‘Then give more.’
She looks to the Minister for support, but he’s staring into his glass, and she turns on her heel and disappears without saying another word. Finally he looks up from his glass and speaks.
‘Mister Hart, that was very rude, but I agree with you.’
How about that? He knows me already. I like this guy.
‘Minister, I’m sorry if I pissed you off. But I speak my mind. I don’t know any other way.’
He looks at me a little sceptically. He knows I’m a banker. It goes without saying that I know all kinds of ways, and that generally the last thing I do is speak my mind. I speak whatever the client wants to hear.
I start to talk about the New Start programme, but he’s there ahead of me.
‘Mister Hart, cut the crap. How much will Grossbank make out of New Start?’
‘Billions.’ I say it with confidence, and strictly speaking it’s true. In fact I’m hoping that by getting in early and cherry-picking our investment projects, we’ll more than double our money over the next five years. But fifty billion times two, is quite a large number, and I don’t want to trouble him with detail. I can see he’s a big picture man.
‘I assumed so.’ He sips his drink slowly, scrutinising me over the rim of his glass.
I feel strangely naked. Normally I like being naked, but this is different. I shrug half-apologetically. ‘I’m a banker. Even my dark side has a darker side.’
He nods. ‘I know.’ More scrutiny. What does he know? What can he know? Maybe some special government department has a file on me and he read it on the plane out. Or maybe I have a pimple on the end of my nose, but just haven’t realised it yet. He rubs his chin reflectively. ‘But I’m still going to support you.’
Phew. ‘Why is that?’
‘Because what you’re doing is what should be done, only most people aren’t prepared to contemplate… what shall we say…? The unusual methodology you sometimes employ.’
Unusual methodology? This is scary. I tend to freak out when people know things about me that I don’t know that they know.
‘Mister Hart, do you really think everything can be financed by the private sector?’
Time to level with him. He probably knows the answer anyway. ‘Not everything, no. Not everything that needs to happen is commercially viable. Some things will always require government money, aid money, contributions from supra-national organisations.’
‘So why aren’t you asking us?’
‘So far no one has a problem with what I’m doing, even if the methods are… unconventional… because I don’t have my hand out.’
A dork has appeared beside us and wants to meet the Minister. His badge identifies him as a journalist. He hovers within earshot, waiting to be acknowledged. Where are the Meat Factory when you need them? If only they were here they could throw him out the window. Well, dangle him upside down anyway.
The Minister turns to the journalist and shakes hands, but just before he starts talking to him, he turns back to me briefly. ‘Be bold, Mister Hart. You might get a surprise.’
He wanders off with the journo. I like the guy. He strikes me as really smart. As a politician he actually chooses to do long hours of tedious work, mixing with second-rate people, for piss poor money, just so he can make a difference.
Maybe he’s not so smart after all.
* * *
‘FAILURE ISN’T falling down. Failure is not getting up again.’
Dinner is over and I’m addressing the ministers and senior officials in a large private dining room.
‘In Africa people are used to falling down. They fall down every time there’s a drought, or disease makes their crops fail, or warlords or bandits come and steal their food and burn their homes. But they keep on getting up. They keep on getting up, even when we don’t lend a hand. Well, Grossbank is lending more than a hand. We’re putting our money where our mouth is, and have committed fifty billion euros.’
I glance across at Benjamin Hillary, who is sitting at the end of the table next to Ramos Ramirez. Fuck it, time to sound the bugles and charge. I put down my notes, and across the table from me Two Livers does one of her ‘Oh Christ, he’s going off message’ looks.
‘Fifty billion doesn’t sound much if you say it quickly. But it’s more than I could spend in a weekend.’ This gets a few polite smiles. Even I couldn’t get through that much, though it would be fun trying. ‘But it will achieve a huge amount. So far seven countries have started working with Grossbank on New Start investment projects. All of these countries have had, let’s just say, a controversial past. But we’ve approached them at the highest level…’ Which is to say at the level of their leaders’ wallets. ‘…And have been able to open doors and markets. But private money can’t do everything. We’re accountable to shareholders, we might take risks, but we have to show a return. Some projects simply can’t show the returns we need, like basic infrastructure in rural areas without natural resource potential. But these projects matter too, and taken together alongside the New Start projects the cumulative impact can be huge.’ Which is to say that Grossbank needs these countries to be stable, but won’t pick up the tab itself. ‘We can get whole regions out of the mire and permanently standing on their own feet. All we need is to decide to do it. Because real people’s real lives are at stake. Millions of them. I believe it would be a crime not to do something when we can. If we simply turn aside, then it should be on all of our consciences. Thank you.’
When I sit down, my eyes are shining as if I’m fighting back the tears and I have a lump in my throat. They can feel the emotion. At times like this I feel like a method actor, and sincerity is one of my specialities. Christ, I’m good.
Ben Hillary’s been waiting for this. He turns to Ramos Ramirez, who is technically our host tonight.
‘With your permission, Emilio, I’d like to pick up on Mister Hart’s last comments.’ Ramos Ramirez nods his consent, and Hillary looks around the table at his counterparts from other nations.
‘We’re often criticised for saying a lot but doing little.’ Lots of wise nodding round the table. It’s true. The wealthy nations don’t get a great press, mostly because they don’t deserve one. ‘The developed world makes pledges, grabs a few headlines, then quietly walks away without delivering.’ More wise nodding. A lot of these guys like it that way. ‘New Start gives us a real opportunity to break the mould. Once and for all.’ Now they’re looking alarmed. This wasn’t covered in the pre-IMF talks where their officials agreed in advance what the Ministers would agree. ‘As a group, we should commit here and now, this evening, to match Grossbank’s contribution, euro for euro, as the funds are committed, and over whatever time period is involved. Fifty billion euros. With effect from today.’ Ah, they can see his game now. The devil, as they say, is in the detail. The funds will only go in as Grossbank puts the money in. That could take years, and might never happen. It’s another pledge, another vague agreement to agree, or in political speak a decisive, strategic determination to talk about talks. Smiles all round and heads nod. This really will be a surprise. People will see that the developed world doesn’t just spend its time talking about itself at these great gatherings. We find time for headline grabbing gimmicks as well.
Ramos Ramirez is delighted. This will be an initiative of the Spanish Presidency. It’s so vague and non-binding that none of them needs to clear it with their own capitals. One after another they fall into line, pledging their support. In under fifteen minutes it’s a done deal. Even the French are happy to agree.
Ramos Ramirez calls the press in and they hold an impromptu briefing. The hacks scribble away, cynically dismissing it all as another PR stunt, until I clear my throat and turn to Ramos Ramirez.
‘Your Excellency, with your permission, may I?’
He’s all smiles and bonhomie. ‘Of course, Mister Hart.’
He really ought to know better. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, there is one further detail that His Excellency omitted to mentio
n.’ He suddenly looks nervous. Too late, pal. ‘The funds pledged tonight will be taken in by Grossbank and held in a special high interest account, at no charge to the nations involved, until they are drawn down. Within ninety days. This is a real commitment.’
The hacks are amazed. The Ministers even more so. Real? No one talked about real. And where did ninety days come from? Even as I say the words, you can see a few political careers going into a nose dive when they get home and have to account for making commitments without authorisation or consultation, especially ones where real money gets spent.
Benjamin Hillary looks across at me. I guessed he’d do this, taking a leaf out of my book to jump his oppos’. What he didn’t know is that I’d jump the jumper. I smile at him. Never trust a banker, pal.
But then he smiles back and he really looks delighted. Shit. Who’s the cat and who’s the mouse here? They say he’s a conviction politician, and very bright, and then it dawns on me. He wanted this to happen, and he knew I’d jump him. He jumped the jumper who was jumping him. Christ, he’s good. If he ever wants a job at Grossbank, he can have any role he wants.
Except mine.
* * *
SUCCESS IS relative. Mobilising a hundred billion for the worst basket cases in Africa, getting their leaders to agree to phased, peaceful regime change, helping tens of millions of people to achieve a better life – well, at least a more material one – and all the while earning monster bonuses, having sex with some of the most beautiful women in the world, getting pissed and doing drugs night after night probably sounds pretty good to most people.
But as it works, so the emptiness sets in again.
I hate those ‘What’s it all for?’ moments that creep up on you in the early hours of the morning, when the girls are asleep and you’re lying awake, staring at the ceiling. I don’t really think it’s for anything at all. It just is. Which leaves a gaping hole inside me that I fill with drugs and booze and momentary pleasures.
Except maybe Two Livers. Maybe she’s different. Maybe she’s the one. She’s brighter, harder working, far more talented than I could ever be.
We’re going on a tour of African capitals together. Just the two of us in a smoker for a week, visiting some of the places that she thinks might change the way I view the world.
This afternoon I was so bored I agreed to chair the Management Committee – third time this year – and she sent me a text message: ‘OUCH!’
We were just talking about rationalising the branch network in Germany, imposing compulsory redundancies on one in ten of the workforce, and I creased up, which left everyone rather puzzled. ‘OUCH!’ is code for ‘I’m at the beauticians having a waxing, and I’ve just had a Brazilian’. Now that’s commitment.
While the Management Committee drone on about job cuts, all the while casting nervous glances towards the madman at the head of the table, I sit there grinning, trying to work out what turns me on more – the thought of Two Livers’ almost hairless pussy, or the idea of watching some eastern European beautician – Voluptuous Vesi from Bucharest – carrying out the waxing.
I wonder if I could pay to watch.
* * *
THE REAL reason I went to the Management Committee was an item that came up under the HR report. Apparently we have a sexual harassment problem with a female employee. No, it isn’t what you’re thinking. Caroline Connor has changed. The six-foot-one-inch librarian that I wanted to connect with all the tall guys in the firm has become a man-eater. It worked. She’s changed her hairstyle, swapped the glasses for contacts, wears miniskirts up to her armpits and is working her way steadily through all the tall, single, good-looking men in the firm. They tell me she rides to work on a Harley Davidson and even has a tattoo.
The problem is that good-looking, well built, six-foot-three-inch tall, high-achieving men are psychologically ill-equipped to be prey rather than predators. A couple have left, while others – get this – have complained. Officially. Can you believe that?
HR want to initiate a disciplinary procedure. I agree with them. Fire the fuckers. What’s wrong with them? But then the HR people start to give me all this political correctness shit about Caroline Connor, and it’s her they want to fire. I feel like I’ve nodded off and woken up in a short story by Kafka. An attractive woman keeps pestering you to have sex with her, takes you to bed and exhausts you, night after night, and you think it’s a problem?
I say, hell no, she’s one of the most original thinkers in the firm and I won’t lose her. If the guys have a problem with one of my best people, then as far as I’m concerned they’re the problem. We should treat them no differently than anyone else who complains about being harassed by one of our key people – either we find a reason to fire them or we invent one, and if we really can’t do that, we pay them off. This is not the kindergarten – we’re talking investment banking in the twenty-first century. I’m willing to risk a class action suit against the firm on behalf of all the tall, handsome men in the industry, providing it means I get to keep my Amazon. Even if she is too tall for me.
I look at the HR people. ‘Who are we?’
‘Grossbank.’ They say it in a half-hearted, ‘we don’t really get this’ tone.
‘And?’
‘Grossbank rocks.’
Enough said.
* * *
AFRICA IS different. All the clichés in the world are inadequate when it comes to the dark Continent, and Two Livers was right. Dirt poor people with mile wide smiles, amazing sunsets, vast distances, a sense of actually being alive. For a week I’ve been off the drugs and still felt the buzz. It’s been a great trip, and I’ve never felt as close to another human being as I do now to Two Livers.
I’m about to indulge in a glass of my drug of choice in Africa, alcohol, in this case vintage Bollinger, in the back of Air Force One, as I call my favourite Grossbank smoker.
I’m with Two Livers and we’re celebrating the signing of a New Start programme for Lubumbashi, having stayed in a hotel so primitive that it had no air conditioning, only sporadic running water, and food so dire that we were warned by Ralph Jones, ‘If it’s not cooked, or you can’t peel it, leave it on the plate.’ I even took the radical step of skipping ice cubes in my gin and tonic, so great was my fear of infection.
So we visited the markets, went to a special concert given by schoolchildren as guests of honour, and took a river trip to spot crocodiles and hippos, which we named in honour of colleagues in London.
We took a whole day out of our programme and went to the beach and swam in the sea, while our hosts freaked out. The waters around here are shark-infested, and they didn’t want to lose us before we signed. We were relaxed. Investment bankers never get taken by sharks. There is such a thing as professional respect.
Oh, and we had amazing sex, including a great scene in the surf, which should have been filmed as a movie classic.
But now we’ve signed, and General Van Smit has told us how the government forces have cleared out their old friends the warlords, who are mighty pissed off. He reckons they’ve sworn undying hatred of Grossbank and of me personally, and tells me to watch out.
So you can imagine how relieved I am when I’m sitting in the back of the plane with Two Livers, climbing rapidly to cruising altitude and leaving anger, greed and hostility behind – so we can get back to the everyday anger, greed and hostility of ordinary investment banking.
Everyday life, even as an investment banker, is going to be very boring after what we’ve been doing. We now have eleven countries signed up to New Start programmes. We’ve committed thirty of our fifty billions, and the EU are committed to matching amounts. We really are making a difference. And the impact on the bonus pool is going to be astronomical. It definitely hasn’t been boring.
Two Livers and I lean forward and clink glasses.
‘Success.’
She smiles. ‘And the future.’
I wonder what she means. Part of me hardly dares to speculate. Clothes,
jewellery, fast cars, private jets? Or something else?
‘Hey, I couldn’t have done this without you, you know.’
‘I know.’ She speaks with a beautifully deep, sexy voice. ‘In fact, you couldn’t have done jack shit without me. Or Paul. Or half a dozen other people. But none of it would have happened without you. You really are different, you know. In fact…’
There’s a sudden flash and a bang outside the cabin window, and the plane lurches to one side, emptying our glasses and tipping up the ice bucket, sending the champagne bottle rolling along the floor.
‘Christ, what was that?’
The pilots are both at the controls, the door shut behind them for privacy, but one of them shouts over the intercom, ‘Missile! Someone’s fired a missile at us.’
We stare at each other. This was definitely not meant to happen. The plane is vibrating, shaking and shuddering like it’s about to fall apart. We hear the pilot’s voice again. ‘Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Gulfstream Golf Bravo seven niner, we have been struck by a missile and are losing height, estimated two minutes to impact, our position is…’
Two Livers stares at me, horrified. ‘Christ – we’re going down.’
‘Going down? Then…’ I fumble to undo my seatbelt. Opposite me, she unbuckles hers, throws herself on top of me, rips my shirt open and starts undoing my belt. ‘Two minutes…’
That’s when I see another flash out of the corner of my eye, there’s a much louder bang and a sudden, howling rush of air.
Damn!
THE FOURTH INSTALMENT OF
DAVE HART’S ADVENTURES
IS AVAILABLE FROM
SEPTEMBER 2009
WHERE EGOS DARE
by David Charters
from Elliott & Thompson
I THINK I’m going mad.
I know I can’t be dead. I know because it’s hot as hell, and that simply does not compute. How could I have died and gone to hell? It’s impossible. Hell is for other people. In fact hell is other people. It’s certainly not for me.
There’s a hot wind blowing over me like a giant hair dryer. I’m lying on my back, being dragged across a surface that alternates between smooth and rough, and my body is aching. The whole of my right side is hurting, as if my ribs are broken. Maybe they are. The sun – at least, I suppose it’s the sun – is burning my face and I’m keeping my eyes tightly closed.
The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3) Page 15