Dave Hart Omnibus
Page 41
‘Certainly. The London operations hub is the one we’ll be looking at most closely. It’s high overhead and low productivity. In fact that’s where I am today, because I want to see for myself how they cope with the present industrial action. We’ll be deciding early on whether to close British Atlantic’s facilities, lay off the staff and share with another airline.’ I glance across at the ogre. ‘We’ll do what we have to do, and I guess there will have to be some pain.’
‘Dave Hart, Chairman of Grossbank, thank you.’
The amazing thing is, about three minutes later they announce that the 13.15 to Madrid will be leaving on time.
It arrives, at the other end, ten minutes early.
* * *
I’M STAYING at the Hotel Molto Grande in Madrid. There’s a sign in my suite saying 24 horas al servicio de nuestros clientes. I don’t speak Spanish, but you don’t need to in order to understand what they’re saying. Twenty-four whores at the service of our clients. I call the concierge to book the lot for a private party in the hotel pool after our meeting, but for some reason I can’t get him to understand.
Then the buzzer goes and it’s Rory, carrying the presentations we’ll be making to the Ministry. The car is downstairs and it’s show time.
The Minister is called Emilio Ramos Ramirez, he’s short, energetic and enthusiastic. I like enthusiastic people. It’s amazing how far a little energy and enthusiasm can take you, especially if you have as big a smile as the Minister.
‘So, Mister Hart – you want to save Africa?’
‘No, Your Excellency, not at all.’
‘Really? I thought that was your plan.’
‘Your Excellency, I want to save Europe.’
‘Europe?’ He glances at the briefing papers on his desk, probably wondering if this is a different meeting.
‘Europe, Your Excellency. New Start for Africa is all about Europe.’
He looks relieved that he is after all in the right meeting, but confused at what I’m saying. ‘How will the New Start for Africa save Europe?’
‘Your Excellency, imagine the world in twenty years’ time. A little hotter, the weather patterns changing, traditional crops failing, and Africa still a basket case. Nothing’s changed, except to get a little worse. What happens?’
He shrugs. ‘We do what we can, within the constraints that are imposed upon us. Our aid budgets are not limitless.’
‘With respect, Your Excellency, you’re completely wrong. It doesn’t take much beyond what we regard as ‘normal’ disaster conditions to push much of Sub-Saharan Africa over the edge. A couple of degrees hotter, droughts that last a little longer, and countries which are dirt poor, and torn apart by internal conflict, fall completely apart. Forget sending in a few planeloads of grain. Think about half a billion people getting up and heading north, looking for food and shelter, because they’ve nowhere else to go. You think we have immigration pressure now – try finding space in Western Europe for a few hundred million new arrivals.’
He looks sceptical, but I press on.
‘You think they won’t get in? How would we stop them? Try building a wall high enough to keep them out. Even my country, which is an island, has lost control of its borders. If we keep Africa poor, they will come. Help them to prosper and they will have a chance to dig their way out. That’s why I say I’m not trying to save Africa, but Europe.’
He’s nodding now, rubbing his chin, thinking about what I’m saying. He seems a decent enough individual, which probably just means he has the politician’s knack of being plausible.
‘So what do you want?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No financial contributions, no soft loans, no government guarantees for dodgy African credits – nothing at all. All I ask is that if key individuals in some of the more difficult regimes agree to open up their countries to investment and development, you don’t condemn them, you don’t harass them if they want to come to Europe, you just leave them be – for as long as they are co-operating. Some of these guys are not exactly pleasant, and their records are not pretty, but we have to be prepared to draw a line, to allow people to change and progress to be made. So I ask you to do… nothing. On a very selective basis.’
He smiles. ‘It will be controversial in some quarters. There are people involved in politics who want to pursue certain individuals as soon as they leave the sanctuary of their own countries. But as a politician I believe that we can succeed in doing… nothing. At least for a time, until we see the results of the Grossbank initiative. Congratulations, Mister Hart – you have come with an achievable request, something that even Brussels might manage.’
The great thing about the Spanish is that they care. As foreigners go, they are definitely on the decent side of the equation. They have a natural human empathy. The proposal for certain blacklisted countries in Africa to be rehabilitated if they institute reform programmes is such an obvious no-brainer, especially when tied to fifty billion euros of Grossbank money, that he becomes so friendly I start to get nervous.
Luckily for me he doesn’t ask how much money Grossbank will make out of this whole deal.
* * *
RORY HAS decided to resign.
It’s not that he doesn’t like working for me, or find his role as Deputy Chairman of investment banking at Grossbank stimulating and rewarding. In fact he’s become much stronger and fitter and lost a lot of weight since he’s been rushing around after me carrying armloads of presentations, when he isn’t fetching coffee or running errands. It’s just that persecuting him has become a competitive sport between Paul Ryan, Two Livers and me. Normally I’m against bullying, except when I do it myself, but Rory is an exception. He has form. And what goes around, comes around, sometimes by the bucketload. Or, in his case, by the skipload.
Paul scored a great coup early on with Rory’s mobile phone. Rory made the mistake of leaving it on his desk and Paul spotted it. It’s an open secret that Rory has a mistress, a beautiful Mexican woman called Carla who lives in a house in Belgravia. Paul switched the pre-programmed numbers of Rory’s wife and mistress. How wicked is that? So when Rory texted his mistress, letting her know he’d be seeing her on the way home, and giving an idea of exactly what he was looking forward to, he got a surprise.
Two Livers was not to be beaten. She told Rory that I had all the senior executive offices and phones bugged. I’ve no idea what he might have been saying to people about what a great time he was having at Grossbank, or how rewarding it was to work for me, and I’m sure he wasn’t so stupid as to talk to headhunters from the office, but he went very pale and quiet.
The next time I saw him, he seemed to be looking at me particularly searchingly. I smiled knowingly and winked, and as she went past, Two Livers nudged him and whispered, ‘Don’t be lonely. You’re never alone with a microphone…’
I couldn’t be left out of the fun, so I decided to raise the stakes. We had an off-site to re-organise our Corporate Finance Division from sector teams specialising in particular industries into country teams focussing on businesses located in particular countries or regions. It was a couple of years since Grossbank had re-organised the country teams into sector teams, so it was time for a New Initiative.
We went to Whitely Manor in Sussex, a five-star country-house spa hotel with a Michelin three-star restaurant, and since this was a purely internal occasion with no clients present, we spared no expense. Members of the Management Committee flew in by helicopter. I wanted to arrive playing the Ride of the Valkyries out of loudspeakers on mine, but the Civil Aviation Authority wouldn’t allow it – as if they know jack shit about anything to do with flying.
We spent a couple of hours on the first day rerunning presentations and strategy papers from the last re-organisation, only in reverse, then the golfers went off to do their thing, I retired to a private section of the spa with Two Livers, and the rest of the Managing Directors and Senior Vice-Presidents started power drinking in the bar.
Afterwards we played games in the bar. Some of these were drinking games, which made everyone very drunk. Except for me and Two Livers. We’re immune, or at least she is. Naturally everyone wanted to be on our team. No one wanted to be on Rory’s team.
Around midnight, with everyone pretty much plastered, we moved on to bar diving. Bar diving involves two rows of people lined up at a right angle to the bar, facing each other and linking hands. One person climbs onto the bar and then dives out into their outstretched hands. They have to catch him.
I went first, knowing the bonus round was not far away, and they caught me. Two Livers had no problem, and neither did Paul Ryan. Then it was Rory’s turn. He climbed unsteadily onto the bar, looked out into the outstretched hands, and went for it – and damn, the two lines of people let go of each others’ hands, stepped aside, and Rory dived off the bar right onto the floor. Must have been a miscommunication. We all rushed forward to pick him up and dust him off, and I brought him another large Scotch. Luckily he wasn’t hurt, and he gulped down the whisky, but then he suddenly started slurring his words and passed out – just like that. Wow. Probably drank too much, although one of the MD’s who must have had a colourful past said it looked to him like the effects of Rohypnol or one of the other date rape drugs, though how he could know, and how Rory might have swallowed it, was beyond me.
Anyway, a few of us carried him up to his room, undressed him, and left him in bed to sleep it off. But then something very strange happened. Some rascal slipped back into his room, put a condom on the end of a pencil, parted his butt cheeks, slid the pencil inside, and pulled the pencil back out, leaving the condom half in and half out of Rory’s backside – and photographed it.
When he came down to breakfast the next day, looking nervous and distracted, he was strangely silent on the matter. Naturally, copies of the photographs were emailed round the office for weeks afterwards, and some went even further afield, ensuring his worldwide reputation in the industry was enhanced enormously.
And now he’s gone. No more Rory. By resigning he leaves millions of pounds of unvested shares behind, which I’ll have to re-allocate to some deserving cause. I’m feeling pretty deserving myself actually, after finally driving a stake through my old tormentor’s heart.
I’d like to say that I really bore Rory no ill will, that time is a great healer, and I don’t bear grudges.
But I’d be lying.
* * *
WE’RE IN Singapore for the IMF conference, a bi-annual jamboree to end all jamborees, when tens of thousands of bankers from all over the world gather together to talk, drink, get laid, talk some more, have another drink, get laid again, swap business cards, and if they’re up to it, start the same routine again the following day. Some of us, who have exceptional stamina, keep this up all week.
Although in my case it’s no different to the rest of my year.
I’m here to take New Start for Africa into its next phase, and I’m feeling quietly confident. I’m giving a speech at the Plenary session, where a couple of thousand senior bankers from all over the world will hear about the New Start and how we’re finally going to turn around what is very nearly the last basket case in our increasingly prosperous world.
I take my place with Two Livers amongst the panellists on the stage, waiting to go to the podium to talk. The Plenary is to be introduced by the Finance Minister of Thailand. There’s a stirring in the audience and a sense of anticipation as three stunning women in traditional Thai costume ascend to the stage.
I nudge Two Livers.
‘Wow – who brought the hookers?’
She looks horrified, and when I look up, everyone seems horrified. That’s when I see the little red light on the microphone in front of me. Out in the audience a couple of thousand faces are going ‘Oh…’ Two Livers reaches across and turns off my mike.
‘Dave, that’s June Patanan, the Thai Finance Minister, and her team.’
‘She’s the Finance Minister? Then I want to be Prime Minister. What a great country.’
Anyone else would have been embarrassed, but luckily I don’t give a shit.
The Minister doesn’t seem fazed. She acts as if she didn’t hear a word and even smiles sweetly at me as she takes her place by the podium. But maybe in Thailand this is the equivalent of laughing your head off at the barbarian tosser who can’t keep his mouth shut.
After her welcoming remarks, it’s my turn. The applause is a little muted.
‘Your Excellency, Ministers, ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who don’t know me, my name is Dave Hart and I’m Chairman of Grossbank.’ Staggering, isn’t it? Someone like me makes Chairman. But I guess someone has to, and mostly it doesn’t matter who gets the top job, because they are all the same. Except me. I’m different. ‘Most of you will have heard of the initiative we’ve launched for Africa. We call it the New Start, and we see it not as a charitable initiative, but as a business project. A soundly run, commercial project from which we hope and expect to profit significantly.’ Of course we do. We always do. ‘We’ve been working particularly closely with a selection of high profile figures from the worlds of politics and business in a number of African countries, with a view to opening up markets previously closed by political barriers and internal conflicts. We’ve earmarked fifty billion euros for investment in Africa, and I’m delighted to say we’ve been supported in our efforts by a number of governments and international organisations, and by the European Union.’ Yeah, yeah – I can see the thought bubbles over their heads. They’re bored. So am I. ‘But still we must do more. One way in which we’ve sought to put pressure on regimes in Africa to support change has been through our private banking network. Many controversial figures maintain large sums of money in the private banking system, sheltering it from the scrutiny of organisations such as the G8’s Financial Action Task Force. I’m pleased to say that the most respected institutions represented here tonight have no part in such business. Their firms are renowned for honesty, integrity and transparency. I’d particularly like to mention the following.’ I look around the audience. ‘Luc Sturm, of Banque Bruxelloise, are you here?’ A balding, portly Belgian sticks his hand up. The Silver Fox has organised the theatrical aspects of tonight’s performance, and a spotlight obligingly shines on Mister Sturm as he reluctantly gets to his feet. He wasn’t expecting this. ‘Let’s hear it for Luc and the team from Banque Bruxelloise.’ Muted applause. Then I do the same with Henri Guillaume, of Banque Privée de Gstaad, Damian Van Damme of Privatbank Schlossberg and eventually the heads of half a dozen others. They are standing awkwardly, thinking how cringe-making this all is, but it’s nothing compared to what happens next.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m delighted to say that all of these banks, the leading private banking institutions in the world, are joining with Grossbank to make a major push against those individuals who choose to use our legitimate banking services to hide dirty money. ‘Say No to Dirty Money’ will be a new campaign across the banking system, and those individuals who abuse the system will be subject to forfeiture of funds and closure of accounts.’
This stuns them. It’s one thing to make people fill out bullshit forms stating their date and place of birth and their inside leg measurement, getting them to provide a photocopy of their passport and birth certificate and other such nonsense, but quite another actually to do anything to stop dirty money coming into the banking system. Money’s money after all – for most of these guys there’s no such thing a
s dirty.
It particularly stuns the individuals standing under the spotlights. They had no idea. And worst of all, as the media carry reports of it around the world, it’s going to stun the clients whose dirty money they look after.
‘Only those individuals whose countries join in with the New Start programme will be able to apply to secure exemptions, under a financial peace and reconciliation programme to be launched under the auspices of the Spanish Presidency of the EU, on a confidential, government to government basis. I’m sure a lot of people will want to take advantage of that.’
I drone on for a few more minutes, and we have a final round of applause for the firms which have supported the initiative. Privately most of the people in the room are amazed that they would ever sign up to such a thing. So are they, because they didn’t.
When we file through for dinner, Damian Van Damme grabs my arm.
‘Hart – what did you think you were doing with that stunt? You think you can jump us? Force us to go along with your crackpot scheme?’
I keep a fixed smile on my face, because the press cameras are watching. ‘That’s up to you, Damian. If you want to disassociate your firm from the initiative, I’m sure you can issue the appropriate press release.’
‘Business is business, Hart, and money is money. Our doors are open to all comers.’
I don’t like Damian Van Damme. Even by the standards of the private banking world, this guy is the Prince of Darkness. He’s short, broad-shouldered and swarthy with bushy eyebrows and a thick moustache that reminds me of Borat or maybe one of the Village People.
‘Damian, do you really mean that? What about the really bad guys? Mass murderers? Dictators? Mercenaries and criminals masquerading as businessmen?’
He almost spits his reply. ‘Especially the really bad guys. You’re a fool, Hart. I’ve had you checked out. You’re just a low-flyer who got lucky.’
He’s undoubtedly right. But the same could be said of the heads of most major firms. Anyway, I’m not worried. Not because I’m thick-skinned, but because I have a terrible short-term memory. By tomorrow, what with the booze and all the drugs I’m taking, I’ll probably have forgotten what he said, and next time we meet I’ll greet him like a long-lost friend.