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

Beijing, a ministry conference room, early April, 10:00 AM.

This is an extremely ordinary conference room.

A national flag hung on the wall, and a row of white porcelain thermos cups sat on the table. Fluorescent lights shone down, making everyone's faces appear somewhat pale. Outside the window was the typical gray sky of Beijing in April, and in the distance, traffic flowed along Chang'an Avenue. Occasionally, a black official sedan would drive by and disappear around the corner.

The topics for today's meeting are not very important.

At least that's how it appears from the agenda.

There were seven or eight people in the conference room: several bureau-level officials from the National Development and Reform Commission, the Ministry of Commerce, and the Ministry of Finance, as well as two researchers on loan from the State-owned Assets Supervision and Administration Commission. They were talking in hushed tones or flipping through documents at their hands; the atmosphere was relaxed, like a routine briefing.

Wang Wenyuan sat on a chair to the side, not participating in the hushed conversation next to him.

In front of him lay a newly delivered internal briefing, with a red header, classified information, and the cover marked in bold black lettering:

[Confidential] Comprehensive report on the participation of major domestic airlines in fuel hedging product roadshows in Hong Kong.

He is the deputy director of the State Council's Leading Group Office for Coordinating Responses to the International Financial Crisis and Overseas Investment Risks.

The title sounds long, and the power it represents sounds immense.

In fact, this coordination group itself is a very long and powerful organization, but one that can do very limited things.

It was established at the end of 2007 because the first batch of overseas investments made by China Investment Corporation (China Investment Corporation, the sovereign wealth fund) after its establishment went wrong in an embarrassing way.

In May 2007, before CIC was officially listed, the State Investment Corporation of Foreign Exchange had already taken the lead, investing US$3 billion to subscribe for shares of the US private equity giant Blackstone Group at a price of US$29.6 per share.

That was Blackstone's last round of strategic investment before its IPO, and the price was already quite "favorable".

Then Blackstone went public, and its stock price plummeted.

By early 2008, the $3 billion investment had already suffered a paper loss of nearly 50%.

Domestic media began to question the claims. Foreign media also started to ridicule it. Some members of Congress seized the opportunity to clamor, saying it was a conspiracy by Chinese capital to infiltrate the US financial system.

Following this, CIC invested another five billion US dollars in Morgan Stanley. The timing was also unfavorable. The aftermath of the subprime mortgage crisis was spreading, and Morgan Stanley's stock price continued to fall in the following months.

The two accounts combined resulted in a book loss exceeding four billion US dollars.

This figure itself, measured by the overall size of the country's foreign exchange reserves, is not considered crippling. However, its political impact far exceeds the figure on paper.

Therefore, in early 2008, the State Council established this "coordination group" at an extremely rapid pace.

Nominally, its responsibility is to coordinate information sharing and risk assessment among various ministries and state-owned enterprises in overseas investment and financial hedging, so as to avoid repeating the mistakes of CIC.

In reality, it serves as a buffer between the National Development and Reform Commission, the State-owned Assets Supervision and Administration Commission, the Ministry of Finance, major state-owned enterprises, and the central bank.

They can manage a little bit of everything, but they don't have the final say on anything.

Wang Wenyuan understood this.

Having worked within this system for nearly thirty years, he had long understood what a "coordinating body" was—its existence was essentially to provide a scapegoat for all parties when problems arose.

He is not unaware of his own thoughts.

He simply accepted the position because he felt that even if it was just a buffer, placed in the right place at the right time, it might be able to prevent some things from happening in the first place.

He finished reading the briefing, placed it on the table, and pressed it down with his hand.

The briefing was even worse than he had anticipated.

It wasn't because it contained anything shocking, but because everything written in it, in an irrefutable, official tone, described an extremely dangerous matter as a "positive and prudent market-oriented operation."

The gist is as follows:

Three major domestic airlines (Air China, Air China, and Air China) recently traveled to Hong Kong to participate in a special roadshow on "Aviation Fuel Cost Management and Financial Hedging Strategies," hosted by Goldman Sachs Asia Pacific and Morgan Stanley Asia Pacific, respectively.

The roadshow included an analysis and assessment of current international oil price trends, as well as an introduction to corresponding fuel hedging product solutions.

The finance directors of the three companies have expressed great interest in the proposed plan, which is currently in the internal review stage.

The formal signing process is expected to begin as early as the end of April.

that's it.

There was no substantive assessment of the risks of the scheme, no professional analysis of the derivative structure, and no judgment on whether current oil prices are at historical highs.

Only "expressed high interest" and "expected to initiate a formal signing process" are acceptable.

Wang Wenyuan picked up the teacup, took a sip, and put it down.

The cup made a slight sound as it hit the table.

He took out a dark red document bag from his briefcase.

This is the material he compiled himself over the past two weeks.

Three fuel hedging solutions offered to domestic companies by different investment banks. Two analysis reports written by domestic economists. An internal critical opinion from the risk control department of a state-owned bank—the opinion was written very cautiously, leaving room for interpretation in every sentence, as if the author was afraid of offending people by being too explicit, and also afraid of appearing irresponsible by being too vague.

Wang Wenyuan flipped through these pages one by one.

He couldn't understand those Greek letters.

Delta, Gamma, Vega.

These words were no different from foreign languages ​​to him.

He has a background in political economy and has worked at the National Development and Reform Commission for over twenty years analyzing macroeconomic policies. He is very familiar with GDP, exchange rates, trade surpluses, and industrial policies. However, the derivative parameters packaged in his beautifully designed PowerPoint presentations and named with Greek letters are a completely unfamiliar language.

He doesn't understand it, but he doesn't need to understand it.

He only needs to know one thing:

When the other party writes a contract that's 128 pages long, the useful information is never in the first three pages.

He had seen this pattern far too many times within the system. When a proposal's explanatory document is so thick that the other party can't finish reading it, and is too embarrassed to admit it, the truly important and dangerous clauses are quietly buried on page 80, or page 107, or page 128.

When the problem finally surfaces, the other party will calmly flip to that page and point it out to you: "It's written here. You signed it back then."

He'd seen it too many times.

He closed the file folder, looked up, and gazed at the hazy Beijing sky outside the window.

The traffic on Chang'an Avenue never stopped. The city operated at an eternal rhythm, unrelated to him.

Inside the conference room, several people were still talking in hushed tones, with the occasional sound of someone flipping through documents.

Wang Wenyuan lowered his head again, picked up the phone on the table, and dialed a number.

This wasn't an outside line from the office; it was his personal cell phone.

"Xiao Liu."

"Director Wang."

The other party answered quickly; it was his liaison secretary, 28 years old, diligent, and tight-lipped.

"I'm asking you, is there anyone in New York who can truly understand these things?"

"You mean..." There was a hint of caution in Xiao Liu's voice, "...that you want to find expert consultants for an assessment? We can contact several domestic financial research institutions through that channel—"

"Not a scholar, not from a think tank," Wang Wenyuan interrupted him, his tone flat but carrying an undeniable weight, "He's someone who actually fought in those places."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

"Director Wang, are you referring to... the young man Mr. Lin introduced?"

"Um."

"He's been making quite a splash lately with the Bear Stearns affair... Wall Street is watching him closely. But Mr. Lin said he has some positions he's currently trading, so the timing is uncertain."

Wang Wenyuan pushed the dark red file bag to the side of the table and looked out the window at the sky.

He did a simple calculation of time in his mind.

On April 15, he was in New York for a multilateral coordination meeting.

That was the real itinerary, not an excuse. The agenda was already full; the other party was representatives from the Bank for International Settlements and the Asian Development Bank, and the arrangements were finalized two months ago.

But New York is not Beijing.

A night in New York doesn't need to be recorded on any schedule.

"I understand," Wang Wenyuan said. "Go and make the arrangements. Tell Mr. Lin that I'll be in New York in mid-April. If the young man is available, let's arrange a time for tea."

He paused.

"It's not business, it's just catching up."

He hung up the phone.

In the meeting room, the moderator was already reading the next topic; some people were flipping through documents, while others were taking notes. Wang Wenyuan picked up the briefing again and turned to the last page.

Attached there was a table summarizing the progress of negotiations between various companies and Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley.

The rightmost column of the table is: Expected signing time.

He ran his finger down the column, looking at each line one by one.

the end of April.

Early May.

Mid-May.

The latest is June.

His finger stopped at the last line.

He lingered there for a long time, so long that people nearby began to notice him, glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes before looking away.

He closed the briefing and put it into the dark red file folder.

His wariness of Wall Street did not stem from financial models or any economic analysis report.

It stems from an older, cruder judgment—an instinct accumulated over decades by his generation through repeated "win-win cooperation."

He had seen far too many investment banking salesmen in the past five years, dressed in sharp suits and speaking fluent English. They flew to Beijing, Shanghai, and Hong Kong, treated everyone to the most expensive dinners in the best hotels, and used the most elaborate PowerPoint presentations to explain the most complex products.

They are always patient, always professional, and always provide flawless answers to your questions.

It's not until you've signed the papers, walked out of that door, and gotten into the black sedan parked outside that the door closes that you start to vaguely feel that something is wrong.

But you can't quite put your finger on what's wrong.

Because you didn't finish reading that 128-page contract, you couldn't understand those Greek letters, while the other party's explanation was impeccable, your think tank issued a positive assessment report, and your lawyer said the contract terms conformed to international practice.

Wang Wenyuan stood up, tucked the file bag under his arm, and walked towards the door.

He paused at the door, turned around and glanced at the few people still talking in hushed tones in the conference room, then at the national flag on the wall and the row of steaming white porcelain teacups on the table.

Then he pushed open the door and went out.

The corridor was slightly quieter than the conference room, with the constant hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

The spring breeze outside the window blows across Chang'an Avenue, rustling the leaves of the poplar trees that are not yet fully awakened by the rain, under the gray sky.

Wang Wenyuan walked to the elevator and pressed the down button.

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped inside.

In the last second before the elevator doors closed, he glanced at the file folder in his hand and at the line of red text on the cover.

Expected signing time.

From the end of April to June.