The ISDA Protocol

Excerpt

Signum flipped the safety on his piece and placed it on the table and stood back slooow.
“See? We’re cool, Felix. It's safe. We’re off the record. For old time’s sake.”
Felix regarded the Dictaphone™. He played it aloof. “Automatic. Five-speed. Nice gat, Martin. I —I’m impressed.” When he sat back, he dissolved into the darkness behind his lamp. Only his specs caught a gleam. There was devil in them: a thin, piss-streaked, amber bead of the satanic.
Martin swallowed. “We are tracking a cache of FWMDs. We know they made it into the EU. We believe they used a CP conduit.” “But how? The perimeter — it’s — I mean, MiF...” “Reverse enquiry into Liechtenstein — these guys know what they’re doing, Felix. We traced the clearing chain —” <bt> “Oh?” Felix leaned forward. His eyes were suddenly fierce. Signum clocked it.
“— but the trail went cold in Estonia.”
Felix sat back. He looked relieved. “Yes, well I suppose that happens in the Baltic. But what has this got to do with me? What makes you think I ...”
“You move in these circles, Felix. “I —” “Don’t bullshit me, man. We both know you do. You can help.”
“Help?”
“Information. It’s all I want.”
Felix tipped his head.
“This isn’t the normal plastic equity, Felix. This is hard stuff. CO₂. Nitrous Oxide. This stiff kills people.”
“Emissions, huh?”
“Collateralised freaking emissions, Felix.”
The old man looked away and sighed.
Martin shifted. He caught a vibe “Wait a minute.”
“It is done, Martin. It’s too late. The trucks are rolling. But you have to admit, it is elegant.” Felix tittered. “We have extracted the pure price of governmental regulatory permission to discharge greenhouse gas into the air.”
The temperature dropped. Martin whistled. He let rip a jet of frosted air. “It’s a derivative of…”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Hot air!”
“Well, specifically, a derivative on an ineffective tax on the right to expel hot air.”
“Oh. Right.”
Felix brightened. “Only, it’s five times levered! And Martin?”
Yeah?
“That’s not even the best bit.”
“You mean, there’s more?”
“There’s more.” Felix lipped his lips, lizard style. “The whole thing is denominated in –”
Martin froze. “Oh, Jesus. You can’t be serious.”
“I can.” Finally, that inscrutable mask gave way. Felix’s features cracked and folded and rearranged themselves into a ghoulish grin. He threw back his head and guffawed.
“I can’t… it’s just… Oh dear… It’s just –” He stopped, abruptly, and regarded his old protegé.
“It’s priceless!” and once again he erupted, gales of blackened laughter cascading from that gruesome maw. “Literally!”
Bitcoin. They had denominated this goddamn thing in bitcoin.