Arbitrage

by Colette Kebell

  He didn’t lack determination.

  CHAPTER 3

  1989

  ‘Good morning, slaves,’ said Logan on entering the office.

  The young associates, working heads down for who knows how long, despite it being early in the morning, replied as a chorus, ‘Good morning, Mr Logan.’

  It was an open office, no cubicles, but only desks placed in different rows; the only separation was a blue panel in the middle with a glass window. Sitting at one of those desks reminded Logan of the visiting room of a prison. Since those promising young rarely had a right to privacy, the comparison suited them perfectly. The buzz was constant, people talking on the phone, employees discussing cases not yet resolved among themselves. The second image that occurred to Logan was that of a farming factory, chickens in a battery would lay their daily egg and, if successful, would survive another day.

  ‘Slaves! You have received the documentation, today we are working on the Mortcombe Bank, it is a priority. If you find something wrong, anything at all, do not wait to do your usual end-of-day report! You come to me directly, and you tell me what you have found, are we clear?’

  A chorus of, ‘Yes, Mr Logan,’ followed.

  ‘Tim, Albert, for the two of you I have a special assignment; come to my office. No need to thank me for the honour.’

  Tim Whitley and Albert Romanov turned toward each other with a puzzled look on their faces but stood up from their desks and followed their leader. The secretary was already rushing to prepare fresh coffee.

  Logan settled himself on the leather chair behind his desk and turned on the computer, more out of habit than real need, and then rotated towards the two. ‘Come on, sit down, you don’t have to stand to attention.’

  The two appeared fearful.

  ‘This afternoon you shall go searching through all the cases handled by Saunders in the last ten years and find a link with Bruno Mortcombe. If he defended him because he got a parking ticket, I want to know. If he defended a cousin of his for cattle rustling, I want to know. And not a word to your colleagues or others in this company, are we clear?’

  ‘We were finishing the tax avoidance job for Mrs Johnston, the actress. We already have the properties owned by a shell company in Jersey, then we need to divert the compensation and review the contracts with the Studio,’ said Romanov. That was one of the main activities done by the working group led by Ryan Logan, it didn’t matter if they were a corporation or wealthy individuals, he would do what was necessary to hide the funds from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs’ sight, in a legal way, of course. Not that the HRMC’s employees were particularly thorough. They were known to settle incredibly low fines for those who had committed fraud. In fact, they put more effort into making sure that everybody paid rather than check corporates disbursed the fair amount. They were great paper pushers and often accepted gifts in return for favourable treatment. But Logan had never had to resort to this expedient. Why use corruption when a fair amount of grey matter juice would have had the same effect, with the advantage of not seeing their clients exposed on the front page of the British newspapers? That was the real benefit of its working group: elude taxes, not evade it, and get away with it. His group was what brought money into the company, other departments, compared to them, generated handouts.

  ‘Well, my dear little slaves, are you familiar with the Feynman path integral, Nobel Prize in Physics in 1965, also known as the multiple histories?’

  The two young lawyers looked at each other, perplexed, and then shook their heads.

  ‘Ah, today’s slaves are no longer what they used to,’ said Logan with evident disappointment, ‘the ancient Romans used Greek slaves to educate their children, and now the situation is completely reversed, but let’s not digress. Feynman’s theory, to make a long story short, indicates that at each moment the world separates into two parallel universes and, an instant later, each of the two universes parts also, creating four, then sixteen universes, and so on. In fact, there are infinite parallel universes. In another universe there might be Martha and James in this office, in your place; or perhaps in another parallel universe it could be you, Tim, sitting behind this desk barking orders, although this would be a highly unlikely universe. Here, ask for help from your duplicates in some parallel universe and finish the fucking job tonight. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Absolutely yes, Mr Logan,’ replied the two in unison. The secretary entered the office at that moment, and the two young lawyers stood up, knowing that their time was running out.

  CHAPTER 4

  1989

  ‘What have you got for me? Come on slaves, give me good news.’

  Tim Whitley and Albert Romanov, standing in front of Logan’s desk, hesitated for a second. Bringing bad news to the boss wasn’t always a pleasant task. Not that they knew if what they had discovered was of no use. Logan was inscrutable. Sometimes colleagues who thought they had done an excellent job were rebuked with bad words from his office. Other times, their irascible boss lauded jobs that Whitley or Romanov considered mediocre. But one thing they had learned from their dealings with him: the art of listening. Even during the most furious scold by Logan, he spent time explaining the details of how they could have done better. He cited articles and subparagraphs by memory, sentences unknown to most, cases that were long forgotten by everybody, but they were part of the jurisprudence. Many hung on just waiting for the storm to pass, but not Whitley and Romanov. They knew they could learn more in that half hour of abuse than during a whole working week.

  Whitley spoke first.

  ‘We searched in every kind of document, and although there is nothing blatantly illegal in Mortcombe’s operations, some things don’t add up. For example, Mortcombe is from a wealthy family, but not enough to justify his current good fortune.’

  Logan beckoned to continue. Whitley cleared his voice. ‘He comes from a noble family but certainly not rich. Mortcombe had studied in Stamford, most likely because they couldn’t afford Eton and then went to the Britannia Royal Naval College at Dartmouth. A short career in the Navy and then suddenly he has a brilliant start in the construction sector. He established Jenkins Ltd. which has built a housing estate on the outskirts of Sutton.’

  ‘That eyesore is his?’ asked Logan. ‘I drive past it every day to come to the office, and I always wondered who had the unfortunate idea to build it. Hundreds of homes around a hillock at stratospheric prices. It seems made with Lego bricks, all the same, and rose like mushrooms after a rainy night. I thought it was an arable area.’

  ‘The fact is that he wasn’t rich enough to afford the land purchase in the first place. Although he could have partially funded the construction by selling the houses before they were built, that area is just not economical. Other constructors buy a plot, build, sell, and then buy another plot, simply put they are self-financing themselves. Mortcombe has made a leap that others in the same line of business couldn’t afford.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Logan. ‘Any idea how the funds miraculously appeared?’

  ‘Total darkness. But since Mortcombe did not inherit a fortune from his parents, old aunties, or forgotten American uncles, we checked, we hypothesise that the funds came from someone else.’

  Logan lit a cigarette and exhaled the breath away from two; they were doing a good job. ‘We know how these things happen. You find a figurehead with a shred of aristocracy, and nobody asks questions. No evidence?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Romanov, ‘only suspects. I called a friend of a friend who works as an internal lawyer for Jenkins, but they all have their lips sewn tightly shut.’

  ‘OK, then what?’ asked Logan.

  ‘From there onwards, he forged a phenomenal career. He moved into the financial sector working for Troy Global Securities and then became CEO of a Swiss Bank, Ranfald & Co, which he led to bankruptcy a few years later.’

  ‘I remember it. It was during the financial crisis. That Swiss bank lost panties and shirt by lending
to a bank in Ohio, which failed too.’

  ‘Exactly. Mortcombe packed up, and a few months later, he founded the Mortcombe Bank. With whose money remains a mystery, because there is no record in the documents they provided. They are doing a lot of business with the Russians in New Odessa, disreputable types.’

  ‘We are in the wrong profession,’ said Logan. ‘All right. Is that everything?’

  Whitley looked sideways at Romanov, doubting whether to speak up further or not. Which did not go unnoticed under the watchful eyes of Logan. ‘Come on, spit it out.’

  ‘We found no traces of any trial run by Saunders that can bring us back to Mortcombe or its affiliates.’

  ‘But that’s not all …’ Logan completed the sentence.

  ‘Last week instead of coming to the office I went to the archives. Don’t worry, I worked on my case overnight. There was one detail that haunted me from Mortcombe’s CV, and I wanted to check it out.’

  Logan beckoned to continue.

  ‘When he was in the Navy, he served on a ship in Malta, and the Captain was Saunders. I mean the old boy, Saunders’ father.’

  ‘The Commodore?’

  ‘The one and the same, although at that time he was still a Captain. See, according to my reconstruction, the two served on the same ship for a couple of years. I don’t know if it’s important.’

  Logan thought it over for a moment and then dismissed them. ‘Great job, guys, you deserve an award. Take your girlfriends to dinner in a good restaurant and put everything on expenses. The firm will foot the bill.’

  The two thanked him and departed in a hurry.

  Saunders’ father thought Logan. The old boy sometimes showed up in the office and often used to show up during the Christmas party. He was an affable fellow although he often dwelled a little too often on telling stories about his past in the Navy, especially after a few glasses of wine. Probably because he didn’t have much else to discuss. Logan made a mental note to have a chat with him at the first opportunity.

  CHAPTER 5

  1989

  The firm had arranged a gala to celebrate the merger between the two companies. They aren’t losing any time, thought Logan. The event had been at Brentwood Park in Horsham, a XIX century manor recently converted into a hotel. Horsham was supposed to represent a middle ground between London and Brighton, in the minds of the organisers. Logan had no trouble whatsoever finding the hotel. He was a native of Sussex and had driven those streets for centuries, unlike some of his fellow Londoners who screwed up their noses about whatever was outside of the M25. For some, breaching the motorway surrounding London was almost a sacrilege, equivalent to entering a jungle populated by barbarians.

  Dinner was a mortal bore, after each course, someone climbed on stage and bored the audience with a slide show. There was the moment of Passmore, one of the senior partners. Phrases like ‘cultivate partnerships without friction’ followed the ‘competitive advantage’ and ‘re-energise hybrid cultures.’ Most of the attendants were busy guzzling champagne by the bottle as if there were no tomorrow, except to rest their glass when it was time for the ritual applause at the end of the presentation. Saunders gambolled around from his table to the stage encouraging those present to ask questions. No one thought for a second about volunteering, so a frustrated Saunders changed his strategy, by interrogating the audience on random topics discussed in the presentation. Most had studied the lesson and were not taken by surprise.

  Logan fought to sit near Commodore Saunders. The old man had an age beyond description. He could’ve been seventy years old as well as eighty. Or maybe less. Snow-white hair and a weather-beaten face chiselled by a lifetime at sea made him look like a piece of old parchment. Saunders Junior was forty-eight. Assuming thirty years before he had a baby, the former Commodore would be almost eighty. Maybe he had been busy as a youngster and had just passed seventy. Difficult to judge. He wore his uniform despite being released from service decades earlier. The medals on display. At that age, there were not many opportunities to show them, and maybe only a few would be able to recognise them.

  ‘You should be proud of your son,’ said Logan.

  ‘Ah, yes, yes. If my son had chosen a military career, who knows where he would be by now,’ said a tipsy Commodore Saunders. Logan filled the old man’s glass for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Charisma and leadership skills can be applied everywhere, even to the legal sector, don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course. My son broke a tradition that had lasted for generations, and God knows how much we need good officers, but now they are cutting military budgets everywhere. It is no longer the great Navy we once we were proud of.’

  ‘With the Falklands, we did a good job, I suppose,’ said Logan to keep the conversation going. The Commodore was groggy, and between one sentence and the next, he bent his head, like those plastic dogs that sometimes could be seen on the rear of some cars.

  ‘I tell you, those were different times, albeit just a few years have passed, but I agree with you. Times are changing fast. Do you know that that Mortcombe who was on stage a few minutes ago served on one of my ships? A cowardly, gutless twat.’

  ‘That same Mortcombe? Are you sure of that? It’s not a common surname, but he didn’t give me the impression of being material for the Royal Navy,’ Logan pressed him.

  ‘And he was not! An embarrassment to Her Majesty’s military forces, but don’t get me started.’

  ‘Of course, would you like some more wine?’

  ‘Why not? Is it French? The French are only good at two things: making wines and losing a war. Do you know the story of that Frenchman who placed a rifle for sale? Never used, dropped only once.’

  ‘I imagine during a retreat,’ laughed Logan.

  ‘Certainly, certainly.’

  ‘Do you mind if I come to visit you one of the coming weeks? With these corporate mergers, sometimes we have to put into practice some strategies, and there is nothing better than to consult with someone who knows about these things.’

  ‘Of course, come and see me in my home whenever you want.’

  ‘It is very nice of you, as always, Commodore.’

  Mortcombe went up on stage and announced the attraction for the evening. They had invited the Bill Conti Orchestra directly from the United States to entertain the guests. The band played the first few notes of the Rocky soundtrack, and everyone cheered warmly. Why they were clapping was a mystery that Logan had not yet solved. After all, it was a movie about a boxer who doesn’t win and two semi-morons who get together. Parallels on that merger were ironically apparent only to him.

  Logan suppressed the urge to shout ‘Adrian’ out loud, and instead, he concentrated on the dessert they had just served.

  It was when he entered the bar, after dinner and the endless presentations, when he saw her for the first time. The woman was wearing an elegant black dress and a necklace of black pearls. Her thick red hair fell over her shoulders. She was alone, sitting on a stool at the bar while sipping what appeared to be a vodka Martini. It was not known if shaken or just stirred. Logan had never seen her before, most certainly she was part of Mortcombe’s team. In the two months that followed the merger, he had understood that the only criterion used to hire female staff in that place was beauty. But this woman was different from the other female employees in the Mortcombe Bank. The woman had class, evident from her poise. Perhaps he had been a bit too hasty in judging the merge.

  ‘Which kind of bourbon do you have?’ asked Logan to the bartender.

  The young man pointed listlessly toward the shelf behind him and kept drying glasses with a cloth. Then, reading the dissatisfaction in Logan’s face, he said, ‘And we have a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, but we keep that in the cellar.’

  ‘Can I order one?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, go get it. I’ll pay for it.’ Not that there would have been a problem to put it on expenses, that evening people were drinking rivers
of champagne, and the final bill would be massive. He just didn’t feel in the mood to share.

  ‘Something to forget?’ asked the woman at his side. Not only did she have fabulous red hair reflecting the surrounding light, but she also two amazing green eyes. Hard not to be hypnotised by that look.

  ‘Yes, this merger. I have never liked banks in general, but this one, in particular, smells fishy. And it’s managed by an asshole.’ Most people know what his position in regard to the merger was. ‘They could have at least set up all this circus in London, I could sneak away.’

  The woman laughed showing perfect white teeth, and the bartender returned with a dusty bottle; he uncorked it and poured a glass. Then he placed the bottle on the counter next to Logan.

  ‘Would you like a sip of nectar from Kentucky?’

  ‘Willingly. The hotel has a spa, and the garden is not bad at all at this property. Are you staying for the night?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Of course. I plan on taking a colossal piss. Why don’t you show me these fabulous gardens? There is always the hope they will forget about us and continue with their speeches unaware of our absence.’

  ‘It seems an excellent idea to me. I’m Pamela Mortcombe, by the way, the asshole’s wife.’

  Logan didn’t blink. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Ryan Logan.’

  The woman took the glass of bourbon and, rising, said, ‘Right this way.’

  CHAPTER 6

  1990

  It was a spring Saturday morning in Warlingham, and the dark clouds on the horizon promised rain soon. Logan got out of bed, placed a gentle kiss on the cheek of Pamela Mortcombe, still dormant, and descended the stairs to the kitchen.

  He loved the peacefulness of the place, just outside the village and surrounded by trees and the countryside. The only sound he could hear was the wind moving in the trees and the chirping of birds. He prepared a strong coffee for himself and a light tea for Pamela and began to tinker with the bacon and eggs. He had never been a great cook, but he knew the basics; he would not make any mistakes. That rarely happened to him. It had been six months since that first meeting at Brentwood Park Hotel, and since then they had not lost any opportunity to meet. At first furtively, but then, seeing the complete disinterest of Bruno Mortcombe for his wife, more and more frequently. The merger of the two companies had completed months before, and it was actually a real unification. Saunders, Whitehall & Passmore disappeared in the meanders of the Mortcombe Bank. Whitehall had retired from business, Passmore received a golden handshake and moved to Devon. Others, including Logan, had continued working from their offices in London. His department had been halved. Those who remained continued to do the same job, others, including Tim Whitley and Albert Romanov, were routed among the various ranks of the bank.