In turn, I’ve come to rely on her for helping me to talk through my ‘issues’ – she’s become my soulmate, or at least that’s what I’ve told her, and occasionally I wonder if she actually believes it. And this weekend we’ll take the mating aspect a stage further.
Paula’s never been on a smoker before, and she’s surprisingly excited. Her mother is looking after her daughter for the weekend and she’s told Sean she’s going on a girls’ weekend away with some old university friends. She didn’t take much persuading: ‘It’ll be good for us both. It’s a change of scene, a chance to talk, a chance to think and unwind. We’ll be pampered and frankly we deserve it. Neither of us has an easy time. And look – we’ll have separate bedrooms and there’s no obligation or expectation in any sense, okay? We’re friends – soulmates.’ Can you believe she fell for that? Of course she did. She’s a woman and I’m Dave Hart.
Should I have a bad conscience? Nah. Who wants to be good? Life is too short to be good. Look at it this way – her husband got a fantastic break, he’s making out like a bandit, and within a few months of arriving at Grossbank, they’re already planning to buy a house in Holland Park and talking about having another child. Meanwhile Paula’s life has been spiced up by having some excitement in it. She gets to fly in a smoker, drink fine champagne, eat caviar, do a few lines of coke, and get screwed by me – and yes, I bet she turns out to be a screamer. Life is good in the Hayes household. There won’t be any emotional commitment, because we’re about to become fuckbuddies – friends with benefits, as the Americans say – and since we’re grown-ups we both know it can’t go anywhere, and we’ll enjoy it while it lasts. Or at least I will.
* * *
COMMUNICATION HAS to be one of the most important aspects of investment banking. We don’t always get it right.
After getting back from Capri, refreshed and rejuvenated – and yes, she is a screamer – I’ve headed straight off to Asia. I’m sitting on the terrace of the Shanghai Oriental, half way through a whistle stop tour of Grossbank’s Asian operations, with Paul Ryan. Whenever I feel I need a change of scene, I come to Asia. The girls are more compliant, the oils they rub into you more exotic, and from time to time I even squeeze in a useful business meeting.
We’re dressed in chinos and Hawaiian shirts, and Paul is wearing dark glasses at night, which I always find incredibly cool, mainly because if I do it I keep bumping into things. We’re just sipping our first cocktail of the evening, when Paul mutters, half to himself, ‘There are some mossies around tonight.’
‘Some Aussies? Where?’
‘Everywhere. I hate the fuckers.’
‘Really? I had no idea.’
‘Oh, come on – everyone does. You can’t get away from them.’
‘Well, I suppose we are in China. You’d expect a few. It’s kind of their home territory.’
He gives me a curious sideways glance. ‘It’s not just China. You get them everywhere. And they spread diseases.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, come on, Dave. Have you taken something? Anyway, if it was my choice, I’d wipe them out. Total eradication.’
I’m shocked. Normally Paul is so tolerant. Maybe it’s a gay thing. The Aussies have this kind of false machismo, whereby they try to persuade the rest of us that they’re just a bunch of straightforward, barbie-loving, beer-swilling, lovable rogues, when in reality I’m sure a lot of them are as full of complexes, neuroses and metaphysical anguish as the rest of us, plus I bet they’re homophobic as well.
Personally I’m extremely tolerant of gay men. The more gay men there are, the less competition there is for beautiful women. Or perhaps it’s just that I don’t care – on reflection, I don’t think I’m tolerant at all, just self-obsessed and indifferent.
Paul shifts uncomfortably in his chair. ‘It’s the noise they make that really gets to me. Especially when they get close.’
I find this puzzling. It’s true that the Australian accent isn’t necessarily the most romantic on earth – a French woman can read the weather report and seduce me – but compared to, say, a young German couple exchanging guttural utterances in the moonlight, the Aussie accent is okay. And besides, how close does Paul get to Australians?
He’s rubbing the back of his neck and looks uncomfortable. ‘I’ve had it. I’m out of here. Can’t deal with them.’
I’m shocked. I look around. There are some expat types drinking in the bar, but I can’t hear any Australian accents. ‘What do you mean, you’re out of here? Just because of some Aussies?’
‘Yep. Do you want another drink or shall I get the check on my way out?’
I’m staggered. I return to my room and call Two Livers in London.
‘We’re closing Sydney and Melbourne.’
‘Why? We’ve only just hired investment banking teams in both places. Good people.’
‘I don’t care. Executive decision. Trust me on this one. And get me the personnel files of any Australians working in the London office. On my desk when I get back.’
I owe Paul this one. He was there when we first got Grossbank started in the investment banking business, and if he can’t stand these guys, then neither can I. Total eradication.
* * *
MONACO HAS to be one of the least pleasant places on earth, which in a way is appropriate, because it attracts some of the least pleasant people on the planet. I’m here, for starters. And with me are the cream of Grossbank’s worldwide private banking team. Amidst the concrete and glass and the tasteless glitz and the hookers and the super-yachts, I feel quite at home. The girls here are amazing, and you can rent them by the yard, all shapes and sizes, all tastes catered for. This is my kind of place. No one, no matter how jaded his appetite, need ever be bored in Monte Carlo. It makes Sodom and Gomorrah look like the Pleasure Beach at Blackpool.
The Grossbank building is one of the largest and most in-your-face with expensive art, air conditioning so cold you feel you’ll go down with pneumonia, and deep shag carpets that you could almost swim through. It’s full of private banking types, and they all treat me like God, which I rather enjoy. They’ve cleared out the top floor with its marvellous harbour views, for my personal use, and seem put out when I decline the services of two of the most glamorous personal assistants on the Grossbank payroll. Unusually for me, I’ve work to do.
It’s Rich Weekend and I’ve flown in with Two Livers and the Meat Factory. The Silver Fox is already here with a whole team of his people. I’m getting ready to present to a hand-picked gathering of fifty or so super high net worth clients, which is to say individuals who have stolen more money than Al Capone could dream of and better yet have got away with it. At least until now.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who don’t yet know me, I’m Dave Hart, Chairman of Grossbank. Please allow me to welcome you to Grossbank’s thirty-fifth annual investment conference for private banking clients. In a moment our head of private banking, Gerhard Neumann, will explain the detailed programme that we’ve got lined up for you.’ Pause for big smile. ‘We have some treats in store. John Highway, of Downtown Capital, will be speaking about ‘When the music stops: alternative investments and the future of the hedge fund industry’. That should be a short talk.’ Pause for polite laughter. ‘And Ron Monk, of Toddlers Group, has a great presentation on shareholder activism entitled ‘Terror in the boardroom – creating mayhem in a good cause’. As you know, Toddlers Group give away a large chunk of their profits to charity, which gives them a kind of special licence to terrorise the boards of large corporations who need to raise their game. That presentation will be illustrated and we advise vegetarians and the squeamish not to attend.’ That brings a few more polite titters. These guys are not squeamish. ‘But the keynote speaker, who will be joining us this afternoon, is President Mbongwe of Alambo. He will be speaking to us this evening about the economic future of Africa, and we look forward to that very much. As you meet the other guests here this weekend, you will notice a part
icular African theme among them. We have assembled an interesting cross-section of current and former political leaders, businessmen and others with major interests in the region, and we hope you will have an interesting and useful time networking as well as listening to our speakers. And there will, of course, be the usual entertainment that is customary on these occasions.’ That gets a few knowing smiles. It’s not as if we’ve booked the Three Tenors. The entertainment for these guys (and the few women who are present) will take place in the privacy of their hotel suites, organised with all the attention to detail and discretion that you would expect of a top private banking organisation.
With the intros done, I go up to the top floor office and work on the President’s speech with Two Livers and the Silver Fox. Neumann joins us and he’s sweating despite the air conditioning. ‘Mister Hart, are you sure you don’t want to re-consider? Are you being perhaps a little rash? We have our principles to think of, our legal obligations, our business ethics…’
‘Stop.’ I love the Germans. All it takes is one word and he shuts up. That’s discipline for you. ‘We’ve been through this already. Don’t play the morality card with me. Do you recall why we’re doing this?’
He does. ‘The profit…’
‘Wrong.’
‘Wrong? But I thought you said…’
‘I did. But it’s not just about profit.’ Two Livers is giving me one of her ‘will you ever stop bullshitting’ looks, but grinning at the same time. ‘We’re doing this for the poor people.’
‘The poor people? What do you mean?’
‘The poor people. You must have seen them.’ For a moment he looks uncertain. ‘The problem with Africa is the poor people. It’s the same with Britain. The rich aren’t the problem. Back home in London you won’t find rich people hanging around in dark alleyways at night waiting to rob old ladies. Why would they? And Africa is even worse. In whole chunks of Africa there isn’t even anyone worth robbing. So what we have to do is eliminate all the poor people. They’re an embarrassment.’
Two Livers sighs and stares out at the boats. The Silver Fox is giving me a funny look. Neumann seems perplexed.
‘Eliminate them?’
‘That’s right. Watch my lips – no… poor… people.’
‘But how?’
‘By making them rich. Well, not exactly rich. We don’t want them turning into us. But at least middle class. We need to turn them into consumers, we need them to worry about whether they have the latest iPod or sufficient bandwidth on their home broadband or the correct features on their mobile phone or whether their new car has the right satnav. The important things in life, at least if you’re middle class. It’s the twenty-first century and they should have all the same neuroses and complexes and hang-ups as the rest of us. They shouldn’t have to worry about finding food, or whether someone’s going to burn their village down. Should they?’
He shrugs. ‘Well, no, of course not, but can’t we just give some money to the international agencies, and leave our governments to…?’
‘Hell, no! We’ve been doing that for years. It hasn’t worked. Not only has it not worked, but it’s comprehensively failed. So now it’s capitalism’s turn. Greed is good, and money can fix anything. When you look back on your career, and your grandchildren ask you what you did, you’ll tell them about this. You were there with Dave Hart and you helped to make it happen.’
He seems almost wistful, but then his mobile rings and he turns pale. ‘The President’s plane has landed – he’s on his way from the airport.’
I glance at my watch. There’s a private room at the back of the office, next to the executive bathroom. I probably have twenty minutes. I flick the intercom and call through to the branch manager.
‘Could you send through my personal assistants?’
* * *
PRESIDENT MBONGWE is utterly charming. He’s mid-fifties, portly, with a beaming wide smile and a bone-crunching handshake. He’s wearing a dark blue, pin-stripe suit that looks like it came from Savile Row, a silk tie and matching handkerchief and handmade leather shoes. He has a chunky gold Rolex on his wrist, and arrives in my office wearing sunglasses, which he obligingly removes when he sits down, so that I can stare into his cold, hard, bloodshot eyes.
I’m not wearing sunglasses, which means that he is free to stare back into my warm, friendly, bloodshot eyes.
President Mbongwe loves his people. If the press reports are true he loves them boiled, roasted and grilled. He has a big laugh, the way people do when they’ve had a million or so of their fellow countrymen killed, while a couple million more – no one really knows – starved to death. Luckily for him the holocaust in Alambo clashed with Talent YooKay, or maybe it was Xtreme Idol, and so nobody noticed.
He has his right hand man with him, his personal financial adviser, who is altogether different. Sam Walsh is American, early forties but prematurely greying in an elegant, patrician way, from a well-to-do family. Slick, well turned out, he used to work for Hardman Stoney before striking it rich advising President Mbongwe. As villains go, he is altogether different from his boss. Sam went to Harvard Business School, and villains don’t come any more civilised than that. The moment he walks in I know I’m not going to like him.
We sit down at the conference table with Two Livers, while my frazzled-looking personal assistants pour coffee, ignoring the lascivious glances of the President. Walsh doesn’t seem to notice them, and I wonder if he’s gay, but then I see him looking at Two Livers and now I really can’t stand the motherfucker.
Neumann joins us and sits uncomfortably at the end of the table, as if seeking to distance himself from what is about to happen.
‘Mister President, you’ve been a client of Grossbank for nearly ten years.’
He smiles. ‘That’s right, Mister Hart. Ten happy, prosperous years. God has smiled upon me, and my fortunes have increased remarkably.’
I’m looking at some sheets of numbers on the table in front of me, and for once they are genuine. ‘Yes, it is remarkable, isn’t it? And while I’m pleased to see that the Grossbank investment management team have made wise decisions on your behalf, you have also received substantial inflows of funds from elsewhere.’
He beams across at me. ‘Indeed, from many places. Truly I have been blessed, Mister Hart.’
‘Until now, Mister President.’ He starts as I say this, and beside him Walsh fixes me with a laser beam stare.
‘I have here your latest portfolio performance figures from the investment management team. Relating to last month.’ I look across at Walsh. ‘I don’t believe you’ve seen these numbers yet, Mister Walsh?’
Walsh looks flustered and glances at his boss. ‘We normally get those numbers in a few days’ time, just around the start of the following month. Is there something unusual about the latest numbers?’
I nod and slide a bar chart across the table. It shows the President’s portfolio growing steadily month by month as Grossbank’s finest brains put his money to work in the cleverest ways they could to make him ever richer. At the end of the previous month, he had five hundred and fifty million dollars with us.
This month he had zero.
Walsh laughs. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ He turns to his boss, who is allowing his face to relax into a malevolent stare. ‘This guy’s crazy. You don’t lose half a billion in a single month.’ He looks at the others, as if for support or validation, but Two Livers stares icily back while Neumann wipes his brow with his handkerchief.
‘I’m afraid your boss just did.’ I say the words so quietly that both Walsh and Mbongwe have to strain to hear.
Walsh is about to say something when the President’s booming voice cuts him off. ‘I want my money!’ His fist slams down on the table, Neumann looks as if he’s about to wet himself, and Two Livers and I stare implacably back.
‘Mister President, you don’t seem to be listening.’ This is Two Livers, her voice sexy, husky, measured. ‘What Mister Hart just told yo
u is that you don’t have that money any more. It’s gone – all of it. Sometimes the value of investments goes up, sometimes it goes down. In your case it went all the way down. Let’s just say it was a bad month.’
Walsh leaps to his feet. ‘Listen, you blonde bitch – you don’t know who you’re dealing with. If you think you can rip us off, you better think again.’ He draws his finger menacingly across his throat and then points at her aggressively. ‘We don’t fire people, we shoot them!’
I look at him quizzically. ‘Did you say bitch?’
He looks at me as if I’m nuts. Underneath the table, I press a buzzer to the outer office and the doors swing open to allow the Meat Factory to march in, lining up behind Mbongwe and Walsh. They do nothing, say nothing, just stand there. It’s enough. Walsh sits back down. The President’s eyes no longer seem hard and menacing, but piggy and scared, darting to and fro, wondering what’s going to happen next.
I lean forward. ‘Mister Walsh, did you say bitch?’
‘So what if I did? Where’s our half billion?’
I nod to Scary Andy, who’s briefed on what to do next. He strides over to the huge floor to ceiling windows and slides one of them open, allowing the warm breeze from the harbour far below to rustle the papers on the desk.
I stare hard at Walsh. ‘Mister Walsh, can you fly?’
Walsh is – finally – lost for words. He looks at the open window, hears the faint sound of traffic in the street far below, looks at Andy and the rest of the Meat Factory, and finally looks at his boss, who turns away, as if it doesn’t concern him. ‘I – I didn’t mean it…’
‘But are you sorry?’
He really can’t believe this is happening to him. We should be fawning over them, doing the usual private banking sycophant on steroids act.
‘Y – yes…’
‘Well, say so then.’
‘I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I apologise.’
I turn to Two Livers. ‘Miss MacKay, are you prepared to accept Mister Walsh’s apology?’
She sighs, seems uncertain, as if making a difficult decision, looks at the open window, at the now blubbering Walsh, and finally nods her head. ‘Okay.’
The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3) Page 10