The Prince of Risk A Novel(69)

The call went through a moment later. “Hello, Bobby. Why aren’t you calling on your private number?”



“Phone issues. Hello, Septimus. Have a minute?”

“I should ask you the same question after the reception I received yesterday. I don’t have to ask why you’re calling.”

“Markets move up and down.”

“Should I feel reassured, or should I be demanding to withdraw my family’s money from your fund?”

“Time will tell. We’re standing behind the position.”

“And the Chinese announcement?”

“Posturing ahead of the election this Friday.”

“Can one election change so much?”

“Absolutely. The new members elected to the Standing Committee will signal which direction the country is heading in.”

“And you think they will backtrack on their promises to your government?”

“They don’t have a choice. It’s hard enough to govern a country of a billion and a half people when the economy is booming. Right now the economy’s in the tank. The Chinese prize stability above all else. You do the math.”

“Tell me, Bobby, are they still building too many motorcycles?”

Astor chuckled. During their first meeting, three months earlier, he’d told Reventlow a story that illustrated the economic quandary the Chinese found themselves in. There was a government-owned motorcycle factory in Dalian that turned out two hundred beautiful bikes a day. The motorcycles were picture-perfect knockoffs of Harley-Davidsons but at half the price, and for years they’d sold like hotcakes to countries such as Malaysia, Mexico, and Brazil. But as the yuan grew stronger and the wages of the skilled Chinese workers who assembled them also increased, the motorcycles grew more and more expensive. Clients in expanding nations were price-sensitive. Sales faltered. Soon the factory was turning out two hundred bikes a day but selling only one hundred fifty. The unsold bikes quickly piled up in the freight yard. The government was faced with a dilemma. It could either cut production and fire 30 percent of the workers or continue manufacturing motorcycles that no one wanted to buy. The first alternative would result in the layoff of a thousand workers, a steep decline in the local economy, and certain unrest. The second alternative would result in contented employees, growing losses for the company, and eventual bankruptcy. The Chinese, being ever nimble and ever frightened at calling a spade a spade, chose a third course. It continued making the motorcycles, then created a new company to purchase the motorcycles, take them apart, and sell the metal as scrap. Problem solved. Or at least put off to another day.



To Astor’s mind, that day was today.

“Yes, Septimus,” he replied. “I believe they are.”

“Then there is hope,” said Septimus Reventlow. “What can I do for you?”

“Show your faith.”

“Let’s see how the market closes. I need to talk to my family members before I make a decision. Shall we continue this discussion tomorrow?”

Astor knew better than to push. A commitment from Reventlow to invest the $300 million he’d promised would go a long way toward meeting a margin call and restoring the marketplace’s faith in the firm. “That will be fine.”

Astor hung up and started toward the door, only to walk into Marv Shank.

“You’re not leaving, Bobby. Not today.”

“Marv, please.”

“I know that your dad is important to you, but Comstock is more important.”

“There’s nothing I can do to fix the position,” said Astor. “Unless you want me to start liquidating the fund right now.”

“Our guys need to know you’re here. A captain doesn’t abandon a sinking ship.”

“This isn’t the Titanic.”

“Right now it feels like it.” Shank shut the door. “Here’s how it is, Bobby. I’m forty-one. Everything I’ve earned is in that fund. I don’t have a cattle ranch in Wyoming or an apartment building in Chelsea or a freakin’ French masterpiece, and if I did I wouldn’t cart the thing around Manhattan as if I were carrying a six-pack of Bud Light. I’ve got fifteen years of blood, sweat, and tears with you. Fifteen years working seven to seven inside this glass tower. I know it’s my fault that I forgot to grab a wife on the way up. It’s always just been about work for me. You’re my friend, Bobby. Pretty much my only one. I’m asking you. Stay.”

Astor put his hands on Shank’s shoulders. “Here’s how it is, Marv. You’re my friend, too. But you’re not my father. And about all the other stuff—the ranch, the apartment—pretty much everything I have is pledged to the firm. We go under, I go under. You can write your ticket at any other firm on the street. Me, I’m fish food.”