Free The Gods of Greenwich by Norb Vonnegut

defaulted, in other words, Hafnarbanki could not sue for losses. It could only repossess its shares.
    Guðjohnsen’s eyes narrowed into slits. “They have all upside and no downside.”
    “Exactly.”
    “You think this risk is acceptable?”
    “I have absolute faith,” replied Ólafur, “in your vision and our bank’s future.” What would Guðjohnsen say—that he lacked confidence in his own leadership?
    Again, the chairman’s eyes narrowed, as though he were calculating the impact on his portfolio. “I like the idea of helping our stock price.”
    “That’s step one.”
    “What else?”
    “We attack the single biggest position in LeeWell Capital’s portfolio the same way they attacked Hafnarbanki.”
    Ólafur had studied the hedge fund since February. From public filings, he estimated its stake in one company equaled 15 percent of total assets. Maybe more. Bentwing Energy Group traded under the ticker symbol BEG, and Cyrus Leeser sat on the board. It was the core position in Leeser’s portfolio.
    “What’s the purpose?” objected Guðjohnsen. “We’re not in the revenge business.”
    “We’ll make money on the trade and send a message to the enemy.”
    “Which is what?” the chairman asked.
    “Fuck with our stock, and we’ll bury you.”
    “You think this message is important, Ólafur?”
    “Like I said, we’re at war. Unless we strike, every hedge fund in Greenwich will short our stock until it falls another thirty percent.”
    Guðjohnsen said nothing for a moment. He was known for manipulating subordinates with awkward pauses. “What can go wrong?”
    “My sources say LeeWell Capital hedges risk with a secret, no-fail technique.”
    “But you’re not convinced?”
    “It’s impossible to eliminate all risk. ‘Risk-free’ sounds too good to be true.”
    “And what else?” the chairman asked. “I hear something in your voice.”
    The younger banker hesitated. “I think LeeWell Capital is borrowing way too much money.”
    “But?”
    “I can’t prove it. And if I’m wrong, we’ll lose money betting against Bentwing.”
    “You think we should take this risk?”
    “Yes, because the Qataris are on our side.”
    The chairman raised his eyebrows, both surprised and pleased by his subordinate’s homework. He said nothing.
    “If we both dump shares of Bentwing,” Ólafur continued, “we’re more likely to win. The stock will fall from all the selling, and we’ll make money on our short. That’s my quid pro quo with the Qataris for making a nonrecourse loan.”
    Chairman Guðjohnsen looked at Ólafur with an undecipherable expression, something between shock and awe. The older man’s brow creased, and he didn’t speak at first. He finally broke the silence and said, “Now I understand why your nickname is ‘Mr. Ice.’”
    The chairman’s words sounded like a compliment. But that’s when their conversation soured.
    *   *   *
    Halfway through his third martini, Ólafur didn’t feel like “Mr. Ice.” Cerebral and rational at the office, he soothed his colleagues when they groaned about the bank’s share price.
    “Don’t worry. It’s just the markets at work.”
    The words sounded good. But deep inside, Mr. Ice hated risk. He owned way too much of the bank’s stock on margin. Every 3 percent decline rattled him, and the rebounds turned him silently euphoric. Of course, there had been few celebrations with Hafnarbanki down 29 percent since December.
    Ólafur’s daily regimen of hangovers masked his inner angst. It was easy to appear calm when you felt like shit. The banker wondered, however, whether this technique would continue to work. That afternoon he had doused himself with a brand-new risk. His career was on the line.
    Guðjohnsen said, “Make the loan to the Qataris and start trading.”
    “It’s the right thing to do, sir. The Qataris will buy Hafnarbanki shares right away. And we’ll take our time shorting Bentwing. We’ll do it right.”
    The