It’s the grooming kit she homes in on, eagerly seeking out and finding the deadly Ninja fighting nail-clippers that I might have used to storm the flight deck. I agree to surrender them, and she joyfully drops them into a large transparent plastic display cylinder full of similar items, which airport security seem to think will reassure us that they are doing a really great job.
As I repack my bag, I smile and thank her for her contribution towards winning the war on terror.
* * *
IT GETS worse.
We are meant to be flying British Atlantic, and go to their so-called Business Class lounge, which is full of travelling salesmen, lower level bankers, management consultants and assorted riff-raff. There are no spare seats, and the bar is running dry.
While Rory queues to fetch me a gin and tonic, I push my way through the crowd to the ogre on the reception desk.
‘I’m flying on the 13.15 to Madrid. Can you tell me if it’s on time?’
The ogre is theoretically female, probably early fifties, square-jawed, broad-shouldered and ugly. A couple of centuries ago, someone would have hitched a plough to her. Today she seems to relish the misery all around her.
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘But do you know anything? Have you been told anything?’
‘If I had, I’d tell you.’ She looks pointedly at the next person, who has a similar question and gets a similar response. I spot another airline employee, a very camp man in his late twenties with a pencil moustache, scurrying around with a sheaf of papers, looking busy and important, but as far as I can tell not actually doing anything.
‘Excuse me, I’m meant to be on the 13.15 to Madrid. Do you know if it’s on time?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, we only know what we’re told. You’ll have to ask at the desk.’
‘The desk don’t know anything.’
‘Then neither do I, sir. I’m terribly sorry.’
Terribly sorry my arse. I get out my Frequent Flyer Card and use my mobile to call the Gold Card enquiry line. After irradiating my brain for ten minutes, and having still only reached position number seventeen in the queue, I give up and get Rory to call, while I sip my gin and tonic. Even that’s lukewarm – they’ve run out of ice.
This is when the ogre on the desk joyfully announces a series of flight delays. The 13.15 is now the 15.15, and she’ll give us more information when she has it. That means I may well miss my meeting, but it isn’t her problem. In fact it isn’t anyone’s problem, except mine. So many people are involved in this chain of irresponsibility, that no one is actually accountable.
We’re prisoners. We’ve checked in, we’re through passport control and airport security, and now we’re theirs. Hundreds of us. They can abuse us horribly. They can keep us here for hours, feeding us misinformation, supplying gin and tonics without ice cubes, while our business deals crash and burn, and no one is to blame. Of course none of this is necessary, they could do it properly, but as long as we accept it with passive, sheep-like apathy, it’s all we’ll get.
In the so-called business lounge, I look around at the crowd, at the simperingly ineffectual wimp still wandering about looking important with his sheaf of papers, Rory who still has his mobile tucked under his chin, holding for the Gold Card enquiry line, and I decide that Something Must Be Done.
Since no one else seems capable of doing anything, it had better be me. I’m going to nail these motherfuckers.
I call Paul Ryan. British Atlantic have several billion dollars of debt outstanding. A couple of years ago they borrowed enormous sums in the international markets, issuing bonds to pay for new aircraft and facilities and to invest in new routes, none of which they could manage, because they clearly don’t know their arse from their elbow.
Their debt is trading at a discount to issue price, and potential predators have been circling, with a view to buying it, forcing the company to repay it, and when they can’t, driving them into bankruptcy.
That would be a wicked plan, because once a company like this is in bankruptcy, you can restructure it, laying off workers, selling off assets, and then re-launch it. People like the ogre and the wimp with their great approaches to customer care might not have jobs after a restructuring, and that would be a terrible thing.
‘Paul – start buying. Let’s go large.’
My next call is to one of the most feared men on Wall Street, Jerry ‘Scarface’ Scarpone, the managing partner of Drive-By Capital, known in the hedge fund community as ‘the Sicilian’. Drive-By are a rare beast – an honest hedge fund, which is to say that they do what they claim to do. They make great returns for their investors by putting their money into anything bad: gaming companies, arms manufacturers, tobacco companies, even rap artists. The Drive-By Vice Fund was up a hundred and twenty-four per cent last year, which has to tell you something.
‘Jerry, have you heard anything about a major lawsuit hitting British Atlantic?’
‘A lawsuit? No.’
‘Between you and me, this could be big. But don’t deal in the stock, okay? This is inside information and you’re offside.’
‘Understood. We won’t deal.’
I look up the British Atlantic share price on my Blackberry. Within seconds it’s plummeting. That’s the great thing about sharing confidential information with hedge funds – it’s far more efficient than issuing public announcements to the market.
The ogre has a TV screen behind her, currently tuned into a classical music channel, presumably on the principle that calming music might stop us going completely berserk.
‘Excuse me, would you mind switching to EuroBizTV?’
She can’t think of an immediate reason not to, and since this is the business lounge, she reluctantly changes the channel. A few moments later, she looks up as she hears mention of British Atlantic. A newsreader is describing unexpected share price movements following market rumours.
‘British Atlantic stock has fallen five per cent today following rumours of impending legal action against the airline. Market commentators have suggested that they may be implicated in the ongoing fuel surcharge row, or in a broader price-fixing investigation in the United States. Meanwhile their bonds have risen dramatically in price, giving rise to speculation that a hostile consortium might be preparing to take control of the airline and force it into bankruptcy and restructuring.’
This gets her attention. Bankruptcy and restructuring? Of her firm? Isn’t it strange how our inability to sympathise with our fellow human beings doesn’t extend to ourselves?
My next call, leaning on the counter while she ignores me in case I require customer care or want to ask a question, is to the Silver Fox. I want to do a live interview from the lounge. If I’m really going to be stuck here until 3.15, I might as well have some fun.
After this I call Ron Monk at Toddlers Group. It takes him half an hour before he’s doing a ‘down the wire’ interview for EuroBizTV. It turns out Toddlers are also buying British Atlantic bonds.
‘We feel the top management of British Atlantic have been guilty of the twin evils of arrogance and complacency. The market has moved on, the expectations of the travelling public are that much greater, and an airline like this either needs to slash its prices and cut its costs accordingly, or raise its standards of service.’
‘Twin evils’ – I like that. It was my line but I don’t begrudge him. My mobile rings and it’s Paul Ryan, sitting round a conference phone with the Grossbank heads of private equity, corporate finance, and a bunch of lawyers and Team Xerox guys.
‘Dave – we’ve got roughly a billion and a half. We’re raising our bid, but others are in there competing with us now – Toddlers Group, Downtown, Drive-By, and some of the prop desks. How far should we go?’
‘All the way. Let’s push it. I want to drive this airline under.’
The ogre is giving me a strange look. The wimp has wandered over and is chatting to her about the latest news reports. They’re concerned. This could
be a real-time disaster. Not the minor, every-day disaster of people’s business trips and holidays being messed up, meetings cancelled, deals failing, family reunions, weddings or funerals missed, bags going astray, precious personal possessions lost, unnecessary, life-shortening angst, hassle and stress, but a real catastrophe – one that might affect them personally.
My next call – with her eavesdropping – is to Vlad the Impaler. OneSib have hired a new prop trading team and they really need a corporate situation to get their teeth into. We call them the Red Army Trading Team, and they have huge capital to make a splash with.
‘Vlad – welcome to the club. We’ve formed a wolf pack and we’re taking down a big, fat, lazy cow.’ I stare at the ogre as I say this. ‘It’s called British Atlantic – your guys will find their bonds are moving and it has a target sign pasted to its backside. Time to get off the bench and play, Vlad.’
‘Excuse me, what are you doing?’ It’s the ogre, only she doesn’t look quite so daunting now.
‘Just some work stuff.’ My phone goes, and it’s the Silver Fox. I look at my watch. ‘Five minutes? Sure.’ I hang up and turn back to the ogre. ‘I’ve been asked to do a live interview for television. Is there somewhere I can go to talk privately?’
This snaps her back into normal unhelpful mode – ‘This is the Unhelpful Desk and we’d really like you to fuck off and die’. But she can’t exactly say that. ‘I’m afraid not. We don’t have private facilities for passengers.’
‘Okay, no problem, I’ll do it from here. But maybe you could make a short announcement to ask people to quieten down? I know they won’t like it, but if you wouldn’t mind…’
As soon as she realises she has the chance to do something unpopular and blame it on someone else, she leaps at it.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please could we have some quiet in the lounge?’ Her voice booms out over the tannoy, much as it would if she were summoning prisoners back to their cells at the end of their exercise period. ‘A gentleman at the desk has been asked to do a live television interview. If we could have some quiet in the lounge, we’d be very grateful.’
The noise does die down, as people stare curiously at me, and right on cue the Silver Fox calls, gives me a few final hints, and then I’m live on EuroBizTV, simultaneously talking from the reception desk while an old library shot of me is on the TV screen and my voice is broadcast to the lounge.
‘Dave Hart, chairman of Grossbank, market rumours suggest that you are behind moves to take control of British Atlantic. Can you comment on this?’
‘Yes, I can. I’m happy to confirm that Grossbank, working with a consortium of institutional investors, has acquired a sufficiently large holding in British Atlantic’s bonds to force a meeting with management and potentially to take control of the airline. We’ll be holding talks over the next few days, and there will be further announcements in due course.’
‘Mister Hart, what does this mean for passengers and staff?’
‘We’ll be scrutinising performance very closely. As you probably know, British Atlantic has a poor reputation for service.’ A loud murmur of agreement goes up from the crowd. ‘Naturally there may be some redundancies, and I’ll be taking a personal interest in much of the detail.’ This time a cheer goes up. Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s the wimp, looking very pale and servile, and he’s brought me a chair to sit on.
‘Mister Hart, are there any areas that might be early candidates for closure?’
‘Certainly. The London operations hub is the one we’ll be looking at most closely. It’s high overhead and low productivity. In fact that’s where I am today, because I want to see for myself how they cope with the present industrial action. We’ll be deciding early on whether to close British Atlantic’s facilities, lay off the staff and share with another airline.’ I glance across at the ogre. ‘We’ll do what we have to do, and I guess there will have to be some pain.’
‘Dave Hart, Chairman of Grossbank, thank you.’
The amazing thing is, about three minutes later they announce that the 13.15 to Madrid will be leaving on time.
It arrives, at the other end, ten minutes early.
* * *
I’M STAYING at the Hotel Molto Grande in Madrid. There’s a sign in my suite saying 24 horas al servicio de nuestros clientes. I don’t speak Spanish, but you don’t need to in order to understand what they’re saying. Twenty-four whores at the service of our clients. I call the concierge to book the lot for a private party in the hotel pool after our meeting, but for some reason I can’t get him to understand.
Then the buzzer goes and it’s Rory, carrying the presentations we’ll be making to the Ministry. The car is downstairs and it’s show time.
The Minister is called Emilio Ramos Ramirez, he’s short, energetic and enthusiastic. I like enthusiastic people. It’s amazing how far a little energy and enthusiasm can take you, especially if you have as big a smile as the Minister.
‘So, Mister Hart – you want to save Africa?’
‘No, Your Excellency, not at all.’
‘Really? I thought that was your plan.’
‘Your Excellency, I want to save Europe.’
‘Europe?’ He glances at the briefing papers on his desk, probably wondering if this is a different meeting.
‘Europe, Your Excellency. New Start for Africa is all about Europe.’
He looks relieved that he is after all in the right meeting, but confused at what I’m saying. ‘How will the New Start for Africa save Europe?’
‘Your Excellency, imagine the world in twenty years’ time. A little hotter, the weather patterns changing, traditional crops failing, and Africa still a basket case. Nothing’s changed, except to get a little worse. What happens?’
He shrugs. ‘We do what we can, within the constraints that are imposed upon us. Our aid budgets are not limitless.’
‘With respect, Your Excellency, you’re completely wrong. It doesn’t take much beyond what we regard as ‘normal’ disaster conditions to push much of Sub-Saharan Africa over the edge. A couple of degrees hotter, droughts that last a little longer, and countries which are dirt poor, and torn apart by internal conflict, fall completely apart. Forget sending in a few planeloads of grain. Think about half a billion people getting up and heading north, looking for food and shelter, because they’ve nowhere else to go. You think we have immigration pressure now – try finding space in Western Europe for a few hundred million new arrivals.’
He looks sceptical, but I press on.
‘You think they won’t get in? How would we stop them? Try building a wall high enough to keep them out. Even my country, which is an island, has lost control of its borders. If we keep Africa poor, they will come. Help them to prosper and they will have a chance to dig their way out. That’s why I say I’m not trying to save Africa, but Europe.’
He’s nodding now, rubbing his chin, thinking about what I’m saying. He seems a decent enough individual, which probably just means he has the politician’s knack of being plausible.
‘So what do you want?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No financial contributions, no soft loans, no government guarantees for dodgy African credits – nothing at all. All I ask is that if key individuals in some of the more difficult regimes agree to open up their countries to investment and development, you don’t condemn them, you don’t harass them if they want to come to Europe, you just leave them be – for as long as they are co-operating. Some of these guys are not exactly pleasant, and their records are not pretty, but we have to be prepared to draw a line, to allow people to change and progress to be made. So I ask you to do… nothing. On a very selective basis.’
He smiles. ‘It will be controversial in some quarters. There are people involved in politics who want to pursue certain individuals as soon as they leave the sanctuary of their own countries. But as a politician I believe that we can succeed in doing… nothing. At least for a time,
until we see the results of the Grossbank initiative. Congratulations, Mister Hart – you have come with an achievable request, something that even Brussels might manage.’
The great thing about the Spanish is that they care. As foreigners go, they are definitely on the decent side of the equation. They have a natural human empathy. The proposal for certain blacklisted countries in Africa to be rehabilitated if they institute reform programmes is such an obvious no-brainer, especially when tied to fifty billion euros of Grossbank money, that he becomes so friendly I start to get nervous.
Luckily for me he doesn’t ask how much money Grossbank will make out of this whole deal.
* * *
RORY HAS decided to resign.
It’s not that he doesn’t like working for me, or find his role as Deputy Chairman of investment banking at Grossbank stimulating and rewarding. In fact he’s become much stronger and fitter and lost a lot of weight since he’s been rushing around after me carrying armloads of presentations, when he isn’t fetching coffee or running errands. It’s just that persecuting him has become a competitive sport between Paul Ryan, Two Livers and me. Normally I’m against bullying, except when I do it myself, but Rory is an exception. He has form. And what goes around, comes around, sometimes by the bucketload. Or, in his case, by the skipload.
Paul scored a great coup early on with Rory’s mobile phone. Rory made the mistake of leaving it on his desk and Paul spotted it. It’s an open secret that Rory has a mistress, a beautiful Mexican woman called Carla who lives in a house in Belgravia. Paul switched the pre-programmed numbers of Rory’s wife and mistress. How wicked is that? So when Rory texted his mistress, letting her know he’d be seeing her on the way home, and giving an idea of exactly what he was looking forward to, he got a surprise.
Two Livers was not to be beaten. She told Rory that I had all the senior executive offices and phones bugged. I’ve no idea what he might have been saying to people about what a great time he was having at Grossbank, or how rewarding it was to work for me, and I’m sure he wasn’t so stupid as to talk to headhunters from the office, but he went very pale and quiet.
The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3) Page 13