‘- to the position of senior vice president, on the understanding that another satisfactory year will see you appointed to the rank of partner.’
What? How could this man deliver this news in this way? How dare he think this was a matter for congratulation? My God, Weinstein Lukes babbled on about making money for the firm and rewarding merit, then you make a pot full of cash for them, more money than anyone in the firm in fact, and they crap on you. It was unbelievable. Zack was appalled, but he still couldn’t take in the fact that he was snookered. No partnership and a prenuptial agreement which meant Sarah’s money was hers not his. He’d lost and he hadn’t yet clicked.
Zack moved his mouth but nothing came from it.
‘I hope you are not excessively disappointed. The fact is that almost nobody in senior management knows you directly. Perhaps Dixon Banderman and I should have forced you over to New York a little more to meet the top guys. But the truth is, I think we’ve been right to hold you back. A partnership is coming to you and there’s not much to be gained by haste. In any event, you should be delighted that you have made such a powerful impression on this firm in such a short space of time. I believe your promotion to SVP is fully merited.’ Zack was listening with only half his brain. Things were beginning to click. He hadn’t made a million. He wasn’t getting his dad’s cash. My God, he might actually be beaten by Matthew, even George. Jesus, suppose he was the only one not to make the million. The humiliation! Zack was choked.
Carmichael continued his monologue.
‘We have also decided, in view of your exceptional year, to award you a very substantial bonus. With the exception of a handful of options traders and the like, this is the largest bonus award in the firm outside of the partnership tier. We’ve decided to give you a bonus of three million dollars. And again, my congratulations, for you’ve deserved every last bit of it.’
Three million dollars. Divide by about one point six to give a sterling amount. One point eight million pounds. Knock off forty percent UK tax to give an after-tax amount. One point one million pounds. One point one. That was right. One point one million pounds. That was less than he’d have got through a partnership, but plenty enough all the same. A million pounds. Nought to a million in three years. That was the challenge. That was what he’d done. His relief was enormous. It would have filled St Paul’s and lifted the dome off its stanchions. He could kiss Carmichael.
The sunburned partner stood up to indicate the end of the interview and he handed Zack a letter with the bonus and all the rest of it. Zack didn’t care. One point one. One point one. He said something, he didn’t know what, and walked away. As he headed back down, sunlight bounced off the dome of St Paul’s as it had done all morning, as it would do for centuries to come.
Zack walked downstairs, accepted the congratulations of his colleagues, and rang Sarah at once to share the news with her. Only then did he tum his attention to the letter that Alan Carmichael had given him.
The letter confirmed the award of three million US dollars. All bonuses were converted by the firm into the employee’s local currency, in this case sterling. In sterling, the three million dollars were worth exactly one million eight hundred and forty-eight thousand pounds, plus a few unimportant hundreds. In Britain, income tax, payable at forty percent, is withheld at source. So, cutting the numbers once again, Zack’s bonus shrank to just over one million one hundred and nine thousand pounds, still plenty more than his father’s million pound cut-off.
But Weinstein Lukes, like all investment banks, has a policy whereby bonuses are split between an upfront element and a deferred element. The bigger the bonus, the greater the deferred portion. The idea is that if you quit to take up a job elsewhere, some of your past bonuses are forfeited, in an effort to promote loyalty. Zack knew this perfectly well. But he’d forgotten it. Carmichael’s letter reminded him of it in plain, clear, black-and-white. Zack would be issued a cheque right away for seven hundred and seventy-six thousand three hundred and forty pounds. The remaining three hundred and thirty-three thousand would be payable in three years’ time. Zack would be entitled to interest on the amount withheld.
He had made his million, but he couldn’t collect it for three years. He had won and he had lost. He could hear his father guffawing from the grave.
11
Meanwhile, in Oregon, a committee is meeting. Two of the firm’s most able employees are to give a presentation. They think they’ve found an appropriate lannchpad for their European operation. The committee has high hopes for Europe. It’s a fragmented, high-cost market, ripe for consolidation. Oregon has the cash, the technology, the know-how and the drive to start from behind and wind up ahead. The Chief Executive says he wants a hundred million bucks in revenues from Europe within five years, and ten times that amount in another five. But we all know the Chief. He talks big, but he delivers bigger. If he says five years, he means four. It’ll be interesting to see what the project team has to say.
Outside the room, David Thurston and Kelly O’Shea look at each other. He has a dozen bound copies of his presentation. She has her portable computer to plug straight into the big-screen TV. If the committee wants to hit the numbers hard, she’ll be ready. Both of them are looking a million dollars. They want to impress.
‘Good luck, Kelly.’
He gives her a smile so big you’d need two men to lift it. She smiles back. It’s a smaller smile, but nicer: the sort of thing to put on your mantelpiece and spend a while looking at.
‘Yes. Good luck,’ she says.
12
Josephine sat on one side, Matthew on the other, their mother in between. Helen was half-asleep, tired from the small excitement of Matthew’s visit.
‘How’s Mum?’ he asked.
‘I worry about her. I think she’s sinking into her depression. I’ve tried upping the dose of antidepressants, but then she copes badly with the side effects. I’m not really sure what to do.’
Throughout her little speech, Josie stroked her mother’s hand and the older woman relaxed deeper into her armchair.
‘I don’t know either, Josie, but I’ve brought something which may help. I’m sorry it’s been so long coming.’
Matthew handed his sister an envelope.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a small part of what I owe you for these last three years. There’s more to come, but it’ll have to wait a while longer.’
Josephine looked searchingly at her brother and opened the envelope. Inside was a cheque for ten thousand pounds, signed and dated by Matthew.
‘Does this mean you’ve made the million? Or have you given up?’ Josephine scrutinised Matthew’s face.
‘You’ve done it, haven’t you? My God, you’ve actually done it. You’ve actually done it.’
Matthew couldn’t conceal his joy any longer. He threw his arms round his sister and kissed her.
‘Oh, Josie, I’m so pleased. I’m pleased for myself, of course, but you as well. Dad’s will was so unkind to you, and then these last three years ... You’ve been a saint. Soon you can be whatever you want to be. We’ll make sure Mum gets the best care money can buy and you can go to university, or move to the south of France, or whatever you want. The cheque’s just an advance instalment.’ Josephine looked at it, eight months’ salary on one small slip of paper.
‘That’s great. Thanks. And congratulations.’
‘My pleasure ... Are you OK? You look upset.’ Josephine held the cheque between finger and thumb, looking at it like some kind of rare curio. And Matthew was right. Behind her eyes, tears were pricking.
‘It’s just ... you would have helped me more by giving me less sooner.’
‘I know it’s been hard, Josie. But we’ve got the rest of life to worry about now. You won’t worry so much about the last three years, after you’ve been enjoying the freedom of Dad’s money for a while.’
‘It won’t be all that free, you know. You want to give Mum the best care money can buy? W
ell, the best care is the kind of care that money can’t buy. It’s my care and your care, and George and Zack’s care. She needs her kids, Matthew. You can be as rich as anything, but you can’t get away from that.’
‘I know, but money will help. Lighten up. You can quit work tomorrow. Go on holiday, do whatever the hell you want.’
‘Oh, I’m not quitting. Not yet, anyway.’
‘What? Why not? What’s the point? I know there’s only ten grand there, but you’ll have a quarter of every thing in a couple of months.’
‘Maybe. But pitiful as it may seem to you, I actually have a career to think about.’
‘A career? Why would you want to do computer programming for a tiny wage while you have a fortune sitting in the bank? Don’t tell me you’re going to be like one of those lottery winners who stay with their job cleaning windows.’
‘I’m not a computer programmer. That’s just a hobby. What I do is -’
‘OK, but still, why work?’
‘You’ll go on working, won’t you?’
Matthew shrugged. That wasn’t a question he’d thought about much. He’d always assumed that he’d buy a yacht, and bob around the Caribbean for a year or two, but as the day grew closer, he thought about that less. He wouldn’t want to give up Fiona, and he couldn’t see her wanting to give up work And he enjoyed his work too. He’d enjoy it even more now that he didn’t need to obsess about making the million. He probably would continue working, but that was a question for another time. Right now, he just wanted to enjoy his achievement.
Matthew had every right to feel pleased. Everything had gone according to his plan, mad though it had been.
Nicking the bonds from the vault had been the scariest part, but after that it had been plain sailing. Getting the loan had been simplicity itself. Taping the conversation with Belial had been a masterstroke. Matthew had been deeply worried about Belial double-crossing him, but after that taped phone call, Belial was as tame as a lamb.
Matthew had asked Belial to ‘invest the borrowed money in shares on the London stock market. The company was called Hippety Hop plc - a toy manufacturer. The company was struggling, nearly drowned by excessive borrowing. It was currently locked in negotiations with its banks, trying to sort out a rescue plan which would avert catastrophe. The management was lacklustre, its banks jittery and disorganised. For most people, it would be an insane place to invest every last penny they possessed. Not so for Matthew.
He made his investment shortly before the market closed on Monday. On Tuesday, the Madison Distressed Debt Group launched a raid on the company’s loans. Once it had secured twelve percent of the total loans outstanding, the group issued a press release, noting the size of its investment, and stating its intention to ‘use our influence to unlock the undoubted value in Hippety Hop’s portfolio’. The language was coded, but everyone knew what it meant. Madison had enough votes to hold the debt negotiations to ransom. If the company management didn’t do what Madison wanted, there would pretty soon be some new managers, who would. The loan market was excited by the news. The stockmarket, too, reacted favourably.
Matthew had bought his shares at eleven pence each on Monday. He sold them on Thursday at an average price of thirteen pence. His five and a half million pound investment showed just over a million pounds of profit.
Matthew asked Belial to transfer the funds back to the big Swiss bank, and then to close down his account for good. Belial objected, but had no alternative.
Matthew then phoned Zeithammer. Matthew had changed his plans, he said. He wished to repay the loan and take back control of the bonds. He would have his million pound account balance wired to him in London. Zeithammer had been puzzled, but not excessively so. Taking a loan out for three days is a strange thing to do, but strangeness is one of the privileges of wealth. Zeithammer arranged to return the bonds to Matthew. It was now Thursday evening, too late to get the bonds out of the vault, but Zeithammer promised to have them couriered first thing the next day.
Friday morning dawned. Matthew had to have the bonds that day to avoid disaster.
It was misty in Zurich, and for the first two hours, nothing took off or landed from the fogbound airport. Matthew’s gut knotted with tension. Then the mist started to lift, enough to clear a single runway. The courier was booked on a BA flight, but the plane was pushed to the back of the queue of aircraft trying to leave. Matthew spent half an hour on the phone to the courier company. They had to get the courier on to the next flight out, whatever the cost. The company complained, but managed it. The courier flew business class to Amsterdam, then switched to BA for the hop across to Heathrow, where he landed at two in the afternoon. He passed the bonds to a motorbike courier and Matthew had the bonds in his pocket by two forty-five.
Matthew was not a diligent worker that afternoon. At six o’clock, he went into the loos, and taped the bonds to the inside of his calf. Securely this time. They weren’t going to slip. At seven o’clock, it was time to close the vaults. Matthew walked through the underground chambers a pace or two behind his escorts. The gold glittered at him as he passed. ‘Feast your eyes,’ it murmured. ‘You too are one of the golden children. You too are rich.’ The bonds inside Matthew’s trouser leg fitted snugly and securely.
In the Eurobond vault, things were fairly simple. Matthew just walked down a different aisle from the other two. He stopped to tighten a shoe lace and yanked the bonds from his leg. It wasn’t a brilliantly subtle manoeuvre, but what the hell. You couldn’t be arrested for bringing bonds into a bank vault. Matthew shoved the bonds on to a shelf any old how. They were in the wrong place, out of sequence and jumbled. They’d be found on Monday and cause puzzlement. Bonds weren’t meant to be out of place. But they’d count the bonds and find everything was there. They could make all the enquiries they liked, but the only thing wrong would be some bonds on the wrong shelf.
Matthew closed up as usual, twirling the metal wheels for the last time, locking the doors on the impregnable vaults. The vault-user identification chamber clicked and flashed as usual. The huge lift rolled slowly upwards as before. This time when the doors opened, there was no threat of encircling police, no danger of jail and failure.
Matthew walked out of the loading bay a millionaire, standing to inherit many millions more in just a few months. No more insider trading. No more theft. No more worries. He had a lovely house and a beautiful partner. Fiona was getting closer than ever to him, trusting him more and more. He hoped that, before long, they’d be married.
Matthew was very, very happy.
He wanted to rush out and buy things. A car for him. A diamond necklace for Fiona. But he held back. Zack might always have his million too. A few thousand quid was unlikely to make the difference between them, but there was no sense in taking chances. A cheque for Josephine would be the only exception: an exception he knew she deserved many times over. He smiled at his sister. He had smiles enough for the world.
‘What will you do with your money?’ he asked her. He liked talking about money.
She shrugged.
‘Haven’t thought about it. What about you? Are you going to give Zack and George their shares?’
Matthew was embarrassed by the question. He wouldn’t mind giving Josephine her share. She deserved it, if anyone did. But George and Zack? The way Matthew saw it, this had been a race. The prize was for the winner. If George and Zack had ever intended to slice the pie four ways if they came out on top, then they hadn’t bothered to mention the fact to Matthew.
Besides, if Matthew only kept his quarter, around ten million or so, he’d spend about four or five on houses and stuff and have five or six left to live off. That sounds a lot, but it’s not really. Say you invest five million pounds at eight percent. Knock off three percent for inflation, because you don’t want your capital to shrink over time. So you’ve got five million invested at five percent. That’s two hundred and fifty grand a year before tax. One hundred and fifty after tax. That’s nice,
but not a fortune. That’s what you can earn as a top accountant, or a middling barrister, or an unsuccessful banker. Matthew hadn’t done all that he’d done just for that. He’d hand out some big presents, but he’d look after himself too. You could hardly call him stingy.
‘I’ll sort something out,’ he said. ‘But you’ll get your share, Josie, I promise.’
Helen Gradley was dribbling in her sleep, a consequence of poorly controlled facial muscles. A column of spit threatened to splash down on to the envelope with Matthew’s cheque still inside it. Josephine gently wiped away the spit and patted her mum’s hands. The frail woman tensed for a moment, then sighed. Somewhere inside her troubled head, she knew her daughter was with her.
Josephine waited until Helen was quiet. Then, softly, with her left hand, she reached for the envelope and tucked it away inside her trouser pocket.
Summer 2001
Who cares about the weather? Who cares about cricket? Who cares about the century that lies ahead?
It is 3 June 2001. For more than a thousand days,
Bernard Gradley’s fortune has hung in the balance, luscious, golden, and out of reach. For 40 more days, it will hang there still. On the fortieth day, on the stroke of midnight, it will fall, unstoppably, irrevocably.
Who will catch it?
1
David Thurston’s Strategy Committee didn’t hesitate long. It liked Gissings. It was low-cost and could be made lower-cost. It had good products. It had a national marketing effort. It would be a cheap bridgehead for Oregon’s conquest of Europe.
George’s unconventional negotiating strategy was a problem, of course. Oregon had a deep-rooted aversion to signing contracts which were fair to the seller, and they hated paying top dollar. But as Thurston and O’Shea argued, this was an exception, the first purchase on European soil. Once they knew their way around the market better, they could play their normal games, but Gissings was a small bite anyway. Oregon’s shareholders wouldn’t even notice the purchase price in the small change of their annual accounts. So it was agreed. Thurston called off the lawyers in the two thousand dollar suits and made a few changes to the contract to produce something genuinely fair to both parties.
The Money Makers Page 53