Dave Hart Omnibus

by David Charters

  His office is spartan, as I half expected, with posters of weapons on the walls and photographs of convoys crossing deserts. The coffee is instant, from a jar by a kettle in the corner, and he makes it himself. It’s a remarkably low overhead operation, even though it’s picked up contracts worth eighty-million dollars in the last twelve months alone.

  He’s googled me, and starts by congratulating me on what I did to the ‘bad guys’ in Jamaica. We have the sort of conversation that you can only have between men who have faced the ultimate challenge and won.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Tough.’

  ‘Did you think about it much afterwards?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You always do the first time. I shouldn’t say this, but it gets easier.’

  Lots of things left unsaid, and probably best so in my case.

  He’s also checked out Grossbank, and in the nicest possible way, doesn’t know what we can do for him. Under normal circumstances, he’d be right, but he doesn’t know how desperate we are. I let Two Livers do the talking.

  ‘Mike, this company needs additional financial resources to expand.’

  ‘No, we don’t. We’re a cash machine. Completely flexible. Bring people in as we need them. Keep the overheads low. Look at this place. Costs nothing.’

  ‘But you could certainly use additional funds.’

  ‘No. We’d waste it. Right now, we’re really well organised, tightly run and efficient. We don’t hire officers. We let the lads get on with it. And it works.’

  ‘But you personally could use some extra cash. It’s not as if you haven’t earned it.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. I’ve already put aside more than enough to look after the family. And besides, the beauty of this place is that if the contracts come to an end, I can lock the door and go off and do something else.’

  ‘But you’ve created considerable value in the company. A stock market listing would allow you to unlock that value. It would reflect the full extent of your achievement.’

  ‘Who cares? Like I said, I don’t need to.’

  Exasperated, Two Livers takes a swig of Evian and throws in the towel. ‘Mike, has anyone ever told you about greed?’

  He smiles and rubs his chin. We’re obviously not from quite the same planet after all. My turn.

  ‘Mike, have you ever wanted to make a real difference?’

  He shrugs. ‘Sure. We all do.’

  ‘Have you ever seen something that really makes your blood boil?’ Like a Hardman Stoney MD with a bigger apartment than you?

  ‘Sure. When we’re in country, in both Iraq and Afghanistan, there’s a huge amount of poverty, deprivation, local people whose lives are going nowhere. We support local projects where we can, with funds or supplies.’

  Gotcha! ‘Exactly, Mike – and that’s what this is all about. You support local projects where you can. Mike, you could list this company on the Stock Exchange, sell shares for tens of millions of pounds, and put the funds into a charitable foundation that could really make a difference on a grand scale. Tens of millions, Mike. Think about the effect that would have at the sharp end.’ He says nothing, but I can see I’ve got him. ‘Come on, Mike. How can you just shrug your shoulders and walk away from that?’

  On the way back we put the top down. I light a large Cohiba, which I feel is in keeping with the image of the car. It’s a surprisingly warm late February day, with the first hint of an early spring. Better yet, as we drive through Horsham a loser in a BMW Z3 pulls alongside me at the traffic lights, looking across at me and revving his engine. I wait for the amber light to appear, then put my foot down and smile as the silver grey beast hurls itself forward, leaving him behind. He catches up at the next lights, and the same thing happens again. At the third set of lights he winds his window down and leans across.

  ‘I think you’re a sad git.’

  I look at him and smile, take a puff on my cigar and nod. ‘You’re probably right.’ Then I put my foot down again and leave him in the dust. Fucking hairdresser!

  We get back to the office at two o’clock London time, half-an-hour before the New York opening. Paul has briefed our dealers, and all eyes are on the screens. We’re going on an elephant shoot today – Grossbank will be acquiring a stake in the Boston International Group.

  There’s a lot of tension in the dealing room. Grossbank has never done anything like this before. Neither have I, but everyone has to start somewhere. As soon as the stock opens, our announcement goes across the wire and we’re in there buying. This being the New York Stock Exchange, the reaction is instantaneous, and BIG shares go haywire. We pick up some in the high eighties, but within minutes they are in the mid nineties, before racing through a hundred dollars a share and settling at a hundred and five. We’ve managed to spend about four hundred million dollars acquiring a stake at the lower levels, before backing off and keeping our remaining powder dry.

  It takes a little while for Frankfurt to realise something is going on, but when they do, Maria comes rushing over.

  ‘Mister Hart – I’ve got Doktor Schwartz and several members of the board on the line insisting they speak to you urgently.’

  I wander back to my office, flop down on my chair and put my feet on the desk. ‘What line are they on?’

  ‘Line three.’

  ‘Okay, tell them to start talking. I’ll pick up in a minute.’

  She stops and gives me a strange look.

  I grin at her and wink. I flick the phone to speaker.

  ‘Dave Hart here. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  For once, they ignore the formalities.

  ‘What is happening? What are you doing? Are you mad?’

  I try to be patient, talking in a mild, matter of fact tone. ‘If you’re talking about BIG, which I assume you are, it’s a normal investment banking transaction, well within our remit. Gentlemen, I’m surprised that you’re surprised. If I bothered you with every little thing, we’d never get anything done.’

  ‘Every little thing? You have just announced that we are buying an eleven billion dollar company.’

  ‘Actually, it’s worth a lot more than that, since we started buying their shares. But let’s not split hairs. We are not buying the company.’

  ‘So why did you release this press statement?’

  ‘Gentlemen, if you read the press statement carefully, you’ll see it says simply that we are acquiring a strategic stake, and may decide to move to a full acquisition in the future. Well guess what? We just decided not to. If the stock stabilises around these levels we’ll unload our position in a few weeks’ time. BIG was trading at a discount to other comparable quoted fund management groups, because of a perceived overhang in the market caused by a large block of employee share options priced at ninety dollars. The upside was capped. Well, we just blew that cap away. Now the stock’s free to trade at a higher level, and we’ll cash in our chips as soon as we can. We’ll tell the market we couldn’t get a big enough stake and so we’re selling.’

  A long pause at the other end, then: ‘We still don’t like it. Why didn’t you tell us?’

  ‘We sent a full presentation by e-mail last night, for the attention of all management board members, the head of Frankfurt PR, and the supervisory board.’ It’s true. I told Paul to prepare it, and make sure it ran to at least a hundred pages, including appendices. ‘You were told everything.’ Silence. These guys probably can’t even open e-mail. They rely on their secretaries to do it for them, and anything that runs to more than a couple of pages can’t be important.

  ‘Gentlemen – imagine it’s 1939, and the tanks are rolling. They’re five kilometres into Poland and you decide you don’t like it. What are you going to do? Call them back?’

  The line goes dead.

  I AM FAST becoming a legend.

  Tripod Turner thinks I’m a genius and wants to buy me dinner. Herman the German is looking at a hundred and fifty million dollar profit on our BIG stake – now trading
around a hundred and twenty dollars a share, actually ahead of other comparable companies, and Biedermann is so desperate to pick a hole in what I’m doing, he’s coming to London with Herman and the fossils to have our next review meeting.

  Maria is starting to like me, despite herself, and has thrown herself into the creation of my ‘Me Wall’, getting my various doctorates and diplomas from American universities framed along with the doctored photos from the presentations team. Whereas once I joked about her leaving her broomstick outside the office on hover, now I find I’m warming to her.

  Best of all, I’m going to have a meeting with my – sorry, our – possible new PR advisers, Ball Taittinger. Bill Foreman, our London office PR director, has got them in to pitch their services to me – sorry, us.

  They say that perception is king in the Square Mile. Get the smoke and mirrors right, and the substance will fall into line. So today we’re going to talk about… me!

  The team from Ball Taittinger are everything you would expect from a top PR firm – a grey-haired, craggyfaced, seen it all, knows everyone, goes to all the best places senior partner, who is slick, seasoned, ultrasmooth, and could be a senior investment banker, except for the pale pink tie; a much younger, mid-ranking adviser, who looks like he spends his out of hours time partying even harder than I do, and actually it’s quite a privilege that he’s struggled in to attend this meeting; and not one but two lots of eye candy – blonde and brunette – who surprisingly seem to have brains, probably did most of the background work for today’s meeting, and get major speaking parts in the presentation, possibly because the number two on the team is too shagged out to talk.

  The presentation is called ‘The Hart Enigma’. The moment the slide goes up, they’ve got the business. They really don’t need to say anything else. But the girls go on to say how Grossbank needs to be associated in the public mind with me, my courageous action in Jamaica, my tough-guy, firm management style, and my vision for the future. Out with the old Grossbank, in with Dave Hart, modern day hero.

  I try to appear detached. ‘Isn’t there a danger in creating a cult of personality around one man?’

  The senior partner – in my mind, I’ve nicknamed him the Silver Fox – takes this one. ‘An investment bank is no different from any other business. It has to deploy its assets efficiently and dispassionately, to best effect, regardless of the individuals involved. This is not about you. It’s about the bank, and what’s in the bank’s best interest. In the case of Grossbank, the principal asset here in London is you. I know it’s difficult to discuss people in this hard-nosed way, but you’re effectively a device to be deployed with the media. People look at you and they see someone who is young, handsome, hugely successful, decisive, highly intelligent and yet willing to risk it all to save a little boy. All of that will play brilliantly with the media. It already has. We can use it to build a huge campaign around you – and completely re-invent Grossbank’s image in the process.’

  This is better than sex. Well, almost. ‘Go on.’

  ‘People see you as someone who has it all, yet still takes huge risks – a physically courageous individual in an age of selfishness. You’re a maverick, charismatic, a natural leader, someone the best and brightest in the City of London will look to for leadership. Someone they’ll follow into the unknown, with an exciting new venture that will revolutionise world markets.’

  This is awesome. I could sit here all day. ‘I see. What else?’

  He pauses for a second, takes a breath, and goes on, speaking more quickly now. ‘You’ll go where others fear to tread. You left the security of a well-established firm – Bartons, a top UK name – and went into the unknown, into virgin territory, to shape your own destiny. You’re a pioneer, and you’re not afraid. You don’t have to be. You’ve faced real danger and won. A man like you isn’t afraid of anything that can happen in the stock market, or in some boardroom. You’re Dave Hart!’ He’s standing now, clenching his fist with passion.

  ‘Excellent. I’m convinced. Let Bill know what your fees are and we’ll get started straight away. Maybe some profile pieces in the weekend papers? Anyway, I’ll leave the detail to you.’

  OUR NEWLY FORMED equity capital markets team are working on Grossbank’s first UK flotation, of the security company Military Overseas Security Solutions. The press coverage has been mixed. There are suggestions in the left-wing press that the MOSS Foundation is a cynical ploy to legitimise a dirty business. In the financial press there are questions about Grossbank’s ability to get the deal done. Will we be able to put together a syndicate of banks for a potentially controversial deal? If we don’t, will institutional investors buy shares in a company that may not be followed by other firms’ research analysts, or traded by other firms’ market-makers? Grossbank may be spending money to hire heavy-hitters, but one firm can’t do it all.

  I decide to make some calls. First I call Mike Moss. I explain that we’re making good progress, the deal is shaping up well, and we’re at the stage where we need to bring in a syndicate of other banks.

  ‘Mike, this is a controversial deal. People don’t know if it’ll work, and so they’re keeping their heads down. It’s the first deal of this type led by Grossbank, and the oppo aren’t exactly queuing up to help a new competitor get established. If we have to do it alone, we will. You know that. But I want to try another route first. I need your help.’

  ‘Anything I can do, Dave.’

  ‘Do you know the US military attaché at their Embassy in London?’

  ‘Of course. Bill Fraser. Former Green Beret. Some of the boys from the Regiment worked with him in Gulf War One.’

  ‘Is he well-connected in Washington?’

  ‘Are you kidding? He’s got a direct line to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.’

  I mentally tick one box. ‘Another question. Of the top four or five corporate clients that you work for in the Gulf, who’s most dependent on you to keep their operations going?’

  ‘Has to be Anglo Petroleum. They’re rebuilding the main pipeline south. We keep it from getting blown up.’

  Bingo! I tell him what I want him to do, then I call Tripod Turner. I need some weight behind this deal, and he’s just the man to help.

  Maria comes in to run through my diary. Wendy called – do I want Samantha this weekend? No, but I get Maria to send some presents round. The property search agent wants to show me a house in Holland Park. We fix a time. Am I still intending to see my chiropractor about my back this afternoon? Yes, and I’ll probably work from home afterwards. And finally, a lady phoned who claims she knew me in Jamaica – Sally Mills.

  Sally Mills? Yes, I’ll definitely see her. My jaded appetite is rekindled by the thought of finding a way into her perfectly clean, practical white cotton panties. She’s free tomorrow morning, and there’s just time to squeeze her in before Herman and Biedermann and the fossils arrive.

  Life is looking up. I might be tired most of the time, I might feel as if I’m racing just to keep up with myself, I might even wonder in odd moments if this is really happening to me, but I’m having fun! Every day is different, and I’m starting to enjoy myself.

  I put my feet on my desk, light a cigar, and blow smoke rings at the freshly installed ‘No Smoking’ sign.

  SALLY LOOKS as great as ever, in an innocent, wholesome, well-scrubbed way. Spring is definitely in the air, and she’s wearing a pretty floral dress with a white cardigan and practical, flat brown sandals. We meet in a coffee bar not far from my office.

  Things start badly. I lean forward to give her a friendly peck on the cheek, but instead she holds out her hand for me to shake. On closer inspection, she looks tired.

  I’m at my solicitous best. If only I behaved like this all the time, and actually meant it, I’d be a really nice person. I ask after her, after Toby, whether he had any after-effects from that awful experience, and how about Jasper and Monty, and of course Trevor the teacher. I’m half hoping that she’s going to break down at this
point, cry on my shoulder, and say they’re finished and she doesn’t know what to do any more, and can I please hold her tightly and tell her everything’s going to be okay? That way I’d definitely get into her panties.

  But instead, she says how Trevor has shown her occasional press articles about me from the finance pages. How Grossbank seems huge and very powerful, and so much seems to have happened in my life in a very short time and I must be very important now, and she feels guilty for not having kept more closely in touch.

  She asks about Samantha, and I explain that no, sadly it’s as I feared, and I haven’t had the chance to spend time with her. I could explain that I have a photograph of Samantha on my desk, and another in the apartment, and a small one in my wallet, so I don’t actually need to see her. But I don’t think Sally would like that.

  The conversation goes on, and it gets more apparent that she’s skirting round whatever the real issue is. My investment banker’s bullshit-ometer is on overload. Time is short, and I cut to the chase.

  ‘What’s really on your mind, Sally?’

  She takes a breath, obviously summoning up courage, and plunges in. ‘It’s Harry.’

  ‘Harry?’ Who the hell is Harry? Does she have a lover? Has someone got there before me?

  ‘My brother Harry. He’s Chief Executive of Hastings BioScience.’

  My news filter generally blocks out items that aren’t in some way relevant to my own well-being, so I have to dredge quite deep to remember.

  Ouch. I can see why she’s worried. HBS provide animal testing services for pharmaceutical and healthcare companies. It’s a vital service to test new drugs that will one day save people like me from an early grave. HBS are interesting because they set out to do controversial work in an ethical, transparent way. They don’t get involved in animal testing for cosmetics companies, and they limit their experiments to dread diseases and other dire medical conditions that contribute to the sum of human misery. So naturally the eco-terrorists are after them.