by PAUL BENNETT
‘So Alfredo got shot because he had principles? Who would have thought it? Unbelievable!’
‘See him in a new light, do you?’
‘No, just one small bright spot on an otherwise black surface. Still, it’s an improvement on Roberto, I suppose.’
‘Roberto may be ruthless, but you can’t say he isn’t effective.’
‘Too quick to judge, too prone to carrying a grudge,’ I said. ‘Was Alfredo the same when he was running the operation?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘And is that why you left the bank?’
‘No,’ he said, smiling. ‘I just didn’t fit in – you can understand that.’
‘You were always the same, Gus. If that was the reason, then why take you into the bank in the first place?’
‘You force me to admit,’ he said, gazing down at the layer of wispy cloud, ‘that I just wasn’t cut out for it. Entirely unsuited. To be frank, I found banking a bore, and maybe that was why I wasn’t any good at it.’
‘That’s not what Mother used to say. She described you as cautious but imaginative.’
‘Like I said, entirely unsuited to be banker.’
‘So what do you do now?’ I asked, sensing his reticence to discuss the matter further.
‘Live very nicely off the lump sum settlement and the pension that Alfredo gave me when I resigned. He was very generous.’
‘This really is a day full of surprises. On an island with a zero crime rate, my bar is trashed. You show up out of the blue. And Alfredo is both principled and generous.’
‘And don’t forget the Russians,’ Gus said.
‘Don’t worry, there’s no chance of that.’
Gus and I continued to talk through what was either a late lunch or an early dinner, depending on what time zone the airline was operating on. This indeterminate meal – shrimp salad, dry chicken breast wrapped in spinach and soggy filo pastry, strawberry fool and cheese and crackers – was designed more for eating up time than eating up. Bull cleared his tray and, even from across the aisle, I could still hear his stomach rumbling. Before Gus reclined his seat and settled down under the thin blanket to snatch a little sleep I extracted enough from him to update me on little Carlo and the bank.
Carlo, contrary to the leopard and spots theory, must have changed his ways – maybe the lesson had been learned the easy way. In the eight years since I had last seen him there had been no disasters; no quick-buck investments in schemes too good to be true, no double-up gambling in what is always a vain attempt to turn persistent losses into instant gains. The branch in Amsterdam, ideally placed, as intended, to take advantage of the growth in the European economy and the expanding Community and its satellites eagerly waiting to join, had expanded rapidly. So much so that Carlo’s operation now contributed a fifth of the bank’s combined profits. With New York also playing an increasing role, the original Silvers in London now accounted for less than half the profits of the group as a whole. I wondered whether my mother was pleased about that or viewed it nostalgically, the old having to give way to the new.
The Amsterdam office, Gus told me, was unrecognizable to the one I had briefly known. It had moved twice since its set up and now occupied a large modern building in the heart of the city. Carlo still lived in the same apartment and it was here that Bull and I would stay – I hoped that this too would be unrecognizable.
As Gus’s breathing slowed and became deeper, I moved over to sit next to Bull. From the narrowing of his big brown eyes I could tell there was much on his mind.
‘What was Gus saying about Russians?’ he asked, indicating what was uppermost.
‘Nothing to concern us,’ I answered. ‘Ancient history, that’s all. Part of my dim and distant past. What we need to concentrate on is the future.’
‘And it’s thanks to you that Michael will have one,’ he said.
‘As soon as we find Carlo you can join Mai Ling and Michael in America. Gus has made all the arrangements. Once they arrive, the hospital will start on all the tests, and then it will simply be down to finding a suitable donor.’
‘How long do you think it will take to find Carlo?’ he said, anxious to wrap up the contract and be at Mai Ling’s side to help her through what might be a long wait.
‘A week, maybe,’ I said. ‘Any longer than that and I don’t think we will find him at all. Amsterdam is not that big a place. There can’t be that many places to hide away. And Carlo, unless he has changed radically, is not the type of person to blend in easily. He’ll have left a trail – all we have to do is get on to it.’
‘You make it sound so easy,’ he said.
That was the intention, I thought.
‘A week, two at the outset,’ I said, ‘and you’ll be in the lap of luxury in the good old US of A, courtesy of Silvers, bankers to the gentry.’
‘I wonder what the Texan is doing right now?’ he said. ‘Maybe I could meet up with him when I’m in the States.’
‘You forget our agreement,’ I said. No contact. It was for the common good. If the Russians found any one of us, he could not lead them to the others. We had our fall-back position in case of dire emergency – placing messages in the personal columns of favourite newspapers and Soldier of Fortune magazine – but none of us hoped that such a situation would arise. ‘Better – safer – that we stay separate.’
‘Do you miss them?’ he asked.
‘What, the Texan? Red? That frustrated cowboy? With his driving?’ I laughed. ‘If you got out of a mission alive, then Red would do his damnedest to kill you on the way back. And the Pole? Stanislav? Silent, brooding, with that kind of manic depression that is so infectious you could easily end up slitting your own wrists.’ I shook my head. ‘Not to mention the South African. Pieter? Tall, blond, good-looking. A magnet for every female, which meant as often as not married. Do you remember the fights he landed us in with cuckolded husbands out seeking revenge? As if life wasn’t dangerous enough fighting the enemy. And you ask me if I miss them?’ I sucked air in through my teeth. ‘Of course I bloody do.’
‘They were good times,’ Bull said wistfully. ‘We were a good team.’
‘No, Bull,’ I corrected. ‘We were a great team. The mere fact that we survived proves that.’
‘It seems like so long ago now.’
‘We were different people then. Different lifestyles, different needs, different names even. You can’t go back. Life is like water-skiing – if you don’t keep on going forward, you sink.’
He nodded. Unconvincingly.
The plane, stacked up over Schipol, banked and circled around one more time. It was the price you paid for flying into Europe’s second biggest hub: from here it was possible to fly long haul to anywhere in the world, or be in half-a-dozen capital cities within an hour or so. The other drawback was a route march along one of the four seemingly endless corridors from landing stage to baggage retrieval, immigration and customs. After fifteen minutes of jumping on and off moving walkways I felt as if I should have already been in Brussels, Paris or London.
‘What does it feel like to be back?’ Gus asked.
‘When I have so many happy memories of the place?’ I said. ‘What do you think?’
‘What exactly was the problem?’ he said. ‘I mean, why did you have to leave Silvers? Your mother won’t talk about it.’
‘Too ashamed, I shouldn’t wonder,’ I replied.
‘I can’t believe that,’ he said.
‘Silvers lost a lot of money because of a poor decision. End of story.’
‘What was it? A loan without sufficient collateral? Badly timed investment?’
‘I prefer to think of it as simply putting too much in a trust fund,’ I said. ‘An error of judgement that neither Alfredo nor Roberto would ever have made. Maybe I should have seen that the payback would always be zero.’
‘You can’t win them all,’ Gus shrugged.
‘With this family,’ I said, ‘you can’t win at all.’
6
&nbs
p; Amsterdam. Ten years ago.
Despite the unpromising historical precedents of triumvirates in Rome and King Lear’s splitting of his kingdom in three, the system worked well. Monetary limits on individual actions were set according to age and experience – Roberto with the highest, then myself and lastly young and impetuous Carlo: they were strictly adhered to. Regular meetings were held each Friday evening in Amsterdam and under my mother’s chairmanship were reasonably civilized, considering the sibling rivalry and Roberto’s animosity. Wall Street and the City were reassured that the business was in the stewardship of safe hands and that the bank would continue to grind out its profits. Alfredo’s condition got neither better nor worse, the unchanging state of coma forcing upon him a period of non-interference that would have driven him mad under normal circumstances. Life couldn’t have been much better for Gianni Gordini. And that, Fate decrees, is always the most dangerous time.
I had fallen into the habit of spending Friday afternoons in the Amsterdam office. While my mother, Roberto and Carlo were visiting Alfredo, I had taken it upon myself to look over the dealings for the week, fulfilling my promise to keep a watching brief. As soon as Carlo had left for the hospital, I would take the bulky printout from the wide middle drawer of Carlo’s desk and run an eye over the figures. I hadn’t made it past Tuesday when the alarm bells started to ring.
At first I tried to tell himself that I was wrong – it could easily have been that I had read about the company recently – the press, an analyst’s report, maybe even heard it mentioned on the radio or TV – and that was why the name seemed so familiar. But I was uneasy, and had to check. I scanned the printed list of personnel on Carlo’s desk, dialled a number and called for the company file.
I read it once; then, disbelieving the evidence of my own eyes, read it again. Carlo, I thought, shaking my head, you’ve been a naughty boy.
The meeting lasted only half an hour, there being nothing exceptional to report. Or nothing anyone was prepared to admit to.
Twice, I had asked, ‘Anything else we should know about?’ Carlo had shaken his head on both occasions. Twice, I had been tempted to take the file from my briefcase and pass it across the table to my mother. And twice, I had said nothing and done nothing. Now I sat uncomfortably in Carlo’s apartment, drinking watery coffee and staring at an unwanted brandy, waiting for an opportune moment which I knew would never naturally arise.
‘Nice place,’ I said, purely for something to say.
The apartment was on the top floor of a four-storey house overlooking one of Amsterdam’s many canals. The main room, dissonant with the age and character of the building, was furnished in an ultra-modem style that was more eye-catching than eye-pleasing: lots of brushed steel and odd-shaped semi-reclining white leather chairs more suitable to a clinical psychiatrist’s consulting-room than someone’s home; spotlights recessed into the ceiling directed harsh concentrated beams of light on to Technicolor abstract paintings that made no sense at all to me.
‘Do you see the paintings?’ Carlo asked.
See them, hear them screaming, feel the pain in my optic nerves, I felt like replying, but that would hardly create the right atmosphere for what I had to say.
I nodded.
Carlo puffed out his chest and made a minute adjustment to the sleeves of his silk shirt so that the gold cufflinks were completely on show. ‘I picked them up for just a few thousand bucks,’ he said. ‘One day that artist is going to hit the big time, and I’m going to make a killing.’
I forced a smile. This was getting harder with every minute.
‘You’ve not touched your brandy,’ Carlo said anxiously. ‘It’s the real stuff – cognac extra vielle, you know? Don’t you like it? Can I get you something different?’
He walked across the room to a tall mirrored cupboard and opened the doors to reveal a hi-tech equivalent of an old-fashioned bureau. Papers were strewn about inside, even though there seemed to be storage slots and holes for every conceivable purpose. Carlo pushed the top edge of the central compartment and it slid out on a spring. He produced a small package from the hidden drawer. ‘How about something to smoke?’ he said, smiling proudly. ‘Believe me, Brother, this is pure gold.’
‘If that’s what I think it is,’ I said angrily, ‘get rid of it right now.’
‘Cool down, Gianni. This is Amsterdam. You can buy this stuff in any café or bar. It’s easily available to anyone.’
‘You’re not anyone, Carlo. You’re a member of the Gordini family – a member of the Silver banking dynasty – and that carries responsibilities. Think of the harm it would do if someone got hold of the story that you smoked dope.’
‘I only smoke in the privacy of my home. And, let’s face it, if you were searching the place, would you have found it? Relax, Brother.’
I sprang out of the chair, strode across the room and snatched the package from his hand. I left the room and flushed it down the john.
‘Sit down,’ I said, on returning. ‘You and I need to have a serious talk.’
‘Spare me the lectures. You don’t have to treat me like a kid anymore.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Then let’s have a full and frank adult conversation. Tell me about Majestix.’
‘What’s to tell?’ Carlo said. ‘Majestix is an emergent technology company.’
‘Cut the crap, Carlo.’
‘They design software. They’re working on a couple of very interesting projects. Once they get the bugs ironed out and launch the products on the market, it’s my bet that Microsoft will make a bid.’
‘Is that why you loaned them five million dollars last week?’
‘You been spying on me, Gianni?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘Yes, that’s why I loaned them five million dollars. It’s a good investment – big fat profits for the bank. And what’s the problem? Five million is within my agreed limit.’
‘Not when you add it to the fifteen million you’ve already lent them, or taken as share capital, it’s not.’
Carlo’s face went white. He sat down, picked up his brandy glass and downed the contents in one large gulp.
‘They’ve got a bit of a temporary cash-flow problem,’ he said.
‘A cash injection of twenty million in the last three months is not “a bit of a temporary cash-flow problem”. It’s a bloody great black hole sucking in money.’
‘What could I do?’ Carlo whimpered. ‘I had to keep pumping in more money or they would have gone bust. And then I would have lost the original five million. Think what Roberto would have said about that. And what he would have done. It’ll be OK, Gianni. All they need is a little time. I know these guys, Gianni. They’re on the brink. A few weeks, month or two, maybe, and we’ll get our loans repaid and double our investment on the shares. Trust me.’
I sighed heavily. Ran my hand thoughtfully across my mouth. Looked over at my brother. Shook my head sadly.
‘What are you going to do?’ Carlo asked.
‘I don’t know. I know what I should do, and that’s tell Mother and Roberto.’
‘And they’ll crucify me.’
‘What choice do I have? If either of them asks to see your books, they’ll spot the loans as easily as I did. And if they kick you out, can you blame them? There were conditions, remember? You exceeded your limit, Carlo.’
‘But not your limit,’ Carlo said.
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Transfer the loan and share purchase to the London books. That way nobody has exceeded their limit. All I ask is that when the bank makes a big fat profit, you give me the credit for the original tip on Majestix.’
‘You’re that confident about them?’ I asked.
‘It’s a sure-fire bet,’ Carlo said casually, sensing me wavering. ‘Why don’t I set up a meeting with them? Once you’ve spoken to them, heard their ideas, seen the potential, I guarantee you’ll feel the same way as I do. Come on, Gianni. Do it for little brother. G
et me off the hook.’
‘If I do it, you have to promise to stick to the rules from now on. And no drugs. OK?’
‘Sure, Gianni. I promise.’
‘Very well. I’ll transfer the loan and the shares across to the London books. But you better be right about this, Carlo.’
‘Thanks, Gianni. You won’t regret this.’
But I did. I had already made the arrangements to transfer the loan and shares into the London books when I found out that the proposed meeting with the emergent technology wunderkind had run into ‘logistical difficulties’. When I finally met them the following Friday, my heart dropped straight through the floor of Carlo’s fourth-storey apartment and didn’t stop until it landed beating rapidly in the basement.
It wasn’t that the two principals of the company were stereotypical long-haired boffins just out of short pants, or that I could understand very little of the acronym-rich terminology they used, or that I felt unconvinced about their tenuous hypothesis that the whole basis of the computing industry was making people crave for something that not only did they not need but up to that moment did not want either. Although none of that had inspired confidence. It was that they did not have a single clue about business, their idea of solving a problem being to throw more resources at it: where they should have been standing back and taking a critical overview, they were digging themselves deeper and deeper into the complexities until completely buried by them.
Two weeks later, the expected happened – they asked for another loan or for the bank to buy more shares, the latter betraying their own pessimistic view on the future of the company. I refused; how could I sanction throwing more good money after all the bad? I gave them a little breathing space, generating some cash by tweaking the finances – selling the computer equipment, office furniture and cars and leasing them all back.
Four weeks later, the inevitable happened. Every last penny had run out and the software still had more bugs than a rotting corpse. It was time to cut the losses and put Majestix out of its misery. And it was time to face the music at the Friday evening meeting.