I make my voice drop to a whisper. ‘And we will win. That will be the legacy of the investment banking initiative in years to come. In years to come, when people take it for granted that Grossbank is a major force in global investment banking. That, gentlemen, will be your legacy to future generations.’
Silence. Then, from Biedermann, who looks to be seething, a slow hand clap. The fossils glance at him, irritated. My little speech may actually have got their pulse going again briefly. He can see they are not with him. Herman pulls out a handkerchief and mops his brow. Dumb move, Herman. Don’t ever play poker.
‘Mister Hart. You make a very good case for not planning. But in this bank we are accustomed to doing things after we have thought them through, not before. You have shown you can destroy what the bank built over many decades in the London office. You have shown you know how to spend money. But you have not won any new clients, Mister Hart. That is what I would like to see. Where are the clients? Gentlemen, I propose we meet again in one month’s time to review progress. And I will be expecting news of clients.’
Herman’s visibly relieved. He’s off the hook, at least for now. The fossils nod their agreement, and a few minutes later I’m standing in the anteroom to Biedermann’s office, where Two Livers and Paul are waiting.
‘How did it go?’
‘Great, we’ve got one month to make it work.’
They both smile. They know when I’m joking. I wink at Two Livers. ‘Better have fun while we can.’
JAN HAGELMANN is finally crying.
He’s standing in my office, in front of my desk, while I lounge in my chair, feet on the table, staring out of the window.
‘Y – you really agreed this with my uncle?’
‘Yes. And Doktor Schwartz. It’ll be good for you. And good for the bank too. I’m told that Gruenkraut is very picturesque. It may be a quiet sort of place, with an ageing population, and not quite the night life of London, but it’s only an hour-and-a-half from Munich.’ I swing my chair around and give him an enthusiastic smile. ‘And it’s a challenge. If you can show the people at our branch offices that even the dullest, sleepiest, most boring village in Germany can produce the goods if it’s tackled properly – why, the sky’s the limit.’
‘But… why three years?’
‘Three years? Why because that’s how long it takes to get to know a place, find your way around, identify the key people in the local business community, cultivate them, and eventually… bite them in the neck. The way investment bankers do. Now get out of here.’
I know I shouldn’t enjoy this, but I do. The same way I enjoyed sitting at my computer and ordering ninehundred dollars’ worth of postgraduate degrees and diplomas from American universities first thing this morning. They’ll be going up all over the back wall of the office. And Maria has the presentations team working their Adobe Photoshop image editing software to produce a whole new set of shots of me. They all think it’s another one of my little eccentricities, or some practical joke.
How wrong they are.
Right now, I need to find clients. So I do what all investment bankers do when they need to justify their existence at team meetings or in front of their bosses: I read the paper. Some would call it ambulance chasing, because by the time a deal reaches the newspapers, the firms that are working on it have long since been appointed. If it’s a piece of business requiring a group of banks to be formed – a syndicated loan, say, or a share sale or bond issue – then there might still be a chance to squeeze a few crumbs from someone else’s table. For the price of a newspaper, you at least get the chance to say, ‘Sadly this time we only had a co-management position in MegaCorp’s issue, because our terms were a few basis points away from Hardman Stoney’s, but next time we’ll be more aggressive.’ Never underestimate the importance of the press.
On the inside pages, there’s a feature on the private security companies working in the Gulf. They’re employing thousands of armed guards, mostly ex-military, to protect government employees and companies engaged in rebuilding Iraq. They’ve got people in Afghanistan too, on private contracts, doing close protection and armed escort work. The editorial slant of the article is that it’s a bad business, with poorly organised, greedy companies sending ex-squaddies into harm’s way without proper training or preparation. Hell, I bet some of them don’t even have business plans.
The biggest firm out there, with multi-million dollar contracts, is called Military Overseas Security Solutions, or MOSS for short. They have nearly five thousand pairs of boots on the ground, huge contracts from the British and American governments, friendly Middle-Eastern regimes, and blue chip corporate names. They are the only firm in the region that the paper gives the thumbs up to, run properly and efficiently by a former trooper in the Special Air Service, called Mike Moss – hence the name.
These companies are private, because they probably think they could never float on the stock market. Too difficult a business, lots of legal problems, duty of care to their employees, nature of their work, too little transparency, I can see all the reasons why investment bankers would put them in the too difficult tray.
But we’re not most bankers. We’re Grossbank, and we’re desperate.
The only thing against MOSS in the article is that some of their guys on the ground have put bumper stickers on their vehicles saying things like ‘MOSS – no messing’ and ‘MOSS – peace through superior firepower.’ It’s the sort of thing that most banks’ new business committees would get twitchy about. Luckily it doesn’t bother my new business committee, because I’m it.
‘Maria!’
I tell Maria to track down Mike Moss and get me a meeting.
One swallow doesn’t make a spring. I need more firepower behind me if I’m to survive another month. I’ve got an idea – something Two Livers mentioned on the flight back from Frankfurt. She’s arranging a meeting with the European Chief Investment Officer of Boston International Group, the London arm of one of the world’s largest fund management firms. In the old days, he would never have given Dave Hart the time of day, but now, with Two Livers vouching for me, his door is open.
Irritatingly, in the midst of all this activity, I have to see Wendy. She’s had my letter of employment for a few weeks now, and we need to resolve things between us. She doesn’t want to stay out in Buckinghamshire, she wants to come back to Chelsea. And if we are going to split, then she agrees – or rather her lawyer does – that we should make it as amicable as possible – i.e., she’ll take legal advice, but hopes that I won’t. Based on my stated income of seventy-five thousand a year plus a season ticket loan, with uncertain bonus prospects, no savings, accumulating debts, and the need to finance Samantha through her education, they are proposing an out of court lump-sum settlement. She’s sent me papers that are ready to sign. She wants a ‘clean break’, that would leave me free for the future – probably because her lawyer’s told her that an MD picking up seventy-five thousand a year at a sayonara place like Grossbank is clearly going down the toilet. She knows it’s an onerous sum for me to raise, and imagines that I would have to take on considerable borrowings, but perhaps Grossbank would advance me the money?
She wants two million pounds. I nearly laughed when I heard. The first rule of a City marriage has to be: tell your wife nothing.
We meet again in the coffee bar.
‘Two million? How on earth can I raise that kind of money? Are you trying to kill me, or what?’
My face starts twitching, and she reaches out to touch it, a spontaneous, natural gesture of affection that twists an unexpected dagger of guilt in my gut.
I pull away. ‘Don’t. We’re not close any more. It can never be the same and you know it.’ Our eyes meet across the table, and I can see that hers are full of tears. ‘I’ve moved on. It’s only fair that you should know that there’s someone else in my life now. It’s hard work, but I’m making an effort.’ And what an effort! There are actually dozens of people in my life now: Lithuan
ians, Estonians, Romanians, Ukrainians, Argentinians, Brazilians, Columbians; it feels like half the United Nations. What they have in common is that they are all under twenty-five, have great bodies and if the money’s right, they are insatiable. And I love them all. Honestly. And then of course there’s Two Livers, an exceptional perk for any man.
WENDY APPEARS shocked and terribly upset. I don’t know what she was thinking. Maybe two million would be an impossible sum for me to raise. For ‘old’ Dave Hart that would have been true. But ‘new’ Dave Hart could write her a cheque tomorrow. Or maybe it’s the fact that she thinks I’ve found someone else dumb enough to take on a loser like me. Maybe it was me she was hoping for. Nah! I look at the document lying on the table between us.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to finance this.’ I shake my head theatrically. ‘But if this means we can draw a line and move on, and can still be friends, and do the best for Samantha, then I’ll sign.’ I slowly, reluctantly, get my Mont Blanc pen from my in-breast jacket pocket and carefully unscrew the top. I look up at Wendy, who still seems stunned by the turn of events. I can imagine the conversation with her lawyer – ‘You’re perfectly safe. It’s win – win. There’s no way he can sign this, but if he does, you should celebrate.’ But they underestimated Dave Hart. As if forcing myself to be decisive, I sign the paper in a flourish, put the pen away, wipe my eyes with my handkerchief and leave without saying another word.
Outside, I hail a cab to the office, and glance back briefly to see Wendy sitting, shaking her head, crying her eyes out, mascara staining her cheeks as she stares at the papers I’ve just signed.
Christ, I’m good.
TIM TURNER is one of the most powerful fund managers in the City of London. Boston International Group – ‘BIG by name, BIG by nature’ – runs mutual funds, pension funds, unit and investment trusts, high net worth portfolios, hedge funds – you name it, they have it. They are a top three commission payer to every investment bank and broker in town. When they say ‘jump’, the investment banks ask ‘How high?’
Turner himself is tall, very overweight, inclined to sweat profusely from even minor effort – like getting up from his desk to shake hands – and oozes arrogance from every pore. His jacket is slung over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened, and he has bright red braces with black dollar signs and the initials BIG monogrammed on them.
His nickname in the markets is ‘Tripod Turner’, because apparently he’s the biggest swinging dick of them all. In the cab on the way over I ask Two Livers if she wants to comment on that, but she smiles and stares enigmatically out the window.
We sit down in his huge corner office – even larger than mine – get the pleasantries over with and the coffee poured, and I start to explain why we’ve come.
‘Mister Turner, you may have heard that Grossbank is intending to become a major force in global investment banking over the next few years.’
‘Yeah, I heard the Germans have decided it’s their turn to step up to the plate and pour money down the drain. Someone has to keep house prices rising in London.’
I smile, as if in appreciation of his little joke. Wanker!
‘Grossbank doesn’t yet have a presence in asset management outside Germany.’
‘You don’t have anything at all outside Germany – apart from yourself and Two Livers and Paul Ryan, plus a few hired guns I hear you’re taking on.’
‘What the market hasn’t yet realised is how serious we are. We’re following a two-pronged strategy: build, and buy.’
‘Buy? What are you going to buy? Do you want to buy BIG?’ He laughs, a sort of snorting noise that makes his vast bulk shake.
‘That’s why we’re here.’
He laughs properly this time, a great thigh slapping roar. We sit patiently, not reacting. Eventually he subsides, and looks at us speculatively.
‘Are you serious? BIG would be a stretch even for Grossbank. And you guys aren’t exactly players.’
At this moment, with immaculate timing, Maria calls on his secretary’s number. From the corner of my eye I see his secretary get up from her desk, approach the big glass-walled office, and knock discreetly before entering.
‘I’m sorry, Tim, but Mister Hart’s secretary is on the phone.’ She turns to me. ‘You have an urgent call from George Soros. She wants to put him through now.’
‘Later.’ I wave my hand dismissively. I look at Tripod Turner. ‘Of course we’re serious.’
For the first time, he looks flustered, as his secretary shrugs and returns, muttering, to her desk to explain to Maria that I can’t take Mister Soros’s call right now.
Turner points out to where his secretary is sitting. ‘Was that the George Soros?’
‘No.’ I shake my head emphatically.
‘No?’ Now he’s really confused. In fact it was Maria, my secretary, following the instructions I gave her before we left.
I turn to Two Livers. ‘Go for it.’
She nods, crosses one beautifully tanned and streamlined leg over the other, and starts reading from her notes.
‘Let’s talk about BIG. You’re currently capitalised at around eleven billion dollars, and closed last night in New York at eighty-five dollars a share. Employees own fortythree per cent of the company, and your own stake is close to seven per cent.’
He nods and says nothing. At least we have his attention. ‘You also have employee options to buy shares at ninety dollars. Ten million options for yourself alone, and a lot more are held by your colleagues. These were issued a few years ago when the company was in trouble. There was a management crisis, and the board felt it had to lock in key personnel. But the shares have never traded that high – the market seems to know that ninety dollars could trigger the exercise of a raft of options and the release of a lot of shares into the market, and it acts as a kind of ceiling on the share price.’
Again he nods.
‘These employee options are about to expire in six weeks’ time – worthless, unless the stock goes through ninety bucks.’
‘You don’t need to rub my nose in it.’
I take over. ‘We’re not. We’re going to make you a happy man, Mister Turner. Tomorrow morning, Grossbank is going to announce that it’s going into the market to acquire a strategic stake in the company, and that we don’t rule out eventually making a bid for the entire firm.’
‘Are you crazy? Tomorrow? The whole firm?’
Funny how even the biggest swinging dicks are only human.
Two Livers takes over again. ‘We’re not really planning to go through with it. BIG really would be too much, even for Grossbank to swallow.’ Funny how we both look at her when she says the word ‘swallow’. She could add that our board in Frankfurt don’t actually know about this yet, but that’s detail, and I like to think I’m a big picture man. ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll acquire a small stake in your company, which we are sure will be a good long-term bet for our shareholders. We won’t actually commit ourselves firmly to bidding for the entire company, but we’ll say enough to make sure your stock goes through the roof. If it doesn’t hit a hundred dollars by the New York close, I’ll give up drinking.’ She reaches down to her handbag and takes out a small bottle of Evian water. At least it says on the bottle that it’s Evian water. She unscrews the top and takes a long drink while we both watch. Then she looks down at her notes and adds, as if as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and your ten million ninety-dollar options, currently worthless, will look quite attractive again. If you exercised them at ninety dollars with the share price at a hundred, you could make ten dollars a share times ten million… that’s a hundred million dollars.’ She turns to me. ‘Not bad for a day’s work.’
I nod. ‘Not bad.’
He jabs his finger at us. ‘Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?’
Two Livers smiles. ‘We’re in the happiness business. We want to make you happy.’
‘Bullshit.’
I take over
again. ‘Let me put it this way, Mister Turner. We’re not going to lose money on this transaction. It’s good business. And Grossbank doesn’t have many friends in the City of London.’
‘So what?’
‘So we want to be your friend.’
AFTER ANOTHER night of relentless drugs, booze and hookers, even my stamina’s being tested. Today is a 3G day – I feel I’m labouring under three times the force of gravity. Worse yet, I’m actually starting to get bored. Really!
Did I say drugs? Okay, I am getting into drugs in a minor way, and probably have been for a little while now, but only coke, and not every night. It’s far more common than you might think, and it’s pretty harmless really. It gives me a buzz, keeps me flying. The girls bring it with them – it’s a way for them to earn a little extra pocket money on top of what I give them.
The shadows round my eyes are getting darker now, and my face seems more lined – more distinguished – and there are more grey hairs. I suppose I’m growing into my role, looking the part more, getting more miles on the clock.
Speaking of which, I perk up as I remember that today I get to pick up my new toy, a silver grey Bentley Azure convertible. An awesome, throbbing power machine, rather like her owner. I take a cab to the garage, have a half-hour briefing on how she performs – shame they don’t offer this with women – then cruise round to Two Livers’ flat in Mayfair, to collect her and take her down to Sussex, to a disused airfield that serves as the UK headquarters of MOSS.
Mike Moss looks like a wiry prop forward. He has wavy dark hair, broad shoulders and exceptionally large hands. He speaks in an almost unnaturally soft voice, and is quiet and deferential in the way that you can only ever hope to be if you enjoy complete confidence in your ability to kill any human being on the planet.
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