The Greater Fool

by Joseph Hannay

  Neither reply, just look straight at me, so I repeat, louder this time: “Got it?”

  Eventually, Roger says, “Reynard, we secured the future of the fund thanks to the steps we took. If we hadn't done that, there'd be no fund left. Simple as that. I'm not going to apologise for what we did. It saved us all. Look at the numbers, it's there in black and white.” He points at the abstruse printout in front of him, then spreads his arms, palms up. “We did the best we could. If that's not good enough, then I'm afraid I'm out.”

  I say, “What do you mean 'I'm out'?”

  Roger says, “I mean that I resign. You don't seem to appreciate just what I, we, have done here. We've saved your business, and we get no thanks at all.”

  I say, “Don't be so hasty, okay?” I sit back at the table. “Look, I'm sorry if you think I've done you an injustice. I want to meet the Chinese, understand this deal properly, and we'll take it from there.”

  “You're due to meet them tomorrow morning, Reynard,” interjects Lucija. “I thought you'd want to meet ASAP.”

  “Good girl. Here?”

  “No, at their place. It's only ten minutes away.”

  “Okay, great. Listen, both of you. Of course I'm grateful, I've just been through a lot recently. Understand?”

  They both nod. I stand, pat Roger hard on the back, and return to my desk.

  Lucky Li’s office is not as I expected. Rather than a shiny steel-and-glass monolith, it's a townhouse within a grand Georgian square in Belgravia; in some respects it’s the long-lost cousin of Gyges' office. A receptionist in dizzying heels towers above Roger, Lucija, and Julian. She initially appears stern, like an alabaster relief of some historical beauty – Helen of Troy, perhaps – but when she greets me her face is transformed by a broad smile. I can't help but smile widely back. If there is such a thing as instantaneous love for a stranger, this is it. She leads me to the lift, waves a plastic fob in the vicinity of the lift buttons, presses number three, and states in a curious mix of Eastern European aristocracy and English finishing school that someone will meet us upstairs.

  As the doors slide open on the third floor, we are indeed met by someone, an even more beautiful someone, unlikely as it sounds. An alien, no less. Anatomically improbable: a giddy conflation of glossy ebony hair, an oriental mannequin's features, eyelashes like hummingbirds’ wings, pointed breasts, and limbs like a surgeon’s instruments. I'm transfixed and briefly struck dumb. With effortless professionalism she guides us into a large wood-panelled boardroom, the walls adorned with monochrome etchings.

  Three middle-aged Chinese men walk in, each of them bespectacled, short, and chubby. They nod appreciably at Lucija, dressed to kill in black miniskirt and white blouse, and shake mine, Roger's, and Julian's hands, then sit opposite the four of us. The boss is clearly the unconvincingly mustachioed gentleman called Mr Li; he makes declarative statements while the other two take notes or confirm details.

  After tedious circular discussions, primarily between Julian and the Chinese underlings, Mr Li says, “As we keep on saying, the contract is all signed, and therefore it must proceed. There is no way out.”

  I say, “I don't care what the contract says, I don't want to go ahead.”

  Julian says, “Unfortunately, Reynard, it's binding.”

  I say, “I'm not accepting it.”

  Mr Li says, “I think what your lawyer friend says is true. The contract is signed. It is what you call a done deal.” He smiles then to reveal surprisingly irregular teeth. You can tell a lot about a man by the state of his teeth.

  “Please excuse us for a moment, Mr Li,” I say, and for the sake of discretion, I move away from the table with Julian and Roger.

  I say to Julian, “What if I dissolve Gyges?”

  He frowns, glancing across at Roger. “You can't just dissolve it like flicking a switch. For a start you have, what, four and a half billion in assets under management?”

  “Yes, exactly, it’s a great business, bringing in management fees of almost a hundred million quid a year. Not bad, eh?”

  Julian says condescendingly, “Indeed, although you’ve seen a drawdown of 20% in the last six weeks. That’s not ideal, is it? Remember why we’re here?”

  “Don’t fucking patronise me. My point is that the price at which you’ve spunked away a quarter of my equity is ridiculous. The valuation implies a multiple of what, five or six? Crazy.”

  Roger interjects, “Reynard, the valuation reflects the composition of the portfolio, market conditions and Gyges’ current reputation. Unfortunately, the last few months have been hard to Gyges. The brand is pretty heavily tarnished, not helped by the negative publicity. You know, even ignoring the bank withdrawing its support, the way property prices are going, we could be looking at a valuation of less than half that in a few months’ time. So actually we struck you a good deal.”

  “Oh, fuck off Roger,” I say, and he colours.

  I turn to the Chinese and smile winningly. “Gentlemen, this is my position. I don't want to relinquish any equity in the business. It’s my baby, and my legacy. I’ll get some more legal advice…” I glare at Julian, “…but I’ll need compelling reasons to go along with this.”

  “What sort of compelling reasons?” says Mr Li.

  “That's for you to work out. I suggest we end the meeting now and reconvene on Monday morning. I stand, shake the Chinese hands, then leave the room, closely followed by Julian, then Lucija, then Roger.

  Roger and I are alone, back in my office.

  “Reynard, this is madness, quite frankly.”

  “You're a psychiatrist now, are you?”

  “Look, even if there is a legal loophole to back out of this, we're back exactly where we started, id est on the verge of going under.”

  “I know what I'm doing.”

  “Please remember that you have to act in the best interests of Gyges. You mustn't do anything else.”

  “Says he! I'm not the one who threatened to resign yesterday. It's negotiation tactics, got it? The onus is now on the Chinese to come up with a better deal, otherwise they think I'm going to pull out.”

  “What if they call your bluff?”

  “They won't.”

  “How can you be sure?” says Roger, his voice wavering. Looking more closely at him, I see he's trembling and sweating.

  “Trust me. And Rog, are you okay? You're looking pretty ropey.”

  He looks away and quietly says, “Not really, no. A change in medication, you know, for the epilepsy. It doesn’t seem to be doing me much good.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Rog. Let me know if there's anything I can do.”

  “Thanks, Reynard. Once this issue with the Chinese is sorted out, I wonder if we could discuss the future. I'm not getting any younger; I need to think about my longer-term health for, well, the sake of me and my family.”

  “You want out?”

  “I'm not saying that, necessarily. Just that my body is unlikely to be able to tolerate much more stress like the past few months.”

  “So you do want out. That's alright. Let's sort the Chinese out, and then we can sort you out, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Another weak man falls by the wayside. But fate will take care of things, I've no doubt. Let justice roll on like a river.

  In my desk I find a half-full bottle of Grey Goose and pour myself a measure. My first drink for weeks is surprisingly astringent, but the warmth and well-being quickly spreads, and I chase it down with another, more generous measure. It feels like coming home.

  Back in the flat, a message arrives from the Chinese, requesting I attend an informal meeting with Mr Li without the lawyers. That's how you get business done. I suggest we meet at the Bacchus Club but he prefers a neutral venue so we settle on the New Habsburg Hotel in Park Lane, 10.00 a.m. tomorrow.

  46

  I'm wearing an impeccable grey herringbone jacket (75% lambswool, 25% angora) by Henry Poole, Gucci jeans, and Givenchy Suede Chelsea boots. In the
lobby of the Habsburg a little old lady asks me if I'm okay. I smile and thank her; she scuttles away. The extraterrestrial receptionist from the Chinese office slinks over to greet me and asks me to follow her to meet Mr Li; I couldn't be more amenable. Like a siren beckoning me onto the rocks, the sway of her hips leads me into a private conference room. Mr Li stands as I arrive, takes my offered hand between both of his, and shakes it warmly. I ask the alien for a quadruple espresso, and she smiles, then bows demurely as she retreats from the room.

  Mr Li and I settle down immediately to business, unencumbered by overly cautious underlings. Straight to the point, no dicking around. A man I can work with.

  “Mr Xavier, do you know why we want to get involved in your business?”

  “Because it’s a magnificent cash cow. It’s stuffed full of superb assets. Who wouldn’t want to stick their fingers in there?”

  “On the contrary. Look at Gyges’ drawdown in the past few months, look where real estate prices are going. Your investors all want to jump ship. It’s a doomed business.”

  “So why are you anywhere near it?”

  “Because, actually, I think we can make your assets work far better than you can. There are some real jewels in there, Reynard, you just don’t know it.”

  “Oh, I know it. It’s just the market that’s confused.”

  “But the market is king, as you know. We’re your only hope of salvation. Without it, you go down in history as the man who managed to lose the UK taxpayer hundreds of millions of pounds. Think about it…”

  I sit there quietly. Then I say, “I’m not letting go of any equity. I just won’t allow it.”

  “I am not so sure. I am a man of honour, Reynard, and I like to play by the rules. But most of all I love to win, and if that means changing the rules, then I will.”

  “I approve. I too am a man of honour, as I'm sure you understand.” Mr Li's alien assistant places the espresso on the table to my right. I smile winningly, she smiles back while admiring my broad chest, and I watch her sublime peaches as they leave the room, the door closing behind them.

  Mr Li says, “We shall see. You are a man of the world, Mr Xavier, I can see that you have appetites, as we all do. But the problem with appetites is that they can get you into trouble sometimes.”

  “Not me,” I say.

  “Ha! If you say so…” He takes a black A4 folder from his lap, opens it, and places it in front of me. “Appetites, Reynard. Take a look through these photos — you might find them interesting.”

  I take the folder and flick through its contents. It contains maybe a hundred photos, every single one featuring me. Some are grainy, slightly out of focus, or discoloured by the glare of a flash, or taken through windows, but all star me in various stages of undress. It's possible that some are Photoshopped, and I've no recollection of some of the episodes, but I remember enough to be convinced of their overall veracity.

  Mr Li says, “An interesting set of photos, don't you think? You are quite photogenic, Reynard.”

  “Thanks.” I stand, walk to the door, and take a quick look through the spy-hole. Walking back to my seat I say, “I'd hardly call this honourable, Mr Li. I'd call it blackmail, in fact.”

  “Well, as you might say, business is business. You have my word that if you accept the deal goes ahead, the photos will not be made public.”

  “And if I don't?”

  “How would you like to be in the papers for all the wrong reasons? And hard copies of all the photos mailed to all your investors.”

  “Why should I care?”

  “You're a proud man. You need external validation. You care most about your reputation, which will go to shit if this gets out. Permanently tainted — that’ll be your legacy. Reynard the pervert, who lost taxpayers hundreds of millions.” He takes the folder back from me, riffles through the photos, and holds one up for me to see. He says, “This is my favourite – what a picture! Look, Reynard, it has everything! Look at your funny eyes, look at the white powder around your nose, your hand round the throat of that poor transexual, your soft little penis.” He giggles.

  “It was consensual,” I insist.

  “That does not matter, does it? See sense, Reynard.”

  “I'm a changed man. I'm clean. I'm back to who I really am. Have you seen this?” I take a printout of the Know Yourself blog post from my jacket pocket and hand it to him.

  Mr Li hands it back dismissively. “Yes, I have seen it. And I know it did really happen – we had someone watching you at the time, we even have a video of it – but when it comes to it, what are people going to believe: lots of photos of you doing depraved and illegal things, or a silly blog that could have been written by anyone?”

  “Mr Li, everyone has secrets. There are lots of skeletons in your closet too.” I smile broadly.

  “Do you have proof? Photos, videos and the like?”

  “Take your assistant, the girl who brought me this frankly excellent coffee. You're sleeping with her, no? Don't tell me you recruited her for anything other than her looks.”

  “What? I find that offensive, Reynard.”

  “Man of honour, eh? So you're telling me that you've never fucked her, despite how she looks?”

  “Yes. I suggest you change the subject.”

  I down my espresso. “Mr Li, look at her! She's irresistible. I know she must have pleasured you many times.”

  “Reynard, be quiet! Quiet!” he roars as he stands. “Just be quiet and listen! That young lady's name is Jun, which means 'truth.' Jun is my daughter. I suggest you apologise.”

  I've made a mistake, a basic error that's put me on the back foot. “I am genuinely sorry, Mr Li. Please accept my genuine apologies.”

  “You have offended me, Mr Xavier. But business is business, and there's no time for sentiment, as you proved in your dealings with the vicar Thwaites.” He sits once more, leans back in his chair, and smiles broadly, showing those misaligned, discoloured teeth.

  “Thwaites?”

  “Yes, Reynard. Another huge skeleton in your closet, no?”

  “I'm sorry, Mr Li, but you've got the wrong end of the stick there. Tony was a friend who died too young.”

  “Hmm, at least part of that was true; he did die too young. But we both know that you wiped him out.”

  “You know nothing of the sort. It was suicide. He lost his faith, he couldn’t carry on. He even left a note, didn’t he?”

  Li smiles again then shakes his head. “Look, we're both men of the world. We know how things work. We wouldn't have got where we are today without knowing how to play the game. But I do wonder what would happen if someone tipped off the authorities about your involvement in the death of Thwaites? What do you think, Mr Xavier? Would you like your name to be dragged into that also?”

  A sharp pain returns to my right side, but I smile through it. “What do I think? I think you're bluffing and that you should be careful about poking your nose where it's not wanted.”

  “You have your opinion, of course, even if it is shit. More coffee?”

  I nod. He opens the door, mutters, then returns to his seat. “You know, Mr Xavier, we know an awful lot about you, probably more than you can remember yourself, given your taste for, um, the finer things. I would imagine that you are concerned about Mr Cryx, are you not?”

  “Cryx? Edward Cryx? What do you know about him?”

  “He reported you to the police, yes? What a mistake that was, trying to bribe someone like Cryx.”

  “It was a misunderstanding.”

  Mr Li smiles, even more broadly this time. “You know, I do wonder if you believe what you are saying even when you lie. Anyway, it was no misunderstanding. We have the recording of your meeting. Would you like to see the transcript?”

  Another stabbing pain to my right side. “No thanks, there’s no need.”

  “Yes, I thought you might say that. Cryx has been very helpful to us. He has done his job even better than we hoped.”

  “He was
working for you?”

  “But of course. We’ve paid him a retainer for years. Very well paid, very surprised you fell for the sad story about his divorce.”

  “Fuck.”

  There’s a soft knock on the door, and Li opens it to let Jun through with my espresso. I thank her and try not to stare as she slinks away.

  Li closes the door behind her then says, “So, Reynard, I take it that you will not be difficult over the debt for equity swap?” He sits in his chair and leans forward.

  “Okay. I don’t see what other choice I have. Look, Mr Li, I have spent my life building up Gyges. It has a great track record. I’m fêted around the world. I can’t bear for that to be sullied.”

  “Then you need to think big.” He shuffles his papers, finds the one he’s looking for.

  “In what way?” I say.

  “You can be a hero. You can be the man who saved Gyges, who saved taxpayers’ money.”

  “What? How?”

  “You sell out of Gyges. You sell your remaining 75% to us. We know far better than you how to milk your assets. Your portfolio is, let us say, a mess. But not beyond help. You step aside, your investors get the returns they deserve, you get hailed as the saviour because you found help when it was needed, when you realised you could not go any further. What was the word that blog post used? Selfless? You can be selfless. A good man. Everyone will say so.”

  Li slides the piece of paper across the table to me. “Look, Reynard, it is a more than generous offer. You walk away with your head held high, and your reputation will be intact.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You will be ruined. Your reputation will be trashed so much that you can never recover. And you know that either you will get forced out of Gyges, or the FCA will catch up with you, or both, so you really have no choice.”