The market maker

by Ridpath, Michael

  "We do those kinds of deals every day for the likes of the World Development Fund. It won't be long before we're doing them for Mexico as well."

  Jamie snorted.

  "So, tell me about this trader you sacked," Stephen said. "Dave Dunne, wasn't it? He must have lost you a bundle."

  Jamie shrugged.

  "He asked for a job at Bloomfield Weiss/' Stephen went on. "We didn't give him one, of course. We can't be seen taking Dekker castoffs."

  "He was a good trader," I said. It was my first foray into the conversation. Jamie threw me a warning glance.

  Stephen ignored my comment as though it had no validity given my short experience. Which was of course true. But I had drawn attention to myself.

  "Well, I never would have imagined you in the City," he said. "What's going on?"

  "I need the money."

  "Fair enough. And I suppose Dekker wanted your Russian expertise?"

  "That's right. Although Ricardo wants me to see how they operate in South America first."

  "Russia's a huge growth area for us at the moment. We picked up your Russian team, of course." Stephen shot a glance at Jamie when he said this. Touche. "Actually, that's something I'm curious about," he went on. "A couple of them are suddenly having problems with their visas. Ricardo doesn't have anything to do with that, does he?"

  Jamie spluttered in his beer.

  "So he does?"

  "I don't know," said Jamie. "But serves 'em right, that's what I say."

  Stephen raised his eyebrows and turned to me again. "Tell me, Nick, what's this guy Ricardo Ross really like?"

  This was the question I had been asking myself ever since the first time I met him. I decided to give Stephen a straight answer. "I honestly don't know."

  "He has quite a reputation. All this stuff about being 'The Market Maker' and everything. Is he that good?"

  "Oh, he's good. And he does treat the market as if he owns it. That's why he's so pissed off about you guys muscling in. He has great judgment. He always seems to know exactly what to do when things get tough. Don't you think?" I turned to Jamie, who was watching

  me closely.

  "Absolutely," he said. "He's easily the most astute person I've worked with in the City."

  Stephen was watching me. He had blue watery eyes, but they were intelligent. "So, if he's that good, why did you say you didn't know? What's wrong with

  him?"

  "I'm not sure. He might be a bit too aggressive. Sometimes I wonder if he goes just a bit too far, but then later it turns out he's judged it just about right."

  Stephen clapped my shoulder. "Quite honestly it's hard to go too far in this business. As long as you don't get caught." He put his glass down on a nearby ledge. I've got to go. Nice to see both of you again. Cheers."

  Cheers, Stephen," Jamie said. Stephen left, but Jamie and I stayed for another.

  "Jerk," said Jamie.

  "I don't know why you bother seeing him."

  "He's not always as bad as that. And he's bright. It's good to stay in touch. You never know."

  "But he's such a grown-up. Balding, wife, kid."

  "But I've got a wife and kid."

  "Jamie, you are a kid. And you don't look forty."

  "It's funny getting older," said Jamie. "I mean, I do feel it sometimes. I've got a big mortgage. I do have a wife and kid to look after. And I've got to take my career seriously. Things have changed."

  "I suppose they have."

  "Whatever happens, I don't want to turn into my

  parents."

  ''Why not? They're nice people." I

  Jamie snorted. "They might be nice, but they're ; broke, aren't they? My grandfather was a big land- owner. And now my father drives a taxi. If I carry on ! the great family tradition, Oliver will have a career in McDonald's."

  "Anyway, you will become your father. You're just ^ like him. You can't avoid it." I meant it as a joke, but i Jamie shot me a dark look. i

  "I'm serious. It's about time somebody made some money in my family."

  I had visited Jamie's parents a number of times over the years. I was always made to feel welcome as Jamie's intellectual friend from Oxford. The first couple of i times I'd stayed, it had been at a lovely farmhouse, which presided over a livery stable. Shortly after Jamie had left Oxford this had gone, and now his parents lived in a rented lodge at the bottom of someone else's | grand drive. j

  Jamie's grandfather had owned a small estate at the i foot of the Quantocks, and the after-tax remnants of this were still farmed by his uncle. His father had tried i to make money out of horses and failed. Janue told me i he now drove a taxi, but I wasn't to mention this to anyone, especially to him.

  Whatever their past glories or future worries, Jamie's I parents were unfailingly hospitable. His father was the old rogue that Jamie might one day become, with a winning smile, rugged features, and a twinkle in his , eye. His mother was tall and striking even now, and had not lost any of her charm. Jamie was the apple of i their eye. He could do no wrong. His every pronounce- ment was met with raptured interest, his minor sue- | cesses with applause, his major successes with studied ■

  indifference, as if his parents never doubted that he would achieve great things.

  And Jamie hadn't let them down. Head boy of his public school, entrance to Oxford, an occasional place in the university rugby team, and a job in the blue-blooded merchant bank, Gumey Kroheim. Jamie's move to Dekker Ward had taken his parents a little by surprise, but once Jamie had explained it they understood. Their son was one of the new generation of entrepreneurs they had read about.

  I didn't mean to mock this attention. I would have loved half of it. But whenever I achieved something, my father never quite understood exactly what it was.

  I drank my beer thoughtfully. "I still don't know what I'm going to do with my life."

  "Aren't you going to stay at Dekker? "

  "I don't know. Sometimes it gives me a great buzz. Like that Brady battle. But then I think about what they did to Dave, and ihefavela deal, and the drug m.oney."

  "Oh, forget that," said Jamie.

  "But I can't forget it. It bothers me. Doesn't it bother you?"

  Jamie paused for a moment. "I think it might if I stopped to think about it. So I don't stop to think about it. For Kate and Oliver's sake, I have to make this a success. I could be really good at this stuff, you know."

  He looked at me for reassurance. I was able to give it. "You could." From my brief time at Dekker, I could tell Jamie was good. "Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to be ungrateful. Thank you for getting me this job."

  Jamie smiled. "Don't worry about it. Ricardo likes you. I get brownie points."

  "Was that true about those Russian traders' visas? Do you think Ricardo arranged that?"

  "I hadn't heard about it, but I wouldn't be at all

  surprised/' said Jamie. ''And if it wasn't Ricardo who fixed it, it was Eduardo. They don't like people letting them down."

  "I can see that."

  We were on to our third pint. The edginess that surrounded Stephen had left with him, and I was slowly enveloped in that special type of warm glow that you can only get from three pints of good bitter with an old friend.

  Jamie and I had been through a lot together over the years. In taking the job at Dekker, I had trusted my future to him. But I could rely on Jamie.

  "Kate told me you were quite taken with Isabel," Jamie said.

  I could feel my cheeks reddening. Which was strange, because normally I found it quite easy to talk to Jamie about women.

  "She's a nice girl, Jamie."

  "Oh, really? Nice girl, eh? Now that's serious. Not just 'she's got fabulous tits,' or 'she's desperate for it.' "

  "No. Neither of those things, actually."

  "Is there anything going on between you?"

  "No." But you'd like it if there was?" I can't deny that. But I don't think it's likely"

  "Why not?"

  "Oh, I don't
know. She just doesn't seem that keen."

  "Well, be careful. She's a strange woman." He was struck by a thought. "You didn't talk to her about this money-laundering business, did you?"

  I nodded. "I did. She agreed with you about not telling Eduardo. But she thought I should speak to Ricardo about it. I'm not going to, though."

  "Oh, Nick! You shouldn't even have spoken to her. I told you about her and Eduardo, didn't I?"

  "1

  "You did. But that was only a rumor. I don't be-Ueve it."

  "You don't want to believe it, you mean. You saw what happened to Dave. You'd better forget this money-laundering stuff or the same thing will happen to you."

  "I can trust Isabel/' I said.

  "The truth is, Nick," Jamie said, "in this business you can trust no one."

  I wanted to argue, but I didn't. Partly because 1 had an uncomfortable feeling he was right.

  "Come on, it's late, let's go," Jamie said, draining his glass.

  "Yeah." I finished up my pint. We spilled out of the pub, Jamie to hail a cab, and me to find the tube station; I'd left my bike at Canary Wharf.

  The next day was gray and cold, as spring went into remission. High up in the Canary Wharf Tower, the Dekker dealing room felt crammed against the ceiling of dark cloud just a few feet above it. The euphoria of victory over Bloomfield Weiss in the Brady battle died down quickly as the reality of trying to sell a billion dollars of Mexican bonds sank in. This was a time to call in favors.

  I listened to Jamie perform. He was good. He started with his best customers. He was a different person with each. With some he discussed soccer and TV, with others modified duration, and stripped yields. Sometimes he talked nonstop, sometimes he just listened. But he cajoled and begged and blustered his way to an order from each of them. The orders were large: ten or twenty million in some cases, but they weren't large enough. It would take a miracle and a few hundred million orders

  to shift a billion dollars of bonds. And U.S. Commerce Bank were getting nowhere with their half of the deal.

  Ricardo was working the phones furiously himself. The really big orders would come from calling in the really big favors, and that was something only Ricardo could do. Every now and then he would get up and pace the room, checking up on us. Despite the pressure that we all felt, he was encouraging, praising a five-million order from a difficult account or commiserating if a client failed to bite.

  But Ricardo was capable of dealing with more than one problem at once. That afternoon I felt a tap on my shoulder as I was listening to Jamie at work. "How much do you know about Poland?"

  "Not much. I've been there once. To the University of Krakow."

  "What do you think are the chances of a devaluation?"

  Honesty was always the best policy with Ricardo. "I have no idea."

  "Do you know anyone who might have an idea? A good idea."

  I thought a moment. "As a matter of fact, I do. There's an economist I know who's at the LSE. He taught the finance minister fifteen years ago. I know they keep in touch. I could talk to him. I'd have to drink a bottle of vodka to find out, though."

  "Excellent!" Ricardo said. "Drink a gallon. And put it on expenses."

  15

  Wojtek was happy to hear from me, and invited me to supper. I had first met him when I was studying the Soviet economy, and it was through him that I had gone to Krakow. He had long been a critic of the command economies of Eastern Europe, and he had built up quite a following in his home country I had told him I was now working in the City, and needed to find out something about Polish economic policy.

  I arrived at his flat in Ealing with a bottle of Bison Grass, his favorite vodka.

  ''Wonderful!'' he said. "Come In! Come in!"

  The flat was exactly as I remembered it. Those portions of wall that were not covered by books displayed posters announcing obscure Polish, Russian, and French exhibitions. I was sure that each one was carefully selected for its street credibility, rather than its direct importance to Wojtek. In an indiscreet, drunken moment he had told me that When Harry Met Sally was his favorite film. But I had been sworn to secrecy on that subject, and there was no sign of that poster.

  Although Wojtek was in his late forties, he did his best to look and act like an angry postgraduate student.

  He sported a full black mustache; he had bushy, tou-seled hair in a ponytail, with only the slightest hint of gray, and a white-filtered cigarette dangled from his lips. Despite his appearance, businessmen, politicians, and the International Monetary Fund all loved him. He preached an economics that was fiscally and monetarily prudent, and yet didn't insist that unless unemployment was running at twenty percent the government was a bunch of wimps. He was one of those teachers who took a strong personal interest in some of his students. I had been so favored once, as before me had the current finance ministers of Poland and the Slovak Republic.

  I liked him. Although he was older than me, and I didn't see him often, I counted him as one of my friends.

  "So how is the lovely Joanna?" he asked.

  "In America with the obnoxious Wes."

  "Good, I never liked her, and whoever he is, Tm sure he deserves her. I've cooked a ratatouille, I hope that will do?"

  "Of course," I said.

  "Now, let's get that bottle open."

  We hit the vodka. Wojtek told me about his latest girlfriend, a twenty-three-year-old American student. Wojtek liked girls until they reached the age of about twenty-five, whereupon he lost interest. He had married a couple of them but soon stopped, since the marriages had no chance of lasting more than a few years, and ending them was an adnfiinistrative nightmare.

  He served supper in his large kitchen. The ratatouille was excellent, the vodka strong, and within less than an hour we were quite drunk.

  As expected, he berated me for going into the City, and then asked me what I wanted.

  I cleared my throat, tried to clear my head, and answered him. "I was recruited by Dekker because of my knowledge of the Russian language and economics. Now all of a sudden Fm supposed to know about Poland too, but I haven't followed it for years. I was hoping you could give me a clue, so I don't sound like an idiot."

  "Ah, Nick, there is very little chance of you sounding like an idiot about anything. But I will tell you."

  Then he proceeded to explain to me clearly and succinctly the story of Poland's economy since the days of Solidarity. I understood it, it sounded clever, and I hoped I would remember it in the morning.

  "And what about a devaluation? Isn't the currency too high at the moment?"

  "You're right!" said Wojtek, almost in a shout. He stood up. "I keep telling them! Devalue now before the economy is completely ruined. It is better to stay in control and be seen to be choosing when to devalue than wait until an international crisis forces it upon you."

  "So, do you think they will?"

  "Wojtek stopped pacing, glanced at me, smiled, and said, "I don't know," with such a dollop of mock innocence that I didn't believe him for a moment. He knew what the Poles were going to do, and what they were planning to do made him happy.

  We got drunker and drunker, until I thought it was safe to escape.

  "But it's only ten o'clock!" protested Wojtek.

  "I know. But I have to be in to work by seven tomorrow. And with what I've drunk, I'll feel bad enough as

  It IS.

  "Well, great to see you, Nick." He embraced me, and I left him alone with the dregs of the vodka bottle.

  It was a tough cycle ride in the next day. My head hurt, and my mouth felt dry and furry. I stopped at a comer shop to buy a pint of milk, which I absorbed rather than drank. Thank God it was downhill some of the way

  Ricardo laughed when he saw me. "I see you did your duty last night."

  "Oh, God, does it show? "

  "It does. Was it useful?"

  "I think the Poles are going to devalue." I explained my conversation with Wojtek, and his barely hidden excitement that
the Polish government was following his ideas.

  "Are you sure this guy has the influence he thinks he has?" asked Ricardo.

  "Pmsure."

  "Then well done!" He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. "Time to adjust our Polish position." He went back to his desk and picked up the phone.

  "Not bad," said Jamie. "Tm impressed. Don't tell me, you play rugby with Boris Yeltsin's doctor."

  "'Fraid not," I said. "Wojtek is about the full extent of my influential contacts."

  "Well, you are an important person. But by the way?"

  "Yes?"

  "You look like shit."

  "Thanks."

  I was pleased with myself. It was good to be useful to Dekker. Maybe Ricardo would make some money. If he did, he would be bound to remember my part in the profits. That was the good thing about Ricardo. He gave credit where it was due.

  Just then, the phone rang.

  "Nick? It's Wojtek."

  His voice sounded thick and horrible. It was a fair bet

  that he had drunk much more than I had by the time he had passed out.

  ''How are you?''

  "Fine," he said. I smiled: liar. "Yesterday, Nick. When we talked about Poland. And the devaluation. You remember?"

  "Yes, I do. Thanks, Wojtek. It was very useful."

  "Yes, well. I like to help you, Nick. But when you asked about whether the Polish government would devalue, I didn't answer you, did I?"

  Oh, God. "No," I said, trying to sound bright. "No, you didn't say anything at all."

  "Good. Because if the financial markets found out about the devaluation through me, that would be a real breach of trust on my part."

  "Of course, I understand." My ears were singing. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.

  "So will you give me your word you won't tell anyone at your work about what we ... didn't discuss last night."

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  "Nick?"

  What to do? Lie, of course.

  "No. Don't worry, Wojtek, I won't guess anything. You just gave me useful background, that's all."