The Phone Call That Nobody Took
One day in August 2016, from his oak-and-leather suite atop the General Motors Building — offices decorated in the manner of a tycoon's lair from a film about the decade in which he'd made his name — Carl Icahn picked up the phone and dialed the Environmental Protection Agency. He was eighty years old and worth approximately seventeen billion dollars and he wanted to speak with a senior official named Janet McCabe about an obscure regulation that was costing one of his companies two hundred million dollars a year. McCabe's assistant said she was on vacation. For two weeks. Icahn, incredulous, pressed the point: surely McCabe could interrupt whatever leisure activity she was engaged in to take a pressing phone call from Carl Icahn? The assistant said no. She couldn't.
"What if the world's falling apart?" Icahn asked.
It was a small moment — a man accustomed to having every call returned told, flatly, that he would have to wait — but it contained the whole of his career in miniature: the assumption that the rules that govern everyone else do not quite apply to him, the genuine bewilderment when they do, and the furious energy that bewilderment releases. Within months, Icahn would leverage a friendship with the President-elect of the United States to attempt what financiers who knew him described as "the cheapest takeover Carl's ever done" — a corporate raid, not on a company, but on the regulatory apparatus of the federal government. It would fail, or mostly fail, in ways that illuminated both the limits of transactional power in Washington and the breathtaking audacity of a man who, at eighty, still could not stop himself from reaching for the phone.
By the Numbers
The Icahn Empire
~$17BPeak estimated net worth (Forbes, 2016)
82%Controlling stake acquired in CVR Energy
$400KUncle's loan to buy NYSE seat in 1968
~20Companies owned or controlled simultaneously
31%Approximate annualized return, 1968–2011
$9BLosses on ill-timed bearish market bet (2017–2023)
$200MDonated to Mount Sinai School of Medicine
The Cantor's Son
The biography begins in Bayswater, a neighborhood in the Far Rockaways, at the ragged edge of Queens, in a lower-middle-class household held together by argument and disappointment. Carl Celian Icahn was born on February 16, 1936, toward the end of the Depression, the only child of Bella and Michael Icahn. Bella was a schoolteacher. Michael was a failed opera singer who, despite being an atheist, became the cantor at a local synagogue — because he loved the music. Throughout Carl's youth, his father railed against the robber barons, condemning the concentration of extreme wealth. "The social juxtaposition of a tiny group of people living in great splendor and many more living in abject poverty was anathema to him," Icahn told his biographer, Mark Stevens. Carl, the only child, drew from this household two things in seemingly equal measure: intellectual ambition and a contempt for his father's inability to act on his own. "My father was never able to accomplish anything," he once said. "I never respected him."
The boy was bright and scrappy. When he was offered a scholarship to Woodmere Academy, an expensive private school on the South Shore of Long Island, his parents toured the campus but ultimately refused to send him, worried about the values he'd be exposed to among the rich. They chose public school instead. The sting of that reversal lingered for half a century. In the heat of high-stakes negotiations — battles involving billions — Icahn would occasionally pause to inform his adversaries that although he had attended public school instead of Woodmere Academy, he had still gone on to become a billionaire. It was a non sequitur that revealed everything. The chip on the shoulder was load-bearing.
At Princeton, where he paid his way in part with poker earnings, Icahn studied philosophy and wrote a senior thesis titled "The Problem of Formulating an Adequate Explication of the Empiricist Criterion of Meaning." Its conclusion contained, in embryonic form, the operating logic of his entire career: "It seems to me that the quest for an explication of the empiricist meaning criterion, as it has progressed, may be likened to the tale of the city that suddenly finds itself in possession of a great homogeneous mixture of gold and sand. If the gold could be separated from the sand it would prove a great deal more valuable to the inhabitants." Separating gold from sand — finding value concealed within structures that most people accepted as given — would become his life's work, transposed from the domain of logical positivism to the New York Stock Exchange.
A stint at New York University medical school followed Princeton. He was a hypochondriac, which did not help his bedside manner. He dropped out, served in the Army — winning more money at poker — and in 1961, at age twenty-five, walked onto Wall Street as an entry-level stockbroker at the Dreyfus Corporation.
The Empiricist with a Pitchfork
Icahn's first experience with a Wall Street boom-to-bust cycle was the crash of 1962, and it taught him two lessons he never forgot. First, no one makes money playing the market as a small investor — you are always vulnerable to bigger, more powerful forces. Second, if he was going to emerge as a dominant force, he needed expertise in a niche overlooked by the hordes of brokers content to sit by the phone and take orders. His study of empiricism had taught him that "there is a strategy behind everything," and now he had to determine what that strategy was.
He moved to Tessel, Patrick and Company in 1963 to trade stock options, then to Gruntal & Co. a year later. In 1968, he borrowed $400,000 from his uncle and bought a seat on the New York Stock Exchange, founding Icahn & Co. He started in convertible arbitrage and options trading, territory that rewarded the chess-player's mind he had always possessed. (As a young man, he had considered becoming a chess master but decided against it — there was no money in it.) His right-hand man was Alfred Kingsley, a Wharton graduate with a master's in tax from NYU, who had joined the firm that same year. When Icahn asked him what he knew about arbitrage, Kingsley replied: "Not a thing." Soon Kingsley was spending his days arbitraging the securities of conglomerates like Litton Industries and LTV.
The pivotal insight came in the mid-1970s, when Icahn and Kingsley began arbitraging closed-end mutual funds. These funds had a fixed number of shares that could trade at significant discounts to the net asset value of their underlying portfolios. You could buy the units cheap and hedge by shorting the portfolio. The arbitrage was market-neutral, but it wasn't riskless — the discount could widen before it narrowed. What fascinated Icahn was the mechanism by which you could force the gap to close: by agitating for the fund to liquidate, or to take some action that would surface the buried value. Here was the gold-from-sand thesis made actionable. You didn't wait for the market to correct. You corrected it yourself.
By 1978, Icahn had codified this into what his associates called the "Icahn Manifesto":
"It is our contention that sizeable profits can be earned by taking large positions in 'undervalued' stocks and then attempting to control the destinies of the companies in question by: a) trying to convince management to liquidate or sell the company to a 'white knight'; b) waging a proxy contest; c) making a tender offer and/or; d) selling back our position to the company."
That last option — selling back your position at a premium — would become known as greenmail. The one-time bookworm from Queens had found a way to intimidate corporate America.
The Decade of the Raid
The 1980s arrived like a fire truck, and Icahn intended to be driving it. His first major raid came in 1978, against the Tappan Company, a manufacturer of kitchen stoves. He used his shares to gain a seat on the board, then arranged to turn the company over to the Swedish firm AB Electrolux, making nearly $3 million for himself. It was modest money by later standards, but the method was proven. Over the next decade, Icahn took substantial equity interests in Hammermill Paper, Simplicity Patterns, Marshall Field's, Dan River, ACF Industries, Phillips Petroleum, Uniroyal, USX (United States Steel), Texaco, and a dozen others. His method was straightforward: identify businesses whose assets were worth more than their stock, acquire enough shares to force changes, drive up the price, then sell. Implicit in this was the conviction that he was smart enough to know more about how to make money in a given business than the executives who ran it. He regarded management at the companies he targeted with open contempt. The average CEO, he liked to say, was like a fraternity president: a nice guy to have a beer with, but maybe not too bright.
Some people get rich studying artificial intelligence. Me, I make my money studying natural stupidity.
Corporations, seeing Icahn coming, tried to fight him off. His reputation grew so fearsome that some paid him to go away by buying back his shares at a premium — greenmail, in the parlance. Marty Lipton, the corporate lawyer who invented the poison pill defense and whose firm Wachtell, Lipton, Rosen & Katz was often hired to thwart Icahn, described raiders like him as engaging in "a form of extortion." In Lipton's view, such investors "create short-term increases in the market price of their stock at the expense of long-term value." Icahn preferred a different framing: he was a warrior for disenfranchised stockholders, a champion of shareholder rights. "I'm like a gunfighter you hire to save the town," he once remarked. "That gunfighter is there to do good. He knows he's on the right side, and he's proud of it, but he'll only do what he does if he knows he'll get paid for it."
When Mark Stevens published
King Icahn: The Biography of a Renegade Capitalist in 1993, describing his subject as a "germophobic, detached, relatively loveless man," and quoting a contemporary who said "Carl's dream in life is to have the only fire truck in town — then when your house is in flames, he can hold you up for every penny you have" — Icahn stocked his office with copies to give to visitors. He didn't dispute the portrait. He framed it.
We've Got Ourselves an Airline
The TWA saga remains the episode that most divides Icahn's admirers from his critics, the deal that revealed most clearly the gap between his self-mythology as a shareholder champion and the lived experience of the people left behind. Trans World Airlines was already troubled when Icahn began accumulating shares in 1985. Frank Lorenzo, the Harvard-educated union-buster who ran Texas Air Corporation, had an agreement to buy the carrier. TWA's unions, terrified of Lorenzo, chose Icahn as their horse — not because they trusted him, but because he was the only alternative. After a marathon twenty-eight-hour negotiation session, the pilots and machinists agreed to sharp salary cuts in exchange for equity in the company. Icahn won control.
According to the New York Times, he celebrated by donning a TWA flight jacket and strutting around his office, exclaiming, "We've got ourselves an airline!" He took the company private, saddled it with debt, and pocketed nearly half a billion dollars. He sold off valuable routes to other airlines. He waged a bitter fight against the flight attendants' union, arguing that because most attendants were women, they were not "breadwinners" and should not expect commensurate compensation. When told the attendants were struggling to make ends meet, he reportedly suggested they "should have married a rich husband." C. E. Meyer, TWA's chief executive, described Icahn as "one of the greediest men on earth." TWA went through bankruptcy in 1992 and was eventually sold to American Airlines in 2001.
Carol Loomis, writing in Fortune in February 1986, captured the moment when the raider's swagger collided with the realities of running an actual business: his money was locked up, his reputation for shrewdness was scarred, and friends said he talked ruefully about the opportunity costs — "raids that could have been made, managements that could have been skewered." A lawyer who faced Icahn during the nine-month struggle said he "visibly aged." Icahn, just turning fifty, conceded: "It hasn't been easy."
The lesson Icahn drew from TWA was not that dismantling companies for personal profit carried moral costs. The lesson was that actually operating a business was tedious. He preferred the raid to the management.
If the Price Is Right
To understand Icahn's relationship with other human beings — including his eventual relationship with
Donald Trump — it helps to start with a remark he made under oath. In a court proceeding, he said: "If the price is right, we are going to sell. I think that's true of everything you have, except maybe your kids and possibly your wife."
"Possibly?" the judge asked.
"Possibly," Icahn said. "Don't tell my wife."
His first marriage ended in an acrimonious divorce. He married his former assistant, Gail Golden, who now manages his charitable interests. When Oliver Stone was researching his 1987 film Wall Street, he visited Icahn and borrowed one of his observations for the character Gordon Gekko: "If you need a friend, get a dog." Icahn is a serious poker player who has played with Leon Black, the founder of Apollo Global Management; Sam Waksal, the ImClone founder who went to prison for insider trading; and the onetime junk-bond king Michael Milken, who also did time for white-collar crime. "Waksal, Milken, Ivan Boesky," a former Icahn employee observed. "Carl has never got into trouble. But he's played with everyone who did."
Connie Bruck, in her 1988 book The Predators' Ball, describes Icahn's passion for all-night negotiation sessions, noting that some interlocutors suspected he deliberately prolonged these encounters "not just as a tactic but because he is having such a good time." His offices on the forty-seventh floor of the GM Building are full of reminders, as if arranged by a set decorator, that Icahn is a conqueror: the walls are lined with oil paintings depicting famous battles — including Ernest Meissonier's painting of Napoleon's Battle of Friedland — as well as framed stock certificates and trophies from companies he has subdued. A pair of antique duelling pistols adorn his desk.
"Carl views the legal norms as a starting point for a negotiation, rather than a moral compass," a financier who has faced off against him observed. "He's not afraid to cross the line if he thinks he's on firm ground. 'Perhaps the law says that this is wrong. But I know better, and I am willing to sue or be sued.' It's a rare breed of person who will do that. Carl lives in that breach."
The Beta and the Alpha
Icahn and Trump have known each other since the 1980s, and the relationship has always been asymmetric. Both grew up in Queens, but Trump came from the wealthy enclave of Jamaica Estates while Icahn came from Bayswater. Both are brash, plainspoken, outer-borough fighters — examples of the American archetype of the populist rich guy. But Icahn really is what Trump has always pretended to be: a genuine master dealmaker, and a legitimately self-made man. Icahn started with less and ended up with vastly more.
In 1988, Trump paid eleven million dollars to host the Mike Tyson–Michael Spinks heavyweight title fight at Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City. Before the bout, he took Icahn backstage to meet Tyson. The announcer recited an attenuated roll call of famous guests, among them Trump's "good friend" Carl Icahn. Two years later, when Trump unveiled the Taj Mahal — a spangled confection financed entirely with junk bonds and already imperilled by debt — and his father Fred had to send a lawyer to buy $3.3 million in chips just to make an interest payment, it was Icahn who bailed Trump out, purchasing the Taj's outstanding bonds at a steep discount and negotiating to let Trump retain equity. Icahn sold the bonds in 1993 for more than double what he'd paid.
The relationship was hardly intimate. Trump told the Times in 2011 that he was a "loyalist" who prioritized friendship, whereas "with Carl the friendship stops where the deal begins." Icahn responded that he did not consider the two of them to be close, adding, pointedly, that he had not been invited to Ivanka Trump's wedding. In court papers from a 2010 fight over three Trump casinos in Atlantic City, Icahn's lawyers suggested that the Trump name was no longer "synonymous with business acumen, high quality, and style." Icahn told the Wall Street Journal: "I like Donald personally, but frankly I'm a little curious about the big deal about the name." If the Trump brand carried such cachet, he asked, why did Trump properties keep going bankrupt?
Trump's almost canine subservience to the older financier was such that, for years, Icahn — who is a tennis fan — enjoyed droit-du-seigneur access to Trump's personal box at the U.S. Open.
The Cheapest Takeover
When Trump announced his candidacy in June 2015, he appeared on Morning Joe and suggested Icahn might make a good Treasury Secretary. Icahn replied on his personal website: "I am flattered but do not get up early enough in the morning to accept this opportunity." But Icahn supported Trump's run when it still looked quixotic, and an endorsement from a man worth seventeen billion dollars was a precious credential for a candidate many New York financiers considered a buffoon. Lloyd Blankfein, then C.E.O. of Goldman Sachs, remarked that the notion of the former star of The Apprentice having his "finger on the button blows my mind." On the campaign trail, Trump bragged about his "very dear friend Carl Icahn," the name functioning as a byword for boundless prosperity.
What Icahn wanted was simple. His refiner, CVR Energy — in which he held an eighty-two-per-cent stake — was bleeding money because of the Renewable Fuel Standard's requirement to purchase ethanol blending credits called RINs. CVR hadn't invested in blending infrastructure, choosing instead to buy credits. When Icahn acquired the company in 2012, RINs cost about a nickel each. By 2016, CVR was spending two hundred million dollars a year on them, and its stock had dropped seventy per cent. Icahn wanted the "point of obligation" shifted so that other parties in the supply chain, not merchant refiners like CVR, would be responsible for purchasing credits. "This is something that Carl does," a former employee explained. "He becomes fixated on something, even something that represents a small part of his portfolio. He gets obsessed."
On Election Night 2016, Icahn attended the impromptu victory party at the Hilton in midtown, where nobody seemed to have arranged for balloons, though a cake had been fashioned into a bust of a scowling Trump. Supporters in "Make America Great Again" hats celebrated in a daze. Icahn left the party after midnight. The global markets were tanking. He went home and made a billion dollars' worth of investments.
Within days, Trump had enlisted Icahn to help staff major government agencies. Icahn employees began reviewing résumés of potential Cabinet appointees. On November 15, Icahn tweeted: "Spoke to @realDonaldTrump. Steve Mnuchin and Wilbur Ross are being considered for Treasury and Commerce. Both would be great choices." On November 30, Mnuchin got the job. When potential Cabinet secretaries visited Trump Tower, they were sometimes sent for a second interview — with Icahn. When Scott Pruitt came to discuss running the E.P.A., Trump concluded the meeting by telling him to walk two blocks uptown to see Icahn. "He has some questions for you." As Pruitt and an aide headed up Fifth Avenue, they searched the Internet for information on RIN credits and their impact on Icahn's refiner.
Several weeks after the victory, Icahn tweeted that he had agreed to serve as "a special advisor to the president on issues relating to regulatory reform." The role was novel. He would have a formal title but no salary, no requirement to divest his holdings, no obligation to disclose conflicts of interest. "Carl Icahn will be advising the President in his individual capacity," the transition team asserted. Barron's asked: "Has Carl Icahn been appointed Secretary of Talking His Own Book?" The website Dealbreaker proposed an alternative title: "Secretary of Do Whatever the Fuck You Want."
This kind of self-enrichment and influence over decision-making by an individual mogul who is simultaneously inside and outside the Administration is unprecedented. In terms of corruption, there's nothing like it. Maybe ever.
In the months after Icahn's appointment, the stock price of CVR nearly doubled — a surge that is difficult to explain without acknowledging the appointment of the company's lead shareholder to a White House position. The rally meant a personal benefit for Icahn, at least on paper, of half a billion dollars.
The Draft Executive Order
In early February 2017, Icahn contacted Bob Dinneen, head of the Renewable Fuels Association, and proposed they meet. Dinneen — an old-school Washington hand who ran the leading ethanol trade group — took the train to New York and went to the offices of Icahn Enterprises. Normally, any negotiation between government and private industry would take place with "an army of people" assembled on opposite sides of a conference table: lawyers, technical specialists, advisers. This was different. "This whole town is different now," Dinneen noted, with a dry chuckle.
Dinneen told reporters that the only Trump Administration official he'd been speaking with was Icahn. "I'm old-school," Dinneen said. "If I get a call from a special adviser to the President, I'm going to take it." Icahn never said explicitly that he was speaking on behalf of the President, but he said he'd discussed the matter with Trump, and was confident a change was coming soon. He told Dinneen the executive order would be "non-negotiable." Confronted with this fait accompli, Dinneen felt his only option was to secure whatever concessions he could. He pressed for year-round sales of E15 ethanol blends in exchange for acquiescing on the point of obligation.
On February 23, after a phone call with Dinneen, Icahn spoke with the President and relayed the substance of their agreement. Icahn, who had been out walking his dog, talked to Trump from the lobby of his apartment building. Bloomberg News later reported that, according to Icahn, "Trump seemed receptive." Trump instructed him to telephone Gary Cohn, his senior economic adviser. Cohn handed the matter to Mike Catanzaro, a former oil lobbyist on the National Economic Council, who spent an hour going through the details with Icahn. Four days later, Bloomberg broke the story that an executive order was imminent. Corn and gasoline prices went berserk.
Someone who saw the draft executive order told the New Yorker's Patrick Radden Keefe that it looked conspicuously like something prepared by someone with no experience in Washington: "It was like 'I, the President, instruct Scott Pruitt to move the point of obligation.' It was almost amateurish. Any policy person or lawyer would understand that this thing was never going to fly."
A Trump Administration official later confirmed to Keefe that the draft executive order "did not originate in the White House." It was, the official acknowledged, "something Icahn sent to us."
The Short Squeeze on Itself
What happened next was the most extraordinary part. While Icahn spent the second half of 2016 complaining bitterly about CVR's obligation to buy RINs, an April 2017 earnings report revealed that the company had actually been selling them. When RIN prices were high, CVR sold millions of credits — credits it would eventually need to turn over to the E.P.A. to meet its annual regulatory quota. This was, in industry parlance, a short position: a bet that prices would drop.
"To my knowledge, this is the first time you had someone taking a short position in the RIN market," said Tristan Brown, a professor at the State University of New York's College of Environmental Science and Forestry. The gamble was staggeringly risky: if a refiner misses its quota deadline, the E.P.A. can enforce fines of $37,500 a day per each RIN owed — a figure that would climb into the billions immediately. "You're essentially gambling," Brown said. "And, if you're wrong, the penalty is pretty much unlimited." This was not the sort of speculative play one might anticipate from a mid-sized refiner. It was the kind of gamble a bold Wall Street investor might make.
When the news broke that an executive order on the point of obligation was imminent — that Icahn and Dinneen had reached a deal — RIN prices plummeted. CVR could cover its short, buying back the credits it needed at a steep discount. Jim Stock, a Harvard professor who studies the energy sector, pointed out that "if an individual has influence over expectations in this market, he can end up moving prices." On a shareholder call in April, a CVR representative said that in the first quarter of the Trump Administration, the company had experienced a "negative" loss of six million dollars on RIN compliance — that is, a profit. Brown told the New Yorker that the notion of a profit from compliance with the Renewable Fuel Standard was unheard of for a merchant refiner like CVR. A longtime RIN trader put it more bluntly: "Either Icahn was extremely lucky or he knew something that other people didn't."
Icahn's lawyer, Jesse Lynn, said CVR's strategies on RINs were decided by its board of directors. He did not mention that the chairman of the board was Icahn.
The Bluff That Failed
The ethanol industry protested. Senator Chuck Grassley of Iowa — who not only represented corn growers but also chaired the Judiciary Committee, which helps confirm judicial appointments — opposed shifting the point of obligation. So did the American Petroleum Institute, because integrated oil giants like BP and Shell were generating surplus credits they could sell to smaller refiners. The petroleum industry and the ethanol industry rarely agree on anything. The point of obligation was one thing they did.
"Someone probably walked into Trump's office and said, 'Here's why you need Chuck Grassley more than you need Carl Icahn,'" observed Brooke Coleman, executive director of the Advanced Biofuels Business Council. On February 28, a White House spokeswoman denied any plan to shift the point of obligation. Scott Pruitt distanced himself. The bluff had failed.
Several Washington sources who discussed the matter with Mike Catanzaro told the New Yorker that once he and Gary Cohn concluded Icahn was attempting to hijack the policy process, they put a stop to it. "I think Icahn thought if he told his pal Don, 'This is a bad thing,' and explained why it was stupid, Don would say, 'God damn it, Carl, you're right!' — and then the law would change," one source said. "That's not how it works down here. We have this thing called the Administrative Procedure Act." Another said: "Mike had to make clear that the government is not a vending machine — that it's not here to profit the President's friends." He paused. "Not everybody in this Administration necessarily sees it that way."
I don't believe in the word fair. It's a human concept that became conventional wisdom.
On August 18, 2017, four days after the White House quietly disavowed his role to a reporter, Icahn tweeted: "Today, with President Trump's blessing, I ceased to act as special advisor to the President on issues relating to regulatory reform." His resignation came during the week when numerous private-sector advisers distanced themselves from Trump after his equivocal comments about a white-supremacist rally in Charlottesville. Icahn made no mention of those events, blaming instead "the insinuations of a handful of your Democratic critics."
The Apple Epistle and the Netflix Trade
The Washington debacle was an aberration — not in its ethics but in its failure. By 2017, Icahn's reputation as an activist investor rested on a more conventional set of triumphs, the most famous of which involved Apple. In August 2013, he purchased 27,125,441 shares of Apple and called the investment "a no brainer" on CNBC, arguing the stock was dramatically undervalued relative to the company's cash hoard and earnings power. By January 2014, he had increased his stake to 52,760,848 shares — a 0.9% ownership position that cost $3.6 billion.
The campaign was vintage Icahn: a series of open letters to CEO Tim Cook, written in the grandiloquent style of a man who assumes the world is waiting to hear his opinion, demanding massive stock buybacks and tender offers. "Assuming these growth characteristics for FY 2016 and FY 2017, we see Apple's P/E of just 8x our FY 2015 forecast as both irrational and transient in nature," he wrote in October 2014, valuing the company at $203 per share. Apple did accelerate its repurchase program. The shares rallied thirty-eight per cent in 2014. By the end of March 2016, Icahn had sold his entire position, telling CNBC he was "worried about China." His thirty-two-month foray netted him approximately $2 billion.
The Netflix trade was even more lucrative on a percentage basis. Icahn bought in at roughly $58 per share in late 2012, when the streaming company was still reeling from the Qwikster debacle, and sold in 2015 for a reported profit of more than $2 billion — a gain of approximately 457%. He didn't agitate for change at Netflix. He simply saw that the market was wrong and bought.
These were the victories that sustained the myth: Icahn the contrarian, the empiricist with a pitchfork, the man who could see value the market had buried. "If the system wasn't so messed up, guys like me wouldn't make this kind of money," he told a Yale economics class in 2008. It was the kind of line that could be read as either confession or boast. With Icahn, the distinction was never clear.
The Hunter Becomes the Hunted
On May 2, 2023, Hindenburg Research — the short-selling firm run by thirty-eight-year-old Nate Anderson — published a report alleging that Icahn Enterprises, the publicly traded holding company through which Icahn managed his investments, was "inflated by 75%+ relative to its underlying net asset value" and that its dividend was funded by what Hindenburg called a "ponzi-like economic structure." IEP shares fell twenty per cent in a single day, the largest drop on record, erasing $3.1 billion from Icahn's fortune. Hindenburg also detailed a margin loan — collateralized by up to eighty-two per cent of Icahn's shares in the company — that had not been previously accounted for in wealth estimates. The combined effect was a $10.3 billion reduction in Icahn's estimated net worth in a single session, dropping him from the 58th-richest person in the world to the 119th.
The report's central charge was devastating in its simplicity: Icahn had been taking his dividends in additional units (rather than cash), while other unitholders received cash — and the cash to pay those dividends came not from operating performance but from regular sales of new IEP units through at-the-market offerings, totaling $1.7 billion since 2019. "In brief," Hindenburg wrote, "Icahn has been using money taken in from new investors to pay out dividends to old investors." The investment portfolio had lost approximately fifty-three per cent since 2014.
Free cash flow had been negative $4.9 billion over the same period. Despite this, IEP had raised its dividend three times.
The man who had spent fifty years attacking CEOs for self-dealing, who had built his career on exposing the gap between what companies were worth and what their managers claimed — that man had been running his own company in a fashion that invited precisely the attack he had perfected.
Icahn called the report "self-serving." In a ninety-minute interview with Bloomberg in May 2023, he declined to address Hindenburg directly. "If you're going to be bothered by this, you shouldn't be in this business," he said. He also acknowledged, in a remarkable interview with the Financial Times, that he had lost approximately $9 billion between 2017 and early 2023 on a massive bet that the stock market would crash — a complex short strategy involving broad market indices, individual companies, commercial mortgages, and debt securities, with notional exposure at times exceeding $15 billion. "I obviously believed the market was in for great trouble," he said. "The Fed injected trillions of dollars into the market to fight COVID and the old saying is true: 'don't fight the Fed.'" He added, with uncharacteristic humility: "I've always told people there is nobody who can really pick the market on a short-term or an intermediate-term basis. Maybe I made the mistake of not adhering to my own advice."
In August 2024, the SEC settled charges against Icahn and Icahn Enterprises for failing to disclose the margin loan pledges. The civil penalties were modest — $1.5 million for Icahn, $500,000 for the company — but the reputational damage was immense. The corporate raider, the man who'd made a career forcing transparency on others, had been caught failing to disclose the very thing that made his empire vulnerable.
The Illumina Campaign and the Late Style
Even as the Hindenburg affair unfolded, Icahn was waging what he called a campaign of principle against Illumina, the gene-sequencing giant. The company had spun off a cancer-testing venture called GRAIL, sold it to sophisticated investors at a low price, then repurchased it for approximately $8 billion — over the explicit prohibition of European regulators. Illumina's share price had dropped seventy-five per cent from its August 2021 peak, destroying roughly $55 billion in market value.
Icahn, who held only 1.4% of the company's stock, launched a proxy fight to place three nominees on the board. He wrote a series of open letters to shareholders — baroque, combative, studded with Shakespeare quotes and parables about mismanaged farms — demanding the removal of CEO Francis deSouza and the divestiture of GRAIL. "Something is rotten in the state of Illumina," he wrote on March 13, 2023, paraphrasing Hamlet. On CNBC with Scott Wapner that same day, Icahn noted that Illumina's stock had jumped $7 billion on news of his involvement. "Does that tell you something? Does that tell you how the shareholders feel about these guys?"
The Illumina fight had the late-period quality of a master returning to familiar terrain — the same convictions about board negligence, the same contempt for executives who confused personal interest with fiduciary duty — with a new urgency born of his own vulnerability. He won. DeSouza was removed. The chairman departed. Illumina announced it would divest GRAIL. In his December 2023 open letter, Icahn pressed further, arguing that the remaining "legacy conflicted directors" — those who had approved the acquisition — could not be trusted with the divestiture process. "Put simply," he wrote, "the fox should not guard the henhouse."
It was the kind of victory that had defined his career for five decades: identifying a company where management had destroyed value through recklessness, forcing change through sheer combativeness, and walking away having proved his point. That the same man was simultaneously defending his own company against accusations of structural mismanagement — and had recently settled with the SEC over disclosure failures — was a contradiction he showed no interest in resolving.
The Last Fire Truck
Icahn eventually succeeded in gaining control of the Trump Taj Mahal casino in Atlantic City. In 2014, a bankruptcy-court judge expressed concern that Icahn Enterprises would just close the place, and insisted that company executives testify they had no plans to shut the casino down. Icahn initially promised to invest a hundred million dollars. But he ended up embroiled in yet another bitter union fight, refused to yield on demands from casino employees for better pay and health benefits, and shuttered the casino. "The great dealmaker would rather burn the Trump Taj Mahal down just so he can control the ashes," Bob McDevitt, the president of the local union, said. Three thousand people lost their jobs. In March 2017, Icahn found a buyer: Hard Rock International.
One day that summer, former employees queued alongside treasure hunters and curious passersby on the boardwalk outside the beleaguered casino. A liquidator had arranged a fire sale of the items inside. People carted home used bed linens and scuffed armchairs and statuary of fake gold. They looked for souvenirs bearing the Trump name, but there weren't any.
For many years, an odd structure had stood down the boardwalk from the Taj Mahal — a three-story rooming house. It had been bought in 1961 by an eccentric local woman named Vera Coking, who ran it in the manner of a boarding house from a Hitchcock film: cheap rooms for rent, with a shared bathroom down the hall. During the casino boom, many suitors came to Coking, hoping to buy her building for the valuable land it sat on. Coking refused to sell. Donald Trump was one of those suitors. "He'd come over to the house, probably thinking, If I butter her up now, I'll get her house for a good price," she told the Daily News in 1998. "Once, he gave me Neil Diamond tickets. I didn't even know who Neil Diamond was." Trump enlisted the State of New Jersey to invoke eminent domain. Coking fought in court and prevailed, deriding the future President as "a maggot, a cockroach, and a crumb."
Finally, in 2014, the house went up for auction. Trump had, by that time, walked away from Atlantic City. Coking was living in a retirement home in California. The property sold to an unnamed buyer, for five hundred and thirty thousand dollars. The buyer was Carl Icahn. He knocked the house down.
