MONEY TREE

by Gordon, Ferris,

Warwick’s soft tones made the other men wince in anticipation. Charlie held his ground.

  ‘We need to understand where the problem is and then we can maybe focus on how to solve it. Some of these figures are good, Warwick. Great even. Considering where we’ve been.’ He poked at the columns now appearing on all the screens. ‘We’re above target in two of our four regions and three out of five business lines. We can still pull it up.’

  Warwick’s eyes slitted and the right side of his thin mouth lifted in his famous sneer.

  ‘Show me.’

  Charlie Easterhouse enlarged the spreadsheet. He gave his colleagues a second or two to home in on the serried columns. Then he clicked on chosen lines and let them see the underlying figures.

  ‘Europe and North America were on target for first quarter in terms of new accounts, total under deposit, and the all important Net Interest.’ He paged down and highlighted some figures.

  ‘Global M&A activity was actually 3% up on budget and 15% up on last year. Same story on our dealing operations – client and own book. We’re up nearly 5% on budget for Treasuries and Triple A bonds, and almost 7% on equity market making.’

  Easterhouse looked round for support, if not applause, from his colleagues. No-one responded. Charlie battled on.

  ‘Got to admit, second quarter is forecast to be flatter, and then, sure, we tail away. But we have time. If we take the right action,’ he pleaded.

  The Chief Executive of Global American bank looked through slits at his Chief Operating Officer. He picked up his chair and sat back down.

  ‘So, Charlie, you think these bums will earn their bonuses by year end? Averaging $10 million a piece? You think?’

  He waited for the riposte which was never going to come. His voice strengthened.

  ‘The recession is over. Half our competition has been wiped out. It’s a fuckin’ bull market out there!’

  He pointed towards the massive plate glass windows of the room and the towers and drops of Wall Street beyond.

  ‘My goddamn grandmother could make these numbers. And she’s dead! What about our forecasts for Asia Pac and Latin America? What about the retail business – banking and insurance that’s forecast to lose 3 points in a fuckin’ quarter! What about the cost base that went up by near 10%! What the fuck is going on?!’

  The men and woman now dropped their eyes. There was no hiding place.

  ‘Ok, we go round the table. Cadenza?’

  José Cadenza met his boss’s eyes, swallowed and wished he was on a plane down to Rio to see his wife, kids and his deputies in the Central and Latin America region. He knew they were busting their balls off for this madman, and the plain fact was that he’d set impossible targets. He wished for the thousandth time he’d held out for realistic numbers during the budget last year. But between his boss and Charlie Easterhouse, not to mention the hefty bonus, he’d been bludgeoned into a 20% hike. Before Stanstead could begin the one-sided duel, a soft but carefully pitched Scottish voice deflected the thrust.

  ‘Warwick?’

  She was sitting back in her chair, slim fingers neatly latticed in front of her. Apart from the rising colour in her neck, and the faint quaver in her voice, she looked the least nervous round the table. It wasn’t insouciance; Asia Pacific was doing worse than any other region.

  ‘Miss Wishart. Erin. I was saving you till last.’ The Chief was gentle now, caressing.

  ‘And not because I’ve got the best numbers?’

  Her chin lifted and her voice steadied. Erin Wishart reminded herself of the power of her accent to hold the attention of an all-American male audience. She went on without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Asia Pac is the worst performer because that’s where the problem started. Take a look.’

  She began stroking the screen in front of her. The wall chart faded and came back into focus with new slides.

  ‘These are 3D charts of each of our regions showing our results against target and against our nearest competitors in each area. See the red bumps in Asia and Latin America? And this next screen, our global business lines, it’s the same story.’

  She waited a beat to see faces absorb the information and got a few nods.

  ‘Our usual competitors – the big US and European banks – are seeing the same trend line as us. One competitor is rising higher and faster than any of us. The People’s Bank. It started in India, but now has a massive penetration of Australia, Indonesia, Philippines, Japan, and not least, China. Thanks to the Internet and their business model, they’re coming after the rest of us. They’re gobbling up our target markets and business lines like an infection.’

  ‘But this is some nothing bank! A fucking pipe dream. It’s a bank for people we don’t even want as customers! They’re picking up our cast-offs!’

  ‘They were Warwick. They were. But they’re getting the volumes, and now they’re moving up the food chain. They’re fashionable.’

  Erin Wishart, Senior Vice President Asia Pacific, said the last word with a mixture of irony and wonder.

  She went on, ‘It’s a post-recession reaction. We – the big Western banks - completely alienated our customers. We lost their trust. PB has an image that combines good finances with good works. No bad loans to speak of. No government hand-outs. They’re untainted.’

  Erin paused and watched the nods of agreement round the room and on the video screens.

  ‘Our research shows People’s Bank hoovering up everything. They’ve just announced they’re moving into micro-insurance, so we can expect Aaron’s side to be picked off next in the developed world. They have well-advanced plans for ethical investment banking and fund management.’

  She couldn’t hide a certain ruefulness in her voice. The Chief Executive of Global American blinked at her.

  ‘Ethical investment banking? That’s like low carb doughnuts!’

  ‘The Fed likes that bit, even if they don’t like the interest rates they charge. It’s an old model retuned for the Internet. People’s Bank raises money from depositors and only lends what it takes in. No big bets on the wholesale market. No fancy derivatives. No unmanageable risks.’

  ‘And no fat bonuses!’ Warwick cut her off with a slap of his hand on the desk.

  He swept his malignant eyes round his underlings like a serrated knife. His voice went quiet, almost whispering, the level set so low that even with the room’s magnificent sound system, they each had to lean a little forward to hear his pale words.

  ‘Miss Wishart is right. What we have here citizens is a virus. It’s a goddamn fuckin’ plague. That’s what this is. And we’re going to eradicate it before it takes us out too. Turns us all into some castrated mutual fund. Some socialist co-op. Erin, my office, now.’

  He got up and walked out, leaving the air simmering with tension and resentment.

  FIVE

  ‘I am feeling sick, Anila.’

  Leena spoke into the early morning light seeping in from the window. Their body-clocks had wakened them at village time, just before daybreak. They lay still, listening to the faint stirrings in the rest of the house and watching the light grow. They were thinking about the day ahead.

  ‘Is it proper sickness or are you just worried?’

  Anila rose up on her elbow to look at her companions. Divya was listening too.

  ‘I think it is worry, but I don’t know. I just woke feeling so frightened. It seemed such a good idea back in the village but now . . .’

  Even tough Divya looked troubled. Anila could understand it well enough. She had hardly slept in her anxiety. She had gone over and over why she was doing this, and though the logic worked, it was hard to convince her heart of the sense of this trip. Not in the small hours of the morning of the biggest day of her life. To reassure herself, as much as the others, Anila forced confidence into her voice.

  ‘It is simple really, Leena, is it not? We had no choice.’

  There was certainly none now. The trip itself had effectively burnt every bridge behind
them. They had stolen away from the village before first light and had told only their closest friends what they were planning. But by now of course the whole village would know their business and the money lender would never lend her a paisa again. She had borrowed the last few rupees of her mother’s savings for the train fare. This was her final throw.

  ‘But what if the bank won’t help us?’ asked Divya for the hundredth time.

  ‘They will. That is what they do, this bank. It is the People’s Bank after all.’

  ‘But we don’t even know if they will see us!’

  Leena picked up the other thread of worry hoping that Anila as usual would take it from her. This morning it was different. Anila was brisk.

  ‘Well, we will not have long to find out, will we? Get dressed and I will see if we can use their fine lavatory and maybe get us some more water to drink and to wash in.’

  They had time to wash and put on their best saris, carried so carefully, rolled up in their shoulder bags. They freshened the vermilion Sindoor on their forehead in their hair parting, and tied on their Mangalsutra necklaces. Anila felt a fraud putting on these insignia of love and marriage. She wore hers for safety and to avoid unwelcome advances on their travels. Dilip would rage and rant if he could have seen her. Even more so if he’d known what she was up to. Each wore their favourite nose studs and Leena had insisted on wearing her lucky ankle bangles as well as her bracelets. Anila and Divya stuck to bracelets. They felt better, more confident, now they were properly dressed.

  They courteously declined the offer of fresh bread. Though the smell of the hot dough was overwhelming, they didn’t want to stretch the family’s hospitality. The old woman came to the door to see them off. She touched each of them by the arm and stroked Anila’s cheek.

  ‘Shiva go with you, daughters. If you want my advice, go back to your village. This path you take is lined with thorns. It is not for you.’

  The three young women made bowing farewells to the old woman and her daughter as the door closed on them. Leena and Divya looked at their tall friend, doubt written large across their faces. The old woman had set all their fears running again. It had been done out of kindness but she made it clear that simple village women had no business with such grand ideas. But they had come this far and there was a freshness on the morning air and the light was increasing. They walked in the direction they’d been told and found themselves on the street of the Kinari Bazaar itself. They pooled their money and bought some hot chapattis and vegetable pakoras from the first street vendor they encountered. Now they could face the world.

  And what a world. The bazaar was famous across India for its wedding finery. Though it was barely day, the crowds were already thickening. Shutters were being thrown back and heavy metal blinds were being pushed up. Shop after shop revealed rolls of glorious silk and fine turbans. To Divya and Leena, these were treasure houses. To Anila, the gaiety rubbed salt into her own marriage wounds. Tinsel hung in festoons from great hooks and from wires stretched across a shop front. Garlands were being splashed with water and allowed to hang dripping in the gold light that had begun to inch its way down the walls.

  It took all Anila’s powers to cajole her friends through the market and out onto the Chandni Chowk itself. She checked her map and saw where she was. They turned left and along another narrow alleyway and began to look for a sign. They were beginning to think they’d missed it when they saw the words on a little brass plate. It said the People’s Bank and it had a tree engraved behind the words.

  It was shut. They sat down on the top one of two steps and waited. A long time later it seemed, when Leena was drowsing against Divya’s shoulder and Anila had worked her way through frantic to fatalistic, the man appeared in front of them. He was short and round, and dressed in a cream kurta top over black trousers. His dark hair was combed back from a moon-shaped face given character by the fine nose and the black moustache. He carried a slim leather briefcase and looked like a bumbling but amiable clerk. He spoke in English.

  ‘Excuse me, I want to go in, please.’

  He was waving a key at them and then at the door behind them. He seemed more amused than displeased. The women came to life and rose up like three startled birds from their perch. Anila was flustered and groped for the right words in English. In reflex she clasped her hands in greeting and bowed.

  ‘Namaste. Please sir, are you working here, in the bank?’

  This was the moment. The man slid his briefcase under his left arm and responded politely and in kind to Anila’s greeting. He looked quizzically at them.

  ‘Yes, yes I do. What do you want?’

  He was puzzled. They didn’t look like beggars and it seemed too late for night girls. Anila felt her breath leave her and her heart stop. It wasn’t her voice speaking, but someone was certainly repeating the words she’d rehearsed a hundred times to herself, in Hindi and – just in case – in English.

  ‘We are wanting a loan, for our business.’

  The man looked as though he was about to drive them away, then his severe expression broke and his face settled into its normal geniality. He smiled.

  ‘I’m afraid you have come to the wrong place. This is the head office of our bank. We don’t deal with personal customers here.’

  The three women looked dumbstruck, not understanding all the words but registering that their trip seemed to have been for nothing. The man saw the effect. He repeated his words in Hindi and added,

  ‘Look here, you’d better come inside, hadn’t you. My name is CJ Kapoor. I run this office.’

  SIX

  Ted Saddler was staring in some wonder at Erin Wishart as she came to a sudden stop.

  ‘You’ve just made my boss look like Francis of Assisi. Is Stanstead always like that or was this special?’

  She paused, wondering how to frame her reply.

  ‘You need to understand him. I’ve worked with him and for him for almost twenty years. He’s brilliant but driven. Several times over the years I thought we were going under. Warwick bailed us out through sheer force of will. Steered us through. Last time was the credit crunch in ’08. It almost killed GA. We could have gone down like Lehman. Warwick rallied us. Cut deals with the Fed, took the bailout money and then paid it back. He’s not about to see us fail now. This is his baby.’

  ‘He sounds like a megalomaniac. But who’d notice on Wall Street.’

  She shook her head. She’d heard all the gibes. How much do I need to tell this reporter to get him moving? At what point does it become a betrayal? Probably the minute he walked in the door.

  ‘We did some fancy accounting to scrape in on target at year end, but the analysts saw through it. Our share price tanked and will again. Everyone is killing themselves to make this year’s numbers.’ She paused a beat. ‘We won’t. And that’s very much off the record.’

  ‘People’s Bank continuing to eat into the cake?’

  She nodded. ‘And then some. But it’s more than just numbers for Warwick. GA is bigger than any bank in history. Stanstead was the one who won out in the last merger between Global Fidelity and American Mart; remember, the insurance and investments retailer?’

  ‘Couple of years back?’

  ‘Three. We stunned the banking world. Truly global. The first trillion dollar merger.’

  Ted heard the pride in her voice and wondered why she was dishing her boss.

  ‘There was a lot of angst and stuff about which of the CEOs would get the top job. Both tough cookies, but Bill Yeardon blinked first. It’s hard to see what Stanstead’s next trick will be. He’s wondering that himself and doesn’t much like someone else – like a jumped-up Indian bank – getting in the way of his plans for world domination.’

  ‘OK, back to my questions: first, why are you doing this? Why don’t you walk? Find someone nicer to work for? Like Vlad the Impaler?’

  ‘Nice guys don’t make Chief Exec.’

  She didn’t add ‘stupid’ but it was implied. She paused for a
long moment.

  ‘It’s complicated. More than any other regional head, I know People’s Bank. I’m based in Hong Kong and have offices in Mumbai and Sydney. I’ve been going head to head with them across Asia Pac for years. And frankly, I’m impressed.’

  She bit her lip. ‘This is going to sound wishy washy liberal.’

  ‘A socialist banker? This I gotta hear. Shoot.’

  ‘Oh, it’s hard-nosed capitalism too. Do you believe in democracy?’

  Ted’s eyebrow went up. ‘Your guy Churchill called it the worst form of government, except for all the others.’

  ‘And your guy Lincoln kicked off a civil war in defence of government of the people, by the people, for the people.’

  ‘Where’s this getting us?’

  ‘Full on democracy requires laws and systems that allow its citizens to own property, including bricks and mortar and the more liquid assets.’

  ‘Like money. So they need banks. I get it. But not loans at 35%.’

  Erin nodded. ‘Rates are an issue. But the main point is if you can’t own anything, you’re a slave. The Gates Foundation estimates that more than 75% of the world’s poor don’t have a bank account. That’s 2.5 billion potential customers! My bank won’t go near them. Too risky and too costly. But People’s Bank does.’

  ‘And you want them to go on providing this rapacious service? Even if they eat into your slice of the cake? Aren’t you in the wrong job, Miss Wishart? Salvation Army?’

  ‘I’ve put twenty years of my life into this bank. I’m not ready to quit.’

  ‘So what’s the answer?’

  ‘Join forces with People’s Bank. Complement each other instead of competing. I could turn my region round if I could leverage off their image and customer base.’

  ‘Let me guess; Stanstead won’t wear it.’

  ‘I’ve pitched this until he told me if I raised it again, he’d fire me.’

  ‘And in the meantime, he’s taking his own route to dealing with People’s?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Which is?’