Dave Hart Omnibus II: Where Egos Dare, The Ego’s Nest and No Tears
DAVID CHARTERS
Omnibus Edition first published 2012 by Elliott & Thompson Limited
27 John Street, London WC1N 2BX
www.eandtbooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-9087-39575
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‘Where Egos Dare’
ISBN: 978-1-9040-27775
Copyright © David Charters 2009
First published in 2009
The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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‘The Ego’s Nest’
ISBN: 978-1-9076-42234
Copyright © David Charters 2011
First published in 2011
The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
***
‘No Tears’
ISBN: 978-1-9040-27867
Copyright © David Charters 2002
First published in 2002
The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Contents
Where Egos Dare
Dedication
Author’s Note & Acknowledgements
Text
Epilogue
The Ego’s Nest
Dedication
Author’s note
Text
Epilogue
No Tears
Contents
Foreword
Diary
Dinner Party
Team Move
Infatuation
Smart People
Takeover
Regrets
Misdial
The Big Break
Signing Ceremony
Ambition
Expenses
Riff-raff
Bonus Round
Baggage
Off-site
After Dark
If You Can’t Take a Joke
Inside Track
2 HOT
Playing the Game
Lawsuit
Words
May Day 2010
Merger
Equal Opportunities
Redundant
The Right Position
WHERE EGOS DARE
DAVID CHARTERS
For Digger
Author’s Note & Acknowledgements
IT HAD to be someone’s fault. The worst financial crisis of our lifetime did not just happen by itself. And if we’re going to blame someone, why not Dave Hart?
As a spectator watching the crisis unfold, I felt that truth really was stranger than fiction, and at the same time quite inspirational. I’ve tried to capture once again the extremes, the excesses and the absurdity of the Square Mile during one of the most turbulent times in its history. And as ever I’m grateful to a number of people who provided help and input: Lorne Forsyth, Jane Miller, Joanna Rice, Adam Shutkever, my son Mark, my daughter Anna and my sister Margaret all gave generously of their time. And of course there’s Two Livers, without whom none of this would be possible…
I THINK I’m going mad.
I know I can’t be dead. I know because it’s hot as hell, and that simply does not compute. How could I have died and gone to hell? It’s impossible. Hell is for other people. In fact hell is other people. It’s certainly not for me.
There’s a hot wind blowing over me like a giant hairdryer. I’m lying on my back, being dragged across a surface that alternates between smooth and rough, and my body is aching. The whole of my right side is hurting, as if my ribs are broken. Maybe they are. The sun – that is, I suppose it’s the sun – is burning my face and I’m keeping my eyes tightly closed.
But at least I can’t be dead. That’s important. Because where would the world be without me?
My mouth is parched and my lips feel painful and cracked. I slide and lurch forward a few more yards. Whatever it is I’m lying on is being pulled slowly across the ground. Somewhere nearby I hear a soft sigh that’s feminine, wonderful – a weak-strong moan of someone exhausted but determined.
That’s when the memories come back.
I was flying home to London from a business trip to Africa. I was in a private jet – a Gulfstream 5, my personal favourite – about to sip champagne and toast success when there was an explosion. I recall the pilot’s voice frantically calling in a Mayday, then another loud bang and everything is hazy.
Until now. Now the memories are flooding back.
I’m Dave Hart.
Knowing my name is important – at least, it is for me. With that comes a whole avalanche of other memories. I’m a banker. At the tender age of forty, I became chairman of the Erste Frankfurter Grossbank, one of the largest financial institutions in the world, and took the whole giant organisation into overdrive. I’ve achieved things, made things happen, financed the unfinanceable, poured money into projects in Africa that no one would touch, changed the world. I’ve done things in the world of business that no other human being ever has. And some that no other human being would ever want to. Either way, I’m a finance rock star.
I’d been visiting Lubumbashi, a godforsaken dump of a place where Grossbank’s New Start Plan for Africa – an investment plan to acquire assets and develop them in return for introducing proper governance and democratic institutions – was reshaping a nation. I was reshaping a nation. That sort of thing appeals to me. I like changing things, upsetting people, pissing them off. And I like to think big. If you’re going to bother to think, it’s the only way to go. Only this time someone got really pissed off. Pissed off enough to fire a rocket up the arse of my G5.
There was someone with me. Someone beautiful. An intelligent blonde. Yes, really. Funny too and sexy as hell. And she could drink.
Two Livers.
Laura ‘Two Livers’ MacKay, my head of corporates at Grossbank, my right-hand woman, key business winner, planner, strategist, possessor of a brain the size of a planet and a body to die for, was with
me when the plane crashed.
Two Livers is different from any woman I’ve ever known, and yes, I’ve known a few. When God made blondes, I truly believe he took all of their brains and gave them to this one woman. In my rare moments of lucidity I’ll admit – privately – that most of my success I owe to her.
She is also my lover.
‘Aaaaaagh …’ A woman’s voice. Weaker now. I’m not being pulled forward any more. My hand slips from the side of what I guess is a makeshift stretcher and touches hot sand. Desert sand. I’ve been pulled across the desert. By her. I feel the end of the stretcher slowly being lowered to the ground, gently, so that I’m resting on the sand, hot through the canvas.
Damn. I guess it means I have to get up.
I open one eye cautiously. No need to worry. I can see her kneeling a few yards from me, her head slumped forward, her beautiful blonde hair falling across her face, the tattered remains of what was once a beautiful Chanel dress hanging loosely over her perfect body. She’s barefoot. Walking barefoot on the hot sand. Like a slave girl. The fantasy part of my brain whirrs into action. It’s like a scene from a movie. If I weren’t in so much pain I’d think about jumping her right now. Although having sex on a dune is always a bad idea. Sand gets in all the wrong places.
My own clothes are just as badly torn, my shirt hanging in shreds around me. I ease myself up painfully on to one elbow and watch as she slowly rolls forward until her head touches the sand. She’s instinctively curled into a tight ball, exhausted, vulnerable, her last reserves gone.
Bugger. Now I’ll have to get up and start walking.
I pull myself over and slowly stand up. I’ve certainly cracked several ribs, and I feel weak and slightly dizzy. I’d kill for a drink. In fact several, plus a decent meal and maybe a sharp, reviving line of white powder. But at least I’m alive. The sun is unreasonably hot, and I stare in wonder at the tracks left in the sand, extending far away into the distance. She’s been pulling me for miles, for hours, through the heat of the desert, on a makeshift stretcher made out of two twisted metal poles and a length of canvas. Why would an investment banker do that? Would any banker truly rescue their boss, if they had the choice not to and no one would ever find out? How much more would Two Livers stand to make each year without me top-slicing the bonus pool?
I walk over to her and crouch down beside her, gently stroking her hair. She’s gone, dead to the world. I put my hands under her shoulders and struggle to pull her on to the stretcher. It’s an effort, but once she’s there I pick up the end and prepare to walk forwards, dragging her in the same direction she was pulling me.
Damn, it’s hard. She may be delightfully slim, but to me in this heat she feels heavy. Forget heroics. This is no fun at all. After a couple of paces I ease her back on to the ground. I don’t know if I’m exhausted or lazy, but there’s no way I’m dragging her across the desert. I stare into the distance. It looks the same in each direction: just miles of undulating dunes.
I analyse things the way that only a senior investment banker can. This is a truly desperate, life-threatening situation. It’s not like the ordinary, everyday problems I have to endure in London, like not getting my favourite table for an early evening martini at Dukes Hotel, or getting stuck in traffic on my way to see Fluffy and Thumper from the Pussycat Club for a private performance. I could actually die. I could really fucking die!
I look at Two Livers, exhausted and unconscious from her ordeal. Damn. Two of us certainly won’t make it, not with me pulling anyway. For both our sakes I need to leave her here – obviously after first checking she’s comfortable – and then head off by myself to fetch help. I know I’m fond of her and all that, but it’s in both our interests. Honestly. In fact it’s because I care for her that I have to leave her now. I’m doing this for her.
Phew, that was easy.
Having taken my decision, I start to head off by myself, but I’ve only gone a few paces when I seem to hear a strange sound. Perhaps I’m imagining it, but I’d swear I can hear a tacka-tacka-tacka noise. Maybe it’s just in my head. Fuck it. Must be the heat. Or the drugs. What have I been using lately? Not much, travelling in Africa. In fact I’ve been remarkably clean. I shake my head to clear it and prepare to set off once more in search of salvation – for us both, of course.
That’s when the helicopter appears over the nearest ridge of sand.
I LOVE press conferences. Something about standing in front of the world’s media creating your own truth, your own version of reality, appeals to my vanity. Whatever you say, it will be printed, quoted, shown on live TV, supported by photographs and film and captions and ‘experts’ who may disagree with you but by their very presence validate your existence. It means I’m alive, and that is very important to me.
We’re in Lubumbashi, the armpit of Africa, in what passes for a conference room in the Foreign Ministry. I’ve had my side strapped up by a Belgian doctor – yes, I’ve cracked a few ribs and I’m dehydrated, but so what? In a month or so I’ll be right as rain, and the dehydration I’ll get to work on right after the press conference.
They’ve leant me clothes – a safari suit that gives me an Indiana Jones look – and the British ambassador, a short, stocky man with whisky-flushed cheeks and a permanent sheen of perspiration, is sitting beside me on the podium, next to the helicopter pilot who found me. Thirty or forty journalists and cameramen are crowding the room. Apparently I’m a worldwide news sensation.
Oh yes, and there’s Two Livers. Well, she’s not exactly here. She hasn’t come round yet. They’ve got her on a drip at the local hospital, trying to revive her slowly. It seems to have taken a lot more out of her than it did me. Funny that. Must be a woman thing.
The helicopter pilot is talking; a young Frenchman who looks remarkably cool and handsome and could easily outshine me if he wasn’t so utterly impressed by my courage.
‘We located the crash site at dawn. We landed and found no survivors. Both pilots were dead.’
Damn. They were good men. Bringing the plane down at all was amazing. Presumably they had wives, kids, the whole thing. I wonder if this counts as war risk so our insurers pick up the tab for compensation. Either way I’d better get someone looking into it. Better be seen to do the right thing.
‘We could see that someone ’ad survived, because the remains of a fire were there. And the body of a wild dog.’ A wild dog? Shit. Where did that come from? ‘It must ’ave been part of a pack that attacked the survivors. At this time of year they are desperate. They will attack large animals, cattle, game, even people. But the dogs ’ad been fought off and one was lying dead, with a sharp piece of metal from the wreck driven through its ’eart.’ Damn. I certainly never fought off a pack of wild dogs. At least I don’t think I did. He’s looking at me, his eyes full of hero worship. He’s right. Pull yourself together, Hart. Obviously I must have fought them off. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? They must be worse than bankers at bonus time. Fight them off or they’ll strip you to the bone. The pilot’s continuing: ‘Then we spotted a trail. Footprints and the tracks of what could only be a stretcher. We followed the trail across the desert from the crash site. Monsieur ’art dragged Miss MacKay for seven miles in temperatures of forty-five degrees.’
At this they stop scribbling and burst into a round of spontaneous applause. Cameras flash and my moment of supreme heroism is recorded to be made real and permanent in tomorrow’s press.
‘Mr Hart, Martin Joyce, Reuters. Does this dreadful episode affect your commitment to Africa and to Grossbank’s New Start Plan for Africa?’
I put on my serious, statesmanlike face. I have to, because otherwise I’d grin. I spent an hour this morning on the phone to my PR adviser at Ball Taittinger, London’s – and possibly the world’s – leading spinmeister. I call him the Silver Fox, after his silver-grey, sixty-something, urbane appearance and innate sense of cunning. A lesser man would have been sitting at Two Livers’ bedside, holding her hand and swooning over her, b
ut I know how important first impressions are, and I needed to get this story right. It runs to the heart of who I am, and what can be more important than that?
Before I answer, I take a sip from a glass of water beside me and wince theatrically from the supposed pain. Then a deep breath and a determined look, and I’m away. ‘Quite the opposite. It shows more than ever the need for us all to reaffirm our commitment, redouble our efforts and ensure that lasting change continues – whatever the cost to those of us at the sharp end. Right now, even as I speak, Laura MacKay, the head of corporates at Grossbank, is lying in a hospital bed less than half a mile away on a life-support machine.’ Actually it’s a saline drip, but I’ve never been a great one for detail. ‘I’m going to say to you what I know she would say if she were here. We’re here to stay. We won’t be intimidated. We won’t be put off. I am personally committed to this programme, and I lead from the front.’ In other words, I’m a saint as well as a hero. Got that?
A huge hubbub of voices and the polite conventions of the press conference very nearly break down in the rush to get in follow-up questions. Christ, I’m good.
HEATHROW IS grey, wet and windy and, by comparison with Lubumbashi, just plain dull. It’s taken us a week to get back, because Two Livers was too weak to travel and I had to stay loyally by her side. Right now she’s being pulled along on a trolley by a medical team, theatrically orchestrated by the Silver Fox, still heavily sedated while her body heals after her ordeal. I’m walking beside her, my hand in hers even though she’s not actually conscious, while press photographers snap away and cameras roll.
‘No, I’m sorry, no further comment. Now is a time for healing and recovery. Please give us some privacy. Thank you.’
It’s all bollocks, of course, but you still have to get it right.
Once we’re out of sight of the press, Two Livers goes one way to a private ambulance, while I’m met by Tom, my personal driver, standing tall and imposing next to the Grossbank Bentley that I’m chauffeured around in. For once the Bentley’s unaccompanied by any other vehicles. I’ve dismissed my private security guards, disregarding all advice to the contrary. If I can survive an air crash in the desert and walk away, then I’m clearly not meant to die. God wants Dave Hart to live, so who needs security?
Dave Hart Omnibus II Page 1