It’s not that I’m religious – the only thing I truly believe in is me – but I do have a sense of destiny. I’m here for a purpose, and that purpose is not just drinking and screwing and doing drugs.
Having said that, on the way in from the airport I call Sabine, twenty-five, from Belgium, and Charlotte, twenty-three, from Boston, and arrange to have a party. A private party to celebrate my homecoming. Just the three of us.
EVEN GOD took one day off, so I figure I can too. Bad habits die hard, and after twenty-four hours I’m totally wasted, my nose is semi-permanently running and even the Viagra isn’t working any more. How much abuse can a body take? Especially with three cracked ribs. The girls are fantastic, but I need to escape back to work.
My return to the Grossbank building is everything you would expect. It’s like the second coming. God has arrived. Or is it Elvis? Must be Elvis, because cheering traders stand up at their workstations on the trading floor to applaud as I limp purposefully towards my huge corner office. I have a strange feeling of déjà vu – haven’t I done this before? Maria, my faithful secretary, plump, half-German, mid forties and a Grossbank lifer, is waiting to show me in and welcome me back. I’ve always thought of her as Grossbank’s answer to Brunhilde, but this time she actually puts her arms around me and gives me a gentle hug.
‘Welcome back, Mr Hart. Welcome home. And no more adventures, please.’
I give her a devil-may-care smile and disappear into my office, where I take my jacket off, close the blinds, put my feet on the desk and feel instantly, indescribably bored.
I turn to the computer. ‘You have 1,741 unread emails.’ I click on ‘Select All’ and delete them. Who the hell are these people who think they can impose their garbage on me – management reports, meeting notes, requests for authorisation of this and that? It’s so dull I can almost feel a coma coming on. This is definitely not what I’m here for.
I flick on the intercom. ‘Maria, any messages? I mean important ones?’
I really didn’t need to add that. Maria understands. I’m not interested in bullshit messages of congratulations from competitors – or other investment bankers who think they might be in the same league as me – and I am especially uninterested in anything from Wendy, my ex-wife, who will have been rubbing her hands in anticipation at getting hold of some of my estate, though I do tell Maria to send round a container-load of toys from Harrods. I may not make it to see Samantha, our five-year-old, for a while, given all of my various commitments and the time I need for healing, but I don’t want her to think I don’t love her.
‘Maria, send in Paul Ryan, would you?’
Paul is my head of markets. He runs the traders who swing the Grossbank balance sheet around, taking positions, buying and selling stocks and bonds, foreign exchange, commodities, anything where an elephant the size of Grossbank can move markets, squeeze out the little guys and profit. If Two Livers is my right hand, Paul is my left. I owe a huge amount of my success to him and, more importantly, I feel I can trust him. Not too far, but at least some considerable way. So long as I control his bonus, which I ensure is also considerable.
What I particularly like about Paul is the fact that he’s gay. This is important, because he’s incredibly good-looking, always immaculately turned out, and if he wasn’t a banker he could be a film star or a male model. As a result he’s the perfect companion: a pussy magnet who has no interest in women. I enjoy business trips with Paul, and I’m going to plan a few now.
The door opens and he bounds in. ‘Dave, the jungle drums weren’t working this morning – I had no idea you were back in the office. I thought you’d be taking it easy.’ He’s full of energy and enthusiasm, bright-eyed probably from having just done a couple of lines of coke, which would explain why he wasn’t here to brown-nose when I first arrived. But he’s making up for it now. He gives me a hug and I have to gently ease him away before he cracks my ribs again.
‘Easy, big guy. I’ve got three cracked ribs and the reason I’m back in the office is that I need a rest. Couldn’t keep up the pace at home.’
He grins. He understands. ‘Dave, you’re a hero. A real hero. The way you saved Two Livers, fought off a pack of wild dogs, dragged her across the desert in that heat – it’s unimaginable.’
He’s right. It is unimaginable. Anyone who knows me at all can’t imagine it. I give a semi-self-deprecating smile. ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the press.’
He says nothing, which troubles me. Clearly he doesn’t believe a word of it. In fact the whole vibe I’m getting is scepticism tinged with hostility. Mind you, if he was that gullible I’d never have hired him.
This is the great conundrum of investment banking. You need to hire damned good people, and you need them to be sharp and smart and aggressive and freethinking. Pussycats need not apply. But then what happens if they’re freethinking about you? It’s called evolution. They don’t just eat your lunch. Eventually they eat you.
Forget the business trips. I’d better start keeping an eye on Paul.
My eyes glaze over as he updates me on what’s been happening in the business: new hires, new fires, new clients, new business and new offices being opened as the Grossbank empire spreads ever wider. In other words, all the tedious detail that keeps people busy if they spend their lives below thirty thousand feet.
He tells me that our balance sheet is now so bloated that it exceeds the gross domestic product of Germany. That’s right. The value of all the goods and services produced and consumed last year by some eighty-two million hard-working people in the Federal Republic of Germany has now been officially exceeded by the financial assets and liabilities of a single firm. There are seventy-five thousand Grossbank employees worldwide, but actually fewer than fifty of us who matter. They’re the ones who call the shots. And the ones who actually understand what’s going on? A tiny handful, if that, including Paul and Two Livers, but certainly not including me, and even then there’s no way any one brain can comprehend all the moving parts – the risks, the complexities, the vulnerabilities – of something so huge. It makes me want to yawn. Thank God Paul’s there to handle it.
‘Paul, I think I’m having a crisis.’
He stops in full flow and stares at me. ‘What sort of crisis? A real one? Or …’ He taps the side of his head. ‘You know. The other sort.’
Only a true friend could say this to me. The implication in his question is that I might be suffering from something more serious than a hangover or an excess of nose candy. He’s suggesting I might actually have something wrong with me. In my head. Any other employee would have been instantly on Death Row, black-bagged by a couple of security guards and walked out of the building.
But Paul’s a friend. I think.
‘I’m bored.’ As if to demonstrate how bored I am, I get up and pace uselessly around the office. ‘This all seems so … worthless. Everything we do. All of it’s bullshit.’
He shrugs and tries to look sympathetic. ‘But, Dave, it’s so well paid. Think of the money.’
‘I know. You’re right. But I need to find a way of keeping engaged. The whole Africa thing was exciting to start with, but now it just seems so yesterday.’
‘But the firm’s making a ton of money out there. Don’t knock it.’
‘I know. But other people can handle it now. It doesn’t need me any more.’
There’s a long, awkward silence. I wonder if he thinks anything needs me any more. Or ever really did. Maybe I’ve achieved the ultimate goal of any boss – I’ve made myself utterly redundant.
‘It’s scary, Paul.’
‘Scary?’
‘Scary. I feel as if my life is futile, worthless and insignificant. Yet I make millions. Tens of millions. In fact I made more in a single year last year than I once thought I’d ever make in my lifetime. How can that be?’
This really is scary. With what I’m making, and what the firm has actually achieved, I ought to be really happy. In fact travelling aro
und Africa with Two Livers I was. So what’s happened?
‘Dave, if you ask me, you just need a new challenge. Or maybe a change of scene. Have you thought about doing something outside banking? Not full-time, obviously, but why don’t you look at getting involved with something charitable or philanthropic? Something that would take your mind off things here, just for a while?’
Gotcha, you bastard. He really is after my job. As if I wouldn’t see it. ‘You may be right, Paul. I feel as if this whole Africa thing has changed my perspective on life. On what we’re all here for. I need to give it some more thought.’
‘Sure, Dave.’ He takes his cue and gets up to go, but I catch him glancing quickly around my office, sizing it up. Et tu, Brute? I’ll be on his case from now on. I’m glad we had this little chat. They say excessive drug-taking can make you paranoid, but I think that’s a good thing. Clearly Paul Ryan and I will have a different relationship in future.
TWO LIVERS is staying at the Cromwell Hospital, in a private suite which is filled with flowers and gifts and messages from well-wishers. Far more than I had. Why is that?
She’s still asleep when I arrive, and I take the opportunity to look around and check out the messages on some of the cards. Clients, colleagues, other firms and, of course, headhunters have all taken their cue and sent extravagant and unnecessary gifts and messages. I think they’re very extravagant and unnecessary.
On the bedside cabinet she has a pile of newspapers and cuttings of the coverage of our little escapade in Africa. ‘Hero Hart defies death, saves colleague’ and similar headlines stare gratifyingly at me.
I hear a stirring from the bed and go to sit beside her, dragging over a chair and crouching so that my face is close to hers. She’s wearing a simple cotton hospital gown through which I can see the outline of her perfect 34DDs moving as she breathes. I like this. If only she was feeling a little better there’d be some interesting role-play possibilities. Her eyes flutter open the way I’ve only ever seen happen in movies.
‘D–Dave …?’
I squeeze her hand. ‘I’m here.’
‘I–is it you, or am I dreaming?’ She looks confused, still half asleep. I want to say she’s dreaming: a really obscene, dirty dream in which she gets to perform all kinds of sex acts on her boss in a hospital bed. But she’s still recovering and from somewhere a voice of restraint holds me back. Time to be civilised.
‘Sure it’s me. I’ve been here ages, staring at you, worrying about you. Day after day. I was terrified we might lose you. I was terrified I might lose you.’ It’s bullshit of course. This is my first visit. I had Maria stay in touch with the doctors and they said that today she’d probably be awake for long enough for me to see her and have a sensible conversation. ‘So how are you?’
Or better yet, how’s your memory? Am I going to have to pay you off at bonus time so you don’t blow my cover on the whole hero thing?
She shakes her head. ‘Bad. Aching. Tired all the time.’
Phew, sounds good to me. I stroke her forearm gently, smiling a soft, reassuring smile. ‘That’s natural. Don’t you worry. Just try to forget all about it. You’re safe now.’
She frowns. Oh shit. ‘Dave …?’
‘Yes?’ Solicitous, patient, listening. Christ, I’m good. Really good. I should have been an actor. Maybe that’s why I’m so successful as an investment banker.
‘Dave … I’ve looked at the stories … the reports of … of what happened … out there.’
‘But you shouldn’t have. You mustn’t trouble yourself with all that. Draw a line.’
‘But … Dave …’
I’m sterner now, or at least mock stern, the way you can be when you have someone else’s best interests at heart. As if. ‘For once just listen to me, will you? Let yourself recover. This is a time for resting and healing.’ Oh yes, and forgetting. ‘And try to forget. Why stir up horrible memories?’
‘But there’s something you should know.’
Oh, fuck. ‘What’s that?’
‘I won’t ever forget …’ Her eyes fill with tears.
Christ. I can’t bear the suspense. I have to prompt her. ‘You won’t forget what?’
‘I … I … won’t ever forget … what you did for me.’ Yeehaa! Gotcha. Am I invincible or what?
I squeeze her hand again. ‘It was nothing. Honestly. Believe me. It was nothing at all.’
I’VE ALWAYS thought of myself as profoundly shallow. And selfish. Let’s not forget selfish. The kinds of things that bother ordinary people just don’t get to me. On the contrary, they simply pass me by. I regard it as a matter of professional pride to be a moral vacuum. Well, not exactly a vacuum, but morally neutral, the way markets are. So whether it’s cheating in exams or cheating on your wife, I take the view that rules are for little people.
In which case, why does the whole thing with Two Livers bother me so?
I should have been bothered this afternoon, when I was photographed handing over fat cheques to the grieving widows of my ex-pilots. They were still young, quite pretty, though too upset to be jumpable, with small children, all dressed in black, and we sat in a conference room while the bank’s lawyers explained the arrangements for the trust funds we’re setting up for the kids and the financial arrangements for the widows, and all the time a photographer snapped quietly away, getting me from all the best angles, showing how I was sharing the pain and the grief and making sure we could quietly – or not so quietly – tell the story to the media of how fair and generous I’ve been. With the bank’s money, of course.
And now I’m back in the office, the pain and grief behind me, in one of our own conference rooms with the blinds closed and the little red ‘Do Not Disturb’ light switched on over the door. I’m having a private session with Melissa Myers, Grossbank London’s head of diversity in the Human Resources department. Melissa is a lawyer specialising in employment law and human rights, and her role is to ensure that women and minorities on Grossbank’s payroll receive appropriate treatment. I like Melissa and am very supportive of her work. She’s highly paid. I make sure of that.
Of course it helps that she is very attractive. Melissa is mid thirties, a feisty brunette with a sexy walk and dark brown eyes that were made for flirting. Right now, she’s got her top off and she’s kneeling at my feet, servicing me while I stand and sip a glass of celebratory champagne. I’ve always found this to be the best way of drinking champagne, and I appreciate Melissa helping me to enjoy it.
Then the door bursts open. For Christ’s sake, don’t people knock any more? I assume it’s a group of juniors looking for a place to make a conference call to their boss. It’s nearly six o’clock, the witching hour when Managing Directors give their slaves their night’s work. I’m ready to rip them all new arseholes, although doing it from a less than dignified position might be a challenge. But when I turn round it isn’t a bunch of juniors. It’s Paul Ryan, and he looks seriously worried.
‘Dave – we have a rogue trader.’
Oh, shit.
IT’S 2 A.M. and I’m sitting in a room full of worried men. We’re all unshaven, we have our sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, sweat patches under our arms, and the place smells of stale sandwiches and coffee. Oh, and fear. There’s quite a lot of fear in this room as well.
‘Who hired the bastard?’
No one wants to meet my glance. It turns out that a few months ago we unleashed on an unsuspecting market some wunderkind with a French-sounding name, who turns out to be a major-league disaster. The exact size of the disaster is still unfolding, but if it turns out to be half as bad as we think, we’ll have to disclose what happened, and then there’ll be a massive blame game. Normally there’d be a cover-up – no one wants to admit to fallibility, after all. Pay the bastard off and move on. He only lost millions – maybe tens of millions – of other people’s money. We do it all the time. It’s our job to lose other people’s money. That’s what we’re paid for.
But this is differen
t. We just seem to keep adding noughts to the losses this wanker has run up and it’s getting beyond serious. If it gets any worse, then heads will roll, reputations will be irreparably damaged and careers will end, and not just for a few months’ gardening leave until people pop up elsewhere, but permanently.
‘He was an internal promotion. From the back office.’ The man who answers is Bill Williams, our new head of fixed income trading. He joined a month ago from Hardman Stoney, and he’s the luckiest man here, because this cannot possibly be his fault. In fact it could be a fantastic career break, depending how many of the people in this room end up being taken outside and shot.
Damn. A back-office promotion. In the two-tier world of the trading floor, there are two classes of people – a bit like the divide between officers and men in the army. Officers are lawyers, accountants, MBAs, PhDs and others with classic ‘front office’ revenue-generating backgrounds: smart people who understand string theory and know their way round a wine list. The men are the settlement and operations staff who actually book the trades, reconcile them, track the P&L, and generally make things happen on behalf of the officers – who naturally take all the decisions. And all the consequences.
It’s normally hard for someone working in the back office to make the transition to a front-office revenue-generating job, although some of the most talented traders have exactly that background. From a risk management perspective it can be a nightmare, because back-office people actually understand how things work.
I turn to the dumbest man in the room, John Harden, Grossbank’s head of Risk Management. ‘Why wasn’t it spotted sooner?’
Even as I ask the question, I know how stupid it is. Risk Management don’t actually manage risk. They try to quantify it, tabulate it, rearrange it into columns of figures and circulate neatly colour-coded reports to senior people in the firm. By seeing it written down, the people at the top think it’s under control. It lets us sleep at night, or at least leaves us untroubled as we do whatever else it is we get up to.
Dave Hart Omnibus II Page 2