That first round matches at the Australian Open began today had totally slipped my mind.
I managed to catch up with Blake over the weekend and, as predicted, he was full of juicy stories. The most entertaining – he assured me it was true – being about an incredibly famous female Russian star worried about failing a drug test. How could he possibly know that?
With the interior of the Beast as comfortable as she was ever going to get, I headed north towards Kew for a visit with Mum. Perhaps an hour spent talking to her about my first day on the job would ease some of the accumulated stress. If that didn’t work, I’d go for a short run then follow it up with a few beers and dinner at the Yarra Hotel.
On second thoughts, I could probably skip the run.
Dublin, Ireland
October 2, 2014
A strong easterly wind bustled Eamonn Mahoney along Merrion Street. Rather than cower, he crammed his fists a little deeper into his coat pockets, squared his shoulders and strode ahead resolutely. A man suddenly with a purpose in life. While passing the Merrion Hotel, a short block north of Baggot Street, he went over in his mind, for the umpteenth time, his presentation to Clancy. It was all so very simple and, even better, the first part of his plan had proven to be foolproof. His ingenious adaptation to the second part would make it bulletproof.
As he requested, Clancy’s people directed him to a priest who proved to be extremely useful, more so than even he could have imagined. A glorious sign. Father William Moynihan’s insight even included the ideal person to contact. The offering he’d made had been money well spent.
Eamonn was all smiles as he turned the corner onto Baggot Street. The money donated, not inconsequential, came out of his pocket, but he knew he’d shortly recoup his investment, and then some. After all, as the good Father himself said, ‘Miracles don’t grow on trees.’ The sun shone down on a glorious Dublin autumn’s day as he strode confidently by the Allied Irish Bank and the coffee shop adjacent on Baggot Street, not even the brisk easterly wind blowing in from the bay could dampen his mood.
You want to do what?
Clancy paced the snug at Toners not believing what he was hearing. He was caught midway between laughing out loud and wanting to strangle the little maggot for his temerity. He slumped down onto the thin leather cushion of the pew and took a deep breath. Choosing his words carefully, like selecting from an assorted box of chocolates hoping to make the correct choice, he began.
Are you aware Eamonn, that what you propose has been tried previously and, on that occasion, it failed miserably?
Not so. Hear me out. The robbery worked to perfection. Where they failed was in their ability to launder the money successfully.
The robbery to which Eamonn referred was a bank heist in Belfast carried out by the IRA back in 2004. Twenty-six and a half million British pounds floundered around the countryside for months; the novice criminals unaware how to launder their haul. Comically, a large bundle was planted at a Belfast country club, presumably to throw police off the chase. Another suspect was caught burning bills in his backyard. Three hundred and thirty thousand pounds was even handed into the police because the recipient wasn’t comfortable minding it for a friend.
So, educate me Eamonn. How will this be any different?
Eamonn ticked the steps off on his fingers as he paced back and forth.
Step 1 - We don’t get greedy and bite off more than we can chew. Instead, we hit a select few smaller locations all at the same time.
Step 2 - We stick to the Republic and therefore take euros not pounds. These will be much easier to launder on the Continent.
Step 3 - We use professionals who know what they’re doing to launder the money. And by moving it in small shipments, its discovery will be virtually impossible.
Eamonn paused to gauge Clancy’s reaction.
What about the banks haven’t they changed their procedures? Beefed up security?
Clancy continued to play devil’s advocate, but his opposition to the plan was waning. The audaciousness of it all intoxicating.
Yes, but they are still hopelessly lax. I’ve been observing several different locations for the past two weeks. Schedules for the opening agents change very infrequently, and their shifts are set months in advance. Their training instructs them to take a different route every day to and from work. But very few do.
While Eamonn explained the plan, his pacing back and forth became more manic. All doubts about failure long since erased from his mind, and was bursting with anticipation for getting the go-ahead.
He continued, his speech quickening to match his strides.
Then, on the rare occasion they do take different routes, they never look for a tail. So, finding out where they live is child’s play. From the same observations, I discovered the schedule for cash deliveries are as regular as clockwork. And the smaller branches don’t even employ security guards. So, we hit them on the following morning after delivery.
While Eamonn walked him through the steps one by one, Clancy sat back and examined the ancient wooden trusses running the length of the ceiling. Tracing the knots and whorls of the oak beams helped to unburden his mind while mulling over the plan. Where were his greatest risk points? He’d met with Eamonn on a few occasions, but even if those meetings came to light, they could easily be explained. He knew the priest they’d involved, but he could be trusted. The five men Eamonn needed? He’d have one of his underling’s make that happen. But of what amount were they talking? The risk to himself was small, but was the amount involved worth the risk?
How much do you estimate for this grab?
We hit five banks on the Friday before the October bank holiday. I’m assuming they’ll have additional cash needs for the holiday weekend, so I estimate anywhere from €200,000 to €300,000 from each.
Clancy quickly did the math. Close to a million euros, less a few minor expenses of course. The bulwark of lingering doubt quickly being eroded away by the incoming tide of euro signs.
You make it all sound so simple.
A smile began to play out across Eamonn’s face. He knew the greedy bastard was sold.
The employees aren’t going to put their lives on the line for money that isn’t theirs. And anyway, the banks are insured. And as I said, I just need five men, all from different brigades across the country, preferably middle-aged and you would trust with your life. Oh, and wouldn’t mind taking a driving holiday across the continent.
Clancy, for the life of him, still couldn’t quite figure out how these final pieces fit together.
Explain to me again how Father William fits into the plan?
Eamonn explained the role of the Catholic priest, Clancy’s grin slowly grew as wide as his rotund waistline. A small light finally illuminated the dusty attic of his mind, and the jigsaw pieces clicked together to form a lovely tableau. With a clap of hands he jumped to his feet, showing a nimbleness amazing both Eamonn and, truth be told, himself.
I do believe you’re on a winner here Eamonn. I’ll get you your five men lined up. You nail down all the loose ends. Let’s meet again in two weeks. And let’s make it a different location next time, these cushions are giving my haemorrhoids hell.
Clancy scribbled an address on a slip of paper and handed it to Eamonn. With a quick shake of the hand Clancy was gone, already spending in his mind the €1 million windfall the Sinn Fein coffers would soon receive.
Eamonn sat back on the pew and smiled self-indulgently. He too was thinking of how his cut of the stake would liven up his circumstances.
Melbourne, Australia
January 25, 2016
Sit here, answer the phone, don’t answer any bloody questions, and don’t say anything other than, “May I have your name?” You forward everything on to me, got it? And for Christ’s sake don’t look up anything on the computer other than what I tell you, or to check your email.
And with those instructions, my second week in banking began. Along with my first day with Eric Mu
llane, the banker with whom I’d be serving my apprenticeship. After just a week of intensive web-based training, it was determined Mary, Doug and I were “ready”. Ready, I learnt, was a banking term often used in conjunction with “wolves” and “being thrown”. Yes, it was time to mingle with the bankers on staff.
We’d each speculated on our specific placement with the bankers on staff. Doug drew the marginally shorter straw than I, being teamed with the short, pudgy, bundle of nerves named Stephen – don’t ever call him Steve – McIntosh. Stephen appeared to be dressed by a blind hobo and was constantly leaving a trail of food remnants and sweaty smudges from forever clammy hands in his wake. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he also stank of cheap aftershave. The kind bought by the barrel. Mary and I argued over whether or not he was a fire risk. It was no surprise he preferred to conduct his business with clients by phone.
The word on the assistant’s grapevine was that Stephen spent the better part of each morning analysing and fretting over the most current sales report; his nervous demeanour perhaps accounting for the hair loss. To cover up the obvious, Stephen resorted to one of the most extravagant comb-overs ever seen. It sprung from a deep furrow tantalisingly close to his left ear then swept across the barren frontier of his scalp to splash down on the opposite side by his right.
The anxiety inducing sales report, broken down by banker, simply listed: total client assets under management and outstanding loans, growth rates by percentage for each of these two categories and the total number of clients in each banker’s portfolio. All five areas were regarded with equal importance, and all five kept each banker continually on notice. Healthy account and loan balances were fine, but growth in both areas, as well as the overall client base, was also expected. The sum of all parts meant no banker could ever feel comfortable with their position – just as Thom Lewis envisioned.
We discovered last week just how highly the report was regarded when at lunchtime Mark Samuels, a pleasant enough bloke who’d worked at Southern Cross the past four years, was summoned from the lunchroom. After a brief meeting upstairs, he was unceremoniously told to pack his things and hit the road. Being the bottom ranked banker for six straight months, apparently, earned an up close and personal meeting with Mr Lewis. Followed by a brisk walk to the parking lot with Lenny Mansfield, the security guru.
This incident immediately elevated the threat level to the nervous ball of sweat named Stephen McIntosh. Stephen consistently languished in 4th place, one place ahead of Mark. His buffer between continued employment and the removal of his parking pass just slunk out the front door. We never heard from Mark again. The only sign he’d ever existed; a warm can of coke and the remains of a half-eaten pasty.
Mary fared the best of us three, being assigned to Meredith Mathews. Meredith was envied by the other bankers and well-liked by all the assistants. In her mid-thirties, attractive, and smart as a whip, it was no coincidence Meredith carried the most clients in her portfolio and generated the returns to justify their choice.
Thereby leaving me with Eric, known affectionately as “Mr Personality” – though never to his face. Around my height, slightly heavier, but without an ounce of fat. Eric’s deep tan went well with his health club body, blue eyes, strong chin and a full head of well-groomed blonde hair which, in a small act of defiance, he kept long over his collar. His charcoal-grey Italian suit was tailored to perfection. Off-the-rack not in his vocabulary. Female clients were like putty in his hands. And with his swagger and bluster, the less confident of the male species were equally helpless to decline his staccato-style investment pitches.
Eric expected his assistants to be rarely seen and never heard. Unless of course, it was to take the fall if a trade didn’t pan out. He and Meredith were consistently the top two ranked bankers, yet where she charmed her way to the top, Eric was known to take the more aggressive “churn and burn” approach. Churn and burn, I learnt, was another quaint banking term which involved wringing every last cent from a client with regards to investable assets, then re-investing those dollars over and over by switching from one hot tip to the next. But if returns failed to meet Eric’s hyperbole, well, there were always more clients. And as I learnt, the same applied with assistants. The longest any assistant had survived the Eric tsunami stood at eight months. If you weren’t regarded by then as promotable material, then a brushing up of your résumé was highly recommended.
Whereas the bankers were assigned offices running the length of two of the four walls of our floor, the assistants mingled in an L-shape of conjoined cubicles in the middle. Where our superiors could keep us under constant supervision. My cubicle was mid-point of the longer arm of the “L” with Mary to my left and Doug to the right. With my back to Eric’s office, I faced the two lifts to the second floor, though the view was blocked by a two-metre-high padded partition. To my right, beyond Doug’s cubicle, stood a wall of frosted glass augmented with mahogany panelling. The large doorway positioned midpoint led to the reception area where reigned the ever-present Ms Moustakis.
While logging-in to the bank’s computer systems, I surveyed my meagre workspace. Arrayed before me were a computer terminal, phone and the bare essentials of office supplies. Above the terminal, a locking file space and another under the L-shaped desktop by my left leg. Cabinets, walls and desktop were all in varying shades of grey. It was a two-metre square surrounded on three sides by padded walls, whether for noise suppression or to stop us from harming ourselves was yet to be determined.
If you’re done daydreaming there, perhaps we can get some bloody work done.
Eric’s deep voice dragged me back from my reverie to the present.
Yes sir. How can I help?
First thing, never call me sir. I’m not that bloody old. Call me, Eric. Unless of course, you bugger something up, then it’s Mr Mullane. I’m just kidding. If you bugger something up, I don’t want to hear from you until you fix it. If you can’t fix it, I don’t want to see you. Ever again. Period.
Understood, si… Eric.
Now get in here and bring something to write on. I’ve got one hour or so free, plenty of time to teach you all you’ll need to know about banking.
Eric straightened from the door jamb he’d leant against, turned, and disappeared into his office. I grabbed a notepad and hustled after him. Perhaps the rough edges were just that, not someone suited for the thin-skinned, but surely a heart of gold beat under his gruff exterior somewhere.
Ninety minutes later, I left his office shell-shocked and confident in the knowledge that a heart of gold wasn’t something anyone would be uncovering anytime soon.
I trudged back to my cubicle and slumped forlornly into my chair. A post-it note, plastered to my monitor, from Mr Mansfield greeted me.
Leave your computer terminal unlocked again and we’ll be having a serious talk.
‘Shit,’ I swore under my breath then speculated if the all-seeing, all-knowing, security chief ever missed anything which happened on this floor.
Craig, want to grab some lunch?
Doug leant back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and peered around the edge of the cubicle. Then he noticed the distraught look on my face.
Jesus, mate. You having a rough morning? Come on let’s get out of here. Mary’s coming too. She’s waiting for us out front.
Doug and I walked outside into the blinding midday sunshine. We gazed skywards soaking in the warmth. A slight breeze blowing from the south ensured the temperature wouldn’t venture too far above 20 degrees, a handful of fluffy white clouds headed northeast without too much enthusiasm. Mary stood at the bottom of the steps checking messages on her phone. She looked up and smiled as we reached her, no one spoke as we strolled around the corner to Jackson Street. Spying three open stools facing the front window at the Fish ’n Grill decided our lunch place. We hurried inside to claim them.
We sat for a moment to relax and contemplate the menu. I wasn’t sure about Mary and Doug, but my head was still
spinning from the first morning of “live action”, the mere procedure of ordering lunch still not quite within my grasp.
***
From his tenth-floor office, Garth O’Neal leant back in his ergonomic office chair and studied, through the canopy of oak trees, a northbound tram on St Kilda Road. The sleek white tram with a splash of green and gold was taking on passengers adjacent to the building his firm called home. Looking further east out across St Kilda Road, he could just barely distinguish the north-western most corner of Fawkner Park.
The offices of Williams & Teacher occupied the entire tenth floor of the twelve-story granite and smoked glass building on St Kilda Road, just south of Kings Way. Garth’s view was one many in his profession would die for, but it paled in comparison to those of the offices across the floor. The view from the opposite side of the building was spectacular. Those fortunate enough to be facing westward looked out over Albert Park, the small lake at its centre, and then beyond to the vast expanse of Port Phillip Bay. This was the view Garth coveted, but to which he knew he’d never ascend. These offices were the domain of the firm’s elite – the partners.
In many ways, Williams & Teacher was a law firm with its feet planted firmly in the past. Established in England in the early 1820s, it had grown over the past 190 years to have a worldwide presence, yet, in the various countries they maintained offices, operated very much in a staid and cautious manner. Stability, the catchphrase, not growth. And to serve the complex financial needs of the political and corporate elite. It did not advertise for clients, nor did it need to, only considering referrals for new business from existing clients. Some would say it was more a club than a business.
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