Click. ‘Brrr…’
I put down the phone.
‘Wanker!’
When I get to the office, the day’s papers are laid out on my desk. It was a quiet news day, and we’ve made a splash. The Post once again has the best headline: Bankers with Balls take on AFF. They have pictures of Biedermann and me. ‘City hard man Dave Hart yesterday sent a message to the Animal Freedom Front: up yours!’ The cartoon in The Times shows Biedermann and me on top of a tank with black crosses on it. A group of City suits in pin-stripes and bowlers on one side are cowering from a bunch of skinheads on the other. The caption reads, ‘Got a problem, chaps?’
It’s only ten o’clock, and Two Livers is hitting the Evian already. She has one of her biggest days ahead of her since joining Grossbank, and she’s spooked because last night someone called in the early hours and told her they know where she lives.
‘That was Dan Harriman. He’s a wanker!’
She looks at me with pity. I don’t like it when she looks at me that way. ‘It wasn’t Dan Harriman. I was with Dan Harriman.’
‘You… were with… Dan Harriman?’
‘Why not? Who were you with?’
‘That’s different. I’m the boss.’
‘Oh sure, boss, I forgot.’
And then I start to think.
‘Maria!’
‘Yes, Mister Hart?’
‘How long would it take someone to find my home address?’
‘Five minutes, perhaps less. If they had access to the internet. Do you want me to show you?’
‘No. What about my phone number?’
‘Are you in the book?’
I’ve no idea if I’m ‘in the book’ – Wendy always dealt with that sort of thing.
‘Possibly.’
‘Then about thirty seconds.’
‘What if I’m not?’
‘Harder. They’d have to get inventive. Probably not impossible though. Do you want me to find out?’
‘No. But I tell you what – call my lawyers, tell them Wendy can have the flat after all, but I need signed papers by this afternoon, because this is definitely it. My final, final offer. Then call my real estate agent and tell him to raise the bid on the house in Holland Park, but I’m going to want to buy it through an overseas holding company.’
Now I’m spooked too. It’s great to play these games, but nothing’s actually supposed to happen. Not to people like us, anyway.
A succession of visitors are arriving downstairs, and Two Livers goes down to greet them. Six out of the UK’s seven largest pharmaceutical and healthcare companies are meeting today at Grossbank’s offices. The exception is Eastern Pharma. Their management are on a roadshow in the States, but their Chairman is getting up early to join us by video-conference.
When Two Livers shows them into the large conference room, I’m stuck on the phone in the corner and shrug apologetically.
‘Yes, Secretary of State, yes.’ I look at them as they take their places. ‘They’re here now. We just need to get Eastern Pharma on the video-link, then we’ll kick off. I’ll pass that on. Thank you, Secretary of State.’
I hang up. ‘Gentlemen I’m sorry – politicians do rather like the sound of their own voices.’
I can see they’re curious, but don’t elaborate. I told Maria before the call that she shouldn’t get used to being addressed that way, because I didn’t intend to make a habit of it. Two Livers does the intros and organises coffee for everyone else and a large bottle of Perrier – brought in by her rather nervous assistant – for herself. Finally we call up California and get a bleary-eyed, elderly suit on the video-link, who is apparently Sir Crispin Monk, Chairman of Eastern Pharma.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming here today, and a special thank you to you, Sir Crispin, for joining us so early in your morning. We’re here to discuss follow-up to yesterday’s announcement concerning Hastings BioScience, which I know everyone on this side of the Atlantic has read about in today’s newspapers.’
‘And over here too.’ The face on the screen is slightly out of sync with the voice, but Sir Crispin is holding up a copy of the Wall Street News, pointing to a small piece on the front page. ‘Grossbank has been very courageous. I didn’t think the Germans had it in them, but I suppose it’s down to you. Our chaps have been pretty hopeless on this, and the Yanks haven’t been seen for dust.’
Music to my ears. Two Livers is smiling smugly.
‘Thank you, Sir Crispin. Your kind words are greatly appreciated. But words sadly are not enough. Grossbank has put its neck on the line to maintain a world class testing facility here in the UK that is vital to all of your businesses, both now and in the future. We’re taking a risk not just corporately, but personally as well – because we believe in this. But we can’t do it alone. If everyone else says, “Great, Grossbank have got us off the hook, we’re in the clear”, and the AFF come after us and our staff the way they went after HBS, it will only be a matter of time before Frankfurt loses its nerve. We need to send Frankfurt a signal – a clear and unequivocal signal – that we’re not alone here, that others appreciate what we’re doing and will support us.’
One of the men sitting around the table interrupts at this point. ‘So what are you looking for from us? A public statement?’
‘No. Like I said, words are cheap.’ I point to the telephone. ‘I have it on good authority that the British government is going to be behind us all the way on this. Government support doesn’t necessarily count for much in some sectors, but healthcare is different. We have a lot of goodwill there, and when it comes to things like accelerating approvals for new drugs, or getting the National Health Service to adopt a new product, we’ll be well placed to help the companies we’re working with.’
The suits around the table sit back, pondering what I’m saying, and wondering if that really was Joanna Harriet, the Secretary of State for Health, on the phone.
‘The trouble is, we’re not working with any at the moment.’
‘So you want our business?’
‘Investment banks always want your business, and we’re no different. But what we want – what we need – is your endorsement of Grossbank, and what we’re doing. And the best endorsement, the one that speaks volumes to the world, is when you appoint us to lead, or participate in, major transactions on your behalf. If HBS means anything at all to you, at least give us a shot.’
‘You’re right.’ It’s Sir Crispin, his lips still out of sync with his voice. I wonder if it’s the video-link, or something he’s on. Maybe I could get like that, if I keep playing every night. ‘Eastern Pharma is floating its US subsidiary on the New York Stock Exchange. We’re over here roadshowing the company to investors right now. Hardman Stoney are leading the deal for us. I’m going to tell them I’m appointing Grossbank alongside them. I don’t care if you perform in the deal or not. It’s about making a statement.’
Bingo! Two Livers is smiling to herself. Was it really me who swung him? She avoids my eye. And takes another sip of Perrier.
I’m about to thank Sir Crispin, when I realise he’s saying something else. ‘Eric? Is that you sitting there?’
One of the suits nods and says yes.
‘Well, you should put Grossbank into the project financing for your new Turkish manufacturing plant. You’re using Bartons, aren’t you? Where were they when the chips were down?’
And so it goes on. Sir Crispin is unstoppable. He goes around the table, pinning them down one after the other. A lease financing here, a bond issue there, some of them significant, others more symbolic. By the end, when I’m showing them out, and assuring them that I’ll give the Secretary of State a full briefing, we’ve created the basis for launching Grossbank as a major force in global health-care investment banking.
Christ, I’m good.
When the last of them has gone, I nudge Two Livers and grin. ‘I don’t know what Sir Crispin was on, but he was flying today – what a star. We should form a global healthc
are advisory board, make him chair of it, and hold meetings twice a year in the Bahamas and Zermatt. Just as a reward for today.’
She waves her hand dismissively. ‘No need.’
‘No need? Why not?’
She winks at me. ‘Sir Crispin and I go back a long way.’
Damn, this girl’s an operator.
I report in to Herman to give him ammunition in the continuing war against Biedermann, which has taken a turn for the worse with several bank employees hurt in a demonstration outside the Grossbank Tower by eco protesters, anti-capitalists and other radical groups.
‘Look at it this way, Herman – at least everyone’s heard of us now.’
He doesn’t see the funny side.
I return to my desk for an interview with a cute female reporter for Her magazine. She asks me a bunch of dumb questions about what it’s like to be a hero, and can I sleep at night, worrying about what AFF extremists might do to me. Honey, I never sleep at night. Why waste time? I’ve got far better things to do. She asks me if finance is boring.
‘Finance is the sex of the twenty-first century.’
‘Really? Can I quote you on that?’
Sure, if you want to, but everyone will know it’s not true. Sex is the sex of the twenty-first century, and if you don’t believe me, ask Ilyana, and Nina, and Carla, and Breathless Beth…
TONIGHT IS DIFFERENT. Tonight I’m not going to shag hookers, or if I do, it won’t be until much later. Tonight I have a date. I’m meeting Sally Mills, and I intend to give her every opportunity to show me just how grateful she is for saving her brother’s bacon.
When I leave the office at around six-thirty there are a small group of animal rights protesters standing behind a barrier with several policemen and some of Grossbank’s private security guards preventing them from interfering with employees. I’m tempted to follow the example of some of our traders and wave a fistful of fifty pound notes at them, but apparently it’s considered provocative. I collect H1 PAY from the underground car-park next to the building – similarly protected by police and private security guards – and head south and then west along the Embankment. I’m meeting Sally at the Savoy, on the grounds that some of my most successful seductions have started with drinks in the American Bar.
She’s as beautiful as ever, in fact even more so. I realise I’ve never really seen her like this, when she’s made a special effort. She’s wearing a simple black mid-length dress, strapless, with a pearl necklace and earrings, and she’s put her hair up. The effect is simple, designer-free and elegant. I don’t ask where Trevor is.
She starts by thanking me again for all I’ve done for Harry. He’s apparently like a new man. His whole team have been re-energised. No one believed that a firm like Grossbank would come to the rescue.
Neither did I, but I don’t say that.
We have a couple of cocktails in the bar, then wander through to the restaurant for dinner. Conversation is remarkably easy, but I feel like there’s an elephant in the drawing room, and we’re both pretending it’s not there.
By the end of dinner I’m feeling completely relaxed – always a dangerous state – she’s slightly flushed from what for her is probably an unusual amount of alcohol, and as we sip our coffee it seems to me the time has come to find out where I stand. Will I rip her panties off or not?
‘Sally – it’s been wonderful tonight. All that I hoped for.’ Except a blow-job. At least so far. ‘But there’s something I need to ask you. You know my feelings for you. I’ve got you in my head and I can’t let go. I want you. I don’t want to scare you, and I don’t want you not to see me again, but all I can do is be honest with you. It’s the truth, Sally – I’m in love with you.’
She puts her napkin to her eyes and starts sobbing. ‘Oh, Dave, don’t. Please don’t.’ She looks at me helplessly. ‘I can’t. It would be wrong. For me, for you, for Trevor, for the boys. It’s not that I don’t have strong feelings for you – what woman wouldn’t?’ Quite. ‘But I can’t. I’m sorry.’
Before I can start the line about it sometimes being right to go with your feelings, to trust your instincts, even if only for a single night, the maitre d’ appears and asks if the young lady is all right. Then someone at another table points at me and says, ‘Isn’t that Dave Hart, the banker who’s taking on the Animal Freedom Front?’ and all heads are turning our way, some discreetly, some not caring, and a couple of schmucks from another table come over to shake my hand and ask if they can buy us a drink. Damnation. The moment is gone. Furious, I decide to call it a day.
The doorman drives H1 PAY round to the front of the hotel, holds the door for Sally, while I let myself in, and I slip him a fiver for his trouble. It’s gone midnight, it’s been raining, and we drive in silence through the dark, almost empty streets. Sally’s staying with her cousin, who lives in Bermondsey, so I head south to drop her off, inwardly seething that this means still more delay before I can call Nina and Beth and get the evening properly underway.
There aren’t many cars around as we head into a part of London that I’m not familiar with. The Bentley has a satnav that keeps me on the right route, but a couple of times when I’m stopped at traffic lights I imagine I see a car some way behind me slowing down, keeping its distance.
Snap out of it, Hart – you’ll be seeing greens under the bed next. We drive on, until we reach another set of lights.
That’s when everything goes pear-shaped. As I’m slowing for the lights, an anonymous, battered white van comes up fast behind us. I see its lights in the mirror, and assume it’s going to slow down. But it doesn’t, and I brace myself as it smashes into the back of the Bentley, pushing us forward across the road and into a wall. The front hits the wall and crumples, while the air bags explode in front of us.
I’m not sure exactly what happens next, but I remember looking at Sally, who’s lying against the passenger door, her eyes shut, as my door opens, someone reaches over to undo my seatbelt, and I’m yanked out of the car. Part of me thinks I’m being helped, but as I stand unsteadily beside the car a fist smashes into my stomach, winding me so that I crumple slowly to the floor.
I’m lying on the wet road, my cheek resting on the ground, looking at a pair of Doc Martens. A voice says, ‘Look at the City’s not-so-hard man now.’ I look up and count six of them, standing around me. Five men and what is theoretically a woman, though she barely qualifies. Combat jackets and jeans, shaven heads or long, dyed hair, boots and gloves. One of them has a baseball bat, and another has a long length of chain. The one standing nearest to me pulls out a flick knife and clicks it open. He grins, a dirty-toothed, bad breath grin. ‘Say night-night, big Dave – it’s lights out time.’ I groan and try to push myself to my feet. I hear another voice.
‘We goin’ to do her, too?’
‘Yeah.’
‘NO!’ I surprise myself as I leap to my feet, nearly overbalance, and swing my right fist – straight into the wall. A fierce pain shoots through my arm as I stagger back, stung as much by the scornful laughter that greets my attempt at heroics. I run at the nearest one, grab his jacket, and find myself spinning round as he twists and throws me to the ground. I lash out and my left fist smashes into the road surface. One of them kicks me in the stomach, and I groan and choke back tears.
They are hysterical with laughter now as I desperately fish for my mobile phone in my jacket pocket and start dialling.
The leader squats beside me and watches me dial. ‘Go ahead, big Dave – call the police. Average response time, this part of town? I’d say about ten minutes. They don’t really want to get here any sooner, see?’
I can hear a voice at the other end, and I start repeating over and over the name on the street sign on the corner. I’m still half dazed, still in shock.
That’s why I’m not too clear what happened next.
A powerful engine, tyres screeching, doors opening, and I roll over to see a dark coloured car, a Range Rover, stopped in the middle of the road. Fo
ur men get out, average height, slim build, short hair, probably late twenties to mid-thirties, wearing anonymous dark suits and ties. They’re not rushing, but they don’t hesitate.
One of them approaches the thug with the baseball bat, who raises it and steps forward to take a swing at him. The man in the suit parries and sweeps the bat away, then brings his other hand into the thug’s ribs. He does a one, two, three burst of rib-cracking punches, a swift karate chop to the neck, so that the thug goes down, all without breaking step, speaking or catching his breath. Then he’s on to the woman, who yells at him and swings her fist, but he parries again, gives her a stiff-finger jab to the throat which leaves her clutching her neck, gasping and making horrible suffocating sounds, then doubles her up with a punch to the stomach, and as she falls to her knees steps around her and gives a one, two, three to the kidneys. She collapses to the ground, heaving for breath and making horrible, unnatural sounds. Four against six takes about fifteen seconds, though time isn’t working for me the way it usually does. There are no dramatic kung fu kicks or thuggish head-butts, as far as I can see no blood, not even any words exchanged. One of the eco’s screams something at them, but he’s cut off mid-shout by a karate chop. And then there are only crumpled bodies on the ground.
One of the men from the Range Rover kneels beside me. ‘Mister Hart, are you all right?’
I nod yes, and he helps me to my feet. ‘Check her. In the car…’
One of them opens the passenger door, leans in and then calls across. ‘Fine. Bump on the head.’
They turn as we hear a police siren faintly in the distance. The one who’s holding me pats me on the shoulder. ‘Mister Hart, Mike Moss sent us. He said you might need looking after. You’ll be fine now. But we need to go. We don’t work in the UK, only overseas.’
They walk – do these people ever run? – to the Range Rover, climb in and start the engine. One window slides down. ‘You’ll be fine – just don’t mention us.’
The Range Rover roars off around the corner as I stand, unsteady on my feet, and look at the crumpled bodies all around me. I stagger over to check on Sally, who is unconscious, but still breathing. The minutes tick slowly past while the distant sirens get closer. One of the eco’s starts moaning on the ground a few yards away, lifts his head and starts coughing up blood. With all the strength I can muster, fuelled by fear and pain and humiliation, I kick him in the head, just as a police car pulls up beside me, its flashing blue light casting a surreal effect all around. The doors open, and two policemen step out, one of them talking on a handheld radio.
Trust Me, I'm a Banker (Dave Hart 2) Page 12