Dave Hart Omnibus

by David Charters

  But not tonight.

  We sit down to dinner. I’m at the top table and Van Damme is halfway down the hall. I catch his eye during the entrée, wink at him and raise my glass in an ironic toast.

  That does it. He throws his napkin down and gets up to walk out, leaving the people on either side of him wondering what happened.

  I get up too, and as he approaches the exit I intercept him to assure him there should be no hard feelings. He’s conscious that people are staring at us, and finally nods and grudgingly offers me his hand. But that isn’t enough for me. I really want the world to know there’s no bad blood between us. After pumping his hand enthusiastically I embrace him, hugging him tightly and slapping him on the back. In fact I’m so all over him that even the surrounding Euro-trash are embarrassed. Englishmen just don’t do this stuff. He eventually prises himself free and heads off to the airport to catch an early flight home, while I resume my seat to finish dinner.

  And do you know what? The strangest thing happens. Just as we’re getting up to leave at the end of dinner we get word from the airport that Damian Van Damme has been arrested. You won’t believe this, but it seems he had a monster-sized sachet of Columbian marching powder in his jacket pocket. Naturally he’s claiming it wasn’t his and that some bastard must have planted it on him, but then he would, wouldn’t he? It’s amazing who uses the stuff these days. And in Singapore drug smuggling carries the death penalty.

  Now there’s a thought.

  * * *

  WHEN SHE has a really massive orgasm, even Two Livers has to stop multi-tasking.

  Women are amazing. She came to my suite to go through the next day’s programme, found me about to get down to business with a couple of Chinese girls, showed them the door, got undressed and climbed into bed, all the while running through the meeting schedule and background notes on the chairmen and chief executives of the firms I’ll be meeting. It was only when I managed to score nine on the Richter scale that she briefly stopped talking.

  Our key task now is to get more governmental support. I’m due to attend a reception and dinner for Development ministers of the leading industrialised nations, and I need to roll the dice again. A lesser man would be nervous, but luckily I’m too shallow to be nervous.

  And in the meantime, I have the perfect distraction…

  * * *

  NEVER TRUST a banker.

  I told Ramos Ramirez that I didn’t want money out of any European governments. That was fair enough as banker-speak goes, but like so much of what investment bankers tell their clients, it probably shouldn’t be taken at face value.

  In reality I want lots of money from European governments, but just haven’t told them yet. I like to think of it as a subtle difference of interpretation that we’ll work around to in due course.

  Others might just say I was lying.

  The art of negotiating with clients or other providers of revenues, deal-flow and other key components of the bonus pool, is to let the other side have your own way. It’s often said that the best investment bankers don’t rape their clients, they seduce them – because that way they can keep on fucking them.

  Drinks are being served with the ministers and their senior civil servants along with various bankers, journalists, and assorted flunkies before a smaller group – just the thirty of us – sit down for an intimate dinner followed by speeches.

  The British Development minister is here, an early forties, up-and-coming hot shot called Benjamin Hillary. I spot him chatting to some kind of babe, presumably somebody’s wife or mistress, who’s dressed like a designer Christmas tree with labels in all the right places. I leave them to chat for a few minutes, observing and taking things in until I can see the Minister is bored, looking discreetly over her shoulder for someone to rescue him.

  I nearly dive straight in, but a really cute waitress is standing in front of me with a tray of spring rolls. She’s Chinese, very deferential, with long black hair, huge eyes and a very trim figure. Definitely a possibility. I glance at the spring rolls.

  ‘May I take one?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I have napkins here. You can use your fingers.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I hold her gaze. ‘I’m very good with my fingers…’

  She smiles and looks away, and I’m about to say something else when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Two Livers.

  ‘Dave, don’t go off-piste yet. The UK Minister needs rescuing. Grab him while you can.’

  Benjamin Hillary does look utterly bored. He’s actually backed slowly away from the designer Christmas tree, but she’s followed him, and they’ve gradually worked their way through the crowd until he now has his back literally to the wall. Time the cavalry arrived.

  I move through the crowd until I’m standing next to the Christmas tree. When I see her up close, she’s not such a babe. She’s probably mid-fifties, speaks with a central European accent and has the self-confidence of a Euro-trash aristo – probably an Austrian countess. She looks as if she’s had every age-defying form of surgery known to man, and I mentally dismiss her as Mrs Plastic Fantastic. Worse still, she’s loud, has too much make-up on and exudes the certainty that she’s not only the most attractive and amusing woman at the party, but that all of us want to seduce her. If she were British, a decade or so younger and male, she could be me.

  As I move in alongside her I step on her Demi-Monde shoe.

  ‘Ow!’ She looks at me accusingly.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I do apologise.’

  She’s staring at the pointy toe of her five-thousand-pound shoe.

  ‘Are those shoes by Demi-Monde?’

  ‘Yes.’ She’s not sure whether to be flattered that I noticed, or angry that I may have spoilt one of them.

  ‘Disgraceful.’

  ‘Disgraceful? What do you mean?’ She’s getting ready for a fight.

  I look at Benjamin Hillary. ‘Disgraceful that someone should come to an event like this wearing a five thousand pound pair of shoes. No one needs five- thousand-pound shoes. Wear a five-hundred-pound pair and give the rest to charity.’

  She looks at me dismissively. ‘I do give to charity. Lots in fact, every year.’

  ‘Then give more.’

  She looks to the Minister for support, but he’s staring into his glass, and she turns on her heel and disappears without saying another word. Finally he looks up from his glass and speaks.

  ‘Mister Hart, that was very rude, but I agree with you.’

  How about that? He knows me already. I like this guy.

  ‘Minister, I’m sorry if I pissed you off. But I speak my mind. I don’t know any other way.’

  He looks at me a little sceptically. He knows I’m a banker. It goes without saying that I know all kinds of ways, and that generally the last thing I do is speak my mind. I speak whatever the client wants to hear.

  I start to talk about the New Start programme, but he’s there ahead of me.

  ‘Mister Hart, cut the crap. How much will Grossbank make out of New Start?’

  ‘Billions.’ I say it with confidence, and strictly speaking it’s true. In fact I’m hoping that by getting in early and cherry-picking our investment projects, we’ll more than double our money over the next five years. But fifty billion times two, is quite a large number, and I don’t want to trouble him with detail. I can see he’s a big picture man.

  ‘I assumed so.’ He sips his drink slowly, scrutinising me over the rim of his glass.

  I feel strangely naked. Normally I like being naked, but this is different. I shrug half-apologetically. ‘I’m a banker. Even my dark side has a darker side.’

  He nods. ‘I know.’ More scrutiny. What does he know? What can he know? Maybe some special government department has a file on me and he read it on the plane out. Or maybe I have a pimple on the end of my nose, but just haven’t realised it yet. He rubs his chin reflectively. ‘But I’m still going to support you.’

  Phew. ‘Why is that?’

 
‘Because what you’re doing is what should be done, only most people aren’t prepared to contemplate… what shall we say…? The unusual methodology you sometimes employ.’

  Unusual methodology? This is scary. I tend to freak out when people know things about me that I don’t know that they know.

  ‘Mister Hart, do you really think everything can be financed by the private sector?’

  Time to level with him. He probably knows the answer anyway. ‘Not everything, no. Not everything that needs to happen is commercially viable. Some things will always require government money, aid money, contributions from supra-national organisations.’

  ‘So why aren’t you asking us?’

  ‘So far no one has a problem with what I’m doing, even if the methods are… unconventional… because I don’t have my hand out.’

  A dork has appeared beside us and wants to meet the Minister. His badge identifies him as a journalist. He hovers within earshot, waiting to be acknowledged. Where are the Meat Factory when you need them? If only they were here they could throw him out the window. Well, dangle him upside down anyway.

  The Minister turns to the journalist and shakes hands, but just before he starts talking to him, he turns back to me briefly. ‘Be bold, Mister Hart. You might get a surprise.’

  He wanders off with the journo. I like the guy. He strikes me as really smart. As a politician he actually chooses to do long hours of tedious work, mixing with second-rate people, for piss poor money, just so he can make a difference.

  Maybe he’s not so smart after all.

  * * *

  ‘FAILURE ISN’T falling down. Failure is not getting up again.’

  Dinner is over and I’m addressing the ministers and senior officials in a large private dining room.

  ‘In Africa people are used to falling down. They fall down every time there’s a drought, or disease makes their crops fail, or warlords or bandits come and steal their food and burn their homes. But they keep on getting up. They keep on getting up, even when we don’t lend a hand. Well, Grossbank is lending more than a hand. We’re putting our money where our mouth is, and have committed fifty billion euros.’

  I glance across at Benjamin Hillary, who is sitting at the end of the table next to Ramos Ramirez. Fuck it, time to sound the bugles and charge. I put down my notes, and across the table from me Two Livers does one of her ‘Oh Christ, he’s going off message’ looks.

  ‘Fifty billion doesn’t sound much if you say it quickly. But it’s more than I could spend in a weekend.’ This gets a few polite smiles. Even I couldn’t get through that much, though it would be fun trying. ‘But it will achieve a huge amount. So far seven countries have started working with Grossbank on New Start investment projects. All of these countries have had, let’s just say, a controversial past. But we’ve approached them at the highest level…’ Which is to say at the level of their leaders’ wallets. ‘…And have been able to open doors and markets. But private money can’t do everything. We’re accountable to shareholders, we might take risks, but we have to show a return. Some projects simply can’t show the returns we need, like basic infrastructure in rural areas without natural resource potential. But these projects matter too, and taken together alongside the New Start projects the cumulative impact can be huge.’ Which is to say that Grossbank needs these countries to be stable, but won’t pick up the tab itself. ‘We can get whole regions out of the mire and permanently standing on their own feet. All we need is to decide to do it. Because real people’s real lives are at stake. Millions of them. I believe it would be a crime not to do something when we can. If we simply turn aside, then it should be on all of our consciences. Thank you.’

  When I sit down, my eyes are shining as if I’m fighting back the tears and I have a lump in my throat. They can feel the emotion. At times like this I feel like a method actor, and sincerity is one of my specialities. Christ, I’m good.

  Ben Hillary’s been waiting for this. He turns to Ramos Ramirez, who is technically our host tonight.

  ‘With your permission, Emilio, I’d like to pick up on Mister Hart’s last comments.’ Ramos Ramirez nods his consent, and Hillary looks around the table at his counterparts from other nations.

  ‘We’re often criticised for saying a lot but doing little.’ Lots of wise nodding round the table. It’s true. The wealthy nations don’t get a great press, mostly because they don’t deserve one. ‘The developed world makes pledges, grabs a few headlines, then quietly walks away without delivering.’ More wise nodding. A lot of these guys like it that way. ‘New Start gives us a real opportunity to break the mould. Once and for all.’ Now they’re looking alarmed. This wasn’t covered in the pre-IMF talks where their officials agreed in advance what the Ministers would agree. ‘As a group, we should commit here and now, this evening, to match Grossbank’s contribution, euro for euro, as the funds are committed, and over whatever time period is involved. Fifty billion euros. With effect from today.’ Ah, they can see his game now. The devil, as they say, is in the detail. The funds will only go in as Grossbank puts the money in. That could take years, and might never happen. It’s another pledge, another vague agreement to agree, or in political speak a decisive, strategic determination to talk about talks. Smiles all round and heads nod. This really will be a surprise. People will see that the developed world doesn’t just spend its time talking about itself at these great gatherings. We find time for headline grabbing gimmicks as well.

  Ramos Ramirez is delighted. This will be an initiative of the Spanish Presidency. It’s so vague and non-binding that none of them needs to clear it with their own capitals. One after another they fall into line, pledging their support. In under fifteen minutes it’s a done deal. Even the French are happy to agree.

  Ramos Ramirez calls the press in and they hold an impromptu briefing. The hacks scribble away, cynically dismissing it all as another PR stunt, until I clear my throat and turn to Ramos Ramirez.

  ‘Your Excellency, with your permission, may I?’

  He’s all smiles and bonhomie. ‘Of course, Mister Hart.’

  He really ought to know better. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, there is one further detail that His Excellency omitted to mention.’ He suddenly looks nervous. Too late, pal. ‘The funds pledged tonight will be taken in by Grossbank and held in a special high interest account, at no charge to the nations involved, until they are drawn down. Within ninety days. This is a real commitment.’

  The hacks are amazed. The Ministers even more so. Real? No one talked about real. And where did ninety days come from? Even as I say the words, you can see a few political careers going into a nose dive when they get home and have to account for making commitments without authorisation or consultation, especially ones where real money gets spent.

  Benjamin Hillary looks across at me. I guessed he’d do this, taking a leaf out of my book to jump his oppos’. What he didn’t know is that I’d jump the jumper. I smile at him. Never trust a banker, pal.

  But then he smiles back and he really looks delighted. Shit. Who’s the cat and who’s the mouse here? They say he’s a conviction politician, and very bright, and then it dawns on me. He wanted this to happen, and he knew I’d jump him. He jumped the jumper who was jumping him. Christ, he’s good. If he ever wants a job at Grossbank, he can have any role he wants.

  Except mine.

  * * *

  SUCCESS IS relative. Mobilising a hundred billion for the worst basket cases in Africa, getting their leaders to agree to phased, peaceful regime change, helping tens of millions of people to achieve a better life – well, at least a more material one – and all the while earning monster bonuses, having sex with some of the most beautiful women in the world, getting pissed and doing drugs night after night probably sounds pretty good to most people.

  But as it works, so the emptiness sets in again.

  I hate those ‘What’s it all for?’ moments that creep up on you in the early hours of the morning, when the girls are asleep and you’r
e lying awake, staring at the ceiling. I don’t really think it’s for anything at all. It just is. Which leaves a gaping hole inside me that I fill with drugs and booze and momentary pleasures.

  Except maybe Two Livers. Maybe she’s different. Maybe she’s the one. She’s brighter, harder working, far more talented than I could ever be.

  We’re going on a tour of African capitals together. Just the two of us in a smoker for a week, visiting some of the places that she thinks might change the way I view the world.

  This afternoon I was so bored I agreed to chair the Management Committee – third time this year – and she sent me a text message: ‘OUCH!’

  We were just talking about rationalising the branch network in Germany, imposing compulsory redundancies on one in ten of the workforce, and I creased up, which left everyone rather puzzled. ‘OUCH!’ is code for ‘I’m at the beauticians having a waxing, and I’ve just had a Brazilian’. Now that’s commitment.

  While the Management Committee drone on about job cuts, all the while casting nervous glances towards the madman at the head of the table, I sit there grinning, trying to work out what turns me on more – the thought of Two Livers’ almost hairless pussy, or the idea of watching some eastern European beautician – Voluptuous Vesi from Bucharest – carrying out the waxing.

  I wonder if I could pay to watch.

  * * *

  THE REAL reason I went to the Management Committee was an item that came up under the HR report. Apparently we have a sexual harassment problem with a female employee. No, it isn’t what you’re thinking. Caroline Connor has changed. The six-foot-one-inch librarian that I wanted to connect with all the tall guys in the firm has become a man-eater. It worked. She’s changed her hairstyle, swapped the glasses for contacts, wears miniskirts up to her armpits and is working her way steadily through all the tall, single, good-looking men in the firm. They tell me she rides to work on a Harley Davidson and even has a tattoo.