Dave Hart Omnibus

by David Charters

  ‘Is he the one who was attacked? By the Animal Freedom Front? Didn’t they beat him with baseball bats or something?’

  She nods and gets a tissue out to wipe her eyes.

  ‘Here – take this.’ I hand her a new silk handkerchief from Harrods men’s department. She wipes her eyes and goes to pass it back to me.

  ‘No. Hang on to it. You can let me have it back next time.’ Yes – next time! Hart, you’re a pro. But she’s still upset, so I tilt my head to one side, empathising with her as she summons up the courage to talk about this painful subject.

  ‘They beat him about the head. He could have been killed.’

  ‘Cowardly bastards.’

  ‘He’s very brave. He won’t give up. I told him about you. He said he wishes he could be as brave as you.’

  I look down at the table modestly. ‘I did what anyone would have done.’

  ‘But anyone didn’t do it. You did. That’s why I’m here today.’

  Christ. I get a sudden nervous twinge. I hope she doesn’t expect me to be brave twice in the same lifetime.

  ‘Harry’s firm are close to bankruptcy. Their building’s like a prison camp, with barbed wire and police and security guards. Anyone going in and out is heckled by a mob of demonstrators. It’s been going on for over a year now.

  The staff have to be escorted in and out of the premises, and even then they get followed home. They’ve been sent horrible things through the post – human excrement, hate mail – and now the bastards are targeting their shareholders and bankers. Anyone who owns shares in HBS has their name and address put up on a website, and has to live in fear of being attacked by these nutcases. Their bank has given notice that it can’t carry on lending them money. Apparently they’re in fear of what might happen to their own employees if they carry on – they say they have a ‘duty of care’ to their own people, which means Harry and his company just get ditched.’

  ‘Awful.’ I shake my head. ‘Poor Harry must be at his wits’ end.’

  ‘He is. That’s why I said I’d come to you.’

  ‘Me? What can I do?’

  ‘You can step in and finance them. Not you personally, but Grossbank.’

  Is she mad? I can’t really tell her that ever since Jamaica the mere sight of a black man with dreadlocks makes me nearly wet myself. Now she wants me to take on the econutters as well. No woman, no matter how wholesome she might be, no matter how great the challenge of the chase, can really be worth dying for.

  ‘Sally, I hate to say this, but I can’t help.’

  ‘Why? It’s so… so important. HBS will go bust in a matter of weeks if no one helps. They’re on the brink already. And if they go under, lots of important medical research will go with them. People will suffer, Dave, real people, who deserve not to be bullied by thugs.’

  ‘I know… and if it were my decision alone, you know I’d be with you in a heartbeat. But I have to carry my colleagues along with me. If Grossbank were to step in now, we’d be putting ourselves into exactly the position that HBS’s existing bankers are in. We have a duty of care to our people too. We’re not paid to take risks.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’ Her reply is abrupt, her manner almost contemptuous. ‘You’re all paid millions. If anyone’s not paid to take risks, it’s the policemen who stand guard around the HBS building, who get in the way when the bricks are being thrown. Or the soldiers you see on the television. Soldiers don’t get a fraction of what you earn, and look at the risks they take, or firemen, or lifeboat men…’

  ‘Sally, please. Don’t go on.’ It’s too fucking painful. ‘You’re right.’ Her eyes suddenly brighten. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I have to warn you that it’s very unlikely we’ll be able to do anything at all, but I’ll try. I’ll give it my best shot.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’ She throws her arms around my neck and gives me a wonderful, fresh, moist kiss on my cheek. It’s a beautiful moment, and so of course I have to blow it. I glance at my watch, and it’s two minutes before I’m due to be meeting Biedermann and the Inquisition. Damn, there’s no time to mess around. And so instead of putting my hands gently on her shoulders, staring into her eyes and saying, ‘Sally, I’d do anything for you, because the truth is that I’ve loved you since the day I first saw you’, there’s a terrible grinding of gears in my head and I find myself reverting to my nocturnal default mode and saying, ‘I want you, Sally Mills. I want you in my bed tonight’.

  Even as I say the words, I know I’ve blown it.

  She recoils, blushes to her ears, picks up her handbag and virtually sprints out of the coffee bar.

  I look at my watch. I’m due right now with Herman and Biedermann. Fool, Hart, fool. I peel off a tenner, drop it on the table and scoot.

  WHEN I GET back to the office, I find Biedermann looking at my ‘Me Wall’, studying it with intense curiosity.

  ‘Gentlemen, my apologies – an urgent new business development meeting.’ I shake hands with everyone and take a seat at the small conference table with Herman and the fossils.

  Biedermann carries on looking at the exhibits lovingly hung by Maria and the presentations team.

  ‘Did you really go to all these universities?’ He looks at the various certificates and diplomas. ‘Six different universities, all in America? Three doctorates?’

  I’m not sure quite how to play this one, so I grunt something incomprehensible and busy myself with serving coffee. Herman seems amused.

  ‘And is this really you?’ Biedermann is staring at a photograph of me sitting between Putin and Bush at a dinner. It’s next to one of me kneeling in front of The Queen at Buckingham Palace, obviously receiving some form of award, and another of me with Charles and Camilla at the reception that followed their wedding. His eyes follow the line of photographs along the wall: me shaking hands with Nelson Mandela; me on a podium with Bill Gates, addressing an audience; me playing golf with Tiger Woods. At least the face is me, and the girls have done a great job.

  ‘You’ve obviously had a very full and varied life.’ Germans aren’t necessarily great on irony, so I’m still not sure how to respond to Biedermann, and instead I clear my throat and pull out a chair. Lucky for me I rejected the girls’ less plausible efforts: me planting a Union flag at the top of Everest; me collecting a gold medal at the Olympics; me in a codpiece and tights holding aloft the prima ballerina of the Royal Ballet. I sent one of me singing on stage with Madonna to Samantha, wondering what Wendy would make of it.

  ‘Doktor Biedermann – please take a seat. If you gentlemen are ready, I’ll give you an update on where we are.’

  ‘Before we do that…’ Biedermann is giving me one of those For you, Tommy, the war is over stares. ‘…could we talk about my nephew Jan… in Gruenkraut?’

  Herman is hiding his face in a handkerchief, and even the fossils are looking for something to stop them laughing. They probably haven’t had this much fun since they were alive.

  ‘Gruenkraut?’

  ‘Gruenkraut. When you said you were thinking of sending him ‘into the field’, I didn’t think you literally meant a field!’

  ‘Well, Gruenkraut is a very beautiful place, quiet, but full of challenges and opportunities. Or so I’m told. And a good man will always create opportunities, wherever he goes.’ Biedermann is seething, and his cheek is twitching. Perhaps it’s infectious. Perhaps everyone who gets to work with me ends up with their cheek twitching. I decide to twist the knife. ‘And besides, it’s only for three years.’

  Herman dissolves into a muffled sneeze, and Biedermann stares at him, not bothering to hide the full extent of his loathing for the younger man.

  Maria enters and hands out some papers that Paul Ryan has prepared.

  ‘Shall we go on to the business report?’ By way of response, Biedermann turns and stares at the picture of me with The Queen. I ignore him and plough on. ‘Gentlemen, these show our summary operating results. You’ll see that the first quarter of this year significantly exceeds
our entire contribution for the whole of last year.’

  ‘That’s because of your little adventure in America, with Boston International Group.’ Biedermann has stopped even a pretence at civility.

  ‘It’s true that we have made more money on that one trade than on everything else the London operation has been doing, but most of the rest is what I call legacy business. It’s what we inherited from… your time, Doktor Biedermann.’

  ‘What do you mean, “from my time”? This is still my time. I am still a board member of this bank, or had you forgotten?’

  ‘Quite right, Doktor Biedermann. Forgive me – a slip of the tongue.’

  Herman is studying the figures. ‘But even the old businesses are doing better now. Why is that?’

  ‘Fear and greed. You spill a bit of blood, you dangle a carrot.’ I look again at Biedermann. ‘Never happened in the old days.’

  I can see the old man is seething. The fossils seem content, and Herman obviously has his tail up. Biedermann tries one last gambit. ‘What about clients? I said last time that I wanted to see progress with clients.’

  ‘Our first corporate client transaction is underway as we speak. We are starting to market shares in Military Overseas Security Solutions, a UK-based security company, which is our first London Stock Exchange flotation.’

  ‘And how is the transaction going? Have you formed a syndicate of banks underneath Grossbank to help distribute the shares? Are other brokerage firms going to follow the shares with their research analysts? Are they going to commit their capital to trade the shares?’

  Bastard. He’s just that little bit too on the nail with his questions.

  ‘Why don’t we hear from Paul Ryan, our Head of Markets?’

  Biedermann has a twinkle in his eye. He thinks I’ve suggested Paul talks us through the deal so I can distance myself from it and set someone else up as the fall guy. As if.

  Paul is summoned and introduced.

  ‘Paul – Doktor Biedermann is concerned about our ability to form a syndicate of banks for the MOSS deal. Could you update us on where things stand?’

  ‘Sure. I don’t mind admitting we’ve been struggling.’ Biedermann smiles smugly and nods an ‘I told you so’ to the fossils as Paul continues. ‘It’s been one of the hardest deals I’ve ever worked on.’ Now Biedermann’s grinning broadly. ‘No one wanted to know. It’s seen as a controversial deal, tough to sell, tough to syndicate.’

  ‘Exactly. I knew this would happen.’ Biedermann can’t contain himself. Herman is fidgeting uncomfortably and the fossils are staring ahead inscrutably. ‘We should never have accepted this business. I knew it would fail. Gentlemen, Grossbank’s investment banking efforts have failed before they even began!’

  Paul smiles deferentially at Biedermann. ‘Well, that’s not strictly true, Doktor Biedermann. You see, this morning, there seems to have been a change of sentiment in the market.’

  ‘Oh? What are you saying?’

  ‘Bartons called our syndicate desk and asked to be allowed into the deal. Said they’d like to support it, and that they’d like to welcome us as a newcomer to the UK market.’

  ‘Bartons? Why?’

  Because the Chairman of Anglo Petroleum, MOSS’s biggest client, called Sir Oliver Barton and told him to, you idiot. And Sir Oliver wants Bartons to lead the project financing for their pipeline. I intervene. ‘Paul’s probably too modest to say this himself, but he does have a certain reputation in the market. Pulling power.’

  Paul smiles modestly. ‘And Hardman Stoney, Berkmann Schliebowitz and Schleppenheim have all called up as well. They’re all looking for a piece of the action.’

  ‘Really? All of them want a place in our deal?’

  Sure, arsehole! Because the Chairman of Hardman Stoney in New York wants to be the next US Secretary of Defence, the American head of Schleppenheim’s UK operation sees himself as a future US Ambassador to the Court of St James, and Berkmann Schliebowitz were told by Tripod Turner that he’d send them on a three-month commission holiday if they didn’t fall into line.

  ‘Will all of them commit to research and market-making?’

  ‘Already have. And so have a number of other firms who are not in the syndicate. Boston International Group gave us a lead order for ten per cent of the deal first thing this morning. They’re making it a core holding in their flagship Omega Fund, and have put the word around that anyone dealing with the Omega Fund has to cover MOSS, the way they do all the core holdings.’

  ‘So this will be a great success?’

  Paul looks at me and we both shrug. ‘Should be. You don’t often get a following like that for a first-time deal by a new player.’

  Biedermann gets to his feet and paces to the end of the office. He’s staring at the photo of me with Nelson Mandela.

  ‘The difficulty I have with this deal, gentlemen, is that it is a deal without soul.’ He waves his hand dismissively. ‘Soldiers for hire – call them whatever you like, but they are mercenaries.’ He looks at Paul and me. ‘Hired guns. Grossbank made its name and reputation historically as a bank that was grounded in principles. We stood for what was right, even if it hurt our profits. Many powerful German companies have experienced difficulties over the years. But we stood by them. Other banks – investment banks – would have disappeared. Not Grossbank.

  ‘And because we stayed with our clients, because we stuck to our principles, we prospered.’ He positions himself strategically standing behind the fossils and points at Paul and me. ‘Where are your principles, gentlemen?’

  Fuck it. It’s him or me. This place isn’t big enough for both of us. ‘Doktor Biedermann, if you want principles, I’ll give you principles. Not abstract concepts, but real, down-to-earth, here and now principles. Grossbank is going to do some-thing no other firm in the City of London is prepared to do.’

  I certainly have their attention. Even Paul is wondering what I’m on.

  ‘We are going to refinance Hastings BioScience.’

  Beside me, Paul takes a sharp breath. The Germans seem nonplussed. They haven’t heard of Hastings BioScience. Why would they?

  ‘HBS is a British company that assists pharmaceutical and healthcare companies from all over the world to test pioneering medical advances for dread diseases – cancer, Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, HIV-AIDS, you name it. All of us may one day have reason to be grateful for their work. They’re world leaders in what they do, and I believe we should support them.’

  The Germans are nodding. Herman speaks first. ‘In principle I don’t see any reason not to.’

  ‘That’s the thing – it’s a high risk business. Right now, they’re on the brink of going bust. They’re struggling with huge uncertainty over the future, workforce issues, corporate clients who can take their business overseas, the kind of thing that could make some management teams throw in the towel. But these people are different. They have a vision, a mission and a great future, if only someone will stand by them. I want that firm to be Grossbank – in the finest traditions of the firm.’

  Biedermann is puzzled. ‘In principle, subject to confirmation of the numbers and the appropriate credit checks being carried out, I cannot argue with you. Do you know the company well?’

  ‘The Chief Executive is waiting for my call. With your agreement, gentlemen?’

  They look at each other, shrug their shoulders and nod. Paul rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and gives me one of those ‘What the fuck are you doing now?’ looks.

  I slap him on the shoulder and wink. ‘Come on, Paul – nobody wants to live forever.’ Except me. I want to live forever so that I can carry on shagging.

  THE OFFICES of HBS are rather like I imagine Fort Knox to be. Barbed wire fences, windows with metal shutters, and security cameras everywhere. Two Livers and I arrive in the Bentley, which is now bearing my new personalised number-plate: H1 PAY. I chuckle at what Wendy will make of it when she hears.

  A crowd of low-lifers are hanging around outside the gates
. Kids in dirty combat jackets and new age beads and earrings, with beards and funny hairstyles, holding placards and chanting and maintaining an uneasy truce with a row of policemen in bright yellow jackets. The drill at the gates is obviously well rehearsed. As we swing into the entrance, whoever is monitoring the security cameras presses a button so that the gates swing open and we can glide in past the crowd. The shouting picks up as they realise we are visiting HBS, and I slow down and open the window of the Azure.

  ‘Why don’t you all go home, have a shower and see if you can get a job?’

  I put my foot down and swing inside to safety as the gates close behind us and the crowd surges forward to battle with the policemen.

  Harry Peters looks remarkably like his sister, except that he definitely isn’t shaggable. He’s late thirties – probably around my age – and has the frazzled look of a man who’s been pushed to the limit. Dark shadows around the eyes, the first grey hairs, shoulders that default into a slumped position, and lines on his face that have nothing to do with laughter.

  I wonder briefly if he spends all his nights shagging hookers and doing whisky and drugs, but he’s not an investment banker or a hedge fund manager, so how could he afford it?

  He greets us in the lobby and looks past us to the crowd outside, where a full scale battle is underway. As we watch, two more vanloads of police arrive.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into them. They aren’t usually that bad. Perhaps it was the car – they probably see you as capitalists or something.’

  ‘Something like that,’ agrees Two Livers, giving me the sort of dirty look that doesn’t turn me on.

  He shows us into his office and goes into an excruciating hero worship speech about everything Sally’s told him. How his nephew doesn’t seem to have had any after-effects from Jamaica, and even mentions how they are testing a new synthetic skin for burn victims that might be useful if I ever considered surgery for the scar on my forehead.