A $50 million margin call? I'll short Wall Street.

Chapter 36 Chameleon

Friday, March 21, 2008, 4:15 p.m.

Midtown Manhattan, 270 Park Avenue.

This is a 38-story commercial building built in the 1960s. The exterior is made of dark gray granite with simple lines and no superfluous decorations.

The elevator doors opened, and Lu Ze and Isabella entered the candidate floor on the 27th floor.

A low-key, dark marble reception desk greets you. Beyond the glass doors, the 700-square-meter space is professionally divided, presenting a perfect "plug-and-play" experience.

The core office area retains light gray polished concrete and exposed steel beams that are nearly four meters high, with a dozen custom-made trading tables equipped with multi-screen stands neatly arranged.

On either side are several private offices and a large conference room separated by frosted, dimming glass. The top-of-the-line ergonomic chairs and solid wood desks are spotless, just waiting for their new owners to take their seats.

The most important thing is the window.

A full-length south-facing window, extending from the floor to the ceiling, takes in the entire Midtown Manhattan skyline—the Empire State Building stands to the southwest, the Chrysler Building's stainless steel spire gleams silver in the sunlight, and further away, the Hudson River peeks out from between the buildings, revealing a sliver of dark blue water.

Isabella walked to the French windows and stood there for a while.

"here."

She turned her head, her tone resolute.

Lu Ze stood in the center of the room, surveying the entire space.

He did not immediately express his opinion.

He pushed open the glass door of the main private office and looked around. Then he walked to the separate machine room near the elevator, tapped on the wall with his finger, and listened to its thickness.

He walked around the office area at a leisurely pace.

Finally, he stopped in the center of the space.

"How's the soundproofing?" he asked the real estate agent standing at the door.

The real estate agent was a white man in his forties, impeccably dressed in a suit, his professional smile masking his obvious nervousness. The two people in front of him, a young Chinese man and a young Chinese woman, both looked to be no more than thirty years old, yet after looking at the entire floor of this top-of-the-line, fully-furnished office, they hadn't even asked about the price.

"The soundproofing in this building is among the best in Midtown."

The agent walked over quickly.

"The walls are double-layered reinforced concrete with added sound insulation, making sound transmission between adjacent floors almost zero. The previous tenant was a quantitative hedge fund that only existed for six months. When they left, they left behind the million-dollar hard and soft furnishings intact. All private offices and meeting rooms have been fitted with electromagnetic shielding to prevent signal leakage—"

"Power supply," Lu Ze interrupted him.

"Dual power supply, equipped with an independent UPS uninterruptible power supply system, can support the entire floor to operate at full load for at least 72 hours."

"Network access point".

"The data center is fully equipped with direct fiber optic connections. Dedicated ports for Bloomberg and Reuters have been deployed under every desk, so your team only needs to bring their servers in, plug them in, and they'll be activated immediately."

Lu Ze nodded, walked back to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked at the skyline outside the window one last time.

There was a silence of about ten seconds.

"rent."

"Includes depreciation and usage fees for all top-tier furniture and annual property management fees, per square meter per month—"

"Just state the total."

The agent cleared his throat: "The entire floor is 708 square meters, including property management fees, parking spaces, and a full set of high-end office facilities, costing... US$4.8 million annually."

Isabella silently jotted down the number in her phone's notes app.

Lu Ze did not haggle, nor did he frown.

"The contract was sent to my lawyer."

He took a business card out of his suit pocket and handed it to his agent.

"The signing must be completed within three days."

The agent took the business card, trying to maintain a professional composure, but his fingers trembled slightly.

"Okay, of course, no problem, I'll be right there—"

Lu Ze had already turned and headed towards the elevator.

Isabella nodded to her agent and followed.

The elevator doors closed.

The two stood in the elevator, and Isabella watched the floor numbers jump down one by one.

"Four million eight hundred thousand."

She said softly, "A year's rent."

"Um."

Three weeks ago, our account balance was zero.

"Um."

"You didn't even haggle over the price."

Lu Ze glanced at her: "What's the point of haggling?"

Isabella thought about it for a while, but really couldn't think of any substantial meaning.

"bite--"

The elevator arrived at the first floor.

The two walked out of the building, pushed open the revolving door, and stepped into the afternoon sunlight.

In late March, Manhattan was still chilly, but the sunshine was real, and it felt warm on my face.

Isabella followed Lu Ze toward the black Mercedes parked by the roadside.

Just as the driver walked around the front of the car to open the door—

Lu Ze's phone vibrated in his suit pocket.

He took it out and glanced at the screen.

Caller ID:

Blankfein (Goldman Sachs CEO)

Isabella caught a glimpse of the name and paused slightly.

Lu Ze pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear.

"Mr. Blankfein."

"Walker!"

The voice on the other end of the phone was completely different from the man who had been in the Goldman Sachs conference room on the 43rd floor not long ago, with a livid face and clenched teeth.

At this moment, Blankfein's voice carried a passionate, almost unbelievable cheerfulness:

"It's so good to get in touch with you! I've been meaning to call you, but I've been incredibly busy these past few days. You know, the Bear Stearns situation has thrown the whole market into chaos, and we're completely overwhelmed..."

He paused, his tone carrying an undisguised admiration:

"But seriously, Walker, you made a brilliant deal."

Truly beautiful. In my thirty years in this industry, I've met very few young people with your judgment and execution skills.

Lu Ze stood by the roadside, one hand in his pocket, listening calmly.

"I'm calling today partly to congratulate you."

Blankfein continued, speaking fluently as if he had recited it from memory, "On the other hand... I'd like to discuss the possibility of future collaboration."

"Oh?"

"Goldman Sachs' prime brokerage division has consistently been one of the world's top institutional service platforms, as you know. Our commodity trading access, quantitative hedging services, and global clearing network are unmatched in the industry."

Blankfein's voice carried a hint of salesman's enthusiasm:

"Given the current size of Farstar Capital and your vision, I think there is a great deal of room for cooperation between us."

I'd like to invite you and your team to my Hampton estate this weekend. We can meet some friends and have a casual chat.

"Mr. Blankfein."

Lu Ze interrupted him.

"Um?"

"I need the highest level of Goldman Sachs' VIP access to commodities, including direct access to NYMEX and clearing access to London ICE."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone, then Blankfein's voice became even more enthusiastic:

"Of course, no problem at all. I'll have the head of the prime brokerage department send the agreement to your team this afternoon—"

"in addition,"

Lu Ze continued, his voice calm, as if he were reading a purchasing list.

"I need Goldman Sachs' core internal research report on Middle East geopolitics and global oil supply and demand, not the publicly released version, but the one your proprietary trading desk actually references."

The silence on the other end of the phone was noticeably longer this time.

"This... is a bit sensitive, it requires some internal procedures—"

"I know."

Lu Ze said, "So I'm giving you seventy-two hours."

"...Okay. Seventy-two hours, no problem."

"The Hamptons' invitation," Lu Ze paused,

"Let's reschedule for next week. I have other plans this weekend."

"I completely understand, I completely understand! Anytime next week is fine, you name the date—"

"Okay. That's settled."

"Okay, Walker, looking forward to working with you."

Lu Ze hung up the phone.

He put his phone back in his pocket and turned to walk towards the black Mercedes.

The driver opened the back door.

Lu Ze ducked and got into the car.

Isabella got into the passenger seat and looked back at Lu Ze in the back seat with a strange expression.

She remained silent for a few seconds.

Then she spoke, her voice carrying a subtle emotion that fell between astonishment and absurdity:

"Not long ago, in the Goldman Sachs conference room, he didn't even want to shake your hand."

She paused.

"He called you personally today to invite you to play golf in the Hamptons."

The car slowly drove into the traffic.

The afternoon sun streamed through the car windows, casting slanted streaks of light onto the leather seats.

Lu Ze leaned back in the back seat, watching the street flash by outside the window, and remained silent for a moment.

Then he spoke, his voice calm, yet carrying a penetrating calmness:

"On Wall Street, there are no permanent enemies."

"Does Blankfein hate me? Of course he does. Seven hundred million dollars, nobody wouldn't hate that."

He turned to look out the car window, where rows of glass-walled buildings flashed past in his view.

But he understood one thing even more clearly—

"Where will a fund that made $800 million from Bear Stearns place its bets next? How much leverage will it use? How much trading commission will it generate? How many other institutional funds will follow suit and flock to the same area?"

A very faint smile appeared at the corner of Lu Ze's lips:

"For Goldman Sachs, Farstar Capital is now a golden goose."

"He hates me, but he needs me even more."

"Need is far more expensive than hate."

Isabella listened and remained silent for a while.

Outside the window, the streets of Manhattan looked both familiar and strange in the afternoon light.

"So how do you plan to use Goldman Sachs?" she asked.

"Use their channels, use their data, use their clearing network."

Lu Ze leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Have them help me sharpen the next knife even faster."

He paused for a moment, then added the last sentence:

"Then, when the time comes, let them taste this knife."