Andy closes the window, Walsh slumps in his seat, and I place another piece of paper on the table.
‘Mister President, Grossbank would like to help you. Because we’re in the happiness business. And we want to make you happy again. In fact we want to make you happier than you’ve ever been before.’ I smile, just so he can get some idea of quite how happy we’d like him to be. His scared, piggy eyes dart down to the proposal I’m sliding across the table to him. ‘We have what we call our Fast Asset Recovery Team. I’d like you to meet them.’ I press the buzzer again and this time Ralph Jones, Grubmann and Kuntz come in – the Good, the Bad and the Ugly. The Mountain Troll pulls out a chair next to Mbongwe and lowers his enormous bulk onto it, smiling reassuringly and causing the President to lean away towards Walsh on his other side. Walsh is also leaning inwards, away from Werner Grubmann, who has sat beside him and unleashed a wave of toxic halitosis. Only Ralph Jones remains standing, weighed down with an armful of files – a bauxite project in Northern Alambo, oil projects in the south, a hydro dam, a new airport, a micro-finance fund for the small farmers in the east of the country. Altogether he has more than thirty files. ‘Mister President, these are our best people. We want to place you in their hands.’ Mbongwe still looks nervous. I’m not sure he wants to be in the Troll’s meaty hands. ‘We want to get them to work on your situation. We believe that an aggressive investment strategy can recoup all of your funds and make you far wealthier than before in a very short space of time. Alambo will have to change, naturally, but it can look forward to a golden age, and you will prosper with your fellow countrymen, as a truly enlightened leader should. However, I have to say this particular programme is performance-related, and it’s not for everyone. We’re offering this only to select clients who are working with us on our plan for Africa. What do you think, Mister President – are you with us?’
* * *
COMPARED TO Mbongwe, the other meetings are a breeze. In fact after a while, we start to have a laugh. We’re sitting facing Michel De Winter, a Belgian billionaire who made his money out of conflict diamonds in West Africa, and has arrest warrants outstanding in much of the civilised world, which is why he only comes to places like Monaco. When he hears how his portfolio did last month, he has a serious sense of humour failure.
Two Livers is sitting beside me, punching numbers into a laptop. As she types, the words come up on a screen at the end of the conference room.
De Winter snarls at us, ‘You bastards. You’re just common thieves.’
Dead pan, I turn to Two Livers. ‘Miss MacKay, Mister De Winter just gave twenty million dollars to the Green Africa Fund.’
She types in the numbers, presses Enter, and on the screen the words ‘Transaction Accepted’ flash up.
‘Real time banking, Mister De Winter. Now, shall we talk?’
‘You scum. You’ll pay for this.’ He’s literally spitting his anger across the table.
‘Mister De Winter, it pains me to see you like this. I like you. Well, maybe not… Miss MacKay, that’s another twenty mill, this time for the campaigning charity LaTiA. That’s Liberty and Transparency in Africa, Mister De Winter.’
Eventually he gives in. They all do when they feel that deadly tightening around their wallets.
We meet General Mick van Smit, a South African-born mercenary leader – sorry, international security adviser – who runs the armed forces of the Democratic Republic of Lubumbashi. Lubumbashi, like any country that has the word Democratic in its name, is a dictatorship. When Smit has had his initial shock and made the usual threats, Two Livers produces tarot cards and starts laying them out on the table.
‘General, I can see great good fortune ahead of you. You are going to become wise and benevolent and be greatly adored by the common people. To begin with, you are going to enforce law and order in the eastern jungles, and allow the people to return to their homes…’
‘The hell I will,’ he roars back.
I chime in at this point. ‘Thank you, General. That’s twenty million dollars to the African Reconstruction Fund.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s a donation. You just made a donation. Very generous.’
Two Livers continues. ‘And then I see you instructing the warlords to leave the poor villages of the western plains alone, and return to their own lands.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Congratulations, General, that’s another twenty mill, this time for Action Africa’s human rights campaign.’
Two Livers continues. ‘And you will advise the President to allow the aid agencies to return.’
This time he pauses, his eyes darting between Two Livers and me. He rubs his chin. ‘That might be possible…’
‘Looks like you just got some back!’ I smile and offer him my hand across the table in a high five, but he sits back, disbelieving.
By this time even Neumann is smiling and starting to loosen up and have a little fun. He had no idea we could do things like this – breaking the law, stealing clients’ money, threatening to throw them out the window and so on. It isn’t what private bankers usually do, but we’re Grossbank, and Grossbank rocks.
Eventually they all crumble. And when they truly cannot believe their misfortune, when their world – or at least their fortune – has fallen apart, we offer them hope. Because we’re really nice guys and Grossbank is in the happiness business.
* * *
JUST IN case you think I’m soft, and might have overlooked something, there’s one more wrinkle. It’s one thing to get these guys to agree things sitting in the Grossbank building in Monaco, potentially quite another to enforce it once they leave. That’s where my real heavies come in. My legal heavies.
Lawless, Hood and Partners are one of Wall Street’s most powerful law firms. They’re not in the phone book, and they don’t have a website. They have only ten clients, all of whom pay well over ten million dollars a year just by way of a retainer to ensure they get access to the firm when they need it. Their clients include several of America’s richest billionaires, a sprinkling of large corporates – let’s just say a major software company, a leading defence contractor and one or two other friendly household names – and guess who else…
Sam Walsh looks pretty cocky when he goes off to a separate meeting room with Ralph Jones. He probably thinks he can outsmart Ralph when it comes to contract law, disclosure and legal enforceability. But he gasps as the meeting room door opens and six US attorneys walk in. These guys are like Robocop with a law degree. To begin with, they all look alike: dark suits, dark ties, white shirts, dark glasses, identical brown leather briefcases for their laptops and ‘pilot bags’ full of documents, broadly similar ‘Ken Doll’ good looks and short haircuts. The team leader is probably early fifties, but very trim, and the only real distinguishing feature between him and the rest of the team is his slightly greying hair. Until he holds out his hand to Sam Walsh.
‘Mark Hood. Senior partner, Lawless, Hood.’
Walsh goes pale and swallows hard. These guys are the legal equivalent of the Meat Factory. They sit down, open their briefcases, fire up their laptops, and start work. Their operating style is legendary. They go all the way through to the end of the assignment, all night long if necessary, without removing their jackets or loosening their ties, without stopping for coffee or sending out for sandwiches, without even a comfort break. The pace is relentless, and unforgiving. They’re like Olympic athletes, only fitter and stronger. Or maybe giant squid, with their tentacles around you. Either way, when you’re in their grip, you might as well give up.
Faced with my legal storm troopers, and knowing that resistance is futile, Walsh gives up, the same as all the rest.
* * *
PRESIDENT MBONGWE is about to give his speech. We’ve booked the whole of Chez Albert, a Michelin three-star restaurant close to the Casino. Our guests seem more subdued than usual, but I suppose that’s understandable under the circumstances. Unusually for a pr
ivate banking event, we’ve allowed a very select group of journalists into the back of the restaurant to hear the speech. Before he goes up to the podium, Mbongwe and Walsh corner me and Ralph Jones. Walsh looks exhausted, half the man he was when he arrived. The team from Lawless, Hood have worked him over thoroughly, the agreements are watertight, and he has no place to hide. The President on the other hand is looking anxious, and when he’s scared he gets mean.
‘Mister Hart, I want you to know, I have a long memory and I bear grudges.’
I believe him. Apparently he keeps the heads of people he has grudges against in the freezer in his palace in Alambo. Investment bankers can be a pretty mean lot, but we don’t go that far.
‘I understand, Mister President, but you have to see this from my perspective. I would never really have taken all that money from your account.’
‘You wouldn’t?’ He looks surprised.
‘Well, maybe… Let’s just say I needed to get your attention, to persuade you to share in the vision that Ralph and the team laid out.’ I turn to Ralph Jones. ‘Did you go through the details of the royalty schemes with Mister Walsh?’ They both nod and I turn back to Mbongwe. ‘Your royalties will make you feel like royalty, Mister President. In a few years you’ll be able to retire richer than you ever imagined.’
‘I could imagine a lot, Mister Hart.’
‘Me too.’
‘So how much will I have? Billions?’
‘Billions. More than you could ever spend.’
He looks to Walsh for confirmation. Walsh has been going through Ralph’s folders of projects that will transform the country, jet propelling its economic development, all financed by guess who, and carried out by guess whose corporate clients. ‘But I could spend a lot.’
‘Me too. I can relate to that.’ He smiles, I smile and we shake hands. We’re going to get along fine, though when the money does come through, I think he might spread it around a few other banks…
When Mbongwe steps up to the podium, a curious hush descends around the room. This man is known as a serious bad guy. What on earth can he ever say about the future economic development of Africa, given what he’s done to his own country?
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a pleasure and a privilege to be here tonight, amongst such distinguished company.’ They shift uncomfortably. They know, and he knows, and they know that he knows, that a more insalubrious gathering of villains, thugs and gangsters would be hard to find anywhere on the planet, even in Monaco.
‘Tonight, I want to draw a line under the past. Under all of our pasts. I want to join with Dave Hart, our host, and the team from Grossbank, in launching their New Start for Africa Campaign.’ New Start was the Silver Fox’s idea. I thought of BankAid, but that was dismissed as too derivative – it’s been done before. Neumann wanted Projekt Afrika – Unterstützung und Wiederaufbau – which is apparently quite snappy if you’re German.
The President continues. ‘I come from a troubled land. A land that has struggled with poverty in the harshest of climates. And if I look inside my own heart, I cannot say that I have always done all that was best for my country.’ There’s a stirring of surprise among the journos at the back of the restaurant. ‘I could have done – should have done – much more. And so tonight I want to be the first African leader to support Grossbank’s new initiative, its New Start for Africa campaign. Many western banks and financial institutions shy away from Africa. They fear the Dark Continent. But this man – ’ Mbongwe turns and points at me, sitting at the nearest table in front of the podium. ‘This man knows no fear, except perhaps the fear of failure to do what is right.’ When I first heard it, I loved this last bit: the Silver Fox at his eloquent best. ‘In a moment, Dave Hart will be announcing the details of the fifty billion euro commitment that Grossbank will be making to Africa, starting with its investment programme in my own country. Ladies and gentlemen, let us toast a new age.’
The applause is a little muted, though Mbongwe is genuinely happy. I wonder if he really did want to be a bad guy. As psychopathic cannibals go, he really isn’t so bad. When we offered him a way out, a chance to rehabilitate himself – and get hugely rich in the process – he seized it. Under our agreement, he has five more years. Five years to build the democratic institutions for an eventual handover of power when he retires to a private island in the Caribbean, his fortune safe and intact, his place in the history books secure.
Following his speech, I do a brief outline of New Start, emphasising the fundamentally commercial nature of our commitment – I don’t want to cause another run on the share price – and then members of the audience leap to their feet and ‘spontaneously’ make pledges in front of the journos. General Mick van Smit has been in touch with his President, and they want to work with us to draw up a Grossbank New Start plan for Lubumbashi. He’s ordering in the army to clear out the warlords and secure the necessary stability for our investment to work. Michel de Winter wants to do something similar for the West African diamond fields. And so it goes on. It’s amazing how generous bad people can be. If you thought charity auctions in the City could be surprising, you should have been at Rich Weekend. Giving as a competitive sport. And all in a good cause – on Monday morning, Grossbank’s stock goes up five per cent.
* * *
I’M BACK in London, and Maria is away. Of all things, she’s doing jury service. We got her out of it twice already, claiming urgent work commitments, but now they are saying she has no more jokers to play. Quite why we need juries is beyond me. If the police have taken all the trouble to charge someone, they must be guilty. Anyway, she’s not around, so now I’m having to cope with a yah-yah blonde air-head with a degree in Sleep Studies from the University of Cornwall at Rock, who knows nothing and can’t organise her way out of a paper bag, but at least wears short skirts and has great tits.
This morning I’m calling my doctor’s surgery, doing it myself because I have no one competent to delegate it to. Have you noticed how doctors’ receptionists grill you on your condition, assessing you for suitability to see their boss, acting as gatekeeper as if they were actually capable of making medical assessments over the telephone? It really pisses me off.
‘What’s your condition, Mister Hart?’ The voice is Sloaney, expensively educated but thoroughly dim. She manages to give the impression that I’m incredibly privileged that she’s actually dealing with me and can I please hurry up because she has other far more important things to do.
‘I’m discharging pus from the end of my penis.’
‘Oh, really?’ She sounds gratifyingly shocked and revolted.
‘Yes, and the scabs and lesions around the base are also leaking, although I stopped picking them weeks ago.’
‘Oh…’ She sounds like she’s going to throw up.
‘There’s a lot of blood in the pus, and blood and yellowish-green pus in my urine when I pee.’
Silence. At the other end I can picture her retching, holding the handset from her ear in case I infect her telephonically. ‘W – would tomorrow at nine o’clock be satisfactory?’
‘Yes, it would. Thank you.’
I hang up. Actually, I’ve been reviewing my jabs ahead of going to Singapore for the IMF conference. I’ve decided I’m due for an anti-tetanus shot, but why should she know that?
* * *
IT’S SATURDAY and I’m going to Glyndebourne with Two Livers as the guest of my new best friend, Vlad the Impaler from First Siberian Bank. Tom is going to drive us down mid-afternoon, so we start at her flat in Mayfair with champagne breakfast in bed.
The great thing about having sex – I mean breakfast – with Two Livers is that she always makes me laugh. I arrive hungover and feeling sorry for myself, which she was expecting. She welcomes me dressed only in a long silk nightgown that is tied sufficiently tightly by a cord around the waist that it reveals her breasts perfectly through the material.
I follow her into the kitchen, where she’s prepared a potent cocktail mixture �
�� she calls it her ‘Corpse Reviver’ – which she pours into a cocktail shaker full of crushed ice. She then turns her back to me and says, ‘Dave, do me a favour – hold my tits, will you?’
While I stand behind her keeping her 34DD’s under control, she shakes the mixture like a woman possessed. And of course, once we start laughing, one thing leads to another… and another… and another. Naturally I’m still Viagra-ed up from the night before. Afterwards, when we’ve showered – more delay – and got dressed – more delay half-way through, when I see the lingerie she’s wearing – she does one of the sexiest things a woman can do for a man. She ties my bow tie – from behind.
Glyndebourne being the formal, ritualistic place it is, with more or less compulsory black tie for the men and evening dress for the ladies – though what that means these days is anyone’s guess – we’re going down there in all our finery. Two Livers is wearing a plain black Armani dress that clings to her perfect form, and is set off brilliantly by a diamond necklace and earrings that must have cost well into six figures. She stands behind me as I look at myself in her full-length bedroom mirror. I’m fully dressed save for the bow tie hanging round my neck. She rests her head on my shoulder, threads her hands through my arms and gently runs her fingernails across my chest through my shirt. It’s electrifying. She’s wearing wicked bright red nail varnish and I sigh pathetically and very nearly spin around and say forget the opera, but then she carefully and competently takes the ends of my tie and ties a perfect bow, tweaking it tight and turning it just slightly to one side so that no one will believe such a perfect bow might be a pre-tied elasticated version of what a gentleman should wear.
She doesn’t say a word, she’s slow, sexy and respectful, almost submissive, and it’s nearly as good as sex. Our eyes meet in the mirror. Later. Again. For sure. Damn, she’s good.
* * *
THE JOURNEY down is miserable. The roads are crowded with poor people driving themselves in crappy cars, or worse still people who think they’ve made it, driving themselves badly in expensive, high-powered cars that they should never really be let loose in – Beemers, Astons, Mercs, all names I used to aspire to in the old days.
The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3) Page 11