Smart People
KARL LOOKED AROUND the room. There was an almost palpable feeling of tension. The other candidates were trying to appear calm, but gave the game away by constantly taking surreptitious glances at each other, weighing up the competition. There were three of them – two men and a woman. All were wearing what they thought would best pass for business attire. Jason, from Manchester, was in his only suit, a light blue wool and polyester mix from M&S. Paul, from Dublin, was in a heavy dark pin-stripe, pure wool, but undoubtedly borrowed, given away by the baggy fit of the jacket. Linda, from Essex, was in what some glossy magazine had probably told her was the latest ‘City girl’ power suit.
Karl relaxed. They were children. He would walk this interview. After their initial mutual introductions, conversation had become increasingly stilted and had finally dried up. It was well known that the corporate finance department of Barton’s only took on two ‘exceptional’ graduate trainees each year. They preferred to hire people with professional qualifications such as accountants and lawyers, or in extremis MBAs.
Karl’s Brooks Brothers suit was expensive – by his usual standards it had cost a small fortune – but his uncle, who was a senior banker at Schleppenheimer in New York, had offered to pick up the tab if he got the job. His tie was Hermès, a staggeringly expensive extravagance for a student, but one which he saw as an investment. His slicked-down fair hair was his own idea. Karl took a deep breath. He felt as well prepared as he could possibly be. He had been given a checklist by his uncle and was nothing if not diligent. He looked around again at the other candidates, and wondered maliciously if he should try to give himself an extra edge – after all, it was not just about being good, but about being better than the others. He cleared his throat.
‘What did you think of the non-farm payroll numbers in the US last night?’
He was looking at Jason, but his question could have been aimed at any of them. Jason gulped and blushed, staring guppy-like at Karl.
‘You did see them?’ asked Karl with mock seriousness.
‘N – no…’
Karl put his hand to his head in astonishment.
‘Oh, for God’s sake. These guys are professionals. They take the whole process seriously and they expect us to as well. Presumably you’re at least up to date with the internal re-organisation at Barton’s? There was an excellent account of it in this week’s Capital Markets Review.’
Now they were all doing guppy impressions. He almost laughed.
‘And you must have read Sir Oliver Barton’s speech at Davos about the future of international investment banking? It’s been on the Barton’s website for the past three weeks.’
They looked utterly shocked, appalled, in fact stark naked. It was very hard not to grin.
‘Come on, guys. This firm wants people who can think.’
He stared around the room at them.
‘Oh well,’ he shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose it will matter.’
Before any of them could reply, the door opened and a smiling secretary entered.
‘Mr Koenig?’
She looked around the candidates and smiled as Karl nodded and stood up.
‘Mr Butcher will see you now.’
Karl smiled and went to follow her out of the room. As the door was about to close behind him, he could not resist turning to grin smugly at his fellow candidates.
‘Good luck, guys!’ he said as the door closed behind him. No-one spoke. They looked helplessly at one another.
‘Come in, Mr Koenig.’
The door swung silently shut behind Karl. He was in an enormous corner office with vast floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the City. At one end, some thirty feet away, was a huge desk with a big leather swivel chair behind it. Some ten feet in front of the desk was a small metal frame chair, standing alone in the middle of the room. It looked more like the scene for an interrogation than an interview. Butcher himself was an enormous bear of a man, probably in his forties, very tall with a thick mane of dark hair, receding at the temples. He was in his shirtsleeves, standing behind his desk with his tie undone, a chunky Rolex on his wrist. He looked more like a boxer than a banker.
Karl stepped forward and walked self-consciously towards the desk to shake hands.
‘Stop!’
Butcher’s voice boomed out as Karl passed the small metal-framed chair. He wiped his hands nervously down the sides of his trousers, a trick his uncle had taught him – there was apparently nothing worse than a limp, wet handshake.
‘Mr Koenig, I take it you are aware that the programme you are seeking to join is one of the most highly sought after entry-level positions in the City?’
‘Yes… sir,’ replied Karl. He was not sure why he had added the ‘sir’, but it seemed the right thing to do in the face of Butcher’s booming authority.
‘Mr Koenig – what do you think are the key qualities we are seeking in the young people we hire?’
Karl was flustered. This was not what he had expected at all.
‘Er…well… I suppose intelligence, hard work and commit ment.’ Butcher looked at him but did not react.
‘Mr Koenig!’
‘Yes sir?’
‘Mr Koenig – do you see that chair beside you?’
Karl looked at the chair.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mr Koenig, I want you to climb on to that chair and stand on it.’
Karl was utterly baffled. This was all going terribly wrong. What on earth was he supposed to do now? He swallowed hard and stepped up onto the chair, standing with his arms by his sides, looking pitifully towards Butcher. The seconds passed as Butcher stared at him. He could feel his pulse racing in his head and wondered what on earth this was meant to prove.
‘Thank you, Mr Koenig. You may get down now.’
Karl stepped down and stood uncertainly, wondering what to do next. Butcher had written something on a form on his desk. Now he looked up at Karl.
‘Thank you. You may leave.’
Karl was totally bewildered.
‘Is that all… sir?’
Butcher looked at him, apparently surprised that he had not already left.
‘Of course that’s all, Mr Koenig. You don’t think we have a place for you at Barton’s, do you? We need people who are prepared to question what others take for granted. We don’t want people who just take orders. We want people who can think, Mister Koenig – people who can think!’
Karl felt as if the floor was about to swallow him up. He half turned towards the door, desperately trying to find something to say. His desperate mental fumblings were interrupted by Butcher’s booming voice.
‘You have a lot to learn, Mr Koenig, not least being how to think. Now how about starting by thinking your way to the door? I have other candidates to see!’
All eyes turned to him as he steeped out of Butcher’s office. He looked pale. It was Jason who spoke first.
‘That was quick. Are you alright?’
Karl turned and looked at him. Should he help them? Should he explain what would happen to them? It was irrelevant as far as he was concerned – he had already blown it. But would they believe him if he did tell them? He thought for a moment and smiled smugly.
‘No problem at all – it was great. And guys – one tip from me. Whatever happens, don’t stand on the chair.’
Takeover
FOR ONCE, PEOPLE were early for the weekly directors’ meeting. Rupert noted with satisfaction that even some of the poorer attenders were present, people who showed their faces once or twice a year, if at all.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, attempting to call the meeting to order. The low murmur of conversation continued, as numerous side conversations carried on while he tried to get the meeting underway. It seemed to him there was a hostile undercurrent. Typical, he thought. ‘Gentlemen, today is a very important day for us. As you know, the acquisition of the firm by Schweizerische Grossbank went unconditional on Tuesday.’ He looked around the table
to see who was paying attention. ‘We now have new owners.’ Still, a low buzz continued. He hoped the faces around the table understood the full import of what he was saying. ‘Gentlemen, as a sign of their immediate commitment to the business, and an early indication of how serious they are about understanding what it is that we all do here in London, SGB have sent Ernst Fleischfresser over from Zurich. Dr. Fleischfresser is one of the most senior members of the SGB board, and has been charged with developing their international strategy. He had dinner with Sir Colin last night to talk about the integration of the asset management business and today he’s devoting himself to meetings with key personnel in the various investment banking departments.’ He looked around meaningfully. ‘Starting with us in Corporate Finance.’ For the first time there was silence around the table. ‘I’ve invited him to join this meeting so that he can get a flavour of the department, who the directors are, and what sort of projects we’re all pursuing. Anne will bring him in shortly to join us. Are there any questions?’
For a moment the silence continued, then half a dozen people tried to speak at once.
‘One at a time, please,’ said Rupert, pleased to have the chance for once to exert some authority. ‘Paul, would you like to kick off?’
‘I certainly would.’ Paul Rowntree was one of the older directors, a dinosaur who had been with the firm for over twenty-five years. He had one or two ‘special relationships’ on the corporate side, though he had not produced a meaningful fee from them in the last five years. But he was abrasive, forceful and had been a major shareholder in the firm before the takeover. ‘Rupert, what in the hell went on in those final negotiations? The price SGB are paying is barely enough to cover the value of our asset management business, let alone the rest of the firm.’ There were murmurs of agreement around the table. ‘It’s as if we’ve sold asset management for no premium and thrown in the rest of the firm for free. What’s going on?’
Rupert stared at the older man. ‘Look, Paul, what’s done is done. The terms have been agreed and announced. They’re final. What do you hope to achieve by raking over old coals now?’
Rowntree leant forward aggressively. ‘Rupert, I don’t want to call into question your wisdom or…’ he coughed ostentatiously, ‘…authority in this meeting, but I would like to know who was involved from our side in negotiating the terms.’ He leant back in his chair and folded his arms, having thrown down the gauntlet to Rupert.
Rupert looked wretched, blushed scarlet and looked around the room, out of the windows, down at his papers, anywhere but at Rowntree.
‘Well, if you must know… Sir Colin decided to negotiate the final stages himself.’
Rowntree leant forward, incredulous. ‘So are you saying that no director from Corporate Finance was involved in the final stages of a transaction in which our own firm was sold?’
‘Yes!’ Rupert was almost tearful. ‘Yes, dammit. And right now our new lord and master is sitting fifty yards away down the corridor in my office, waiting to be summoned here to meet us all. So let’s stop raking over the coals and start thinking what we’re going to say to him, shall we?’
The faces round the table were ashen. Rowntree, square-jawed and belligerent, gave Rupert an unforgiving, hostile stare.
‘So what you’re saying, Rupert, is that the final stages were delegated upwards from the people in this firm who are meant to be experts to someone who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow when it comes to selling companies? The Swiss went over our heads until they reached a level of sufficient incompetence to be able to do the sort of deal they wanted.’ He gazed around at his colleagues. ‘And now you expect us all to be good boys, do as we’re told, not rock the boat and WALK NAKED INTO THE GAS-CHAMBER! Is that correct?’
Rupert felt near to breaking. ‘Look, Paul, there’s no point going into this now! Let’s just think what we’re going to say to Fleischfresser, shall we?’
Rowntree was icy as he contemplated the younger man, his head of department.
‘I suppose we have to. It doesn’t much matter for me, but there are people round this table, as well as elsewhere in the department, who have young families, mortgages, school fees, commitments. Don’t you think your first priority should be to get our new owners to offer guarantees and lock-ins to key staff, so that we don’t have a mass walk-out of our most talented people?’
‘I agree!’ It was Charles Howard, a thirty-five-year-old considered one of the ‘Young Turks’ of the department. He was an old Etonian with impeccable social credentials, a man whose appearance was never short of crisp in a double-breasted old City sort of way. He turned and shouted to the room in general, ‘Let’s soak these Swiss bastards for all we can get!’
They cheered back enthusiastically, but then all heads turned as the door opened and a short, portly man in slacks and a dark brown check sports jacket entered, unannounced. He was wearing brown shoes and what seemed to be a polyester tie, bright red like a shop steward.
‘Rupert, gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt.’ He looked meaningfully at his watch. ‘But I thought this meeting was meant to start promptly on the hour?’ His English was heavily accented, guttural, and he gazed around the room, taking in the scene and focussing particularly on Howard.
‘Dr. Fleischfresser, welcome!’ Rupert stood, blushing, and ushered the small Swiss into the room, pulling out the empty chair next to his own to allow him to sit down. ‘Do sit down. Some coffee?’
Fleischfresser nodded. ‘Cream and two sugars.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Rupert looked around helplessly, until Howard reluctantly rose and went to the coffee pot and cups lined up at a side table.
‘Now, Dr. Fleischfresser, shall I do some introductions? Would it be helpful if I were to go around the table and introduce the directors in turn, and perhaps they could then say a few words about their particular clients and their current projects?’
‘No.’
The temperature in the room fell by about five degrees. Rupert swallowed, feeling himself blushing again. Most of the others were staring down at their papers. Only Rowntree was fixing the Swiss with a malevolent stare.
Howard walked over to Fleischfresser carrying a fine bone china cup and saucer.
‘Cream and two sugars, wasn’t it, Doktor Fleischfresser?’ he asked silkily. He put the cup on the table in front of the Swiss. He looked at Rupert. ‘Perhaps Doktor Fleischfresser would prefer to sit on the other side of the table, away from the radiator? It’s less hot there.’ As he turned to resume his seat, standing behind the Swiss where he could not be seen by their visitor, he gestured towards his polyester and wool mix jacket. Facing away from Fleischfresser, he half mumbled, ‘His jacket might melt!’ Several directors sitting nearby tried not to laugh, hiding their faces with their hands.
‘Excuse me?’ Fleischfresser turned to Howard. ‘I missed what you said. Is there a problem?’
‘Not at all, sir. Just let me know if you’d like a refill.’
Rupert’s face was shiny with perspiration.
‘Dr Fleischfresser, we really would like to introduce ourselves to you properly. Are you sure that it wouldn’t be helpful to go around the table?’
‘Or for us to take turns under it?’ muttered Howard as an aside.
Fleischfresser, who had again missed what Howard had said, turned towards him.
‘What was that, Mr…?’
‘Howard, sir. Charles Howard. I’m the youngest director in the department. I joined the firm straight from Balliol – that’s an Oxford college,’ he smiled condescendingly. ‘So I have the privilege of serving the coffee.’
By way of reply, the Swiss picked up his coffee cup and noisily slurped from it, staring thoughtfully at Howard. Several of the directors again tried to hide their reactions, straining not to laugh. Only Rowntree openly rolled his eyes heavenwards.
Rupert took in the reactions around the table, realised it was potentially a decisive moment and dived in. He picked up his own coffee cup, rai
sed it to his lips and slurped even more noisily than his guest. Fleischfresser, oblivious to the reaction around the table, turned angrily towards Rupert.
‘What are you doing? Is this English humour?’
Rupert suffered a desperate panic attack and stared at the Swiss, his mouth open and his eyes bulging.
‘Er… no… not at all.’
Fleischfresser pulled some papers from his jacket pocket.
‘Gentlemen, I have here this department’s results for the past three years.’ He looked around the table, pausing for effect. ‘They’re terrible. Truly terrible. What have you got to say for yourselves?’
Dead silence. For what seemed like a very long time. Even Howard had stopped grinning, and Rowntree was suddenly focussed on the Swiss in a less certain way.
‘Gentlemen, I repeat – what have you got to say for yourselves?’
Rupert decided it was time to show some leadership.
‘Dr Fleischfresser, I’m aware of our recent track record, but you must understand that three years is a very short time over which to judge the Corporate Finance Department. This is a long-term, relationship-driven business. Sometimes it can take many years for a corporate relationship to bear fruit. We’ve always taken comfort from the fact that in the end, we’re always there. We have a long-term approach.’
Fleischfresser turned towards him.
‘And just how long is long-term? Do you know that you list as ‘clients’ corporations that have never paid you a single fee in the last ten years?’
‘Do we?’ Rupert was genuinely nonplussed. ‘Not that I doubt your word, you understand, but… well, I suppose it’s possible.’
‘And that from your entertainment budget – which is over £1m sterling a year – you devoted £600,000 to entertaining “clients” who have not paid a fee in the last five years.’
Dave Hart Omnibus II Page 34