'But this says the price is one hundred and fifteen euros. Wasn't it a hundred and twenty-nine last month? What happened?'
'It's the Eureka Telecom position we bought recently. It was a new issue, but we would only get a price of seventy if we were to sell it today.'
Rudy grimaced. 'Nightmare. So the fund's down, what, ten per cent in a month?' he said, with the hint of a mocking smile. 'That's not very good is it?'
'No. It's our worst month to date,' Chris admitted. 'But remember you invested at a hundred. You've still made good money.'
'We might have made it in the past, but we're losing it now, aren't we?'
'The Eureka Telecom was Lenka's position.' Chris hated to say it, but it was true.
Rudy raised his eyebrows. 'That's not very gentlemanly, is it? Blaming your partner when she's not here to defend herself.'
He was getting to Chris. Chris took a deep breath, counted to three, and replied. 'Lenka has made some very good investments. She's half the reason that the fund has performed so well overall. But her last one doesn't seem to be working out.'
'Do you know why she bought it?' Rudy asked.
It was a good question, testing the level of communication between them and, by implication, how much Chris knew about what Lenka did. A good question that Chris couldn't answer. 'She bought it while I was away on holiday.'
'So it's fair to say that you know nothing about the fund's biggest position. The position that's giving you most trouble?'
'I'm finding out,' said Chris.
Rudy shook his head. 'Finding out. I'm not sure Amalgamated Veterans should be financing your learning curve.'
'Trust me, Rudy. I will make you money,' Chris said.
Rudy chuckled. 'Like you made Bloomfield Weiss money?'
Suddenly it all became clear to Chris. He was here so Rudy could enjoy rubbing his nose in the fact that his future was in Rudy's hands. Rudy would toy with him, then go in for the kill. He could draw out the process for quite a while before he said no. Well, Chris had insisted on the meeting, so in a way it was his own fault. But his pride couldn't let Rudy get away with it.
He stood up and held out his hand. 'Thank you for investing with us, Rudy. But I think from now on the Carpathian Fund will get on better without you.'
Rudy, looking disappointed, shook the outstretched hand.
'I'll see myself out,' Chris said, leaving the office.
A waste of time.
Chris sat on the Amtrak from Hartford to New York, fuming. He had travelled thousands of miles to see Rudy, only to be abused and humiliated. He should have known. After all, Rudy had made clear his lack of enthusiasm to see him. But he had had to try. It was only by seeing Rudy face-to-face that he could be absolutely sure there was no hope of getting him to change his mind.
What now? Sell bonds at the bottom of the market? Give up? Close down Carpathian? Perhaps the market would bail him out this time. Perhaps, when he got back to London, there would be a rally in the junk market, a big buyer of Eureka Telecom bonds, or an announcement on the expansion of the European Union.
Once again, he was relying on the fickleness of the markets to survive: he hated that.
Once again, he felt helpless. But this time, his mind didn't go back to the disaster at Bloomfield Weiss, but to another time, twenty years before.
He was eleven. His father had been dead for nine months. The lives of his mother, his younger sister and himself had changed dramatically. They had moved house, from a semi-detached in a nice cul-de-sac, to a flat on the seventh floor of a tough tower block. His mother went out to work in the local VG Stores during the day and had taken on night-shift work at a warehouse three days a week. Although she was proud of him for getting into grammar school, even that would bring more expense. But despite the lack of sleep, the worry about money, the red-rimmed, fatigue-darkened eyes, he never saw her cry. She always had time for him and Anna, to listen to their fears, to comfort them. At eleven, Chris had found that he once again needed to feel the warmth of his mother's arms, and they were always there.
Until one evening, when he left school late, and met her outside the shop. Anna was playing at a friend's house. They walked home rapidly, chattering together, and took the stinking lift daubed with graffiti up to the seventh floor. Their flat was at the end of the walkway. As they approached, his mother suddenly quickened her pace and then broke into a run. Chris followed. The front door was swinging open. Inside, the flat was trashed. Chris's mother ran to the chest of drawers where he knew she kept a lot of his dad's stuff. The drawers were open. She stood silently staring at the mess inside. Tentatively, Chris joined her. His dad's watch was gone. So was his wedding ring. So were several chess medals, worth nothing to anyone but Chris's mum. Their wedding photograph lay on the floor, the glass broken, the print ripped.
Her shoulders heaved, and she let out a kind of animal howl. Then she began to sob. Scared, and unsure what to do, Chris grabbed hold of her and led her back to the bed. She began to bawl like a child, tears streaming down her face. Chris's eyes stung, but he was determined to hold back the tears, be the one to support her for once. He clung tightly to her shoulders, hoping she would quieten down. She pressed her face into his chest and wept.
Eventually, much later, she stopped. She lay still for several minutes, Chris unwilling to disturb her. Then she sat up on the bed and turned to him, her face puffy and damp with tears, her dark curly hair, usually so carefully tamed, a mess.
'You know what, Chris?' she said.
'Yes, Mum?'
'Things can't get any worse than they are right now, can they? It's just not possible.' She sniffed, and from somewhere she summoned a quivering smile. 'As long as you and me and Anna stick together and help each other, they can only get better. So come on. Let's get this mess tidied up.'
And she was right. Eventually things had got better. The flat was cleared up. The pain of the loss of his father became a persistent ache. She found a better-paying job in a travel agency, and was able eventually to afford a small house for them. Anna married and had two kids. Chris went to university. She'd done it. She'd pulled through.
So would he.
The train drew into Penn Station and Chris took a taxi downtown to Bloomfield Weiss. He remembered the thrill of anticipation he had felt that morning ten years before when he had first entered the building with Duncan and Ian. He took the lift up to the forty-fifth floor. And, just like that first day, Abby Hollis was waiting for him.
She had changed little. She was wearing a white blouse and her blonde hair was tied severely back. But she was chewing gum, and she smiled when she saw Chris.
'Well, how are you doing? Good to see you.' She held out her hand, and Chris shook it. 'Come through to the floor. It's quiet enough at the moment. We can talk there.'
She led Chris through the clutter of desks, chairs, bins, jackets, papers and people towards the far corner of the room.
Chris looked around him. 'This hasn't changed much,' he said.
'Management keep on talking about getting a new one, but there's not much point. This is still where it all happens on Wall Street.'
If that was true, then there was nothing happening on Wall Street at that particular moment, which wasn't too surprising for four o'clock on a Monday afternoon. The room was crowded, but those on the phone looked casual and unhurried, and most people were staring at their screens, the newspaper, or simply into space. There was the odd cluster of large men in white shirts goofing off. Somehow, it all seemed less intimidating than it had ten years before. Chris no longer expected someone to scream at him at any second to go and get a pizza. In fact, he saw a couple of frightened trainees squatting at the edge of a row of desks that he could scream at himself if he felt like it. He didn't.
Abby worked in Muni sales, not the most glamorous of departments at Bloomfield Weiss. As they reached her desk, Chris recognized Latasha James, wearing a smart black suit.
'Hello, Chris! It's been a long time
.' She gave him a hug. 'I'm so sorry to hear about Lenka.'
'Yes, it was terrible,' Chris said. 'I see they still haven't let you out of Municipal Finance.'
Latasha rolled her eyes. 'I guess not. I work upstairs in origination. But it's not so bad. Some of these cities need the cash we can get them, you know what I'm saying? I guess I'm doing more good here than I would in many places.'
'Doing good at Bloomfield Weiss. Now there's a thought!'
'Isn't it just? I've got to run,' Latasha said. 'See you around.'
'She's really good,' said Abby, sitting down at her desk. 'She wins us more deals than the rest of the guys upstairs put together. The public officials love her. And not just the black ones.'
'I'm very glad to hear it,' Chris said, pulling up a chair, and glancing at the familiar screens on Abby's desk. 'How long have you been doing this?'
'Nine years,' Abby said. 'I eventually escaped from George Calhoun's clutches. It's OK. I keep my head down, I'm nice to my customers, I put up with shit from my boss, they keep me around.'
'An achievement these days,' Chris said.
Abby smiled. 'I heard it was Herbie Exler who screwed you on the convergence trade. They should have gotten rid of him, not you.'
Chris raised his eyebrows. 'I didn't realize other people knew.'
'Oh, yeah. They all know,' Abby said. 'They're not about to mention it, though. Herbie is not someone you want as an enemy. Nor is Simon Bibby. He's head of Fixed Income in New York now.'
'Well, I'm glad I'm out of it.'
Abby chewed her gum contemplatively. 'I'm sorry I was such a bitch on the training programme.'
Chris was startled. 'You weren't a bitch.'
Abby smiled. 'Oh, yes I was. I wanted to be the meanest programme coordinator Calhoun had ever seen. I know that's what he wanted, and I thought that was the only way I was ever going to make it in an investment bank. I was so uptight about everything.'
'They get you like that, don't they?' Chris said.
'They sure do. I was just as bad here, at first. Then, it dawned on me that it was possible to have a quiet life and work at Bloomfield Weiss. You just have to know how. Excuse me.'
One of the lights on a panel flashed and Abby answered it. She chatted amiably with someone on the other line, and ended up selling him three million dollars of a New Jersey Turnpike bond.
She hung up. 'Where was I?'
'Reliving the good old days.'
'Oh yeah,' Abby laughed. 'Now, how can I help you?'
'I wanted to ask you something about the programme. I think it might be related to Lenka's death.'
'Go ahead.'
'It's about Alex Lubron.'
Abby raised her eyebrows. 'Alex Lubron? Now that's a subject that I thought you had all the answers to, not me.'
Chris ignored the dig. He knew he would have to be careful. 'Actually, I wanted to talk to you about what happened a little before he died.'
'I'll see if I can remember.'
'I understand he tested positive for drugs?'
Abby nodded. 'I do remember that. We were supposed to have a crackdown on drug abuse in the firm. You might recall that a couple of salesmen had been caught supplying clients. Well, the idea was to fire one or two employees quite publicly to show that the firm was coming down hard on the issue. But they didn't want to fire real employees that were making real money. So they had the idea that they would pick on a couple of trainees. No one would miss them, right?'
Chris smiled.
'As you can imagine, Calhoun loved this idea. So he set up a fake medical exam, which would be taken without warning right after the final examination. The Frankfurt and London offices objected that their trainees were going to be sacrificed as well, so Calhoun was forced to restrict things to the American hires.
'So, they took the samples, and much to their surprise only one trainee tested positive.'
'Alex?'
'That's right. Alex. And what's more, he had some kind of mentor in mortgage trading who raised hell. Calhoun spent a lot of time with Alex; I'm not sure what the deal was, exactly. Anyway, after Alex died it was all forgotten. Bloomfield Weiss wanted a quick and easy sacking of someone who'd never be heard of again. Once Alex had drowned, he became entirely the wrong person to be found with drugs.'
'Did the police know?' Chris asked.
'I'm not sure what the police knew,' Abby said. 'They seemed suspicious about Alex's death for a week or so, and then they dropped the whole thing. But I'm sure you remember that.'
'I do,' said Chris. 'I definitely do.'
'Now, whether Bloomfield Weiss put some kind of pressure on them, I don't know.'
'Can Bloomfield Weiss do that?'
Abby looked around her. 'What do you think we do here? We're one of the top three firms on the Street for raising municipal finance. We know a lot of public officials.'
'Hmm.'
Abby leaned forward. 'So tell me,' she said, a twinkle in her eye. 'What did happen on that boat?'
Chris sighed. 'Alex got drunk. The boat was going fast. The sea was choppy. He fell in. Ian, Eric and Duncan jumped in to try to find him. They couldn't. We were lucky to find them, quite honestly. Alex drowned.' Chris's voice was flat as he recited this. All of it was true, even if it wasn't the whole truth.
'I'm sorry,' said Abby, her curiosity punctured by Chris's tone. 'Sometimes you forget that disasters involve real people.'
'Yeah,' said Chris. 'You do.'
'There were rumours afterwards. That it hadn't been an accident.'
'I'm sure.'
'It was a big deal in HR. You see, they'd been trying a new approach to recruitment for a couple of years. Do you remember doing some psychometric tests when you joined?'
'Vaguely.'
'Well, one of the things they were looking for was extreme competitiveness, aggression, even ruthlessness. The theory was that investment bankers need to be predators, kings of the jungle, some crap like that.'
'Sounds just like George Calhoun,' Chris said.
'Exactly. In fact, I think the whole thing might have been his idea. Well, a lot of the people produced by this process were your average nasty red-blooded investment banker. But one or two of them were borderline psychotic'
'And Bloomfield Weiss recruited them anyway?'
'You got it. With open arms. One of the psychologists who did the tests kicked up a fuss about it. In the end we stopped them.'
'Do you know who these "borderline psychotics" were?'
'I found out who one of them was later. A guy called Steve Matzley was convicted for rape a few months after he left Bloomfield Weiss. I don't think he was on your programme. But he was recruited about that time. The rumour is that the psychologist's report flagged him as being a dangerous person.'
'And they took him anyway?'
'You got it. He was a great government bond trader. It was pure luck he wasn't working here when he committed the rape.'
'Jesus. So was the rumour that one of us on the boat had a similar profile?'
'That was the rumour. After Steve Matzley, it made some kind of sense. But it was pure speculation. The files were strictly locked up and confidential. Besides, you just told me it was an accident, didn't you?'
Chris didn't respond to her question. 'Did you know the name of the psychologist who complained about the tests?'
'No. Sorry. But you should ask George Calhoun about all this. He'd be able to tell you more.'
'Is he still in Human Resources?'
They fired him about a year ago.'
'Oh, what a shame. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.'
'Especially after all he did for us,' said Abby, grinning.
'Do you know how I can get hold of him?'
'I don't know if he got another job,' said Abby. 'And in case you're wondering, I don't have his home number.'
'Never mind. I'll track him down. Thanks for your help.'
'No problem,' said Abby, picking up her phone.
&nbs
p; 10
Chris took the elevator up a couple of floors. The doors opened on a large, hushed reception area, guarded by a beautifully groomed young woman, who asked Chris to take a seat, offered him a cup of tea, and promised that Mr Astle would be with him shortly.
Of course he wasn't, but Chris didn't mind waiting. He watched people come and go through a heavy smoked-glass door, waving their passes at a blinking green eye on a black panel each time. He thought about the police investigation into Alex's death.
It had been tense. The first set of questions was quick and easy. They had all agreed to describe what actually happened, including Duncan's argument with Alex, but to miss out the fight. Only Lenka and Duncan were to admit to actually seeing Alex go overboard, the rest of them were up on the bridge looking the other way. But a couple of days after the initial questioning, they were all interviewed again, by a pair of detectives who were much more probing. They seemed to think there was something wrong about the story, but they didn't know quite what. One of them had asked Chris if there had been a fight, and Chris had said that if there had been, he hadn't seen it. Afterwards, everyone's nerves were on edge, but they all felt they had succeeded in keeping to their stories. Duncan wobbled and said he was going to tell the truth, but Eric and Chris persuaded him that since they had lied this far, they may as well see it through. Eventually, Duncan had agreed.
Ian, Duncan and Chris had been asked to stay in New York for an extra week, so that they would be available for further questioning. It also gave them a chance to attend Alex's funeral. They spent a lot of time together, with Lenka and Eric. Both Lenka and Duncan were distraught, blaming themselves for what had happened. Ian was moody, talking little, and brooding often. Lenka got herself hopelessly drunk twice in that week. She and Duncan were careful not to talk to each other, and it was always awkward when they were in the same room.
Eric, and to a lesser extent Chris himself, had been a calming force on all of them, although Alex was a closer friend of Eric's than any of the others. Then, after a week, the police had closed the case, and with a great feeling of relief the three Brits flew home.
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