* * *
HERMAN LOVES me. ‘Herman the German’ recently celebrated his 50th birthday, and he is by far the youngest Chairman ever of Grossbank. He is slim, trim, works out daily, dresses snappily, and has a pretty wife and a young family. Apparently he even goes to church. He’s been my biggest supporter at Grossbank, flying air cover whenever I stuck my neck out, defending me against the politics of the fossils on the board, who would have stopped the investment banking initiative that has turned into its main profit driver. I’ve often told him that he and I are joined at the hip. Well, the wallet anyway.
Naturally enough, in the finest traditions of investment banking, as the next step in my inevitable career progression, I’m going to knife him. I think he rather likes the idea of me joining him on the main board of the bank, which would be a first for a non-German. What he doesn’t have in mind is that I should join the board as Chairman.
I could be patient, wait my turn, serve my time, be a good corporate trooper and eventually prosper. Or I could go for it now. Guess which I’m going to do. I don’t believe in patience, and I don’t believe in give and take. I believe in take and take. Preferably immediately.
In order to help me raise my profile in Germany, Herman has suggested that I make a major policy announcement on behalf of the bank at the annual assembly of German University business and finance students. In the past this has been a bit of a poisoned chalice. Big business leaders have been invited to give keynote speeches in front of up to five thousand students, only to be heckled, sprayed with paint, hit with eggs, and all the other fun stuff that spoilt radical children do before they grow up. This year it’s taking place at the University of Freiburg, in the so-called Auditorium Maximum, or AudiMax, and the place will be packed.
The initiative that Herman wants me to announce is that the board have decided to set up the Grossbank Foundation. The Foundation will receive one per cent of the net profits of the bank, to be used to build up an endowment fund to support charitable causes not just in Germany but everywhere the bank operates. In these days of corporate social responsibility, the bank is going to do its bit. And if one per cent doesn’t sound like much, it is a multiple of what most financial services firms give to good causes (unlike the bonus pool, which is the ultimate good cause, and which typically gets ten to fifteen per cent).
Freiburg is a picturesque town in the Southwest corner of Germany, near to where Germany, France and Switzerland meet, and it has a convenient airfield just big enough to take a Grossbank private jet, which Two Livers and I fly out in with a couple of bodyguards on the Saturday afternoon before my speech.
We are met by the local branch manager, who has cars waiting to take us to our hotel. He wants to take us to dinner, but I explain that I’m tired and need to rehearse my speech, and if he doesn’t mind, I’d appreciate an early night. As soon as he’s gone, I get out my little black book, make a couple of calls, and leave Two Livers in the hotel bar, claiming I’m going to get my head down. Which in a manner of speaking I am.
It is only the next morning, Sunday, when the hammering on the door of my hotel room finally wakes me, that I wonder if it was an indulgence too far. As I struggle to open my eyes, I can hear the sound of people moaning and sighing, at least one man and several women. It’s typical of the fake pleasure sounds I associate with the kind of nights I’m used to having on these trips. But then I freak out – it’s morning, and who the hell is having sex in my room? I open my eyes. Phew. It’s the Pay TV. I must have left the porn channel on full volume all night. I wonder what the people in the neighbouring rooms made of it. They probably think I’m a stud, which of course I am, though not to that extent. But what about the people banging on the door now?
I look around. The real girls have gone, but there are empty bottles scattered around my suite, and traces of white powder on the dressing table and the bedside cabinet. Shit.
I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, my hands are shaking and I have dark circles round my eyes. Even my crow’s feet have crow’s feet. Why didn’t I press my Stop button? I think I know the answer to that one. I don’t have a Stop button. At least that’s what I keep telling myself, so it isn’t my fault. I’m a victim too. I look about ten years older than the normal ten years older than my actual age which I generally look. I try to speak, to ask who is at the door, but my mouth is dry and tastes horrible.
I flick the remote control and silence the mega sex scene on the TV screen.
‘Dave, open up. It’s me.’ It’s Two Livers. Damn. ‘I’m here with Doktor Heinze.’ Heinze’s the branch manager. He’s not a real doctor, just a nerd with a PhD, so he won’t be much use. ‘It’s time we left for the conference.’
I need to do something fast, otherwise the bodyguards will kick the door down to see what’s happening. I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths to fight back a wave of nausea, and yell back, ‘Give me ten minutes. I’ll see you downstairs.’
I’ve been here before, and have a pretty good routine. First an ice cold shower that gets my heart racing, and one day might actually kill me, but in the meantime wakes me up and partially clears my head. Teeth, shave and dress, and twenty minutes later I join them in the lobby, where Heinze is fretting that we’re going to be late.
Two Livers knows at once. She sends Heinze out to the car and takes me on one side. ‘Dave, what did you do last night?’
I’m wearing sunglasses to hide my eyes. ‘Not enough. If I had I’d still be flying. I feel like shit.’
‘You look like shit. You going to be able to keep it together?’
I take off my sunglasses and give her a sideways look. She winces. ‘When have I ever let you down?’
* * *
IT’S ELEVEN o’clock on Sunday morning and the AudiMax lecture theatre is full with the conference delegates, mostly students and academics from all over Germany, but with a sprinkling of government ministers and business leader types, and of course the press. I don’t know quite what the building’s capacity is, but thousands of not particularly welcoming faces are staring at me as I ascend to the podium. Where do these kids come from? They have beards and long hair, and wear blue jeans and T-shirts. Has nobody told them the sixties are over?
Two Livers and I are seated with the other panel members at the back of the stage, looking out at the audience. I’m clutching my speech, which I still haven’t read, because my head is spinning and I keep getting hit by waves of nausea. I have a horrible feeling I’m going to throw up mid-way through. I’m sweating profusely, my shirt is sticking to my back beneath my jacket, and I keep wiping my face with my handkerchief. I definitely overdid it last night. I feel as if every pore of my body is oozing a toxic mixture of alcohol, cocaine and Viagra. I imagine it being sucked up into the air conditioning and circulated around the conference room among the delegates. Christ. This audience is bad enough already.
I’m introduced by a grey-haired professor of economics, and as I sway towards the lectern I drop a handful of papers. Fuck it, I toss the lot away. Two Livers looks worried – she’s been there before when I go off message – but all I’m focussing on is getting to the lectern and grabbing hold of it with both hands so I can keep myself upright.
There’s some desultory applause, then silence. I look around the hall. Oh, fuck, now I have to say something. Why am I here?
‘Focus.’ Who said that? It was me. Damn. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. Deep breath. ‘Distinguished professors, ministers, ladies and gentlemen – focus is the new word in banking.’ In the front row, some of the beardos are yawning ostentatiously, nudging each other. ‘Focus not only on our core business, but on our core values. What do we stand for as a firm?’ If only I knew. The beardos are definitely twitching. Stand by for a slow hand clap. In my mind’s eye some numbers are floating around in the air. There’s something I have to announce, but I’m suddenly so tired, so profoundly, utterly, deeply fatigued in a way that only an all night orgy or running six marathons ca
n achieve. I feel as if I could fall asleep standing up. Would anyone notice? Probably – this isn’t one of those dull, academic conferences where people nod politely and the audience quietly dozes off. This is more like the Roman arena. These guys want blood. If only I had an idiot board in front of me as a prompt. Another deep breath. ‘That’s why today I have a major announcement to make on behalf of Grossbank. An announcement that will help shape the future course not only of our business, but of the communities in which we operate.’ Some of it’s coming back to me now. It’s just the figures I can’t remember. ‘Yes, Grossbank is big business. But big business can have a heart as well as a head. And big business can give back to society as well as drawing benefit from it.’ One point zero comes to mind, or is it zero point one? Or one and zero? ‘I’m proud to announce the establishment of a new Foundation, the Grossbank Foundation, that will manage a major new endowment fund supporting charitable and social causes both in Germany and throughout the world. The bank will fund this new Foundation by contributing a portion of its net profits each year.’ The beardos are getting ready for something. It must be an ambush. I can see things being passed from hand to hand in the first couple of rows. Eggs? Tomatoes? Paint bombs? ‘That percentage will be…’ Think, Hart, think. Oh, damn. If in doubt, go large. ‘…ten per cent of all net profits of Grossbank worldwide. We’ll be doing this with immediate effect, and we’re doing it because we want to change the world we live and work in. For our own sake, and for our children.’
There’s a stunned silence in the room. Everyone is looking at me. The professors, the panellists on the podium, Two Livers, even the beardos, are all open-mouthed. I glance down to check my flies aren’t undone. What have I said? All I want to do is get off this podium, run to the men’s room and throw up. Never again will I mix drink and drugs and hookers the night before a major speech. Well, not unless I’m really bored.
And then the applause starts. I look up and the beardos are all standing, and they are shouting at the tops of their voices, clapping and cheering like they want to raise the roof, and then some of them start chanting, ‘GROSSBANK… GROSSBANK… GROSSBANK…’
The grey-haired economics professor wants them to quieten down, but they won’t, so I take it as my cue to leave, waving to the audience, manage to step down from the podium without falling over, and Two Livers takes me by the arm and helps me out to the car, where she tells the driver to get us to the airport as fast as he can.
Only when I’m sitting in the car and we’ve put a full ten minutes between us and the conference hall does she turn to me, still shaking her head, eyes full of disbelief.
‘Christ, Dave, what have you done?’
I turn to her and try to work out what’s going on. My brain still isn’t fully engaged. ‘I’ve no idea. What have I done?’
* * *
‘DON’T YOU know the difference between one point zero and ten? There is a small matter of a decimal point. What kind of banker are you?’ It’s a good question. Herman is shouting so loud the words are distorted on the speakerphone. Two Livers and I are back in the office in London, and there’s a full scale crisis underway.
I’ve goofed. Sure, Grossbank wanted to be generous, and one per cent was huge compared to most firms, but ten per cent is ridiculous. It’s Sunday night, and the board has been assembled in Germany to work out what to do next. The news of Grossbank’s initiative has shocked the worldwide business community. The impact on shareholders – and therefore the share price – is too awful to contemplate. When our shares start trading again tomorrow, the world believes they will go into free-fall. So do I. No business can give so much of its profits away and not expect the market to react. And who do we think we are, anyway? Our job is to make profits, to pay dividends to shareholders. We’re a business, not a charity.
The problem is, the announcement has been made, and the board are too afraid to issue a correction: ‘What Mister Hart really meant was…’ It is particularly difficult in Germany, where many liberal commentators think this is a fantastic development, that finally a major financial institution is doing the right thing, making the right social commitment, showing the rest a fine example. So the board are like a rabbit caught in the headlights, and the only thing they know for sure is that this is my fault, and as soon as the noise dies down, I’m toast.
I do the only thing a man can do on an occasion like this, and call the Silver Fox. We – or at least I – have to have a strategy. I’ve got twelve hours to work out what to do, and how to dig myself out. For once I’m not bored.
He takes about half an hour to come to the office – he is always dining at some smart restaurant or other in the evenings, usually with a newly divorced or separated actress or model on his arm, but tonight when he arrives, he has a whole team with him: branding consultants, advertising people, speechwriters, you name it, he has them. They set up camp in some of the Grossbank meeting rooms, and I take him into my office.
‘Dave, this is about you. You are the story here…’
I hold up my hands to stop him before he goes any further. ‘You don’t have to win this business. It’s yours already, whatever the cost.’ I look at him imploringly. ‘Just save me…’
* * *
OUR STOCK closed Friday at seventy-five euros a share. On Monday morning the Frankfurt market opens and Grossbank shares are off ten per cent within minutes of the start of dealings. Not only are institutional investors bailing out of a stock that clearly can’t pay the sort of dividends the other German banks can – because they aren’t so dumb as to give away ten per cent of their profits to charity – but the hedge funds are shorting the hell out of Grossbank, opportunistically trying to drive us even further underwater, selling shares they don’t own, but have borrowed from elsewhere at seventy-five euros, hoping to buy them back in a few weeks at fifty, netting a fat profit out of our misery. Our share price hits sixty euros, it is the big story of the week, and some of the institutional shareholders are actually asking if the board will re-consider their decision on the Grossbank Foundation. Re-consider it? Hell, yes – they didn’t even make it. They’d love to re-consider.
At eleven o’clock, having been carefully coached by the Silver Fox, I fire my first salvo. I do a live interview for EuroBizTv, a satellite business channel carried all over the world, and syndicated to most of the German TV stations.
I do it from the trading floor at Grossbank in London, where a pretty woman reporter, a camera man and a sound guy have been prepped by the Silver Fox.
‘Mister Hart – what is your reaction to the fall in the Grossbank share price? Is giving to charity bad for business?’
Relaxed smile. ‘Absolutely not. If there are people out there who are uncomfortable with our business philosophy, I’d rather they didn’t own our shares. We’re taking a moral stand here, and that’s what matters to me.’
‘Even if your shares keep on falling?’
‘You can’t run a business of the scale of Grossbank – or any of the major German banks – and spend your life worrying about daily share price movements. We’re here for the long term, and people need to know where we stand. Grossbank is different from the other German banks, and proud to be so.’
‘How is Grossbank different?’
‘None of our competitors has given anything like the commitment that we have to putting something back into society. By banking with us, our customers are making a moral statement. They are saying we want to do business with a firm that believes in our moral values, that is prepared to sacrifice profit for the future benefit of society, for our children and our children’s children. That’s the difference.’
‘But do customers care?’
‘We’ll see. It’s easy to say you believe in moral values, but people need to demonstrate commitment, as we have done. If there are people listening to this interview in Germany, who bank elsewhere, they should think about that. Do they want to bank with a firm that doesn’t care, or one that does? It’s their choice
.’
‘Dave Hart, head of investment banking at Grossbank, London, thank you…’
I do a whole series of similar interviews for the print media, a couple for radio, and some pre-records for late night business TV shows in Germany. Meanwhile our stock’s hit fifty euros. I call the Silver Fox, who says to stay calm. We’ve done all we can for today, tomorrow will be the acid test.
As I know I won’t sleep anyway, I call the Pussy-Cat Club and book Fluffy and Thumper in the private room…
* * *
THE NEXT day starts early, even by City standards. I get a text message from the Silver Fox – ‘It’s started’. What’s started? I’m early in the office and stay glued to one of the big TV screens on the trading floor. They are showing scenes from Freiburg, where I first gave the speech that started all this. There are lines of mostly young people outside the main Grossbank branch, waiting for it to open. Some of them are interviewed and explain how they are moving their accounts from other banks to Grossbank. Later they show other places. To begin with, it is particularly strong in university towns where there are lots of young people, but in the course of the day it starts to catch fire across the whole country. In no time Grossbank’s branch network is being overwhelmed by new account openings, and the internet banking site goes down under the volume of hits. The share price carries on falling for a time, then stabilises around forty-five euros. The business news channels carry interviews with hard-nosed analysts – twenty-five year olds who know nothing about anything – trying to work out whether increased market share might cancel out the negative effect of giving away ten per cent of profits. The prevailing view is that it won’t, and the stock starts to fall again.
The next couple of days are hell. In Germany, we’ve signed over three million new customers, but are losing momentum because the system simply cannot cope. The board are reserving their judgement and I stop getting calls from Herman. Now we fire the second salvo: a full-blown advertising campaign with some big shot TV stars, singers and comedians, saying on German TV, ‘I’m with Grossbank. Are you?’ The logo for the campaign is a thumbs up sign, and we’re printing millions of bumper stickers, badges and baseball caps. We want to create the New Cool, and the Silver Fox is masterminding a viral marketing campaign starting in the universities. By the end of the week, we’ve passed the five million new account openings mark, the system is in meltdown, and the stock is hovering just above forty euros a share. As we head into the weekend, we need to pull another rabbit out of the hat.
The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3) Page 6