The Predator

by Michael Ridpath

  Ollie seemed to pull himself together as the day wore on. Chris had him talking to the market to find out if there was any risk of the latest Russian crisis spreading in a serious way to the Central European countries in which Carpathian invested. This was the kind of thing that was usually left to Lenka and Chris, but Ollie didn't do a bad job. Chris left the office at eight that evening feeling that perhaps they could keep Carpathian going after all.

  By the time Chris arrived at Williams, Duncan had already sunk a pint or two. Williams was a dark pub in a small lane off Bishopsgate. They had first drunk there ten years before. It was close enough to Bloomfield Weiss to be convenient, but far enough away to avoid colleagues or bosses. So far, it had managed to escape the frantic redevelopment that had overtaken the area, and it had become the natural place for them to meet over the years.

  Chris bought himself a pint and Duncan a refill and joined him at a small table in a corner. The pub was full of sleek men in their twenties unwinding. The pissed, overweight old farts in their baggy double-breasted suits who had inhabited the place ten years before had moved on. Chris sometimes wondered what they were doing now they had been elbowed out by his generation. Perhaps he'd find out himself in ten years' time.

  'Thanks,' said Duncan, draining his previous pint and pushing it to one side to make room for the new one. 'Cheers,' he said without much conviction.

  'Cheers.'

  'I can't believe it,' said Duncan. 'I just can't believe it. What happened?'

  'Someone came up behind her and slit her throat,' Chris said, as matter-of-factly as he could. He didn't like going into the details of that evening.

  'And you were there?'

  Chris nodded.

  'Who was it?'

  'I have no idea. I couldn't see much of him – he was wearing a dark jacket and a hat.'

  What about the Czech police? What do they think?'

  'Well, their first guess was a mugger, a drug-addict desperate for cash. That's an increasing problem in Prague, apparently. But by the way it was done, they think the killer was a professional. He knew how to use a knife.'

  'But who the hell would want to kill Lenka?'

  Chris sighed. 'I have no idea.'

  'I suppose it must have been some kind of mafia hit,' said Duncan. 'There's all kinds of organized crime in Eastern Europe, isn't there? Didn't I read about some American banker being shot in Russia last week?'

  'I don't think the Czech Republic is quite as dangerous as Russia. Although the police say there is a Ukrainian-run mafia. That's their best guess at the moment. But I can't see how the kind of companies we invest in would be involved in that sort of stuff.'

  'You never know,' said Duncan. 'I mean, it's all junk over there, isn't it?'

  'It's technically junk, yes, but that just means that the bond issuers are rated below investment grade. It doesn't mean they're crooks.'

  'Yeah, but you can't always be sure who's behind them, can you?'

  Chris drank his beer thoughtfully. 'No, you can't,' he admitted. It was true that by the time Carpathian invested in a company it had been sanitized for Western consumption. In the anarchy that had marked the transition from communism to capitalism in all of these countries, there had been greed, corruption and violence. Even Lenka couldn't always get to the bottom of it. That was one of the reasons why she had been so keen to open offices in places like Prague. 'Maybe it was something to do with one of our investments.'

  'It doesn't much matter, anyway,' said Duncan.

  They sat in silence, thinking of Lenka.

  'You know she was the only woman I really loved,' said Duncan.

  'What about Pippa?' asked Chris. Pippa was Duncan's wife. They had been married three years and separated for six months.

  Duncan shook his head. 'I liked Pippa. I was attracted to her. But I never loved her. That was the trouble.' He drank his beer. 'I've been thinking about Lenka a lot recently, ever since things went wrong with Pippa. Although I've never really been able to get Lenka out of my mind. I know we were only together for a few months, but those are the only months when I felt truly alive.'

  Chris thought Duncan was exaggerating, but he didn't want to argue with him. 'She was a special person,' he said.

  'She was, wasn't she?' said Duncan, smiling for the first time. 'She was so warm, so generous, so full of life. And she was the sexiest woman I've ever met. What she saw in me, I don't know. I'm not surprised she got rid of me.'

  'It was a long time ago,' said Chris.

  'But it seems like yesterday to me,' said Duncan. 'I can remember her touch, her smell, her laugh so clearly. You know that perfume she wears? What is it, Annick Goutal? There's a French woman in the office who wears it. Whenever I smell it, I think of her. It brings her back.' His eyes misted over, and he looked down. 'We had something back then. I'm sure she felt it as well as me. If we'd stayed together after the programme, my life would have been very different now.'

  Once again, Chris wanted to argue, to point out Duncan's inconsistency. But he didn't. No doubt Duncan's life would have been different if he and Lenka had stayed together. And Duncan had not had a good last ten years.

  Alex's death had nearly destroyed him. Duncan had been so filled with guilt that it seemed to ooze out of every pore. It ruined what little self-confidence he had, it made him bitter, angry, full of self-pity. The naïve puppy-like innocence had disappeared. His fresh face became lined, jowls appeared under his chin and a small paunch emerged above his trousers. The winning smile disappeared completely. He lost most of the friends he had, driving them away with complaints and bitterness. Chris had stuck by him. It wasn't just that he felt loyalty to a friend. The cover-up of Alex's death made Chris feel not exactly guilt, but complicity. He couldn't abandon Duncan. Ian could, though, and had.

  As expected after his performance on the programme, Duncan had been fired from Bloomfield Weiss on his return to London. Over the next few years, he limped from job to job as a Eurobond salesman at minor foreign banks in the city. The big bonuses of the boom years passed him by; he was one of the foot soldiers in the struggle to spread bonds to the four corners of the globe, a cheap body for a new boss of a revamped sales desk to call upon in his efforts to meet a headcount target. Duncan wasn't necessarily bad at his job. He was honest, he could be reasonably personable when he tried, and some customers bought bonds from him. But he had about him an air of defeat, so that when the reorganizations came, as they did on an almost annual basis at every bank in the City, his was always the first head to roll.

  After several years of this, things started to look up. He met Pippa, a straightforward trading assistant a couple of years younger than him. They married. He held down the same job at an Arab bank for nearly four years. They bought a house in Wandsworth. He became good company over a pint again.

  Then it all went wrong. Pippa threw him out, Chris was never clear exactly why. The Arab bank fired him, and it took him four months to find another job. And now Lenka.

  Duncan was down and out again. This time, Chris wasn't sure he could face picking him up.

  'How's the new job?' Chris asked, in an effort to change the subject.

  'It's a job. They've given me a list of accounts to contact who never return my calls. Same old story. We've got no product to sell, and no customers to sell it to.'

  'What's your boss like?'

  'He's a decent enough bloke. Ex-Harrison Brothers originally, although he's been around since then. I'm not complaining. They pay me.'

  'That's good,' said Chris lamely.

  Duncan's eyes flicked up to him. 'There's something I wanted to ask your opinion on.'

  'Oh, yes?'

  'One of my Arab clients wants to invest in some European high yield. He doesn't know anything about it, and all the big investment banks assure him that their deals are the best and the competition's are all crap. We haven't got anything we could give him, but I'd like to help him out. You couldn't give me some ideas could you?'


  'Lenka was the expert on high yield, but I've picked up a little bit,' said Chris. 'I can try. It'll all be Eastern European stuff, though.'

  'Go on then,' said Duncan.

  Although he was slightly irritated to have his brains picked for free, it was a relief for Chris to talk about something other than Duncan's misery. He listed four issues that he and Lenka liked. Duncan dutifully jotted them down on the back of one of his business cards.

  'What about Eureka Telecom?' he asked, when Chris had finished. 'My client said that was strongly recommended. Very cheap, he was told.'

  Chris grimaced. 'I'm not at all sure about that one. We own some, but I fear it might be a Bloomfield Weiss special. I'd say it's better to start off with the expensive stuff the brokers want to buy. Avoid the cheap stuff they're desperate to sell.'

  Duncan smiled. 'Sounds good advice. So Eureka Telecom is one of Ian's, then?'

  Chris nodded. 'Yes. I'm going to talk to him about it tomorrow.'

  'Jerk,' muttered Duncan.

  Chris shrugged and looked around the gloomy pub. The three of them had had many a long evening in there, many years before. 'It's a pity,' he said.

  'You're getting sentimental,' said Duncan. 'Ian Darwent has always looked after himself. He could be perfectly charming when he thought we might be useful, but as soon as he decided we were no good to him any more, he couldn't be bothered to give us the time of day.'

  Chris sighed. 'Perhaps you're right.'

  It was sad. Ten years ago the six of them had seemed to have such a bright future. They were going to be the humane investment bankers of the twenty-first century. But it hadn't quite worked like that. Duncan was a wash-out. Chris had lasted longer, but he had been fired from Bloomfield Weiss as well, and more spectacularly. Ian hadn't really fulfilled his potential, and, as Duncan said, he was a jerk. Alex, and now Lenka, were dead. Only Eric was doing well, in some high-powered corporate finance job at Bloomfield Weiss in New York.

  Chris shook his head and glanced at his empty glass. 'Your round.'

  2

  Chris could tell it was bad news just by looking at Tina's face, and the slight tremble with which she held the fax. His heart sank. He had had enough bad news, surely.

  She passed it to him wordlessly, and he laid it on the desk in front of him.

  To: Chris Szczypiorski, Carpathian Fund Managers

  From: Rudy Moss, Vice President, Amalgamated Veterans Life

  Subject: Investment in The Carpathian Fund

  I am writing to inform you that Amalgamated Veterans Life hereby gives 30 days' notice of its intention to redeem its €10 million investment in The Carpathian Fund.

  With best wishes

  Rudy Moss, Vice President

  Chris exploded. 'With best wishes! Jesus Christ! No mention of Lenka. Nothing about how sorry he is to hear of her death, about how he wants to support us in this difficult time.'

  Tina shook her head. 'Wanker, innee?'

  'Yes, Tina, he is.' Chris grabbed at the phone, ready to scream at Rudy.

  'Tell you what, Chris,' said Tina as Chris jabbed out his number.

  'Yes?' said Chris, putting the receiver to his ear.

  'Why don't you ring him in five minutes, eh?'

  Chris heard Rudy's voice at the other end of the line. He glanced at Tina. She was right. Yelling at Rudy was not the best way to get him to keep his money in the fund. He replaced the receiver, and gave her a quick smile. 'Thank you.'

  Tina left him alone. Chris stood up and looked out of the window at the neat square below. Despite the cold, there were several well-wrapped office workers finishing late lunches on the benches, watched by clusters of rat-grey pigeons.

  This was serious. Ten million euros was almost twenty per cent of the fund. What was worse was the signal that Rudy's move would give to the other investors. The rest had held steady, waiting to see how Chris coped. To some extent, all investors, even the biggest, are like sheep. The easiest decision, the lowest risk, is always to do what everyone else is doing. Yesterday, everyone was sticking with Carpathian. Tomorrow?

  Why had Rudy decided to redeem? He knew Chris. They had been on the programme together, where Chris had performed reasonably well. Chris remembered disliking Rudy, but he couldn't remember falling out with him. He took some deep breaths, counted to ten, and dialled Rudy's number again.

  'Rudy Moss.'

  'Rudy, it's Chris from Carpathian.' Chris used his surname as little as possible. It just caused confusion.

  'Oh, hi, Chris,' said Rudy neutrally.

  'I received your fax.'

  'Uh-huh.'

  'And, frankly, I was a little surprised. All our other investors have decided to stick with us, and I had expected Amalgamated Veterans to do the same.'

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. 'Well, Chris, I'd like to stay with you, but you must understand this is quite a material change in the management of the fund we're talking about here. Depth of management is always important to us. We thought just the two of you was a little thin, but now it's only you . . . I'm afraid we just can't live with that.'

  Be reasonable, Chris told himself. Be calm. Find out what's really bugging him.

  'I can understand your concerns, and I respect them. In fact, I'm planning to find another experienced investment partner as soon as I can.' He hadn't been, but he was now. Anything to keep Amalgamated Veterans in the fund. 'But I can assure you the fund will be perfectly safe in my hands. We're fully invested. The market looks a little weak in the short term, but we're confident it will recover. We'll make you good money, Rudy, I can assure you of that.'

  'We?' There was the slightest of sneers in Rudy's voice that raised Chris's hackles immediately.

  'Yes, myself and my colleagues.'

  'Who are?'

  'I have two assistants here with me.'

  'But it's basically just you running things?'

  'Yes, it is,' admitted Chris. 'But I'll find someone to join me shortly.'

  'I know your record,' said Rudy, an unpleasant tinge creeping into his voice.

  'What do you mean?' Chris snapped.

  'I mean, I know your history.'

  'Are you talking about when I left Bloomfield Weiss?'

  'Yes, I am.'

  Chris was silent.

  'I figure it's best to be straight with you,' said Rudy. 'That way we know where we stand.'

  'You know it wasn't me who was responsible for that loss.'

  'If you say so. I wasn't there.'

  'Damn right you weren't there!' Chris snapped, and then instantly regretted it. He had to keep his cool. 'Lenka knew I wasn't responsible. She trusted me.'

  'Lenka was a smart woman. I don't mind telling you it was she I was backing when we put money in Carpathian. Now she's gone . . .'

  Chris took a deep breath. 'Is there any way I can persuade you to change your mind?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'What if I came to see you in Hartford?'

  'That won't be necessary.'

  Chris came to a decision. 'I'm coming to Hartford. We can discuss this further then.'

  'I said, I don't think that will be necessary,' said Rudy with impatience.

  'Look, Rudy. You taking your money out of the fund is what you would call a "material change" for me, and it's a material change I can do without. You owe me an hour so we can discuss it.'

  Rudy paused. 'All right. If you insist.'

  'I do insist. I'll see you next Thursday. Shall we say two o'clock?'

  'I'm busy all next week.'

  'What about Friday?'

  'I said I'm busy all week. I'm in California Wednesday through Friday.'

  'OK, what about the following Monday? I'll be there at nine o'clock.'

  'I can't make nine o'clock. We have a morning meeting.'

  'Ten? Come on Rudy, I'm going to your offices and there's nothing you can do to stop me.'

  Rudy sighed. 'OK, ten thirty.'

  'See you then,' said Chris and r
ang off. 'Bastard,' he muttered.

  The worst thing was that not once in the whole conversation had Rudy shown the slightest regret that Lenka had been killed. Not once.

  He put on his jacket and grabbed his coat from the stand. 'I'm going for a walk,' he told Tina and left the building.

  He crossed Oxford Street, and soon found himself striding up the broad avenue of Portland Place. The wind cut damp and cold through his clothes. Although there was no snow on the London streets, it felt colder than Prague.

  He couldn't believe that the Bloomfield Weiss cock-up had come back to haunt him again. Why couldn't the world just forget it? He had tried to obliterate it from his mind, with limited success. Now he realized it would never go away. Someone somewhere would always remember what had happened and use it to undermine him.

  The injustice of the whole affair once again rose up inside him, warming his body with anger. He now realized the attraction of litigation. Despite its huge cost and unpredictability, it provided a judge for you to plea to, a chance that your version of events could be publicly upheld. He had considered suing, even spent a few hundred quid discussing it with a lawyer, but his chances of a clear victory were small, while his chances of running up large legal bills were almost a certainty. A bad trade. Now he wished he had done it.

  He had become a good trader at Bloomfield Weiss. Traders come in two sizes: the gamblers and the percentage players. The gamblers like to take big risks, with big payoffs. The best of them can make stunning profits, but all of them are capable of making big losses too. The percentage players like to take smaller risks, which they can understand and control. They tend to make small but frequent profits. Chris was one of the latter types. He made profits month in and month out, he rarely had a negative month. It did wonders for the desk's P&L and for the budget. Good old Chris could always be relied on to lob in a few hundred thou to the bottom-line.