Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [85]
Carroll knew the FBI guys, so they walked right in.
Once inside, the thundering noise and activity was double what Carroll and Caitlin had witnessed and heard upstairs.
It was still only 4:30 A.M., but a nightmarish fear had taken firm hold—you could see it on every face inside the overcrowded room.
“There’s another factor contributing to the current disaster,” Jay Fairchild said. “The real possibility of a worldwide crash, rather than an isolated one in the U.S. This time, the whole bloody world could go up.”
Everyone they passed in the conference room appeared hopelessly grave. The scene was something like a general alarm on a Navy warship.
Caitlin said, “Seven days of brokerage transactions are now unresolved. The bankers are competing, they’re actually competing to see who can take the most clear-cut, absolutely amoral advantage of the chaos!”
Carroll didn’t understand some of what was being said, but he grasped enough. When you misappropriate people’s money, a lot of small investors’ money given to you on trust, he figured you were a criminal.
Call him naive and old-fashioned, but that was how he felt.
“It sounds to me like nobody’s protecting the ordinary investor right now.”
Jay Fairchild nodded. “Nobody is. The big banks are all busy maneuvering for the oil billions. They could give a damn about the poor bastard out there with a hundred shares of Polaroid or AT and T.”
“Arch, Arab oil money is the name of the game. Arab money is almost always conservatively managed. Since last Friday they’ve been trying to move out of the U.S. Treasury Bills. Into gold. Into other precious metals. The banks are shamelessly scrambling for the huge Arab fees. They’re like rats on a ship, bailing out of the dollar—rushing into sterling, the yen, the Swiss franc, all the more stable currencies … Chase, Manufacturers, Bank of America, they’re making small fortunes right now.” Caitlin’s lips were tight and her jaw clenched as she spoke.
The three of them stood by helplessly watching the Stock Market crash gain a momentum of its own.
Reports from, London, Paris, Bonn, and Geneva came rushing in.
Men in white shirtsleeves and loosened neckties took turns calling out the more substantial Telex quotes for the benefit of beleaguered clerks who reported them into a massive central computer.
Phibro Solomon bought at 12½ Down 22.
General Electric bought at 35 Down 31.
IBM bought at 80½ Down 40.
By 11:30 on the morning of December 14, most U.S. banks, including every savings and loan, had been closed.
The Chicago, Philadelphia, Boston, Pacific and Midwest exchanges had all been officially shut down.
Chapter 63
AT NOON, AN elderly man made his way toward the hub of action at the front of the World Trade Center Crisis Room.
Many of the young brokers and bankers didn’t recognize Anton Birnbaum. Those who did regarded him with sharp, uneasy glances.
Birnbaum looked more like an ancient New York City pawnbroker than one of the world’s acknowledged financial geniuses, a man with a reputation that had been unblemished over all his years in business.
President Justin Kearney had arrived by helicopter from Washington less than thirty minutes before. The President warmly greeted the Financier, speaking with deference and respect.
‘It’s awfully good to see you again, Anton. Especially now.” The President spoke formally, as he might to a visiting foreign dignitary.
Kearney and Anton Birnbaum disappeared inside a small private office, the door of which was guarded by the Secret Service.
“It’s good to be seen out in the world, Mr. President. I don’t get out so much anymore. Mr. President, if I might be allowed to speak first, I have an idea you might wish to consider…
“I have just gotten off the phone with two gentlemen you’ve possibly never heard of. It’s worth repeating both conversations. One man is from Milwaukee, a Mr. Clyde Miller. The other man resides in Nashville, Tennessee— Mr. Louis Lavine.”
Anton Birnbaum said all this in a slow, deliberate style which made each word seem vitally important.
“Mr. Miller is