The wind in the small park was sharp. It cut through Arthur's new wool suit, but he didn't feel it. He sat on the frozen iron bench, the sky fading from grey to a deep, dark blue. The only light came from a single, weak lamppost nearby.
He was not reading the thick legal document. He was hunting.
The first pass, which took him an hour, was to understand the cage. He had confirmed everything Elias Thorne had said. The trust was real. The age limit was 25. The Trustee (Elias) had sole power. The beneficiary (Arthur) had none. It was a perfect, iron-clad prison.
The second pass was to understand the jailer. He read the sections on Elias Thorne's powers. The language was clear, written by his great-uncle Marcus: "My Trustee shall have a sacred and fiduciary duty to preserve the principal of this trust. He shall act with the utmost caution, avoiding all speculation and unnecessary risk, so that my nephew, Arthur Vance, may receive his inheritance in full upon his 25th birthday."
His uncle had meant well. He had seen an 18-year-old boy and had tried to protect him. He had not, and could not, have known that the "boy" was a 38-year-old analyst with perfect knowledge of the future.
The cage was strong. The jailer was honest. Arthur felt the walls closing in. He would be forced to sit on the sidelines, living on an allowance, while the greatest opportunity in history passed him by.
He closed his eyes. He let the cold of the bench seep into him. He was not angry. Anger was a useless emotion. He was a problem-solver. This was just a problem.
Think, he told himself. Do not think like a prisoner. Think like a lawyer.
He opened the folder for the third time. He did not read the "what" or the "why." He read the "how." He focused on one single page. The section that defined "safe investments."
He read the words so many times he knew them by heart.
"...the Trustee is empowered to invest the principal in assets of the highest grade. These shall include, but are not limited to, bonds of the United States government, AAA-rated municipal bonds, or other such high-grade, secure investments as deemed appropriate by the Trustee for the preservation of said capital..."
He read it again.
"...include, but are not limited to..."
"...or other such high-grade, secure investments..."
"...as deemed appropriate by the Trustee..."
There it was.
The loophole.
It was small, just a crack in the iron cage, but it was there. His great-uncle had given Elias an "out." The list of "safe" investments—government bonds—was a suggestion, not a command. The only real rule was that Elias had to deem the investment safe. The decision was subjective.
Elias was not a jailer. He was a gatekeeper. Arthur didn't need to break the rules. He just needed to get the gatekeeper to open the door.
A new plan began to form. It was sharp, clear, and elegant.
His first plan had failed because he had tried to take control from Elias. It was an attack. "Give me the money," he had said.
This new plan would be an invitation. "Let us use the money together," he would say.
He knew what Elias would say: "An investment bank is not a 'safe, high-grade investment'!"
Arthur smiled. "It is," he whispered to the empty park, "if you own it."
He stood up. The stiffness in his legs told him he had been sitting for hours. It was full night. The folder was under his arm. He was no longer a defeated prisoner. He was a lawyer, walking to court with the one piece of evidence that would win the case.
He walked quickly out of the park. The streets were darker, emptier. He hailed a taxi.
"Where to, sir?"
"Wall and Broad. The same building as before."
He rode the elevator back up to the 10th floor. The hallway was dark, the frosted glass doors all black. All except one.
At the end of the hall, a thin line of yellow light glowed from under Elias Thorne's door.
Arthur didn't knock. He simply opened the door.
Elias was sitting at his desk, his suit jacket off, his tie loosened. He was not working. He was staring at a glass of whiskey in his hand, a look of deep worry on his face. He looked up, startled, as Arthur walked in.
"Mr. Vance... Arthur. Good heavens. What are you doing here? It's past eight o'clock."
"I was reading," Arthur said. He walked to the desk and placed the thick folder on it. He looked calm, but his eyes were alive with a new, cold fire.
"You are worried, Mr. Thorne," Arthur said. It was not a question. "You are worried because you met a young man today who you believe is a genius, and you were forced to tell him 'no.' You are worried you just locked away a great opportunity. And you are an honest man, so that bothers you."
Elias stared at him, speechless.
"I am here," Arthur continued, "to un-lock it. For both of us."
"Arthur," Elias said, finding his voice. He sounded tired. "We have been over this. My hands are tied. The trust is clear. There is no loophole."
"Yes, there is," Arthur said. "I read it. You are bound to invest in 'high-grade, secure investments... as deemed appropriate by the Trustee.' It does not say only government bonds. It says you, Elias Thorne, get to decide what is 'secure.'"
Elias frowned. He knew the language. "And I have decided. An investment bank is not secure. It is the definition of risk. That is the end of it."
"You are right," Arthur said. "Investing in a bank is risky."
He paused, letting the agreement hang in the air.
"But owning one is not."
Elias looked confused. "What are you talking about?"
Arthur sat down in the same leather chair. He leaned forward. The 38-year-old analyst was in full control.
"What if," Arthur said, his voice low and precise, "the trust makes only one, large, safe investment?"
"In government bonds. Yes."
"No," Arthur said. "What if the trust makes one, single investment of five million dollars... into a new company. A company we create tomorrow. A 'stable-sounding' company, as the outline says."
He leaned in. "What if we call it the 'Continental Investment Bank'?"
Elias laughed. It was a short, bitter sound. "You're back to that? Arthur, that is insane. How is that a 'safe' investment? It's a brand new, untested company in a terrible market! It is a pure, 100% gamble!"
"No, Mr. Thorne. It is the safest investment in the world. Think about it," Arthur said, his voice accelerating, the logic clicking into place like a machine.
"What is this new bank? It is a private corporation. We create it. The Vance Trust is the only owner. It buys 100% of the shares."
"For how much?"
"For five million dollars," Arthur said. "The instant the trust buys the shares, the 'Continental Investment Bank' has one asset on its books: five million dollars in cash. It has zero employees. It has zero property. And most importantly, Mr. Thorne... it has zero debt."
Elias Thorne's glass of whiskey stopped halfway to his mouth.
Arthur smiled. He had him.
"It will be," Arthur said, "the most perfectly capitalized, financially secure bank in the entire country. Its shares will be, by definition, valued at exactly five million dollars. It is not a 'gamble.' It is a transfer. The trust's asset is no longer 'cash.' Its asset is '100% ownership of a bank valued at $5 million.' The capital is perfectly, and legally, preserved."
Elias put the glass down. His mind, the sharp, lawyer's mind, was following the steps. He saw the logic. It was clean.
"The trust," Arthur continued, "has fulfilled its duty. Its money is 'safe.' And you, Mr. Thorne, as the Trustee, would of course name yourself President of this new bank, to ensure its 'safety' and 'stability' are... maintained."
Elias looked at Arthur. The boy was a shark. A brilliant, terrifying shark.
"And once the money is inside the bank..." Elias whispered, understanding the final move.
"...Once the money is capital," Arthur corrected him, "and not trust principal... then we, the officers of the bank, are free to use that capital as we see fit. To make... investments. To build."
Elias Thorne was pale. Arthur had not broken the cage. He had built a legal door, handed Elias the key, and was now politely asking him to turn it.
The excuse was gone. The law, which had been his shield, was now useless. Arthur had turned his "fiduciary duty" against him. It was now his duty to see the brilliance of this "secure" investment.
"This is..." Elias said, "this is a trick. It's a corporate shell. It's... it's..."
"It's legal," Arthur said simply. "It's clean. And it is our only chance. I am not asking you to be a gambler, Elias. I am asking you to be a founder. I have the knowledge. You have the reputation. And now... we have the capital."
Elias stood up. He walked to the window and looked out at the dark city. He was shaking, just slightly. He was a man who had lived his whole life by the rules, and a boy had just shown him how to win by using them.
"You are 18," Elias said to the glass. "This is not possible."
"This is the only thing that is possible," Arthur said from his chair. "This is our path. You know I am right. The only question is, are you brave enough to take it?"
Elias turned around. He looked at the boy. The genius. The madman.
"If we do this," Elias said, his voice heavy, "we are partners. 50/50. Not in ownership—the trust owns it all. But in control."
Arthur's 38-year-old mind had expected this. "No. 60/40. My way. I am the one who knows what to do. You are the one who makes it legal. But... I will not be the president. You will. I will be your 'Special Advisor.' I will stay in the shadows. You will be the face. All the power, all the respect... it goes to you."
Elias thought about it. More control, but less risk. He would be the respected President of a new bank. The strange boy would be pulling the strings, but no one would ever have to know.
"60/40," Elias said. He nodded slowly. "My God. We are really going to do this, aren't we?"
"We are," Arthur said. He stood up. "Tomorrow, you file the papers. We are in a hurry. The world is not going to wait for us."