allow the yuan to appreciate a further three percent by the end of this year.”
Astor killed the volume as the Chinese official began to speak.
“Three percent,” said Shank. “Did he say three percent?”
“Yeah,” said Astor. “That’s what he said.”
“We’re toast. French fried with maple syrup.”
“Cool it, Marv. It’s all misdirection. See? Rates are holding steady.”
Shank looked at one of the flat screens built into the cabinetry. The yuan/dollar rate remained stable at 6.30. “Three percent. Market’s going to factor that in.”
“Over time. We can sell our contracts tomorrow.”
“About those rates,” said Shank. “You might want to take a gander.”
Astor watched in horror as the exchange rate flashed and the yuan continued to appreciate: 6.28…6.275…6.255.
“The markets will rebound. Just wait—it’s an aberration. The Chinese bank still controls the rate of appreciation. They never allow it to move so much in one day. They like things slow and orderly.”
“You better call our guy.”
“If he says they’re going to depreciate, they’re going to depreciate.”
“Since when do you believe everything someone tells you?”
“He knows what he’s talking about.”
“So does our trade rep. Get on the horn this second.”
“Maybe later, Marv. Let me think on it.”
By the time the Sprinter reached Brooklyn twenty minutes later, the yuan had stabilized at 6.175, an enormous 2 percent increase in value versus the dollar and a loss in Astor’s position of $400 million.
“We’re going to have a cash problem tomorrow,” said Shank. “After wiring out that fifty million to Zarek, we’re running on fumes.”
“We have plenty of equities in the fund we can sell.”
“It’ll be a fire sale. Count on a significant loss.”
“It’s one day. Things will change.”
“We don’t have time. Those margin calls are going to be coming fast and furious tomorrow afternoon. There’s blood in the water.”
“I’ll raise more money.”
“How?”
“There’s a way.”
“Hot money? As I recall, you sent him packing with his tail between his legs.”
“Even I can make a mistake,” Astor admitted.
“You? The almighty Astor? On something this big?”
Astor looked away.
The Sprinter rolled up Albany Avenue in Lefferts Park and stopped at the corner of Rutland Road. There were balloons and lots of youngsters in red Helping Hands T-shirts. Astor spotted a famous councilman whom he hated and who he knew hated him even worse. He looked at his partner for moral support and got only another scowl.
“We still going to Peter Luger after?” asked Marv Shank.
34
Michael Grillo sat at his customary table at the rear of Balthazar, the French brasserie in SoHo that did double duty as his private office. It was 9 p.m. and the joint was packed. The appetizing scents of roast chicken and French onion soup drifted from the kitchen. Grillo sipped his Campari and soda and reread the message he’d received earlier from Bobby Astor giving Edward Astor’s mobile phone number as well as his Social Security number. Taking a pencil from his coat, he transferred both to a notepad. For a man of Grillo’s talent, the two were more than enough information to unlock a trove of personal information, information he hoped would shed light on Astor’s activities and help his client discover who or what Palantir was and how it had played a role in Edward Astor’s death.