The next time I saw him, he seemed to be looking at me particularly searchingly. I smiled knowingly and winked, and as she went past, Two Livers nudged him and whispered, ‘Don’t be lonely. You’re never alone with a microphone…’
I couldn’t be left out of the fun, so I decided to raise the stakes. We had an off-site to re-organise our Corporate Finance Division from sector teams specialising in particular industries into country teams focussing on businesses located in particular countries or regions. It was a couple of years since Grossbank had re-organised the country teams into sector teams, so it was time for a New Initiative.
We went to Whitely Manor in Sussex, a five-star country-house spa hotel with a Michelin three-star restaurant, and since this was a purely internal occasion with no clients present, we spared no expense. Members of the Management Committee flew in by helicopter. I wanted to arrive playing the Ride of the Valkyries out of loudspeakers on mine, but the Civil Aviation Authority wouldn’t allow it – as if they know jack shit about anything to do with flying.
We spent a couple of hours on the first day rerunning presentations and strategy papers from the last re-organisation, only in reverse, then the golfers went off to do their thing, I retired to a private section of the spa with Two Livers, and the rest of the Managing Directors and Senior Vice-Presidents started power drinking in the bar.
We all met up for drinks before dinner, and then indulged in a seven-course tasting menu with specially selected wines. For fifty of us, the weekend was a snip at under a million dollars, and represented great shareholder value. I even gave a morale boosting, motivational speech at the end of dinner, explaining how Grossbank was the top of the food chain, and therefore it was appropriate that we had a three-star chef to cook for us. We all thought it was a big laugh, but very good value and important for bonding and teamwork purposes.
Afterwards we played games in the bar. Some of these were drinking games, which made everyone very drunk. Except for me and Two Livers. We’re immune, or at least she is. Naturally everyone wanted to be on our team. No one wanted to be on Rory’s team.
Around midnight, with everyone pretty much plastered, we moved on to bar diving. Bar diving involves two rows of people lined up at a right angle to the bar, facing each other and linking hands. One person climbs onto the bar and then dives out into their outstretched hands. They have to catch him.
I went first, knowing the bonus round was not far away, and they caught me. Two Livers had no problem, and neither did Paul Ryan. Then it was Rory’s turn. He climbed unsteadily onto the bar, looked out into the outstretched hands, and went for it – and damn, the two lines of people let go of each others’ hands, stepped aside, and Rory dived off the bar right onto the floor. Must have been a miscommunication. We all rushed forward to pick him up and dust him off, and I brought him another large Scotch. Luckily he wasn’t hurt, and he gulped down the whisky, but then he suddenly started slurring his words and passed out – just like that. Wow. Probably drank too much, although one of the MD’s who must have had a colourful past said it looked to him like the effects of Rohypnol or one of the other date rape drugs, though how he could know, and how Rory might have swallowed it, was beyond me.
Anyway, a few of us carried him up to his room, undressed him, and left him in bed to sleep it off. But then something very strange happened. Some rascal slipped back into his room, put a condom on the end of a pencil, parted his butt cheeks, slid the pencil inside, and pulled the pencil back out, leaving the condom half in and half out of Rory’s backside – and photographed it.
When he came down to breakfast the next day, looking nervous and distracted, he was strangely silent on the matter. Naturally, copies of the photographs were emailed round the office for weeks afterwards, and some went even further afield, ensuring his worldwide reputation in the industry was enhanced enormously.
And now he’s gone. No more Rory. By resigning he leaves millions of pounds of unvested shares behind, which I’ll have to re-allocate to some deserving cause. I’m feeling pretty deserving myself actually, after finally driving a stake through my old tormentor’s heart.
I’d like to say that I really bore Rory no ill will, that time is a great healer, and I don’t bear grudges.
But I’d be lying.
* * *
WE’RE IN Singapore for the IMF conference, a bi-annual jamboree to end all jamborees, when tens of thousands of bankers from all over the world gather together to talk, drink, get laid, talk some more, have another drink, get laid again, swap business cards, and if they’re up to it, start the same routine again the following day. Some of us, who have exceptional stamina, keep this up all week.
Although in my case it’s no different to the rest of my year.
I’m here to take New Start for Africa into its next phase, and I’m feeling quietly confident. I’m giving a speech at the Plenary session, where a couple of thousand senior bankers from all over the world will hear about the New Start and how we’re finally going to turn around what is very nearly the last basket case in our increasingly prosperous world.
I take my place with Two Livers amongst the panellists on the stage, waiting to go to the podium to talk. The Plenary is to be introduced by the Finance Minister of Thailand. There’s a stirring in the audience and a sense of anticipation as three stunning women in traditional Thai costume ascend to the stage.
I nudge Two Livers.
‘Wow – who brought the hookers?’
She looks horrified, and when I look up, everyone seems horrified. That’s when I see the little red light on the microphone in front of me. Out in the audience a couple of thousand faces are going ‘Oh…’ Two Livers reaches across and turns off my mike.
‘Dave, that’s June Patanan, the Thai Finance Minister, and her team.’
‘She’s the Finance Minister? Then I want to be Prime Minister. What a great country.’
Anyone else would have been embarrassed, but luckily I don’t give a shit.
The Minister doesn’t seem fazed. She acts as if she didn’t hear a word and even smiles sweetly at me as she takes her place by the podium. But maybe in Thailand this is the equivalent of laughing your head off at the barbarian tosser who can’t keep his mouth shut.
After her welcoming remarks, it’s my turn. The applause is a little muted.
‘Your Excellency, Ministers, ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who don’t know me, my name is Dave Hart and I’m Chairman of Grossbank.’ Staggering, isn’t it? Someone like me makes Chairman. But I guess someone has to, and mostly it doesn’t matter who gets the top job, because they are all the same. Except me. I’m different. ‘Most of you will have heard of the initiative we’ve launched for Africa. We call it the New Start, and we see it not as a charitable initiative, but as a business project. A soundly run, commercial project from which we hope and expect to profit significantly.’ Of course we do. We always do. ‘We’ve been working particularly closely with a selection of high profile figures from the worlds of politics and business in a number of African countries, with a view to opening up markets previously closed by political barriers and internal conflicts. We’ve earmarked fifty billion euros for investment in Africa, and I’m delighted to say we’ve been supported in our efforts by a number of governments and international organisations, and by the European Union.’ Yeah, yeah – I can see the thought bubbles over their heads. They’re bored. So am I. ‘But still we must do more. One way in which we’ve sought to put pressure on regimes in Africa to support change has been through our private banking network. Many controversial figures maintain large sums of money in the private banking system, sheltering it from the scrutiny of organisations such as the G8’s Financial Action Task Force. I’m pleased to say that the most respected institutions represented here tonight have no part in such business. Their firms are renowned for honesty, integrity and transparency. I’d particularly like to mention the following.’ I look around the audience. ‘Luc Sturm, of Banque Bruxelloise, are
you here?’ A balding, portly Belgian sticks his hand up. The Silver Fox has organised the theatrical aspects of tonight’s performance, and a spotlight obligingly shines on Mister Sturm as he reluctantly gets to his feet. He wasn’t expecting this. ‘Let’s hear it for Luc and the team from Banque Bruxelloise.’ Muted applause. Then I do the same with Henri Guillaume, of Banque Privée de Gstaad, Damian Van Damme of Privatbank Schlossberg and eventually the heads of half a dozen others. They are standing awkwardly, thinking how cringe-making this all is, but it’s nothing compared to what happens next.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m delighted to say that all of these banks, the leading private banking institutions in the world, are joining with Grossbank to make a major push against those individuals who choose to use our legitimate banking services to hide dirty money. ‘Say No to Dirty Money’ will be a new campaign across the banking system, and those individuals who abuse the system will be subject to forfeiture of funds and closure of accounts.’
This stuns them. It’s one thing to make people fill out bullshit forms stating their date and place of birth and their inside leg measurement, getting them to provide a photocopy of their passport and birth certificate and other such nonsense, but quite another actually to do anything to stop dirty money coming into the banking system. Money’s money after all – for most of these guys there’s no such thing as dirty.
It particularly stuns the individuals standing under the spotlights. They had no idea. And worst of all, as the media carry reports of it around the world, it’s going to stun the clients whose dirty money they look after.
‘Only those individuals whose countries join in with the New Start programme will be able to apply to secure exemptions, under a financial peace and reconciliation programme to be launched under the auspices of the Spanish Presidency of the EU, on a confidential, government to government basis. I’m sure a lot of people will want to take advantage of that.’
I drone on for a few more minutes, and we have a final round of applause for the firms which have supported the initiative. Privately most of the people in the room are amazed that they would ever sign up to such a thing. So are they, because they didn’t.
When we file through for dinner, Damian Van Damme grabs my arm.
‘Hart – what did you think you were doing with that stunt? You think you can jump us? Force us to go along with your crackpot scheme?’
I keep a fixed smile on my face, because the press cameras are watching. ‘That’s up to you, Damian. If you want to disassociate your firm from the initiative, I’m sure you can issue the appropriate press release.’
‘Business is business, Hart, and money is money. Our doors are open to all comers.’
I don’t like Damian Van Damme. Even by the standards of the private banking world, this guy is the Prince of Darkness. He’s short, broad-shouldered and swarthy with bushy eyebrows and a thick moustache that reminds me of Borat or maybe one of the Village People.
‘Damian, do you really mean that? What about the really bad guys? Mass murderers? Dictators? Mercenaries and criminals masquerading as businessmen?’
He almost spits his reply. ‘Especially the really bad guys. You’re a fool, Hart. I’ve had you checked out. You’re just a low-flyer who got lucky.’
He’s undoubtedly right. But the same could be said of the heads of most major firms. Anyway, I’m not worried. Not because I’m thick-skinned, but because I have a terrible short-term memory. By tomorrow, what with the booze and all the drugs I’m taking, I’ll probably have forgotten what he said, and next time we meet I’ll greet him like a long-lost friend.
But not tonight.
We sit down to dinner. I’m at the top table and Van Damme is halfway down the hall. I catch his eye during the entrée, wink at him and raise my glass in an ironic toast.
That does it. He throws his napkin down and gets up to walk out, leaving the people on either side of him wondering what happened.
I get up too, and as he approaches the exit I intercept him to assure him there should be no hard feelings. He’s conscious that people are staring at us, and finally nods and grudgingly offers me his hand. But that isn’t enough for me. I really want the world to know there’s no bad blood between us. After pumping his hand enthusiastically I embrace him, hugging him tightly and slapping him on the back. In fact I’m so all over him that even the surrounding Euro-trash are embarrassed. Englishmen just don’t do this stuff. He eventually prises himself free and heads off to the airport to catch an early flight home, while I resume my seat to finish dinner.
And do you know what? The strangest thing happens. Just as we’re getting up to leave at the end of dinner we get word from the airport that Damian Van Damme has been arrested. You won’t believe this, but it seems he had a monster-sized sachet of Columbian marching powder in his jacket pocket. Naturally he’s claiming it wasn’t his and that some bastard must have planted it on him, but then he would, wouldn’t he? It’s amazing who uses the stuff these days. And in Singapore drug smuggling carries the death penalty.
Now there’s a thought.
* * *
WHEN SHE has a really massive orgasm, even Two Livers has to stop multi-tasking.
Women are amazing. She came to my suite to go through the next day’s programme, found me about to get down to business with a couple of Chinese girls, showed them the door, got undressed and climbed into bed, all the while running through the meeting schedule and background notes on the chairmen and chief executives of the firms I’ll be meeting. It was only when I managed to score nine on the Richter scale that she briefly stopped talking.
Our key task now is to get more governmental support. I’m due to attend a reception and dinner for Development ministers of the leading industrialised nations, and I need to roll the dice again. A lesser man would be nervous, but luckily I’m too shallow to be nervous.
And in the meantime, I have the perfect distraction…
* * *
NEVER TRUST a banker.
I told Ramos Ramirez that I didn’t want money out of any European governments. That was fair enough as banker-speak goes, but like so much of what investment bankers tell their clients, it probably shouldn’t be taken at face value.
In reality I want lots of money from European governments, but just haven’t told them yet. I like to think of it as a subtle difference of interpretation that we’ll work around to in due course.
Others might just say I was lying.
The art of negotiating with clients or other providers of revenues, deal-flow and other key components of the bonus pool, is to let the other side have your own way. It’s often said that the best investment bankers don’t rape their clients, they seduce them – because that way they can keep on fucking them.
Drinks are being served with the ministers and their senior civil servants along with various bankers, journalists, and assorted flunkies before a smaller group – just the thirty of us – sit down for an intimate dinner followed by speeches.
The British Development minister is here, an early forties, up-and-coming hot shot called Benjamin Hillary. I spot him chatting to some kind of babe, presumably somebody’s wife or mistress, who’s dressed like a designer Christmas tree with labels in all the right places. I leave them to chat for a few minutes, observing and taking things in until I can see the Minister is bored, looking discreetly over her shoulder for someone to rescue him.
I nearly dive straight in, but a really cute waitress is standing in front of me with a tray of spring rolls. She’s Chinese, very deferential, with long black hair, huge eyes and a very trim figure. Definitely a possibility. I glance at the spring rolls.
‘May I take one?’
‘Yes, of course. I have napkins here. You can use your fingers.’
‘Is that right?’ I hold her gaze. ‘I’m very good with my fingers…’
She smiles and looks away, and I’m about to say something else when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Two Livers.
‘Dave, don’t go off-piste yet. The UK Minister needs rescuing. Grab him while you can.’
Benjamin Hillary does look utterly bored. He’s actually backed slowly away from the designer Christmas tree, but she’s followed him, and they’ve gradually worked their way through the crowd until he now has his back literally to the wall. Time the cavalry arrived.
I move through the crowd until I’m standing next to the Christmas tree. When I see her up close, she’s not such a babe. She’s probably mid-fifties, speaks with a central European accent and has the self-confidence of a Euro-trash aristo – probably an Austrian countess. She looks as if she’s had every age-defying form of surgery known to man, and I mentally dismiss her as Mrs Plastic Fantastic. Worse still, she’s loud, has too much make-up on and exudes the certainty that she’s not only the most attractive and amusing woman at the party, but that all of us want to seduce her. If she were British, a decade or so younger and male, she could be me.
As I move in alongside her I step on her Demi-Monde shoe.
‘Ow!’ She looks at me accusingly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I do apologise.’
She’s staring at the pointy toe of her five-thousand-pound shoe.
‘Are those shoes by Demi-Monde?’
‘Yes.’ She’s not sure whether to be flattered that I noticed, or angry that I may have spoilt one of them.
‘Disgraceful.’
‘Disgraceful? What do you mean?’ She’s getting ready for a fight.
I look at Benjamin Hillary. ‘Disgraceful that someone should come to an event like this wearing a five thousand pound pair of shoes. No one needs five- thousand-pound shoes. Wear a five-hundred-pound pair and give the rest to charity.’
She looks at me dismissively. ‘I do give to charity. Lots in fact, every year.’
The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3) Page 14