After an hour or so, Matthew noticed they were getting late for their dinner reservations. He offered to find a cab.
‘Do you want to move?’ asked Fiona.
‘Not much, but I’ll be hungry in half an hour.’
‘We can eat here if you like. They do food, too. It’s a bit more basic but much more fun.’
Matthew could imagine nothing better, and they walked out on to the beach. A short distance from the bar, a huge barbecue crackled away. Close beside it, in a bamboo beach hut, linen-covered tables stood heaped with salads and fruit. As in the bar itself, the patrons were mostly local Jamaicans, not tourists. They grabbed some plates and tried to choose what was best from the barbecue, but soon gave up and just let the chef pick out his own selection. They piled their plates high, turned away from the brightly lit eating area and sat on the sands eating with their fingers and looking out to sea. Above them, stars began to pick holes in the darkening sky.
‘You seem so nice,’ said Matthew. ‘Why do you act the bitch at the bank?’
‘Maybe I am a bitch and I’m just acting nice now.’
‘Uh-uh. Bitches always use a knife and fork. You used your fingers before I did. So what’s with the ball-crushing bit?’
‘I don’t see why you should have a problem with it, since you managed to escape intact.’ Fiona’s voice hardened and stiffened.
Matthew backed off. He wanted to spend the rest of the trip with the nice Fiona, not the bitch. He went to get more shellfish and scooped half his haul on to Fiona’s plate with his hand. Peace was restored.
After some delectable fruit and coffee on the veranda, it was time to leave. Matthew found it hard to pay the bill. Nobody had kept any record of what they’d consumed, and nobody seemed anxious to take his money. But he eventually managed to settle up, the tally being about what he’d have paid for pizza and ice-cream in New York. At least one thing about this crazy trip was inexpensive.
The hotel was a couple of miles down the beach, and Fiona suggested walking. Half-way there, the temptation to take a swim overcame them. Fiona had a swimsuit in her bag, but, after a moment’s hesitation, just stripped off. Matthew did likewise and they waded out into the warm water together. Fiona was an excellent swimmer, and, despite his strength, Matthew laboured to keep up. She let him come close, then dived away underwater, emerging in a burst of moonlit bubbles twenty feet away. Matthew approached again and this time she leaped at him and ducked him. He could feel her naked body sliding against his as he sank, but when he rose she had flitted away again, back to shore.
They wiped themselves dry on the beach using a hand towel from Fiona’s bag. Seen by the light of the moon, there was nothing at all the matter with Fiona’s figure. Just for a moment, Matthew forgot to miss Sophie.
The hotel consisted of a number of bungalows spread out around its expansive grounds. The two suites Matthew had reserved occupied the two halves of a bungalow, the two doorways separated by a sweet-smelling hedge of flowering tobacco plants. Matthew found his door and Fiona hers.
He spoke to her across the flowers. ‘Thanks for a great evening. I’ve really enjoyed it.’
‘Well, I should thank you, it’s been your treat. Thank you.’
‘Goodnight.’
‘Yes. Goodnight . . . unless you’d like to come in here?’
There was no doubting what she meant. Matthew entered her room and before they’d even found the light switch, they were clasped round each other, damp body against damp body.
Matthew had never had sex quite like it. Fiona was athletic, passionate and demanding. There was no tenderness in her embraces, only a hunger which even Matthew was pushed to satisfy. When they were finally done, Matthew rolled on to his side, his arm around her.
‘At times like this, I usually wish I was a smoker,’ he said.
Fiona said nothing.
After a long pause, she said, ‘You’d better go to your room now.’ Something in her voice told Matthew not to argue. He left.
The next morning Fiona was friendly but distant. As they boarded their flight home, she stiffened further until, by the end of the flight, she was every inch a Managing Director of Madison. Matthew, the unregretful veteran of a hundred one-night stands, felt hurt by her indifference. It wasn’t for this that he had given up his post-Sophie chastity.
At Kennedy Airport, she asked Matthew if he wanted to share a cab into Wall Street. Matthew thought she was joking and made some light-hearted response.
‘I hardly think thorough preparation is something to be flippant about, especially from someone with your level of experience,’ she said.
Without a kiss or any other goodbye, she got into a cab and drove off. But strange though she’d been, it wasn’t her strangeness which preoccupied Matthew on the ride back to his apartment.
On the return flight, as Fiona dozed beside him, Matthew had noticed something sliding around beneath the seat in front. Bored with newspapers but not desperate enough for the flight magazine, he caught it with his toes and dragged it towards him. It was a spiral bound presentation booklet, of the sort that Wall Street produces in its thousands. Matthew dragged it closer towards him until he could read the lettering on the front cover. Then, impulsively, he dropped a magazine down on top of it and picked both up together, concealing the booklet inside the magazine. He went off to the toilet to examine his prize.
The presentation was addressed to Nicholas A. Cornish, the well-known corporate raider. Cornish had made his millions building up a successful engineering business; but he had made his billions pouncing on vulnerable companies and tearing them apart for profit. The 1980s had spawned many such raiders, but most of them had lost their way in the gentler climate of the nineties. Not so ‘Black Nick’ Cornish. He was still active, still hungry.
The presentation - which bore a famous Wall Street name on its front cover - drew Cornish’s attention to a large Montana-based company, Western Instruments. The company was a tired old conglomerate, poorly managed and labouring under a huge pile of debt. Management was complacent, shareholders were fedup, costs were high and the business decayed. The company was a classic takeover target, a textbook case. The trouble was, it had been for years and no one believed the story any more.
No one, that is, except the Wall Street bank responsible for the presentation. There were huge wodges of analysis which Matthew only partly understood, but the conclusions were plain as day. The stock price had sagged so low, that if Cornish chose, he could buy the company and do what he did best: slash costs and fire people. Two years of bloodbath, then, if the Wall Streeters were right, Cornish could sell off what remained, doubling, maybe even trebling his money.
As far as Matthew could tell, the presentation was no-holds barred. There was a mountain of work behind it, work nobody would do unless they were convinced of getting a result. And what would Cornish think of it, sitting in his luxury Jamaica home? What could he think of it? Two years, double your money. More if you were lucky. What better dinner for a hungry billionaire?
Matthew sat on the cramped airplane loo, hesitating. Should he keep the presentation or put it back? He wished he had Zack’s photographic brain. But he didn’t and the presentation needed thought. He kept it.
Matthew had a long list of bonds which he traded from time to time, most of them good solid corporate bonds, issued by companies with names you’ve heard of. But Western Instruments was on the list too. It was on the list for no other reason than nobody had ever bothered to take it off, but the bonds traded at eighty-two cents on the dollar. Matthew had never bought them, and no client of his had ever asked for them.
When the cab arrived at his apartment, he paid the driver absent-mindedly. Walking into the building’s lobby, the presentation tucked firmly under his arm, Matthew was obsessed by the following thought.
If Cornish was about to launch a bid for the company, every bondholder’s dream would come true. When a company changes hands, its bonds fall due for immediate redemp
tion. Not at the eighty-two cents trading price, but at face value of one dollar. If Matthew bought fistfuls of Western Instruments bonds, then when Cornish launched his bid, Matthew would be sitting on a very fat profit indeed. If he wanted to make a splash in his first year, if he wanted to hoist himself into the realm of trading megastars, then here was the way to do it.
Matthew had long doubted that he could accomplish his Plan A. For a freshman to make a million quid in bonuses in just three years would be virtually unheard of, even on Wall Street, but his Plan B was difficult and dangerous too. If he wanted to run with Plan A, this was his chance.
9
Hal Gillingham, the tax partner, wrinkled up his eyes. His face was pitted and lined. He was forty-five but he looked nearer sixty.
That’s unusual. Rich people look different. It’s like they have an invisible coating which protects them, a layer of affluence stronger than any moisturiser. Their skins are tanned. Their complexions are good. Their shirts don’t crease up the way normal shirts do. Their ties don’t end the day stringy or crooked or stained. Their suits don’t crumple or shine. They just look nice.
Hal Gillingham didn’t look nice. He didn’t even look average. His watery blue eyes had big bags underneath, which he rubbed despondently.
‘Hong Kong. You know their tax rate is only sixteen and a half percent? Hardly worth dodging.’
‘Sure,’ said Zack. ‘I also know they have some pretty tough anti-avoidance laws. So that’s good news.’
‘Why is that good news?’
‘Because it means no one else will have come up with a way to save my client tax. That makes us look good when we do.’
‘You’re very sure we’ll find a way.’
‘Sure I’m sure. There’s not a tax authority in the world who can draft a tax law without loopholes. We just find the loopholes, then figure out a way to pass over a billion dollars through the gap.’
‘Hong Kong dollars?’
‘No. Dollar dollars. American dollars. Real dollars.’ Gillingham rubbed his face again, but with interest this time, not weariness. Like nearly everyone in banking, Gillingham charged his clients a percentage of the deal. The bigger the deal, the bigger the fee. His percentage cut might only be half a percent, but half a percent of a billion dollars was five million. Even partners had their profit targets, and Gillingham sat forward.
‘OK. I’m interested. What’s the deal?’
Zack explained the deal, but when he was done, Gillingham looked disappointed.
‘That’s it? It seems very daring, and we don’t even know if the client’s interested.’
‘I know the client. Personally. I know he’s interested.
We just have to get the sums to add up. That’s why you need to save him sixteen and a half percent.’
Gillingham bit down on his lip and nodded. Zack guessed he was unmarried. If he’d been married, his wife would have told him not to bite his lip. It exposed his teeth and gums, neither of which was pretty.
‘OK I don’t know much about Hong Kong, but I did once have an idea that I didn’t follow up.’
Gillingham dug out a book of Hong Kong tax law from his cluttered shelves and flicked expertly through the arcane pages.
‘Capital gains. That’s the answer. What we need to do is to find a way to convert any income into capital gains, then find a way to make sure we never crystallise the gains. The tax man can’t get us, because we tell him, “Hey. You’re going to get your money when we crystallise the gain. Don’t be impatient.” Then there’s nothing he can do except wait. He’ll wait until eternity, of course, but he’s powerless. Now then, how to convert the income ... ?’
Gillingham muttered as he searched through the impenetrable text. As he muttered, Zack began to realise why the guy had made it to partner. He realised how come Gillingham managed to stay a partner, when so many prettier bankers fell by the wayside. Gillingham was actually going to figure this thing out.
‘Yeah. There’s stuff here we can work with. We’ll need to get legal help from Hong Kong. Maybe some accountancy advice as well. But we’ve got enough to work with.’
Gillingham dropped the heavy books on his desk and gazed sadly at Zack.
‘That’s great. Can we find a time to work on it? This evening, perhaps?’ Zack was eager to get going.
‘Not this evening. I have a meeting.’
‘When does the meeting finish? I don’t mind staying.’ Zack stayed most nights anyway. The only days he wanted to leave early - by nine in the evening, that is - were days when he was meeting up with Sarah. Tonight was free.
‘Uh-uh.’ Gillingham shook his bead. ‘The meeting’s out of the bank. It’s personal. It starts in three-quarters of an hour.’
Zack looked at his watch. It was only five-thirty now. Nobody left the bank by six. Gillingham was out of line.
‘Hmm. This project is fairly urgent. I wonder if you could postpone your meeting? Maybe move it back by a couple of hours?’
Zack was way junior to Gillingham, but he was within his rights. The bank took priority over everything. Personal meetings couldn’t get in the way of business. Gillingham smiled thinly.
‘It’s not that sort of personal. I can’t move it.’
Zack stared at the older man. Zack wasn’t backing down. Hong Kong closed for the evening soon after London opened in the morning. If he waited to meet with Gillingham until the next day, he wouldn’t be able to talk to lawyers in Hong Kong until the day following that. Zack said nothing, but his face was stubborn. Hal Gillingham stared at Zack, then looked away.
‘It’s an AA meeting. Alcoholics Anonymous. Every Tuesday and every Thursday. I haven’t missed one for six years, and I’m not going to miss one for you.’
Zack was astounded. He remembered Mazowiecki telling him that Gillingham had taken a break from the bank a few years back. It must have been to go and get dried out. Gillingham must be exceptional if the bank had taken him back after that.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Tomorrow’s fine. Can we say tomorrow morning?’
‘Sure. Eight thirty?’
They agreed the time and wrote it into their diaries. Gillingham’s pencil still hovered over the page.
‘Just remind me of the client? Who are we pitching to?’
Zack licked his lips. The moment of truth was inching closer.
‘The client is Hatherleigh Pacific,’ he said. ‘We’re pitching to the Chairman. Lord Hatherleigh.’
10
Well, he’d done it.
When Matthew got back to his apartment after his crazy Caribbean jaunt, he had spent five solid hours reading and rereading the presentation he’d found on the plane. The more he read, the more solid the case looked. Western Instruments was a lousy company and Cornish just the man to fix it.
Matthew tried to see the presentation from Cornish’s point of view. He tried to pick holes in it. He tried to find flaws in the arguments or weak spots in the numbers. He found nothing. After five hours, he put the presentation aside, went out into the street and hailed a cab. He rode down to Wall Street and entered Madison at ten o’clock on Sunday evening.
On the trading floor he bumped into Fiona Shepperton, who was just leaving.
‘I decided to take your advice and do some homework after all,’ he said, remembering Shepperton’s last caustic words to him.
She half-smiled, half-nodded, and began to stride off towards the elevators.
‘The treat’s on you next time,’ Matthew called. He’d get her to take him to Timbuktu by private jet.
Fiona turned, smiled a twisted smile back at him, and hurried off. It was probably a ‘Yes’, but it was hard to tell. It certainly wasn’t a ‘Yes, with pleasure, just name the day’.
Bitch or sweetheart, Matthew wondered. On current form, there wasn’t much doubting which, but stretched out on the Jamaican sands, eating platefuls of wood smoked fish in her fingers and laughing up into the Jamaican night, she had been a joy to be with, and in b
ed, fire itself. Probably bitch, maybe sweetheart, Matthew decided. But he had bigger decisions to make.
He gathered a couple of things from his desk, then took the elevator up a few floors to the bank’s research department. He wasn’t very familiar with the research area, which was mostly there for those in corporate finance - people like Zack. Traders like Matthew got their information from Reuters screens and Telerate screens and morning meetings and screams echoing around the trading floor. Compared with those supersonic thrills, a library atmosphere was decidedly low octane. But that evening, Matthew had research to do which the trading room could never provide.
There were research assistants on duty all night. There were also a dozen or so groggy-looking analysts who had clearly worked all through the weekend to complete some project for Monday morning. They looked like they still had a few hours work to do. A slogan had been taped up on the side of one of the data terminals:
‘Definition of deadline - If it’s not DEAD on time, your job’s on the LINE.’ Elsewhere another humourist had pinned up a note headed ‘Lifecycle of a Deal’. Phase one was Excitement. Phase two was Disillusion. Phase three was Despair. Phase four was Failure. Phase five was Punishment of the Innocent and Reward of the Guilty.
Christ, thought Matthew, echoing the thoughts of countless traders before him, why the hell would anyone actually choose to work in corporate finance? Like them, Matthew could come up with only one possible answer. Corporate finance was for those who couldn’t hack it on the trading floor.
The Money Makers Page 24