The market maker

by Ridpath, Michael

  "How are you, Nick? " '

  "OK. A bit sore. A bit shaken."

  " I bet. You were very lucky, I hear."

  "Yes, I was. Although it was bad luck to be attacked in the first place."

  Ricardo shook his head. "First Martin in Caracas, > and now you here. Travel really is getting dangerous ! these days." Then he headed over to the reception desk. "Just wait here a minute while I check in," he said. We ! did as we were told.

  He spent a moment filling in forms, and then he re- | turned. "Let's get a cup of coffee, shall we?" ;

  Breakfast was almost over, but they let us have a ta- I ble with some coffee. Ricardo took his jacket off, sat ! back in his chair, and sighed. He closed his eyes and | stretched. Then he leaned forward and looked Isabel in i the eye. !

  "OK. First thing. I want you to know that I was very i impressed with your work on the favela bairro deal. It's ! just the sort of creative work that we want to do at J Dekker."

  "Thank you," whispered Isabel, surprised and ! relieved. ;

  "We've lost the deal because of those assholes at the ' World Development Fund. I don't know if there's any- j thing you could have done to prevent that. In any case, | it's too late to worry about it now. But I do not like the I way Bloomfield Weiss stole the deal from us. They have : to know that I, personally, will not let them get away j with it." i

  Isabel and I both nodded. Whatever you say, Ricardo.

  He looked at his watch. "Let's see, it's ten o'clock now. I've arranged a meeting with Oswaldo Bocci at ten forty-five. That just gives us time to finish our coffee."

  Oswaldo Bocci's office was on the top floor of a cylindrical glass building, with the words TV GoGo emblazoned over the entrance. It had one of those great Rio views that I was beginning to get used to; this one was of Guanabara Bay peeking out behind other prestigious offices. A few Indian artifacts dotted the large room, many of them figurines with pendulous breasts or prominent genitalia.

  Bocci himself was a powerfully built fifty-year-old with jet-black hair and a forceful chin. He wore an open-necked silk shirt, which stretched tightly over his well-defined torso. Gold glittered from his hands, his neck, and his left ear.

  Ricardo had told me about Bocci in the taxi. He was one of a number of Brazilian media entrepreneurs who wanted to challenge Roberto Marinho's Gloho empire for dominance of the hearts and minds of the people. So far he had successful papers in Rio and Minas Gerais, and he had launched a TV station from scratch in the Rio area. He had done all this with money provided by j Dekker. |

  He was pleased to see Ricardo, was polite to me, and ■ leered at Isabel. She ignored him vaguely. j

  After a quick discussion of Flamengo's chances of ; winning the state soccer championship, Ricardo came to the point.

  "We need your help, Oswaldo."

  Bocci's eyes lit up, and he smiled. Jt wasn't a gener- ; ous smile; he sniffed a trade of favors, a deal. "Any- j thing I can do for you, my friend."

  "You've heard about thisfavela bairro project?''

  "I have."

  "And what do you think of it?"

  "I'd say it's boring. I think we are against it, but I forget why. Wasting taxpayers' money, adding to imprudent borrowing, that kind of thing."

  "I have some interesting information about the deal."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. The finance secretary has been in discussions with the local drug gangs that control the favelas. Most of the money will end up going to them, although of course Humberto Alves will get some. A scandal, don't you think?"

  Bocci rubbed his large chin. "Maybe. I don't know. Where's the evidence?"

  "Oh, you know. Anonymous sources in banking circles."

  "So you knew about this?"

  "We discovered it," said Ricardo. "And so we pulled out of the deal. We left it to another house who was prepared to turn a blind eye."

  "Wl-io was that?"

  "Bloomfield Weiss, the American investment bank." Ricardo paused, watching the other man. "So, what do you think?"

  "It's a scandal, sure. But it's not a really big scandal. And there's no hard evidence. I don't know."

  "Oh, I understand," said Ricardo. He pulled out a cigarette and offered one to Bocci. They both lit up. "So how's business?"

  Bocci blew some smoke to the ceiling and smiled. "Great, great. TV GoGo's doing very well. The format is really working—popular commercial TV for the people. Viewers understand that. And so do advertisers.

  After twelve months we're way ahead of the figures we gave you in our forecast/'

  Ricardo smiled. "I know, I've seen the numbers. It's always nice to see people exceeding their projections. It doesn't happen very often, I can tell you." He took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. "Tell me, do you think this format would work in, say, Sao Paulo?"

  Bocci's eyes locked on him. Ricardo held them, unblinking.

  "I'm sure it would. Of course we'd need the money."

  "How much?"

  "Fifty million dollars."

  Ricardo nodded. "I'm sure we could raise that for you. You'll need some time, of course, to draw up detailed plans. But give Isabel a call when you're ready, and we'll sort something out."

  "I'd need to be sure we could raise the money. Don't you have to talk to investors and so on?"

  Ricardo waved his arm dismissively "Oh, of course we'll have to do all that eventually. But I'm certain I can get you the money, Oswaldo. And my word is better than any piece of paper. You know that."

  Bocci smiled broadly. "Good."

  "Now," said Ricardo, "have you decided what editorial line to take on this favela business?"

  So, it was all settled. The favela deal was destroyed. Bloomfield Weiss had learned their lesson; you don't steal a deal from Dekker and get away with it. With our mission accomplished we could all go home.

  I was seething. I couldn't believe what Ricardo had just done. I could see Isabel was angry too. But she couldn't exactly say anything; if she hadn't let Bloom-field Weiss win the favela deal, it would still be alive. Ri-

  cardo must have been aware of the way his two colleagues felt, but he seemed to take no notice.

  We left Bocci's office, picked up our bags from the hotel, and made our way to the airport in painful silence. We were, of course, in first class. Ricardo checked us in. I was dismayed to see I was sitting next to him. Isabel was in the aisle opposite.

  Dinner on the plane passed in silence. Ricardo read through a stack of papers. He had one of those extra-large briefcases that lawyers often use. A standard-sized briefcase wouldn't give him enough fuel for a two-day business trip. I stared out of the window at the black sky. I realized that Ricardo hadn't even spent one night in Brazil. It had only taken him an hour to finish off what Isabel and Humberto had taken a year to create.

  After the attendant had cleared away my dinner, I eased my chair back and pretended to go to sleep. It was difficult; my chest was sore, and I could hear the gentle rustle of documents and the insistent scratch of pen on paper next to me.

  Suddenly banking had become brutal. An idea that would improve the lives of thousands had been squashed because of jealousy over who would take the credit for it. I stewed, and my agitation grew. Eventually I couldn't stand it anymore. I opened my eyes and reached into my own briefcase for a book. It was Islanders by Yevgeny Zamyatin, a Russian writer who had spent a couple of sad years in exile in Newcastle building ships just before the First World War. I was lulled by the music of the prose; in my mind Zamyatin was the closest the twentieth century had come to Pushkin's mastery of the language, although he lacked Pushkin's absolute precision. Islanders was a satire of

  the hypocrisy and moral emptiness of the capitalist industrial England he had found. He didn't know the half of it. He should have got a job in a bank.

  Then I remembered Zamyatin had ended his life in abject poverty in Paris.

  ''How's your Argentine trade going?"

  "What?" I lifted my head from my book and blink
ed at Ricardo.

  "I said how's your Argentine trade doing?"

  I didn't give a damn how the Argentine trade was doing. Actually, I did. I hoped it was losing Dekker lots of money But I had just the sense not to say that. I knew that not taking a trading position seriously would be tantamount to quitting, and I hadn't decided whether I wanted to do that yet. "It hasn't moved all week."

  "Do you still believe in it?"

  What a ridiculous question. I could believe in God, or Marx, or even Thatcher. But how could I believe in bonds?

  I took a deep breath. "From what I knew at the time, the Argentine Discounts seemed good bonds to buy. But since 1 only had two days' experience upon which to make that judgment, 1 have to say that I have very little confidence that it was the correct one. The only thing that makes me feel I might have got it right is that you bought the position yourself. I trust your judgment. If you haven't sold the position, I still believe in it. Have you sold it?"

  Ricardo smiled. "I like the fact you're aware of your own limitations. But it was a good choice. And you're right, I wouldn't have taken the position if I hadn't agreed with you. As a matter of fact, I haven't sold it; I've bought more. A lot more."

  "That's good. I hope it works out well," I muttered and turned back to my book.

  We sat in silence for a while, but I was aware of Ri-cardo's eyes on me. "'It's been a tough week for you, hasn't it? First being attacked, and then losing ihefavela deal."

  "It has,''I mumbled.

  "It must be very frightening to be attacked like that." I glanced up at Ricardo. His eyes were sincere.

  "It was," I said. "First we were just walking along the beach. And then suddenly I had a knife sticking out of my chest."

  Ricardo nodded. "Brazil's a cruel country. It has this wonderful exterior, but underneath it can be brutal. It's a great shame. That's one of the reasons ihefavela deal was such a good idea."

  I hadn't wanted to be drawn on this, but I couldn't help myself. "Then why did you destroy it?"

  "I had no choice. I couldn't let Bloomfield Weiss win that mandate. It would have meant the end of Dekker Ward."

  "Oh, come on. We would still have had the largest share of the market. And something would have been done about those favelas. Now all those people will just be left to crawl around in their own garbage."

  "I'm not responsible for the social conditions of Brazil, or any other country for that matter," said Ricardo calmly. "Over the last hundred years Brazil has had the same access to capital, natural resources, and labor as Canada and the United States. The reason it's a poorer country is entirely to do with the Brazilians and how they have decided to use or misuse those resources, not with me."

  I listened, making no attempt to hide the cynicism I felt.

  "My responsibility is the success of Dekker Ward," he went on. "I've built it into one of the most successful

  investment banks in the world, but the moment I sit back, the moment I let anyone else take the initiative, it will all be over. Oh, of course, we all make out it's a friendly market, and that all the other guys are happy to let us run things. But they'd love to see us trip up. They'd love it even more if they could take over from us. My biggest fear is that we get complacent."

  His blue eyes bored into mine. "There comes a time when you have to play tough. Bloomfield Weiss should not have stolen the deal from us like that. They were playing tough. I had to show them, and everyone else, that I could play tougher."

  "And what about the children in thosefavelas?"

  "If the favela bairro idea is as good as we think it is, it will get financed eventually. And remember it was Dekker who brought international capital back to Latin America when every other bank in the world had turned their back on it. We've organized more than twenty billion dollars of finance for the region. You know how badly these countries need that capital. And they're using it properly now, investing to create jobs and improve infrastructure."

  He saw the doubt in my eyes.

  "OK, I won't pretend that's the main reason why I've built up Dekker into what it is now. But it's an important result of what I've done, and I'm proud of it."

  "And what about all the money you make?"

  "Oh, come on, Nick! you told me that was the reason you wanted to join us."

  "Yes but..."

  "But what?"

  "I wanted money to do something. To buy myself freedom to do what I wanted with my life."

  "And?"

  "And," I hesitated, trying to find the right words. "I

  just think that at places like Dekker, money seems to be an end in itself."

  Ricardo rubbed his chin. "I know what you mean. But it's not quite what it seems. As I keep saying, I like people who are hungry; people who need to make money for themselves. Then they end up making it for the firm as well, and the firm grows. And that's good. But I don't think it's greed, exactly."

  "What is it, then?"

  "Money is the score. I suppose I just want to have the highest score when it's all over."

  "And when's that?"

  Ricardo smiled. "Good question. I'm not sure. I suppose for me it's a game without end."

  We fell silent for a moment, thinking about what the other had said, and both surprised at how personal the conversation had suddenly become. I remembered the T-shirt I had seen in the favela. WJio dies with the most toys wins. Ricardo's game was played all over the world, by rich and poor.

  He waved to an attendant and asked for a cognac. I ordered a whiskey. We both sat back in the huge first-class seats and sipped our drinks.

  "My father played the game and lost," Ricardo said.

  "Jamie said he's a businessman in Venezuela?"

  "Was. He died about fifteen years ago."

  "I'm sorry."

  "He was a deal-doer himself, in the oil industry. He came to Caracas from Argentina in the fifties, and built up quite a portfolio of interests. But then he overstretched himself. It was 1980, just after the second big oil-price hike. He thought oil was going to forty dollars a barrel. It went down to six. He always used to drink, but after that he drank more. He died four years later.

  //

  Hi

  104 Michael Ridpath

  He left us with very little in the end, so we had to make our own way. Which I'm proud of."

  "Did he teach you much?"

  "The truthful answer is no. We didn't really see much of him. He was always away doing deals, and I was away at school in England. But I think I inherited his nose for a deal. I just hope I know when not to go too far."

  "So you think you're competing against him?"

  Ricardo thought this over for a moment. "In a way, yes. I would have liked him to have seen what I've achieved. He never gave me much praise when he was alive, perhaps he would now."

  'And your mother?"

  'Oh, I don't think my mother knows what I do nor cares. As long as I have enough money to keep her bank balance healthy."

  "What about Eduardo? Does he take after your father too?"

  Ricardo smiled ruefully. "Eduardo inherited a different set of characteristics from our father."

  I desperately wanted to ask Ricardo what those were, but there was something in his tone that suggested I had already gone far enough.

  Ricardo put down his glass and turned to me. "Look, I know you find what you've seen difficult to take. I know you're questioning the whole premise of what we're doing. And I respect that. Honestly. I would rather have people who question first principles than those who blindly do what everyone else does. So think about it. But don't pretend that you can work in finance, take the rewards, and avoid the tough decisions."

  His blue eyes held mine. I knew he believed in what he was saying. And those eyes were inviting, persuasive, almost hypnotic. Join me, they said.

  "I want you to work for Dekker. YouTl be right in the middle of the most exciting market in global finance today, and youTl have a hell of a lot of fun too. I think you can do a lot for u
s. But you need to be committed. If you don't buy in to what we're doing, then go back to your Russian books. You decide."

  I swallowed. I remembered when I had originally taken the job at Dekker, I had played through this dilemma in my mind. Then I had decided that if I was to succeed in finance, I would have to accept the ethical system that came with it. And it wasn't immoral, just amoral. As Ricardo had said, the reason that Brazil was in such a mess was that the Brazilians had made it that way. The same could be said of Russia, that other great sprawling, chaotic country. Isabel's father had liked Tolstoy's story of the Master and Man, and its nobility was appealing. But the Master had been foolish to insist that he and his servant drive on in the snow instead of waiting at the inn for the storm to clear. And in the real world, masters just didn't give up their lives for their servants.

  Then I thought of Cordelia, and the tense little boy with the big smile and the hard eyes, and I turned my back on Ricardo toward the dark mid-Atlantic sky.

  9

  I received quite a welcome when I arrived at the office late on Friday morning. Dave, Miguel, Pedro, Charlotte, people whom I hardly knew, all came up to ask how I was. Although I had been at Dekker less than two weeks, and had spent barely three days in the office itself, they treated me as one of their own. I had to admit, it was a good feeling.

  The plane had landed at lunchtime the previous day, and unlike Isabel and Ricardo, who had gone straight into work, I had returned to my flat. I saw my doctor first thing the next morning. She was impressed with the Brazilian surgeon's work, changed my dressing, and told me to take a week off work. There wasn't a chance of that, but in deference to her I took the tube and the Docklands Light Railway into Canary Wharf and left my bike at home. I hated it, vowing to cycle in on Monday, however much my chest hurt.

  I was disappointed to see that the desk next to me was empty. Isabel was out somewhere.

  But Jamie was in the office and it was good to see him.

  "What a trip! Are you OK? Where did you get stabbed? Can I look?"