The last word of Arthur's proposal—"build"—hung in the air of Elias Thorne's office.
Elias, pale and shaken, stared at the 18-year-old. The audacity of the plan was matched only by its cold, perfect logic. It was legal. It was a corporate maneuver of breathtaking arrogance, and it was beautiful.
"You..." Elias said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "You have been thinking about this for more than one night. This isn't just an idea. This is a finished plan."
"It is," Arthur said. "And it is the only plan that works. You are a lawyer, Elias. You know this is clean. We are not breaking the trust. We are fulfilling it. We are making one, large, perfectly secure investment."
Elias Thorne, a man who had lived his entire life in a straight line, finally, for the first time, made a turn. He walked to his desk, picked up his glass of whiskey, and drained it in one swallow. He set the glass down with a heavy thud.
"Alright," he said. His voice was no longer that of a kind, old lawyer. It was the voice of a man who had just jumped off a cliff. "We do it. I'll have the incorporation papers drawn up by my staff in the morning. They won't need to know the details, just that I'm starting a new private holding company. 'Continental.' It sounds... substantial."
"It sounds like old money," Arthur said with a small, rare smile. "That's exactly what we want."
"But, Arthur," Elias said, a new, sharp worry in his eyes. "The second we do this. The second that five million dollars leaves the trust account and enters the bank's account... everything changes. It is no longer 'safe' trust money. It becomes 'at risk' capital. And... and I am no longer just your lawyer."
"I know," Arthur said. "You will be my partner. And my President."
"Then God help us both," Elias said. "Get out of here. I have to be alone. I have a lot of work to do before morning. And I have to write a resignation letter to my law partners."
Arthur stood. "We start in February, Mr. Thorne. Do not be late."
"I have a feeling," Elias muttered, already pulling a legal pad toward him, "that I will be spending the rest of my life trying to catch up with you."
The first two weeks of February 1940 were a storm of legal paperwork.
Elias Thorne was a man transformed. The doubt he'd felt that night was burned away by the fire of a new purpose. He was a master of the law, and he was now using that mastery to build the most creative, and most dangerous, thing of his life.
He liquidated all of the trust's assets, which were mostly held in cash and short-term treasury notes at a large New York commercial bank. He filed the articles of incorporation with the state. He resigned from his law partnership of thirty years, a move that sent a shockwave through the Wall Street legal community.
Then, on a cold, clear Tuesday, the day came.
Elias and Arthur—who Elias introduced as "my young associate, Mr. Vance"—walked into the main office of the Manhattan Commercial Bank. This was the bank that held the Vance Trust's five million dollars.
They were led to the office of the trust manager, a man named Mr. Harrington. He was a prim, older man in a grey suit, who knew Elias well.
"Elias," Harrington said, shaking his hand. "Good to see you. Though I was shocked to hear you're leaving the firm. Starting your own practice?"
"Something like that," Elias said, his voice steady. He sat down and placed a new, leather-bound file on the desk. Arthur sat in the chair beside him, silent, his hands folded.
"I am here today, Mr. Harrington," Elias began, "as the Trustee of the Marcus Vance estate. I have a directive for the trust's assets."
Harrington smiled. "Of course. More government bonds? A very wise move, with the war in Europe. Safety is key."
"No," Elias said. He pushed the file across the desk. "I am directing the trust to make a single, one-time investment. I am liquidating the entire principal—five million, two-thousand, four hundred and fifty dollars, to be exact. I am using it to purchase one hundred percent of the shares in a new, private investment company."
Mr. Harrington's smile froze. He looked at Elias as if he had grown a second head.
"Elias... what? Five million? Into a new company? That is... that is the definition of speculation! As your bank, I... I must advise you, that is a wild breach of your fiduciary duty! It's madness!"
This was the test. Elias had prepared for this. He leaned forward, his voice calm and firm, just as Arthur had been with him.
"Mr. Harrington," he said. "The company is named 'Continental.' I have its financial statements right here."
Harrington opened the file. He saw the articles of incorporation. And he saw the bank's balance sheet.
He read it. And then he read it again, his eyes wide with confusion.
"Elias," he said, "this... this balance sheet is... it's empty. It just says 'Assets: $5,000,000 in cash.' And 'Liabilities: $0.' It has no debt. It has no operations."
"Exactly," Elias said, a small, tight smile on his face. "As of this moment, it is the most well-capitalized, financially sound, and 'secure' bank on Wall Street. It is, by definition, a safer place for the capital than... well, than almost anywhere. Its shares are valued at exactly the cash it holds. I am not spending the money, Mr. Harrington. I am simply transferring it. It is a re-organization of the asset, which is perfectly within my power as Trustee."
Harrington was speechless. He was a banker, not a philosopher. The logic was circular, and it was unbreakable. The paperwork was in order. The Trustee had given the directive. He could not find a single rule to stop it.
"Very well, Elias," he said, his voice stiff. "You are the Trustee. It is your signature. And... your risk."
He picked up the phone. "Mr. Davies, please come in. We need to cut a cashier's check for the Vance Trust. The full amount. The payee is 'Continental.'"
An hour later, Elias and Arthur walked out onto the cold street. Elias was holding a single slip of paper in his hand. It was a check for over five million dollars. His hand was shaking.
"It is done," Elias whispered. He looked pale, as if he might be sick.
"No," Arthur said, taking the check from him and folding it carefully into his own jacket pocket. "It is begun."
By the end of February, the bank was born.
It was not a grand palace like J.P. Morgan. Arthur had insisted on modesty. He wanted to spend their capital on deals, not on marble floors.
They leased a respectable, but not flashy, suite of offices on the 20th floor of a building near Wall Street. It was the former office of a shipping company that had gone bankrupt. For the first week, it was just Elias and Arthur, two empty desks, and the smell of fresh paint.
Elias, true to his word, was the President. His name was on the frosted glass of the front door, in dignified gold letters:
CONTINENTALElias Thorne, President
Elias had his new secretary, the same stern Mrs. Gable from his law firm, set up his large, new office. It looked the part, with a wide desk, leather chairs, and law books.
Arthur's office was down the hall. It was small. It had a simple metal desk, a chair, and a telephone.
Elias came to find him on their first official day. Arthur was at his desk, writing on a yellow legal pad.
"Well," Elias said, a little awkwardly. He was still getting used to his new role. "Here we are. The bank exists. The money is in our new account. We have... we have capital."
"We do," Arthur said, not looking up.
"But... what about you?" Elias asked. "You are... what are you? I have to give you a title. I have to put you on the payroll."
Arthur stopped writing. He looked up at Elias.
"I am the man who knows what to do next," Arthur said. "But the world cannot know that. The world must see you, Elias. They must see the experienced, honest, and cautious lawyer. They must see the grey hair. They must see the stability."
"So, what do I call you?" Elias asked. "My assistant?"
"No," Arthur said. "An assistant takes orders. We are partners. But I cannot be a partner on paper. I need a title that explains why an 18-year-old boy is in this office, but gives him no power at all. One that lets me be in every meeting, read every report, and give you my analysis... in private."
Elias thought for a moment. "My law firm... we sometimes had... consultants. 'Special Counsel.'"
Arthur nodded. "Something like that. Make me your 'Special Advisor.' 'Special Advisor to the President.' It sounds like a favor. It sounds like you're teaching the son of an old friend. It's perfect. It makes me a ghost. I can be anywhere, and no one will ever pay attention to me. They will only see you."
Elias looked at the young man. The plan to hide his power was as cold and smart as the plan to get the money.
"Alright, Mr. Vance," Elias said, a new confidence in his voice. He was starting to enjoy his new role. "You are officially the first employee of this bank. You are my Special Advisor."
He gestured around the empty suite of offices. "So... Mr. Advisor... what is your first piece of advice? Where do we begin?"
Arthur stood up and walked to his small window. He looked down at the city.
"We begin," Arthur said, "by building our first weapon. We need information. We need to know things the other banks do not. Go and hire the smartest, most detailed-obsessed analyst you can find. Spare no expense. We are creating the Research Division. And I already have their first target."