by Roman Klee
He thought of replying to Jade’s email. But then changed his mind. It was best not to draw attention to an oversight and anyway, he had enough to be getting on with.
Like clearing Salzman’s casket through customs.
No one from the family turned up to the airport and Nathan had to use a power of attorney before officials considered releasing the body.
While he waited for the final rubber stamp, Nathan thought about the one week long induction course he had taken after joining the Banderbilt Trust. It taught him very little about finance, but a lot about how to get a client to like him.
His tutor started with the questions Nathan would have to answer at the end of every review period: “How much fresh money did you bring in this quarter? How many products did you sell that earn the Trust up front and trail commissions? What’s the margin per client?”
Then the tutor explained that working for the Trust meant Nathan playing many different roles. Some he would like, others he would not. Here was a short selection:
The dining partner: “You’ll dine at the St. Marks in Manhattan, the Louis XVI in Monaco, Arpège in Paris and the French Laundry in the Napa Valley. But be warned! Eventually, you’ll tire of the oysters, the caviar and foie gras. The foams, emulsions and edible gold leaf.”
The personal shopper: “You’ll arrange trips along the Bahnhofstrasse in Zürich, Via Montenapoleone in Milan. Bond Street in London, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris. You’ll stand in line to reserve a place for a client’s kid in a one off Versace promotion. Remember, designer clothes come with hidden costs.”
The entertainer: “You’ll be a delightful companion during an evening at the Vienna Opera festival, a night out at Covent Garden or improvised theatre at the Venice Biennale. You’ll reserve court side tickets for the Open, an empire suite to watch the Mets.”
The obliging sports partner: “Remember Nathan, when you’re on the links or the tennis court, the client always wins.”
The super sleuth: “We like to drill down, we like details, the smallest kind are the most rewarding. Spending habits, social habits. Sex lives. The money flows, the pre-nup contracts, the shareholder agreements. And the one thing guaranteed to get a client’s attention; how to legally avoid paying taxes.”
The second marriage partner: “We provide a complete custom service. We get to know how many times a day a client goes to the bathroom. We know more about a client than their spouse. Our role is to become their best friend. And finally, you will ask the burning question: When have I become a success?”
Nathan’s expression was blank. He waited for the answer.
“When a husband gets a secret younger lover, before long he needs extra money for her allowance plus a new apartment for his booty calls. And one day, he asks you to cover up the money trail—that’s when you know you hit the jackpot!”
Nathan wondered whether in the past, his fixation with work at the expense of learning better social skills, had probably cost him dearly.
Most clients didn’t want to spend time with someone who could talk endlessly about numbers and financial products and complicated ways to hedge portfolios. They preferred being with people they liked, who were good company.
“See Nathan, you’ll have made it once you become more than a client’s best friend. You need to become a trusted partner, more trusted than a spouse. And let me tell you, sometimes that can be easier than you may think right now.”
Nathan nodded—because he understood well enough.
Nathan decided to get an early night. He tried calling a couple of his work colleagues, so he could get the low down about what had been going on in his absence. But he was greeted with a succession of voicemail messages. In the game of office politics, drawing the short straw and being sent over to Switzerland placed Nathan at a big disadvantage.
In one sense, it didn’t need a lot of working out. The obscene little game of jostling for the senior partnership must have gone into overdrive—to say nothing about the surprise addition of another partner. When the going got tough the tough got tougher.
Nathan held out no false hopes that he would be selected. He was new at the Trust and while his client list was starting to bring in good levels of commission and his average billing rate was among the best in the firm, he still needed to add a couple of Ultras.
Only then would he be in with half a chance, because to really make it big, he needed to learn how to successfully navigate the treacherous waters of office politics. It was a skill set he was not instinctively blessed with.
He already understood that no one got very far if Salzman’s secretary didn’t like you. Janice was known as the senior partner’s eyes and ears. Some of the other women referred to her as the frenemy and the Facebook prowler.
She had installed special software on every computer, which tracked what all employees did on line. It recorded the number of times they logged in to update their Facebook pages during office hours and how much time they wasted surfing the internet and shopping online.
It flagged up any criticism of Salzman and the Trust. Already several promising careers had ended abruptly because of comments made in the heat of the moment after arguments.
Janice also kept a watchful eye on inappropriate Facebook postings. A collection of drunken party photos or a night out at a strip joint, or anything of a sexual nature, got her attention and resulted in the firm’s ultimate sanction. Now the balance of power was set to shift. Harvey Schleicher was the top candidate for the senior partner position, and he had his own personal assistant. Janice would probably get reassigned to a less important partner—that is if she stuck around in the face of an obvious demotion. No one would shed any tears.
When Nathan arrived at his desk the next morning, he was surprised to discover that Pete Cunningham had left a voicemail. The guy wanted to see him in meeting room number one, on the nineteenth-floor at ten o’clock.
Nathan steadied himself by ordering a double espresso. What was that about? Everyone knew the junior partner would be announced in the morning, because the senior partners always held their meetings at three o’clock in the afternoon—without fail.
Surely Cunningham had made a mistake. His meeting could have nothing to do with the newly vacant position. Then the most awful thought struck him. Maybe he was about to be fired for the second time.
He checked the date. It was the first anniversary—exactly a year to the day, when the Prada dressed bitch in Solomon’s Inhumane Resources department handed him his pink slip.
Did lightening strike twice? Had someone bad mouthed him behind his back? What could he have done to upset the partners so quickly?
As the morning progressed, Nathan decided to gauge the atmosphere in the office. He tried to casually walk around, hoping perhaps to bump into someone who might let slip a comment about whether or not the bosses were bringing down the axe.
He tried to spot small groups huddled round the water cooler, muttering darkly to one another, but no one, except him appeared to be behaving awkwardly. What about the old boss’s secretary? Did he dare go over and ask an innocent question, just to see if she would respond warmly to him? How would that affect his chances of keeping his job?
But then he reasoned the idea was insane because she would not let on. And even if he had this whole business back to front and inside out, he was never in the running for a partnership to start with.
If anyone was about to take over Salzman’s position, it had to be Harvey Schleicher. He was by far the most qualified and longest serving.
He’d been overlooked several times (Salzman for some reason had always blocked him). But now the old guy was out of the way, Schleicher was in the catbird seat.
Nathan wandered in the direction of the partners’ offices, and casually glanced through Harvey’s open door. No one was there. Well, what did he expect? The back slapping had already start
ed in earnest, and Nathan would get an invite to the Yacht Club for a double celebration later in the day.
Then Cunningham appeared, coming out of the partners’ library. This was the guy who had first interviewed Nathan. Maybe he had something to say. Nathan tried to make eye contact, but Cunningham walked straight past him.
The omens did not look good.
Nathan was as ready as he ever would be for what was to happen. In a few minutes, he would know his fate. He made a last minute dash to the men’s room.
Just as he was about to push open the door, Nathan felt his cell phone vibrate in his back pocket. With a reflex action, as if the phone was attached to his hand with a piece of elastic, he retrieved it. Glancing at the screen, the text message read: I hear congrats are in order! CU L8TR!
It was from Antonio Orofino.
Δ = T –28,047,600
How did the guy know? wondered Nathan. The answer was starting to become obvious, even if he was not ready to fully accept all its implications.
Nathan’s attention wandered during the special presentation by Cunningham, the Banderbilt Trust’s new senior partner. Harvey Schleicher had been passed over for the final time. He announced his intention to retire at the beginning of the New Year. In a way, that took some of the heat off Nathan’s swift appointment.
He was certain that making partner so quickly would cause resentment in the office. But with Schleicher gone, there was hope once again for the others.
“This information has never been disclosed before.”
Nathan suddenly tuned back in to what his boss was saying, “But the time has now come. Banderbilt has been acting as the financial advisor to Budd Wright’s estranged daughter, Liz.”
Several members of the audience gasped. Most of them had never heard of Liz. But they understood the implications for the Trust now they knew her father’s plane was missing.
“Some time ago, Liz and Budd fell out and for more than a decade they have not spoken. Liz has a difficult but special relationship with the rest of the Wright family. Many times we acted as go-betweens.”
Nathan was beginning to wonder what role he would play in this unfolding saga.
“Obviously there are issues here when it comes to dividing Wright’s estate, but before we get too far ahead of events, we have to inform Liz of her rights and possible entitlements.”
Except the partners had a problem—they had no idea where Liz lived. They sent portfolio and account statements to the care of a lawyer’s office in Zürich on a regular basis. And on an irregular basis, they would get a call from Liz, asking to drawdown an amount that exceeded her monthly allowance. Recently, she was getting in contact more frequently.
And each time she gave them a different location.
Cunningham smiled at Nathan and even before the Trust’s senior partner had communicated his intentions, Nathan guessed the reason for his own promotion.
With the presentation over, the new senior partner returned to his new corner office, with Nathan obediently following. He indicated for the junior partner to sit opposite him on a faded and slightly stained couch. A low cocktail table now separated the two men.
Cunningham had placed several different colored lever arch files on it. Inside were various sections, all neatly divided and then sub-divided; Janice’s handiwork.
“We appreciated the way you handled yourself in Zürich.”
Nathan acknowledged the praise. His head was still spinning after what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. And there was nothing to be gained from brushing aside a well deserved compliment.
“Jade was grateful. This whole business has come as a shock to her and of course the Trust is helping out.”
Janice entered the room and put down a tray containing a pot of coffee and a large box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. She poured out two full mugs of black coffee and left.
“We have a problem with Liz Wright.”
Cunningham helped himself to a Millionaire’s Shortbread. Nathan followed his boss’s lead.
“See, the thing is, we have no fixed address for her. She doesn’t carry a cell phone, refuses to use the internet, she has no email account. Her father obviously didn’t pass down his love of technology to her.” Cunningham, chuckled to himself as he finished the doughnut and then flicked the crumbs off his pants.
“Now, when news of the plane crash is officially released, she should get in touch. But we can’t be sure and we can’t wait for her to watch a news report and pick up a phone. She’s not reliable.”
Cunningham explained that out of respect for Budd Wright, they had handled Liz’s affairs with the utmost discretion. The Wrights always played down the extent of the family rift. Budd described Liz as her own woman, who disliked the grind of day-to-day life. If asked, he made excuses for her non-appearance in public, although nobody seemed to have a very clear idea about what she actually did.
Falling out with his daughter had deeply affected Budd and he never allowed anyone to see how much it hurt. It had proved a painful experience, one Budd found difficult to deal with.
All the more so, because he could not handle things in the same way as when one of his businesses got into trouble. There were no scapegoats to fire, no assets to sell off, no restructuring plan or capital raising exercise to sell investors.
And he made sure questions from the media about his daughter were never answered by the team at his HQ on the Isla de Ballenas.
“This is the important file,” said Cunningham picking up the dark blue one. “Myron never let it out of his sight. He was very possessive about his clients.”
The file contained all Myron’s contacts with extensive profiles about their business interests and personal lives.
“Obviously, he had his reasons. Usually it was to protect the client. But sometimes I think he acted against the Trust.”
Nathan nodded. There was nothing for him to add.
“We could have used our connection to the Wright family to improve the firm’s client roster, but Myron would have none of it. He called it trading off our own book. He found it unethical.”
Clearly Myron never worked on Wall Street, thought Nathan.
“I expect the search parties to track down the plane soon enough. You know, it should be easy to find the black box. We need to contact Liz before the news is officially released.”
“How much time do I have?”
“The Swiss promise to hold the story for forty-eight hours.”
Nathan was taken aback. He hoped Cunningham was joking, but he could see from the guy’s expression he was not.
“I want you to start off in Bangkok. That’s where we have our best contacts. You will meet Ted Faulkner. He can tell you where he thinks Liz is staying. He told me he’s organized a stakeout and he owes the Trust a few favors.”
This was beginning to sound like some kind of assignment more suited to a federal special agent.
“Oh, and there’s just one more thing.”
Nathan had already guessed that what he was about to take on would not be easy.
“With some of our clients the work can be … how can I put it? … sensitive.”
Cunningham reminded Nathan they had a duty to monitor a client’s expenditure, especially when someone asked to drawdown unusually large amounts of cash. In Liz Wright’s case, she certainly didn’t risk running out of money, but Cunningham was concerned nevertheless.
“We have to be watchful for blackmail. It’s happened on several occasions. The usual cases involve enterprising young gigolos. They like to home in on some of our wealthy middle-aged clients.”
Cunningham explained that it wasn’t always a one-way street. Just recently he had to deal with a septuagenarian client, who had developed a cougar like appetite for younger men, thirty years her junior.
“It’s like porn, you know it when you
see it. So when you find Liz, keep a look out for the wrong kind of friends.”
Nathan assured his new boss he would do his best.
On picking up his tickets and itinerary, he noticed he was back to flying business class on a commercial airline.
The good old times had not yet returned.
Δ = T –27,982,800
After a sixteen-hour flight, Nathan arrived at the Shangri-La Hotel, with some catching up to do. There was no time to enjoy the hotel’s pool bar, because he had to speak with Cunningham. His boss wanted to update him with a progress report about Budd Wright.
“First the good news. They located the plane and recovered the black-box.”
Things were looking up, the Trust would know exactly what had happened on the flight and why the plane crashed.
“Now the bad news. They only found the chassis of the airplane’s flight data recorder.”
This did not mean a lot to Nathan. He asked for more detail.
“Here’s the problem; the crash survivable memory module was missing. That’s where all the valuable data is recorded. They’re still searching for the separate cockpit voice recorder.”
Nothing ever seemed straightforward.
“And now the good and bad news. The rescue party found no bodies, either in the plane or close by. But neither have they found survivors. We still don’t know for sure what happened to Budd Wright or where he is.”
To Nathan there couldn’t be many possibilities. Either the guy had died, his body probably ejected from the plane before it crashed. Or he had survived the crash landing and was hanging out with his rescuers somewhere. Or his rescuers had kidnapped him and the family would soon be getting a ransom demand.
Still, whatever he thought, Nathan knew there was no point in expressing his opinion, seeing as he was the most junior of the junior partners.