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会员注册来源：2008年12月号《财富》杂志
Okay, not really. But its main banks and business tycoons took huge risks and its citizens borrowed to the hilt. Now this island nation is paying the price.
作者：Peter Gumbel
On a gloomy morning in early August, more than a month before Wall Street and the world's financial system seized up, a senior aide to Iceland's Prime Minister paid a visit to the Russian embassy in Reykjavík to make a controversial request: Bail us out.
Iceland had one of the richest economies in Europe, but it had a problem. Its three main private sector banks had become so large that their assets amounted to more than ten times the gross domestic product of the country - and there were signs that they might run into trouble.
Iceland had asked its traditional allies for help, but to its consternation, its pleas to the U.S. Federal Reserve, the Bank of England, and the European Central Bank went unheeded. Instead, the answer was always, "Ask the International Monetary Fund" - a drastic step Iceland didn't want to take.
That left Russia. "We knew that talking to them would create a shock, and that was partly the point," says a senior Icelander involved in the démarche. Iceland, after all, is a founding member of NATO and housed a U.S. Navy air base during the Cold War. The Russians sell oil to Iceland but have long sought a much closer relationship.
Inside the embassy, Russian ambassador Victor Tatarintsev listened intently. The seasoned diplomat, a canny political operator reputed to be close to Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, knew an opportunity when he saw one. As he heard the plea, says the Icelandic source, "there was a big grin on his face."
Iceland's Russian gambit did indeed stir a reaction when it became public in early October. "Of course we would not have accepted any political strings," Prime Minister Geir Haarde tells Fortune. "This loan would not have indicated any change in our foreign or security policy."
Still, his phone rang off the hook, and IMF officials rushed to put in place an emergency $2.1 billion rescue package. By then it was too late. Iceland had already become the first nation to fall victim to the global financial crisis.
Today the economy is in unbelievably horrible shape: The three banks - Kaupthing, Landsbanki, and Glitnir - are in receivership. The stock market has lost 90% of its value. The central bank is technically insolvent, its modest pile of assets dwarfed by a mountain of liabilities.
The currency, the krona, has lost more than half its value. GDP is expected to drop by a stomach-churning 10% in 2009, and unemployment will probably hit a 40-year high. At Reykjavík's port sit gleaming new Range Rovers and other SUVs that are now unsellable, and newspapers are exhorting the public to buy no-frills Icelandic goods.
Above all, the nation's future is heavily mortgaged. Claims from Britain alone amount to half of what's left of its GDP. "It's like a neutron bomb that has wiped out all monetary assets but left the people intact," says Ólafur Isleifsson, a former IMF official who teaches at Reykjavík University's business school.
If it has become conventional wisdom that the U.S. decision in September to allow the collapse of Lehman Brothers was a critical error that caused a worldwide seizing-up of bank lending, then Iceland is the sovereign version of Lehman Brothers. It was a bubble everyone knew about, one that was allowed to inflate to perilous proportions - and then was popped, partly for reasons of political expediency.
As with Lehman, the damage has spread. Creditors - owed more than $70 billion - can expect just pennies on their dollar; they include about 150 British and Dutch municipalities, the German banks that were Iceland's biggest lenders, and hedge funds from Manhattan and Milan that used the island nation's sky-high interest rates and buoyant currency to finance highly leveraged transactions.