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

June 14, 2008, Saturday, 7:00 PM.

1000 Fifth Avenue, New York.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

This colossal structure, occupying four city blocks and housing the essence of five thousand years of human civilization, appears exceptionally solemn in the early summer twilight.

The neoclassical limestone facade was bathed in a warm honey-gold hue by the setting sun, and the row of massive Corinthian columns in front of the door cast long, slender shadows in the twilight.

The steps in front of the main entrance are usually filled with tourists eating hot dogs and drinking cola.

But not tonight.

Tonight, security personnel in black suits and headsets stood on both sides of the steps. A red velvet barrier separated the main entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art from the sidewalk along Fifth Avenue.

Black cars were parked one after another along the roadside.

Lu Ze's Mercedes S600 stopped between a Bentley and a Maybach.

The driver walked around the front of the car and opened the rear door.

Lu Ze came out.

He walked up the steps, went through security, and entered the museum's lobby.

The dome of the hall appeared incredibly high under the lights, like an artificial sky built of stone and glass.

Tonight, the lights were adjusted to an extremely soft, warm gold, enveloping the Greek sculptures and Egyptian obelisks, which usually appear cold under fluorescent lights, in a gentle halo.

A string quartet was playing Schubert's Trout Quintet in a corner of the hall.

The music was very soft, like a stream flowing between rocks, providing a thin acoustic background to the entire space that wouldn't disturb conversation.

Waiters, dressed in white short jackets, carried silver trays as they moved through the crowd.

The tray holds champagne—a Dom Pérignon from a particular vintage, or a small-batch, handcrafted vintage that Lu Ze can't name and can only be found in the cellars of specific wineries.

The air was filled with a very unique scent—the scent of power.

Lu Ze paused at the entrance for two seconds, scanning the entire hall.

The central area of ​​the hall is the most densely populated social hub.

There were about forty or fifty people standing there, divided into several loose small circles. In the center of each circle were one or two people who spoke the loudest, made the most gestures, and were followed by the most eyes.

Lu Ze recognized several of the faces.

In the center of the small circle near the north wall stood a tall, serious-looking man wearing an extremely conservative dark gray suit, his hair meticulously combed, and his lips barely moving as he spoke.

That's Tim Geithner, president of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York.

Standing next to him were three or four men dressed in similar suits. Judging from their posture and the angle of their bodies leaning slightly forward when listening to him, they were most likely senior officials from the Federal Reserve or the Treasury Department.

Next to Geithner's small circle, about five or six steps away, stood another person.

He was taller and stronger than Geithner, and exuded an aura of absolute power that made people afraid to get too close.

Hank Paulson. U.S. Treasury Secretary. Former CEO of Goldman Sachs.

Paulson did not pick up his glass.

His hands were crossed in front of him, in a posture like praying in a church, but there was no piety in his eyes at all.

He was listening to someone next to him, but his gaze would occasionally sweep over that person's shoulder and across other corners of the hall, as if he were constantly monitoring the entire room.

Lu Ze noticed that Paulson's gaze would pause briefly, almost imperceptibly, when it swept across a certain direction.

He looked in that direction.

Richard Fuld was standing there.

The CEO of Lehman Brothers stood alone next to a pillar, holding a glass of whiskey that looked like it hadn't been drunk.

He wore a dark black suit tonight, his tie was tied very tightly, and he looked like a spring compressed to its limit—tense.

Just three days ago, he personally dismissed his two closest comrades-in-arms.

On the other side of the hall, near a group of Egyptian sarcophagus exhibits, Lu Ze saw several more familiar faces.

John Paulson, founder of Paulson Capital. He still had that lean, scholarly look, wearing an ill-fitting suit, like a university professor who had wandered backstage at a fashion show.

He was talking to someone Lu Ze didn't recognize, but his eyes would occasionally drift towards the center of the hall.

Not far from Paulson stood David Einhorn, the one who publicly dissected Lehman Brothers' financial statements.

He held a glass of soda, not talking to anyone, but just leaning against a display case, observing everyone in the hall.

His gaze paused briefly when it fell on Fuld, then moved away.

Lu Ze took in all this information, then looked away and began to walk towards the center of the hall.

He doesn't need to look for anyone.

Because he knew that the person who invited him tonight was somewhere waiting for him to come over.

really.

As Lu Zegang walked to the edge of the central area of ​​the hall, a man in a dark blue suit without a bow tie, holding a glass of mineral water, stepped out from a small circle and walked towards him with a smile.

Lloyd Blankfein.

His attire tonight was slightly more formal than usual, but he still maintained that casual, unrestrained spirit.

"Lance."

Blankfein reached out his hand.

Lloyd.

Lu Ze shook hands with him back.

Thank you for coming.

Blankfein's smile was natural, as if he were welcoming an old friend.

"I thought you'd find this kind of occasion boring."

"I do think so."

Lu Ze said.

Blankfein paused for half a second, then laughed.

"You know what, Lance, the thing I like most about you is that you never pretend."

Blankfein suppressed his smile, but the corners of his mouth remained curved.

"In this room, everyone is pretending to be happy to see each other. But in reality, most of them would love to throw the person opposite them into the Hudson River."

He turned to the side and, in an extremely natural manner, led Lu Ze to the core groups in the center of the hall.

"Come on, let me introduce you to a few people."

Lu Ze understood the subtext of those words very well.

In this room, Blankfein was the host. Through the act of "introducing," he was announcing to everyone one thing: this young Chinese man was brought by me. His presence here is endorsed by me.

This is not goodwill. It's a label.

An old lion led a young cheetah into its territory and then said to everyone: This is my guest.

This implies protection, but it also implies a certain degree of control.

Lu Ze knew this rule.

He did not refuse.

Blankfein first led him to Geithner's circle.

Instead of walking straight in, they stopped at the edge of the circle and waited for Geithner's conversation to come to an end.

Geithner turned his head and saw Blankfein.

Lloyd.

Geithner nodded slightly, his tone polite but maintaining the distance characteristic of a regulator.

"Tim."

Blankfein responded, then turned to the side, "Let me introduce you—Lance Walker, founder of Farstar Capital."

Geithner's gaze fell on Lu Ze.

That was an extremely professional and trained scrutiny.

"Mr. Walker." Geithner extended his hand and shook it lightly.

"I've heard of Farstar Capital. Their performance this year has been outstanding."

"Thank you," Lu Ze said.

Geithner didn't continue. In this setting, the Fed president wouldn't talk to a hedge fund manager for too long. But before letting go, his gaze lingered on Lu Ze's face for about a second longer.

What was contained in that one second of pause, only Geithner himself knows.

Blankfein led Lu Ze forward.

As he passed Paulson's (the Treasury Secretary's) circle, Blankfein slowed his pace but did not stop to introduce himself.

He merely nodded slightly to Paulson as he passed by. Paulson returned the same slight nod.

The unspoken understanding between the two former Goldman Sachs employees needs no words.

Lu Ze noticed that Paulson's gaze lingered on him for about two seconds. Longer than Geithner's.

But Paulson neither came over nor reached out.

Paulson felt it was inconvenient for him to interact with Blankfein in public.

Lu Ze understood the signal.

Blankfein understood.

Instead of forcibly pushing Lu Ze in front of Paulson, he followed the natural walking path, bypassed the circle, and walked to the other side of the hall.

There, John Paulson and David Einhorn stood next to a group of Egyptian sarcophagus exhibits.

Blankfein stopped about three steps away from them, took a glass of mineral water from a passing waiter, and turned to Lu Ze, saying:

"There are a few people over there you should know."

His tone became more relaxed, as if he were handing over the formal introduction to a more private social space.

"I won't go with you. I need to talk to Tim (Geithner) about some serious business."

He patted Lu Ze on the shoulder—the movement was very light, but the action itself was caught by at least five or six pairs of eyes in the room.

"Enjoy tonight, Lance."

Blankfein turned and walked back in Geithner's direction.

Lu Ze stood alone on this side of the hall, holding a glass of champagne he had never touched before.

He looked at the slender figure standing next to the Egyptian sarcophagus.

John Paulson turned around at that very moment and saw him through the crowd that filled half the hall.

Their eyes met for a fleeting moment in the air.

Paulson slightly raised his glass, making a very subtle gesture of greeting that was almost invisible to Lu Ze.

Lu Ze returned the same slight nod.

Then he walked over.

The string quartet leads into the fourth movement of the Trout Quintet.

It was a rapid variation, tinged with undercurrents.

The melody echoed beneath the dome of the hall, like some unseen undercurrent, silently surging beneath the feet of these well-dressed people.