‘So it is you who are lying?’
‘No! No – absolutely not. Neither I, nor Sir Oliver, would ever lie to you. We are both telling the truth. It’s just that the truth changes over time. Markets change. Share prices move up and down, and investor attitudes change with them. It’s simply not possible to guarantee an outcome a long time in advance.’
The three men started talking rapidly in Russian. The discussion became heated, and they kept gesturing towards him. Finally Markov reached under the table and pressed a buzzer. The door opened at the far end of the conference room and the two biggest, meanest men he had ever seen came into the room. Their wore black leather jackets and sunglasses, their necks were solid lumps of muscle, they swayed from side to side as they moved, weighed down by their huge shoulders and arms. He looked at Markov. ‘Mr Markov, what’s going on?’
Markov shrugged. ‘Business is business. Sir Oliver will understand. He has to honour his obligations.’
The men towered over Goode. One of them seized him by the arm. He struggled but could not shift the iron grip. He stared at Markov, his voice rising with a note of panic in it. ‘What’s going on? What are you doing to me?’
Markov and his colleagues ignored him. They had stood and were preparing to leave.
‘Wait! Wait – I can call Sir Oliver. I know where he is. Just let me make the call.’
Markov turned back towards him and glanced at his watch. ‘Very well. We have a few minutes.’
The heavies released him and Goode sprang to the speakerphone on the desk. He dialled Barton’s London switchboard. 11 a.m. Moscow time, that should be 8 a.m. London time. The phone rang and rang in London. Finally someone answered in a foreign sounding accent, ‘Barton’s, you’re through to security.’ Goode slammed his fist on the table. ‘I don’t believe it! The main switchboard is always open by eight!’ He looked at Markov, who was shaking his head. ‘This is Melvyn Goode. I’m calling from Moscow. I need to speak to Sir Oliver Barton urgently.’ They waited, for what seemed an age. Then they heard another ringing tone and a woman’s voice answered, ‘Sir Oliver Barton’s office.’
‘Thank God!’ Goode almost sobbed into the phone. He tried desperately to recall the name of Sir Oliver’s secretary – June! ‘June, is that you? It’s Melvyn Goode, I’m calling from Moscow! I must speak to Sir Oliver. It’s a matter of life and death!’
‘I’m sorry, but June’s got the flu this week. My name’s Alison, and I’m temping. Can I help?’
‘Oh God, yes, please help! Please, please, help,’ he sobbed into the telephone. ‘Alison, I must speak to Sir Oliver. Put me through to his hotel in Bermuda. It’s a matter of life and death and there’s no time to spare.’
For a moment there was silence at the other end, and Goode imagined some dumb airhead wondering what to do. But then there was another ringing tone, and after a few rings a sleepy voice answered, ‘Barton.’
‘Sir Oliver!’ Goode screamed into the phone. ‘Sir Oliver, it’s Melvyn Goode. I’m in Moscow, Sir Oliver, with KromGas. They say they’re going to do something terrible to me if we don’t honour our valuation. They say it’s your valuation, Sir Oliver, and they’re saying I’m not honouring it! Please, please help me.’ He broke into uncontrollable sobs.
‘Who is this? Melvyn who? Who are you and what are you talking about? Do you know it’s the middle of the night in Bermuda? I have a very important game of golf in the morning and you’ve woken me up. Whoever you are, just do your best and think of the firm. Now leave me in peace.’ The line clicked and went dead. Goode stared up into the cold, merciless eyes of Markov and his two colleagues. Markov leant forward.
‘I think you should do as Sir Oliver suggests.’ Goode felt an iron grip on each arm. The two heavies lifted him physically from the floor. ‘Do your best and think of the firm.’
Signing Ceremony
IHATE THESE fucking things. Why the Japanese love their bloody formality is beyond me. Sure, they’ve done a big bond issue, and they’ve raised a lot of money – well, quite a lot, $300 million isn’t bad in these markets, even if they are trading below par – but why inflict these awful bloody dinners on everyone? It’s not far now to Claridge’s – the cabbie’s taking a short cut. I should probably tell him to slow down. Don’t want to get there too early. Talking to these buggers is the most difficult part, even with a drink in my hand. And as for giving a speech – which brain scientist came up with that idea? I’m a trader, not some silky smooth corporate financier. Balls the size of melons, that’s me. Give me a market and I’ll trade it, and as long as I can make prices I’ll make money. But this stuff is bollocks. And as for that slimeball from the client coverage team, wanting to ‘check’ my speech, I told him to go fuck himself. I’m a managing director of the firm, I run the fucking Japanese trading desk, and no slimeball from Corporate Finance checks my speeches. If his bosses all go off to Bermuda for an off-site, they’ll just have to trust the rest of us to bale them out.
‘Here we are, mate. That’s eleven-ninety.’
‘Here’s twenty quid. Give us a fiver change and a receipt for twenty.’
‘Thanks, mate – here you go.’
Oh well. That’s probably the last decent bloke I’ll see all evening. Deep breath, quick check of my notes and in we go. There they are. There’s a formal receiving line. Typical. Lots of slimy bankers bowing and scraping and saying what an honour it was to be part of the deal. Christ, what some people will do to make money. Now, let’s check them out. That bloke by the door, he’s probably the one I’m looking for. Looks older than the rest.
‘Hashimoto-san?’
He covers his mouth with his hand. They do that when they want to laugh. Then he bows to me, but I kind of know he doesn’t mean it.
‘No, sir. I am Hashimoto-san’s chauffeur. Hashimoto-san is over there.’
He points to another one standing at the end of the receiving line. Funny little fella, short-sighted by the look of things, better say hello.
‘Hashimoto-san – welcome to London. Congratulations on a very successful deal. I’m Dan Hooker from Barton’s. I run the Japanese trading desk.’
Say something then, you fucker. Christ this is hard work. I don’t think he’s understood a word I’ve said.
‘Sir Oliver Barton personally asked me to give you his congrat -ulations on a great deal. He would have liked to be here himself, but he had to go to Bermuda on urgent business.’
Finally I think I’m getting through to him.
‘Aaaaah, Bermuda? Sir Oriver Barton-san?’
Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I’m going to earn my money tonight. Phew, another one’s joining us, and thanks be to God this one understands English. He’s rabbiting on about Barton’s role in the deal, how Sir Oliver is an old friend, I keep hearing the odd name and then he turns to me to translate. Lots of head nodding, a bow – I try to get down low, but I’m so much taller than he is – and then we swap business cards, make a big show of reading each other’s cards, I try to look fascinated, find I’m nodding my head too much. And then – at last – I can go on through and grab a drink. Everyone else seems to know each other. They’re all chatting away in twos and threes around the room. Who shall I join? I don’t much fancy any of them. I end up chatting to a waiter, nice enough bloke, Italian, he keeps topping me up with Scotch and soda.
‘Mr Hashimoto-san, gentlemen, the signing ceremony will begin shortly in the Asquith Room. Please take your places.’
I find my name on the list and go through to sit down. This is the really boring bit. The good news is that we each get a smart Mont Blanc pen to sign with and we can keep them at the end. The lawyers pass round the documents. There are twenty of us signing altogether, one from each firm. Twenty sets of documents, two documents per set, forty signatures. Now if this was a German deal, or a French, or a Spanish, the lawyers would see to all this without us. But the fucking Japanese just love their signings. It’s all an excuse to get the chairman and his wife over to London
for some shopping. My hand’s aching by the time we finish. I’ve brought my drink through and my glass is empty, but now they hand out champagne. I’ve done this before. We all stand and the professional smoothies from the other banks say ‘Kampai!’ I say ‘God bless you!’ and the chairman gives me a funny look. I’ve been here before, so I know to empty my glass quickly because before you know it we’re off to the next room for supper. It doesn’t do to waste fine champagne.
This next bit isn’t bad. There’s a good supper laid on with fine wine and we each get a present at the end. Some of these companies give away really nice things, like iPods or fancy china. But then I get the bad news. I check where I’m meant to be sitting and some bastard’s put me next to the chairman! On my other side I’ve got some vice-president from Sanji Bank. Neither of them can speak English, so I sit quietly and enjoy the wine. In fact I enjoy quite a lot of it. My Italian friend keeps me topped up, so I’m doing fine by the time they serve the dessert and someone at the end of the table taps his fork on a glass. He stands up and everyone shuts up while he gives a long speech in Japanese. Fuck knows what he’s saying, but they keep grunting enthusiastically, and the chairman sits with his eyes shut, nodding his head modestly. Or maybe he’s just fallen asleep. Then the bloke says something else and I catch the words ‘Barton’s’ and ‘Hooker-san’, and they’re all looking at me. Christ, I hate this stuff. I get up and fumble for my notes. I’m feeling a bit fuzzy, I wonder if I’ve had one too many, but my water glass is empty, so as I check out the people around the table I take a big swig of red. They all look away when I do this – God knows why, haven’t they seen a man have a drink before?
‘Hashimoto-san, gentlemen. It’s a great honour for me to be here tonight.’ I really am a bit breathless. I take another swig of red. I check my notes again. ‘In this very distinguished company. Because it is.’ I check my notes again. This is harder than I thought. I’ve lost my place. Bugger. ‘It’s a great honour to be here tonight, and I really feel very honoured.’ The chairman’s got his eyes open now. At least I’ve got him interested. On the other side of the table I can see some poncey smart-arse from one of the other banks whispering something to the bloke next to him. They look at me and smirk. ‘Oi – pay attention when I’m speeching… I mean talking!’ That got their attention. ‘This is a truly great company, and we are all very lucky to be here tonight.’ I look at the two smart-arses again. ‘Even you.’ They look at each other, gobsmacked. I can’t help laughing. But now I’m really lost. My notes are all messed up. I had them on little cards, but now they’re all out of order, and I’m definitely feeling the worse for wear. What to say? Ad lib. ‘In 1941 Japan attacked Pearl Harbour.’ Silence. Did I say that? Well, I’ve really got their attention now. This is tricky ground, but why not be open about it? ‘And later on, a lot of brave British lads died on the Burma railway.’ I nod at the chairman. ‘Killed by your lot. A lot of people were pretty unhappy about that.’ Quite a bit of whispering, but we all think this stuff – why not say it? ‘But then we nuked a couple of their cities.’ I’m a bit dry. Another swig of red. ‘Instant sunshine! I guess it evened up the score. Anyway, they knew they were toast if they didn’t surrender, so up went the white flag! And that’s all behind us now.’ There’s a lot of whispering now. Fucking rude if you ask me. ‘And then, when I was still a youngster, Hiro… Hiro… Hirohito visited England. And I remember the cover of Private Eye – “Hirohito flies in – nasty nip in the air.” “The Eye says Piss off, bandy knees.” There just wasn’t any respect.’ The chairman’s whispering to the bloke on his other side. I hope he understands all this. I’m just getting to my point. ‘But you, Mr Chairman, got a very different welcome. Because times have changed. We’re all friends now.’ Two of the Japanese are arguing very loudly now. One of them keeps pointing at me, shouting. The other holds him back, makes him sit down. Fucking rude. Probably can’t hold his drink. ‘Now, your deal is trading below par and there are a lot of unhappy investors out there. Probably not many of these blokes here tonight have told you that. But I believe in playing a straight bat. Or maybe I should say a straight samurai sword?’ I pause for them to laugh, but no-one does. They’ve either got no sense of humour or they can’t take a joke. Or maybe both. Anyway, let’s check the notes again. ‘Say something about Sir Oliver.’ They look puzzled. I’m puzzled too. I shouldn’t have just read that bit out. Bugger. Time to wind up. ‘In conclusion, I’d like to propose a toast.’ I look at my glass. It’s empty. My Italian friend starts to bring me a refill, but another waiter grabs his arm and pulls him back. This is awkward. What can I do? ‘May I?’ I pick up the glass of the bloke from Sanji Bank. He looks a bit surprised, but I figure it’s okay. I’ll get him a fresh one later. ‘Hashimoto-san, gentlemen, please raise your glasses. Please join me in drinking a toast to the future success of Nippon Electric… Nippon Electric…’ Buggeration. What the fuck is this company called? Nippon Electric… Razor? Nippon Electric Toothbrush? Nippon Electric Lawnmower?
‘Nippon Electric Rail!’ I’m saved by one of the smart-arses from across the table.
‘Thank you, sir – you’re a scholar! Gentlemen – Nippon Electric Rail!’ They all raise their glasses, except the bloke from Sanji Bank, because I’ve got his, and the Japanese look grim-faced and serious, but that’s just their way. The foreign bankers are all laughing, one or two even raise their glasses to me. I knew I’d wow them. It’s just practice that I need. It wasn’t as bad as all that. I should do this stuff more often.
Ambition
‘I THINK THAT’S him now!’ Paul was peering out the window, trying to see who was getting out of the limousine that had pulled into the driveway. ‘Yes – it’s him! Christ, darling, is everything ready?’
‘Yes, yes, yes – stop panicking, Paul, and come away from there. It’s not as if this is the first dinner party we’ve given since we got married.’
‘Yes, but it is the first we’ve given for my new boss. He’s got quite a reputation, you know. He comes across as rather camp in a sort of southern Californian way, but apparently he’s a serial womaniser.’ He smiled and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘So watch out!’
She smiled. ‘Paul, just try to relax a little. I know there’s a lot riding on this, promotion, Australia and everything, but if it all ends up in the rubbish bin, we’ve still got each other.’ She moved to put her arms around him, but he gently pushed her away and went to answer the doorbell.
From the hall she could hear her husband talking in corporate mode, louder than normal and full of false bonhomie.
‘Duane – how are you? It’s so good to see you. You made it here in one piece, then – I guess deepest Clapham is off the beaten track for you.’
‘Sure thing, Paul, sure thing. Nice place you have here.’ The accent was soft, relaxed, the voice deep and somehow reassuring. Julia thought it almost sexy.
‘Duane, do come through and meet my wife, Julia.’
A tall, handsome man entered, distinguished-looking, with dark eyes, wavy brown hair and a dark moustache. He was wearing what Julia thought of as a Miami Vice suit, possibly Armani, tight fitting around the hips, broad shoulders, silky smooth. He was carrying a large bunch of lilies and what looked like a magnum of Krug.
‘You must be Julia.’ He looked her directly in the eye, piercing, penetrating, giving her the impression of authority and security. He put the bottle on the sideboard. ‘Paul told me you like champagne.’ He smiled. ‘The flowers are for him.’ He leant forward and took her hand and raised it to his lips to kiss it, never letting his eyes fall from hers.
‘I’m…I’m delighted to meet you,’ she said, feeling herself blushing stupidly. ‘The flowers are wonderful.’ She laughed. ‘I’m sure Paul will like them very much.’
‘Do come on through to the drawing room, Duane.’ Paul ushered their guest through to what they normally called the lounge. ‘Here, do take a seat. Can I get you a drink?’
Duane relaxed into an armchair. Julia fou
nd him very measured in his movements, unhurried, like a big, powerful cat. He turned towards her. ‘What would Julia like?’
Paul looked up, startled. ‘Oh… er, yes, of course.’ He looked at Julia. ‘Darling, what would you like?’
She was flustered, unsure how to take Duane’s excessive courtesy. ‘Well, I think Duane’s wonderful champagne would be nice, don’t you, darling?’
‘Please don’t open it on account of me,’ said Duane, looking at her. ‘I wanted to bring something special for the two of you. Paul is one of my key men here in London, and I just wanted the two of you to know how much I appreciate him. Keep it for a special occasion. I’d love a gin and tonic.’
‘Oh,’ said Julia, relieved and silently delighted that they could keep such a fine – and large – bottle for another occasion. ‘I’d love to join Duane in a gin and tonic, darling.’
Paul beamed. ‘Righty-ho! Two gin and tonics coming up!’ He disappeared into the kitchen and they heard the ice machine clunking out ice-cubes. Duane leant across to Julia, who was sitting at the far end of the sofa. ‘So tell me the story of the two of you. How did you meet?’ She found herself blushing again as she started to relate how she and Paul had met when he was a graduate trainee and she had been temping…
It seemed no time at all before they were sitting down for supper and Julia was serving the roast. Julia was conscious that she had been doing most of the talking – encouraged by Duane – while Paul was drinking steadily. As supper progressed, conversation moved on to corporate matters.
‘So, Paul, how do you see things going forward? Most people say the job you took on in London was a poisoned chalice, but you grasped it and you’ve succeeded. But now the job’s done, so what next?’
Paul nearly choked on his wine. This could not be going better. Duane not only seemed relaxed, but he was being open, expansive, even indiscreet in his observations on the other members of the management committee, which Paul had only recently joined. And he seemed to have taken a particular shine to Julia.
Dave Hart Omnibus II Page 37