‘Could you send through my personal assistants?’
* * *
PRESIDENT MBONGWE is utterly charming. He’s mid-fifties, portly, with a beaming wide smile and a bone-crunching handshake. He’s wearing a dark blue, pin-stripe suit that looks like it came from Savile Row, a silk tie and matching handkerchief and handmade leather shoes. He has a chunky gold Rolex on his wrist, and arrives in my office wearing sunglasses, which he obligingly removes when he sits down, so that I can stare into his cold, hard, bloodshot eyes.
I’m not wearing sunglasses, which means that he is free to stare back into my warm, friendly, bloodshot eyes.
President Mbongwe loves his people. If the press reports are true he loves them boiled, roasted and grilled. He has a big laugh, the way people do when they’ve had a million or so of their fellow countrymen killed, while a couple million more – no one really knows – starved to death. Luckily for him the holocaust in Alambo clashed with Talent YooKay, or maybe it was Xtreme Idol, and so nobody noticed.
He has his right hand man with him, his personal financial adviser, who is altogether different. Sam Walsh is American, early forties but prematurely greying in an elegant, patrician way, from a well-to-do family. Slick, well turned out, he used to work for Hardman Stoney before striking it rich advising President Mbongwe. As villains go, he is altogether different from his boss. Sam went to Harvard Business School, and villains don’t come any more civilised than that. The moment he walks in I know I’m not going to like him.
We sit down at the conference table with Two Livers, while my frazzled-looking personal assistants pour coffee, ignoring the lascivious glances of the President. Walsh doesn’t seem to notice them, and I wonder if he’s gay, but then I see him looking at Two Livers and now I really can’t stand the motherfucker.
Neumann joins us and sits uncomfortably at the end of the table, as if seeking to distance himself from what is about to happen.
‘Mister President, you’ve been a client of Grossbank for nearly ten years.’
He smiles. ‘That’s right, Mister Hart. Ten happy, prosperous years. God has smiled upon me, and my fortunes have increased remarkably.’
I’m looking at some sheets of numbers on the table in front of me, and for once they are genuine. ‘Yes, it is remarkable, isn’t it? And while I’m pleased to see that the Grossbank investment management team have made wise decisions on your behalf, you have also received substantial inflows of funds from elsewhere.’
He beams across at me. ‘Indeed, from many places. Truly I have been blessed, Mister Hart.’
‘Until now, Mister President.’ He starts as I say this, and beside him Walsh fixes me with a laser beam stare.
‘I have here your latest portfolio performance figures from the investment management team. Relating to last month.’ I look across at Walsh. ‘I don’t believe you’ve seen these numbers yet, Mister Walsh?’
Walsh looks flustered and glances at his boss. ‘We normally get those numbers in a few days’ time, just around the start of the following month. Is there something unusual about the latest numbers?’
I nod and slide a bar chart across the table. It shows the President’s portfolio growing steadily month by month as Grossbank’s finest brains put his money to work in the cleverest ways they could to make him ever richer. At the end of the previous month, he had five hundred and fifty million dollars with us.
This month he had zero.
Walsh laughs. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ He turns to his boss, who is allowing his face to relax into a malevolent stare. ‘This guy’s crazy. You don’t lose half a billion in a single month.’ He looks at the others, as if for support or validation, but Two Livers stares icily back while Neumann wipes his brow with his handkerchief.
‘I’m afraid your boss just did.’ I say the words so quietly that both Walsh and Mbongwe have to strain to hear.
Walsh is about to say something when the President’s booming voice cuts him off. ‘I want my money!’ His fist slams down on the table, Neumann looks as if he’s about to wet himself, and Two Livers and I stare implacably back.
‘Mister President, you don’t seem to be listening.’ This is Two Livers, her voice sexy, husky, measured. ‘What Mister Hart just told you is that you don’t have that money any more. It’s gone – all of it. Sometimes the value of investments goes up, sometimes it goes down. In your case it went all the way down. Let’s just say it was a bad month.’
Walsh leaps to his feet. ‘Listen, you blonde bitch – you don’t know who you’re dealing with. If you think you can rip us off, you better think again.’ He draws his finger menacingly across his throat and then points at her aggressively. ‘We don’t fire people, we shoot them!’
I look at him quizzically. ‘Did you say bitch?’
He looks at me as if I’m nuts. Underneath the table, I press a buzzer to the outer office and the doors swing open to allow the Meat Factory to march in, lining up behind Mbongwe and Walsh. They do nothing, say nothing, just stand there. It’s enough. Walsh sits back down. The President’s eyes no longer seem hard and menacing, but piggy and scared, darting to and fro, wondering what’s going to happen next.
I lean forward. ‘Mister Walsh, did you say bitch?’
‘So what if I did? Where’s our half billion?’
I nod to Scary Andy, who’s briefed on what to do next. He strides over to the huge floor to ceiling windows and slides one of them open, allowing the warm breeze from the harbour far below to rustle the papers on the desk.
I stare hard at Walsh. ‘Mister Walsh, can you fly?’
Walsh is – finally – lost for words. He looks at the open window, hears the faint sound of traffic in the street far below, looks at Andy and the rest of the Meat Factory, and finally looks at his boss, who turns away, as if it doesn’t concern him. ‘I – I didn’t mean it…’
‘But are you sorry?’
He really can’t believe this is happening to him. We should be fawning over them, doing the usual private banking sycophant on steroids act.
‘Y – yes…’
‘Well, say so then.’
‘I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I apologise.’
I turn to Two Livers. ‘Miss MacKay, are you prepared to accept Mister Walsh’s apology?’
She sighs, seems uncertain, as if making a difficult decision, looks at the open window, at the now blubbering Walsh, and finally nods her head. ‘Okay.’
Andy closes the window, Walsh slumps in his seat, and I place another piece of paper on the table.
‘Mister President, Grossbank would like to help you. Because we’re in the happiness business. And we want to make you happy again. In fact we want to make you happier than you’ve ever been before.’ I smile, just so he can get some idea of quite how happy we’d like him to be. His scared, piggy eyes dart down to the proposal I’m sliding across the table to him. ‘We have what we call our Fast Asset Recovery Team. I’d like you to meet them.’ I press the buzzer again and this time Ralph Jones, Grubmann and Kuntz come in – the Good, the Bad and the Ugly. The Mountain Troll pulls out a chair next to Mbongwe and lowers his enormous bulk onto it, smiling reassuringly and causing the President to lean away towards Walsh on his other side. Walsh is also leaning inwards, away from Werner Grubmann, who has sat beside him and unleashed a wave of toxic halitosis. Only Ralph Jones remains standing, weighed down with an armful of files – a bauxite project in Northern Alambo, oil projects in the south, a hydro dam, a new airport, a micro-finance fund for the small farmers in the east of the country. Altogether he has more than thirty files. ‘Mister President, these are our best people. We want to place you in their hands.’ Mbongwe still looks nervous. I’m not sure he wants to be in the Troll’s meaty hands. ‘We want to get them to work on your situation. We believe that an aggressive investment strategy can recoup all of your funds and make you far wealthier than before in a very short space of time. Alambo will have to change, naturally, but it can look forward to a g
olden age, and you will prosper with your fellow countrymen, as a truly enlightened leader should. However, I have to say this particular programme is performance-related, and it’s not for everyone. We’re offering this only to select clients who are working with us on our plan for Africa. What do you think, Mister President – are you with us?’
* * *
COMPARED TO Mbongwe, the other meetings are a breeze. In fact after a while, we start to have a laugh. We’re sitting facing Michel De Winter, a Belgian billionaire who made his money out of conflict diamonds in West Africa, and has arrest warrants outstanding in much of the civilised world, which is why he only comes to places like Monaco. When he hears how his portfolio did last month, he has a serious sense of humour failure.
Two Livers is sitting beside me, punching numbers into a laptop. As she types, the words come up on a screen at the end of the conference room.
De Winter snarls at us, ‘You bastards. You’re just common thieves.’
Dead pan, I turn to Two Livers. ‘Miss MacKay, Mister De Winter just gave twenty million dollars to the Green Africa Fund.’
She types in the numbers, presses Enter, and on the screen the words ‘Transaction Accepted’ flash up.
‘Real time banking, Mister De Winter. Now, shall we talk?’
‘You scum. You’ll pay for this.’ He’s literally spitting his anger across the table.
‘Mister De Winter, it pains me to see you like this. I like you. Well, maybe not… Miss MacKay, that’s another twenty mill, this time for the campaigning charity LaTiA. That’s Liberty and Transparency in Africa, Mister De Winter.’
Eventually he gives in. They all do when they feel that deadly tightening around their wallets.
We meet General Mick van Smit, a South African-born mercenary leader – sorry, international security adviser – who runs the armed forces of the Democratic Republic of Lubumbashi. Lubumbashi, like any country that has the word Democratic in its name, is a dictatorship. When Smit has had his initial shock and made the usual threats, Two Livers produces tarot cards and starts laying them out on the table.
‘General, I can see great good fortune ahead of you. You are going to become wise and benevolent and be greatly adored by the common people. To begin with, you are going to enforce law and order in the eastern jungles, and allow the people to return to their homes…’
‘The hell I will,’ he roars back.
I chime in at this point. ‘Thank you, General. That’s twenty million dollars to the African Reconstruction Fund.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s a donation. You just made a donation. Very generous.’
Two Livers continues. ‘And then I see you instructing the warlords to leave the poor villages of the western plains alone, and return to their own lands.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Congratulations, General, that’s another twenty mill, this time for Action Africa’s human rights campaign.’
Two Livers continues. ‘And you will advise the President to allow the aid agencies to return.’
This time he pauses, his eyes darting between Two Livers and me. He rubs his chin. ‘That might be possible…’
‘Looks like you just got some back!’ I smile and offer him my hand across the table in a high five, but he sits back, disbelieving.
By this time even Neumann is smiling and starting to loosen up and have a little fun. He had no idea we could do things like this – breaking the law, stealing clients’ money, threatening to throw them out the window and so on. It isn’t what private bankers usually do, but we’re Grossbank, and Grossbank rocks.
Eventually they all crumble. And when they truly cannot believe their misfortune, when their world – or at least their fortune – has fallen apart, we offer them hope. Because we’re really nice guys and Grossbank is in the happiness business.
* * *
JUST IN case you think I’m soft, and might have overlooked something, there’s one more wrinkle. It’s one thing to get these guys to agree things sitting in the Grossbank building in Monaco, potentially quite another to enforce it once they leave. That’s where my real heavies come in. My legal heavies.
Lawless, Hood and Partners are one of Wall Street’s most powerful law firms. They’re not in the phone book, and they don’t have a website. They have only ten clients, all of whom pay well over ten million dollars a year just by way of a retainer to ensure they get access to the firm when they need it. Their clients include several of America’s richest billionaires, a sprinkling of large corporates – let’s just say a major software company, a leading defence contractor and one or two other friendly household names – and guess who else…
Sam Walsh looks pretty cocky when he goes off to a separate meeting room with Ralph Jones. He probably thinks he can outsmart Ralph when it comes to contract law, disclosure and legal enforceability. But he gasps as the meeting room door opens and six US attorneys walk in. These guys are like Robocop with a law degree. To begin with, they all look alike: dark suits, dark ties, white shirts, dark glasses, identical brown leather briefcases for their laptops and ‘pilot bags’ full of documents, broadly similar ‘Ken Doll’ good looks and short haircuts. The team leader is probably early fifties, but very trim, and the only real distinguishing feature between him and the rest of the team is his slightly greying hair. Until he holds out his hand to Sam Walsh.
‘Mark Hood. Senior partner, Lawless, Hood.’
Walsh goes pale and swallows hard. These guys are the legal equivalent of the Meat Factory. They sit down, open their briefcases, fire up their laptops, and start work. Their operating style is legendary. They go all the way through to the end of the assignment, all night long if necessary, without removing their jackets or loosening their ties, without stopping for coffee or sending out for sandwiches, without even a comfort break. The pace is relentless, and unforgiving. They’re like Olympic athletes, only fitter and stronger. Or maybe giant squid, with their tentacles around you. Either way, when you’re in their grip, you might as well give up.
Faced with my legal storm troopers, and knowing that resistance is futile, Walsh gives up, the same as all the rest.
* * *
PRESIDENT MBONGWE is about to give his speech. We’ve booked the whole of Chez Albert, a Michelin three-star restaurant close to the Casino. Our guests seem more subdued than usual, but I suppose that’s understandable under the circumstances. Unusually for a private banking event, we’ve allowed a very select group of journalists into the back of the restaurant to hear the speech. Before he goes up to the podium, Mbongwe and Walsh corner me and Ralph Jones. Walsh looks exhausted, half the man he was when he arrived. The team from Lawless, Hood have worked him over thoroughly, the agreements are watertight, and he has no place to hide. The President on the other hand is looking anxious, and when he’s scared he gets mean.
‘Mister Hart, I want you to know, I have a long memory and I bear grudges.’
I believe him. Apparently he keeps the heads of people he has grudges against in the freezer in his palace in Alambo. Investment bankers can be a pretty mean lot, but we don’t go that far.
‘I understand, Mister President, but you have to see this from my perspective. I would never really have taken all that money from your account.’
‘You wouldn’t?’ He looks surprised.
‘Well, maybe… Let’s just say I needed to get your attention, to persuade you to share in the vision that Ralph and the team laid out.’ I turn to Ralph Jones. ‘Did you go through the details of the royalty schemes with Mister Walsh?’ They both nod and I turn back to Mbongwe. ‘Your royalties will make you feel like royalty, Mister President. In a few years you’ll be able to retire richer than you ever imagined.’
‘I could imagine a lot, Mister Hart.’
‘Me too.’
‘So how much will I have? Billions?’
‘Billions. More than you could ever spend.’
He looks to Walsh for confirmation. Walsh ha
s been going through Ralph’s folders of projects that will transform the country, jet propelling its economic development, all financed by guess who, and carried out by guess whose corporate clients. ‘But I could spend a lot.’
‘Me too. I can relate to that.’ He smiles, I smile and we shake hands. We’re going to get along fine, though when the money does come through, I think he might spread it around a few other banks…
When Mbongwe steps up to the podium, a curious hush descends around the room. This man is known as a serious bad guy. What on earth can he ever say about the future economic development of Africa, given what he’s done to his own country?
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a pleasure and a privilege to be here tonight, amongst such distinguished company.’ They shift uncomfortably. They know, and he knows, and they know that he knows, that a more insalubrious gathering of villains, thugs and gangsters would be hard to find anywhere on the planet, even in Monaco.
‘Tonight, I want to draw a line under the past. Under all of our pasts. I want to join with Dave Hart, our host, and the team from Grossbank, in launching their New Start for Africa Campaign.’ New Start was the Silver Fox’s idea. I thought of BankAid, but that was dismissed as too derivative – it’s been done before. Neumann wanted Projekt Afrika – Unterstützung und Wiederaufbau – which is apparently quite snappy if you’re German.
The President continues. ‘I come from a troubled land. A land that has struggled with poverty in the harshest of climates. And if I look inside my own heart, I cannot say that I have always done all that was best for my country.’ There’s a stirring of surprise among the journos at the back of the restaurant. ‘I could have done – should have done – much more. And so tonight I want to be the first African leader to support Grossbank’s new initiative, its New Start for Africa campaign. Many western banks and financial institutions shy away from Africa. They fear the Dark Continent. But this man – ’ Mbongwe turns and points at me, sitting at the nearest table in front of the podium. ‘This man knows no fear, except perhaps the fear of failure to do what is right.’ When I first heard it, I loved this last bit: the Silver Fox at his eloquent best. ‘In a moment, Dave Hart will be announcing the details of the fifty billion euro commitment that Grossbank will be making to Africa, starting with its investment programme in my own country. Ladies and gentlemen, let us toast a new age.’
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