Dave Hart Omnibus

by David Charters

  ‘F – fifty billion? But, Mister Hart, there aren’t fifty billion euros worth of projects in the whole continent.’

  I lean forward and stare at him. Maybe I got the number wrong again. I hadn’t really thought about it, but it seemed like a good number when I said it. Maybe I’m just not that good with numbers. When I speak, I do so slowly, as if talking to an infant. ‘Not now, no. But there will be. Africa’s changing, Ralph. A lot of places where it’s not wise to do business today are going to be safe very shortly. Trust me on this.’

  ‘R – right.’ He’s clearly unconvinced, swallows hard and bites his tongue. He thinks his boss is whacko. For all I know, he may be right.

  ‘Ralph, I want you to do me a favour. I want you to pretend that all the worst places where you would never dream of doing business changed, and suddenly became business friendly. What would be your dream list of projects for the bank to finance? We all know there are great projects out there, if only we could get to them. And the margins would be so fat. Are you with me so far, Ralph?’

  He nods, but definitely looks sceptical.

  ‘And because the margins are so great, and we’ll be making so much money, we’ll do this business in an ethical way.’

  ‘E – ethical?’

  ‘That’s right. With an ‘e’. Look it up when you get back to your office.’ He’s looking at me now as if he expects me to burst out laughing, as if it’s all a wind-up. ‘We have to be consistent with the firm’s image and reputation, Ralph. This has to look right.’

  ‘Oh, I get it.’ He grins at me and very nearly winks. ‘It has to look right.’

  This kind of pisses me off. Someone like this really should not piss me off. ‘And the best way to look right, is to be right.’

  ‘Be right?’

  ‘Exactly. Anything we finance has to have a full environmental and social impact study – a real one, not the sort we usually pay for.’

  ‘A real one?’

  ‘Sure. There must be some consultants out there who can actually produce real ones?’

  He looks nonplussed. Maybe there aren’t. I press on. ‘And our projects must source everything they can from the local economy, institute anti-corruption policies…’

  ‘Anti-corruption? You mean…?’

  I nod. ‘That’s right. No more ‘Oh, Mister Deputy Minister, is that your wallet you appear to have dropped under the desk with five thousand dollars in it?’ Those days are gone.’

  At this he really does relax. ‘We don’t do that, Mister Hart. It’s against the law.’

  ‘So what do you do?’

  Now he’s nervous again.

  ‘Come on, spill – unless you want one of these?’ I open my desk drawer and pull out a black bin-liner and put it on the desk. He’s transfixed. It’s the equivalent of Long John Silver offering one of his pirate crew the Black Spot.

  ‘W – well, we help our friends.’

  ‘Help? What sort of help?’

  ‘It depends on them. Sometimes they want to buy a house in London. We help them find bargains.’

  ‘Bargains?’

  ‘That’s right. There are amazing bargains out there if you just… know how to look. And if they ever want to sell, we help them get a good price. A really good price. Or they want their children to get into good schools, and we help them do that – special scholarships, donations to the schools’ endowment funds… and of course they sometimes want special healthcare, and there are waiting lists…’

  I hold up my hand to stop him. ‘I get the picture. But we don’t pay bribes.’

  He shakes his head. ‘We don’t pay bribes.’

  ‘Good.’ I put the bin liner back in the drawer and he relaxes again. ‘So when can I have my list? We’re about to witness a new scramble for Africa, and I want Grossbank leading it. And the number, to be clear, is fifty billion.’ Or was it a hundred? I scratch my head – I’m sure I said fifty just now.

  Pause. A long silence. He’d better say something soon, because I’m starting to get bored.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Nah, just kidding.’

  ‘Just…? You are serious, aren’t you?’ He rubs his chin, thinking hard, and for the first time he actually looks excited. ‘What you’re asking is huge. An enormous task. I hardly know where to begin.’

  ‘If you’re not up to it, let me know.’ I allow my eyes to wander towards the drawer where I keep my bin liners.

  He nearly panics. ‘No, we’re up to it. It’s just that it’s so… huge.’

  ‘Who are your biggest competitors in the market?’

  ‘Prince’s and Schleppenheim.’

  ‘Raid their teams. Poach their best people. I’ll sign the authorisations. Call them today. Buy them.’ Now I really am bored. I glance at my watch. ‘Look, I’d love to carry on talking about this all day – Africa, the wealth grab, changing the future, all of that, you know, but I’ve sort of got this bank to run…’

  I usher him out of the office and tell Maria I’m going to see my chiropractor. I haven’t had a blow-job since before breakfast. I think I might be addicted to sex.

  * * *

  I’M HAVING a weekend away. I’m taking a Grossbank corporate jet to Capri to a private villa owned by the bank and kept for senior management offsites and ‘weekends of reflection’ for board members.

  Helping me reflect on this occasion will be Paula Hayes, wife of Sean Hayes, who now runs syndicated loans at Grossbank. Sean thinks his luck’s in, which in a manner of speaking it is. Having been poached to run Grossbank’s business on the kind of package he never dreamt of at this stage in his career, he’s been amazed by the firm’s commitment to what most banks see as a capital intensive, low return business. He’s piling on market share, driving himself like he’s never worked before in his life, because no matter how well he does, we always want more. Or at least I do. And it’s working – he’s made us number one in the league tables and this weekend, at my insistence, he’s taking his team for an offsite in Bermuda which is part strategy session and part celebration.

  It’s a shame, because Paula hardly sees him as it is, and whenever we meet for a coffee on the King’s Road, she’s torn between thanking me for the break I’ve given them, and wishing she saw more of him.

  In turn, I’ve come to rely on her for helping me to talk through my ‘issues’ – she’s become my soulmate, or at least that’s what I’ve told her, and occasionally I wonder if she actually believes it. And this weekend we’ll take the mating aspect a stage further.

  Paula’s never been on a smoker before, and she’s surprisingly excited. Her mother is looking after her daughter for the weekend and she’s told Sean she’s going on a girls’ weekend away with some old university friends. She didn’t take much persuading: ‘It’ll be good for us both. It’s a change of scene, a chance to talk, a chance to think and unwind. We’ll be pampered and frankly we deserve it. Neither of us has an easy time. And look – we’ll have separate bedrooms and there’s no obligation or expectation in any sense, okay? We’re friends – soulmates.’ Can you believe she fell for that? Of course she did. She’s a woman and I’m Dave Hart.

  Should I have a bad conscience? Nah. Who wants to be good? Life is too short to be good. Look at it this way – her husband got a fantastic break, he’s making out like a bandit, and within a few months of arriving at Grossbank, they’re already planning to buy a house in Holland Park and talking about having another child. Meanwhile Paula’s life has been spiced up by having some excitement in it. She gets to fly in a smoker, drink fine champagne, eat caviar, do a few lines of coke, and get screwed by me – and yes, I bet she turns out to be a screamer. Life is good in the Hayes household. There won’t be any emotional commitment, because we’re about to become fuckbuddies – friends with benefits, as the Americans say – and since we’re grown-ups we both know it can’t go anywhere, and we’ll enjoy it while it lasts. Or at least I will.

  * * *

  COMMUNICATION HAS to
be one of the most important aspects of investment banking. We don’t always get it right.

  After getting back from Capri, refreshed and rejuvenated – and yes, she is a screamer – I’ve headed straight off to Asia. I’m sitting on the terrace of the Shanghai Oriental, half way through a whistle stop tour of Grossbank’s Asian operations, with Paul Ryan. Whenever I feel I need a change of scene, I come to Asia. The girls are more compliant, the oils they rub into you more exotic, and from time to time I even squeeze in a useful business meeting.

  We’re dressed in chinos and Hawaiian shirts, and Paul is wearing dark glasses at night, which I always find incredibly cool, mainly because if I do it I keep bumping into things. We’re just sipping our first cocktail of the evening, when Paul mutters, half to himself, ‘There are some mossies around tonight.’

  ‘Some Aussies? Where?’

  ‘Everywhere. I hate the fuckers.’

  ‘Really? I had no idea.’

  ‘Oh, come on – everyone does. You can’t get away from them.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we are in China. You’d expect a few. It’s kind of their home territory.’

  He gives me a curious sideways glance. ‘It’s not just China. You get them everywhere. And they spread diseases.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dave. Have you taken something? Anyway, if it was my choice, I’d wipe them out. Total eradication.’

  I’m shocked. Normally Paul is so tolerant. Maybe it’s a gay thing. The Aussies have this kind of false machismo, whereby they try to persuade the rest of us that they’re just a bunch of straightforward, barbie-loving, beer-swilling, lovable rogues, when in reality I’m sure a lot of them are as full of complexes, neuroses and metaphysical anguish as the rest of us, plus I bet they’re homophobic as well.

  Personally I’m extremely tolerant of gay men. The more gay men there are, the less competition there is for beautiful women. Or perhaps it’s just that I don’t care – on reflection, I don’t think I’m tolerant at all, just self-obsessed and indifferent.

  Paul shifts uncomfortably in his chair. ‘It’s the noise they make that really gets to me. Especially when they get close.’

  I find this puzzling. It’s true that the Australian accent isn’t necessarily the most romantic on earth – a French woman can read the weather report and seduce me – but compared to, say, a young German couple exchanging guttural utterances in the moonlight, the Aussie accent is okay. And besides, how close does Paul get to Australians?

  He’s rubbing the back of his neck and looks uncomfortable. ‘I’ve had it. I’m out of here. Can’t deal with them.’

  I’m shocked. I look around. There are some expat types drinking in the bar, but I can’t hear any Australian accents. ‘What do you mean, you’re out of here? Just because of some Aussies?’

  ‘Yep. Do you want another drink or shall I get the check on my way out?’

  I’m staggered. I return to my room and call Two Livers in London.

  ‘We’re closing Sydney and Melbourne.’

  ‘Why? We’ve only just hired investment banking teams in both places. Good people.’

  ‘I don’t care. Executive decision. Trust me on this one. And get me the personnel files of any Australians working in the London office. On my desk when I get back.’

  I owe Paul this one. He was there when we first got Grossbank started in the investment banking business, and if he can’t stand these guys, then neither can I. Total eradication.

  * * *

  MONACO HAS to be one of the least pleasant places on earth, which in a way is appropriate, because it attracts some of the least pleasant people on the planet. I’m here, for starters. And with me are the cream of Grossbank’s worldwide private banking team. Amidst the concrete and glass and the tasteless glitz and the hookers and the super-yachts, I feel quite at home. The girls here are amazing, and you can rent them by the yard, all shapes and sizes, all tastes catered for. This is my kind of place. No one, no matter how jaded his appetite, need ever be bored in Monte Carlo. It makes Sodom and Gomorrah look like the Pleasure Beach at Blackpool.

  The Grossbank building is one of the largest and most in-your-face with expensive art, air conditioning so cold you feel you’ll go down with pneumonia, and deep shag carpets that you could almost swim through. It’s full of private banking types, and they all treat me like God, which I rather enjoy. They’ve cleared out the top floor with its marvellous harbour views, for my personal use, and seem put out when I decline the services of two of the most glamorous personal assistants on the Grossbank payroll. Unusually for me, I’ve work to do.

  It’s Rich Weekend and I’ve flown in with Two Livers and the Meat Factory. The Silver Fox is already here with a whole team of his people. I’m getting ready to present to a hand-picked gathering of fifty or so super high net worth clients, which is to say individuals who have stolen more money than Al Capone could dream of and better yet have got away with it. At least until now.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who don’t yet know me, I’m Dave Hart, Chairman of Grossbank. Please allow me to welcome you to Grossbank’s thirty-fifth annual investment conference for private banking clients. In a moment our head of private banking, Gerhard Neumann, will explain the detailed programme that we’ve got lined up for you.’ Pause for big smile. ‘We have some treats in store. John Highway, of Downtown Capital, will be speaking about ‘When the music stops: alternative investments and the future of the hedge fund industry’. That should be a short talk.’ Pause for polite laughter. ‘And Ron Monk, of Toddlers Group, has a great presentation on shareholder activism entitled ‘Terror in the boardroom – creating mayhem in a good cause’. As you know, Toddlers Group give away a large chunk of their profits to charity, which gives them a kind of special licence to terrorise the boards of large corporations who need to raise their game. That presentation will be illustrated and we advise vegetarians and the squeamish not to attend.’ That brings a few more polite titters. These guys are not squeamish. ‘But the keynote speaker, who will be joining us this afternoon, is President Mbongwe of Alambo. He will be speaking to us this evening about the economic future of Africa, and we look forward to that very much. As you meet the other guests here this weekend, you will notice a particular African theme among them. We have assembled an interesting cross-section of current and former political leaders, businessmen and others with major interests in the region, and we hope you will have an interesting and useful time networking as well as listening to our speakers. And there will, of course, be the usual entertainment that is customary on these occasions.’ That gets a few knowing smiles. It’s not as if we’ve booked the Three Tenors. The entertainment for these guys (and the few women who are present) will take place in the privacy of their hotel suites, organised with all the attention to detail and discretion that you would expect of a top private banking organisation.

  With the intros done, I go up to the top floor office and work on the President’s speech with Two Livers and the Silver Fox. Neumann joins us and he’s sweating despite the air conditioning. ‘Mister Hart, are you sure you don’t want to re-consider? Are you being perhaps a little rash? We have our principles to think of, our legal obligations, our business ethics…’

  ‘Stop.’ I love the Germans. All it takes is one word and he shuts up. That’s discipline for you. ‘We’ve been through this already. Don’t play the morality card with me. Do you recall why we’re doing this?’

  He does. ‘The profit…’

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Wrong? But I thought you said…’

  ‘I did. But it’s not just about profit.’ Two Livers is giving me one of her ‘will you ever stop bullshitting’ looks, but grinning at the same time. ‘We’re doing this for the poor people.’

  ‘The poor people? What do you mean?’

  ‘The poor people. You must have seen them.’ For a moment he looks uncertain. ‘The problem with Africa is the poor people. It’s the same with Britain. The
rich aren’t the problem. Back home in London you won’t find rich people hanging around in dark alleyways at night waiting to rob old ladies. Why would they? And Africa is even worse. In whole chunks of Africa there isn’t even anyone worth robbing. So what we have to do is eliminate all the poor people. They’re an embarrassment.’

  Two Livers sighs and stares out at the boats. The Silver Fox is giving me a funny look. Neumann seems perplexed.

  ‘Eliminate them?’

  ‘That’s right. Watch my lips – no… poor… people.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘By making them rich. Well, not exactly rich. We don’t want them turning into us. But at least middle class. We need to turn them into consumers, we need them to worry about whether they have the latest iPod or sufficient bandwidth on their home broadband or the correct features on their mobile phone or whether their new car has the right satnav. The important things in life, at least if you’re middle class. It’s the twenty-first century and they should have all the same neuroses and complexes and hang-ups as the rest of us. They shouldn’t have to worry about finding food, or whether someone’s going to burn their village down. Should they?’

  He shrugs. ‘Well, no, of course not, but can’t we just give some money to the international agencies, and leave our governments to…?’

  ‘Hell, no! We’ve been doing that for years. It hasn’t worked. Not only has it not worked, but it’s comprehensively failed. So now it’s capitalism’s turn. Greed is good, and money can fix anything. When you look back on your career, and your grandchildren ask you what you did, you’ll tell them about this. You were there with Dave Hart and you helped to make it happen.’

  He seems almost wistful, but then his mobile rings and he turns pale. ‘The President’s plane has landed – he’s on his way from the airport.’

  I glance at my watch. There’s a private room at the back of the office, next to the executive bathroom. I probably have twenty minutes. I flick the intercom and call through to the branch manager.