“So, he has lied to us again. How did we find out about the meeting between these two?” he said.
“Liam is not involved these days, apparently, in anything too dodgy but since the IRA decommissioning some of the old members have remained active,” Nurani replied.
“Liam? Now a faction IRA member?” said Pole dubious.
“Well, I’m not sure, but Bobby may be one of them, the Counterterrorist Squad was a bit vague. They keep an eye on Liam as he could be a go-between.”
“So, they were following Liam?”
“Yep, although again they were a bit circumspect about this but I gather they have continued tailing Liam ever since the IRA gave up on their terrorist activities.”
Pole stood up abruptly.
“Time to reconvene with Mr Crowne. Want to join the fun?”
Henry had been sitting by himself. He knew that behind the tinted glass someone was observing him. He was still relaxed. Waiting games were common in the banking world, in particular around the negotiation table when final terms were being discussed during closing sessions. He had been taken aback by the delivery of the so-called tickets. Then again, the replacement janitor was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Something he thought would need to be discussed at the next landlord’s meeting. If he can’t do the job well, plenty of competent people can. Just give the moron the sack.
Henry decided to control his anger by reflecting upon his successful career. He did not want to allow his mind to wander, to feel the pressure of the moment. He chose to go back to the closing of one of his most impressive deals. People have a vague idea of what goes on in the City, he thought. Large bonuses and expenses paid were all that was ever spoken about in the papers. The unacceptable level of risk, sometimes irresponsibly taken, was also a favourite subject. Of course, the high level of technical knowledge, the heavy regulatory environment, the sophistication of the entire machinery that enabled an investment bank to exist was completely ignored by the media whose appetite was solely for scandal and scoops. Henry was proud to be part of what he regarded as an elite of ‘thinkers’ who could apply their mind to finding innovative financing structures and do it properly. He had to admit that the greed and stupidity of some idiots might one day bring the entire system to its knees. Cracks were already appearing in the Credit Derivative Market but he was an Equity man and thus keen to distance himself from the bullshitters who sold CDOs.
The trading floors were places of innovation where astronomical amounts of money transited every day, but they also created an environment where egos flourished untamed. Making money had become the sole purpose of the floor and the sense of service that had once been at the centre of banking had disappeared. And yet it had not always been so. Henry remembered, at the beginning of his career, the words ‘ethics’ and ‘client service’ had meant something and had mattered. His first interview had been with a grand old bank, now long gone, absorbed and dismembered by a number of takeovers and restructurings. There were two men interviewing him, a young chap marginally older than himself, who had been hired to expand the trading capability of the bank, and an older gentleman whose attitude as investment banker and relationship manager was diametrically opposed to his younger counterpart. Henry had hesitated to fulfil his ambition and enter the banking world. He had sensed the voracity and harshness of the youth, the face of tomorrow’s banking. The older man had been running the interview with professionalism and consideration. He was focused on assessing Henry’s capabilities but nevertheless strove to be fair. Henry remembered how thick his Irish accent was then, a matter that had long been remedied. He had felt clumsy in comparison to the well-polished and sophisticated interlocutor. The young man had been, on the other hand direct, explaining what he wanted and immediately pressing Henry for weaknesses, challenging his power. Little did he know, for Henry had had more than his fair share of challenges in Belfast, a mistake that would soon cost this cocky little chappie his job. In the fight for supremacy, Henry was a winner.
Yes, today he recognised it – he was the man in The Raft of the Medusa climbing on dead and live bodies in order to survive.
The slam of a file on the table brought Henry back to the here and now. He lifted his eyes slowly to meet Pole’s. Pole was standing in front of him, his hands resting on the back of a chair, his body tilted forward, controlled anger showing on his face.
“Henry, how about an honest conversation about Liam O’Connor?”
A quote Henry had seen on Bloomberg sprang to his mind ‘Always tell the truth and you won’t have to remember what you’ve said’. But truth was about to become Henry’s worse enemy.
* * *
The plane had been delayed by two hours. DMac had experienced delays before but this particular episode was testing his endurance. The head of Legal at GL had called him on his emergency number at 1am in NY. McCarthy had hardly gone to sleep when the news of Henry’s arrest arrived on his BlackBerry, guaranteeing a sleepless night. Whether Henry was guilty or not was not a consideration for McCarthy. Henry had by virtue of his involvement in Albert’s murder case become a liability that needed to be dealt with swiftly. He called his PA Cindy and asked her to ensure his private jet would be ready as soon as possible. Cindy called back fifteen minutes later, departure time would be 6am EAST. His next call was to Roger Pearce, Head of Corporate Communications. GL had to be ready to make a formal announcement. It was imperative at this critical stage in the takeover that they wouldn’t lose the upper hand. Any argument would be used by HXBK to establish dominion over its rival and he, Douglas Sullivan McCarthy, CEO of GL would not tolerate it. McCarthy’s next call was to Ted whom he had to extract from yet another meeting of one of the integration subcommittees.
“Hi Douglas, what can I do for you? All on track, as discussed. I am doing my best to—”
“Yes, yes, Ted, you are working on the integration of the two businesses – Albert’s and Crowne’s – are you not?”
Ted gave a very slow, “That’s right.”
“Good! I will be back from NY in seven hours. I want to see you then, come to pick me up at the airport, contact Cindy, nothing moves on this before we have spoken.”
McCarthy had hardly finished his conversation with Ted when his BlackBerry flashed, announcing new mail. Roger Pearce had been at work, a short statement from GL was ready for McCarthy’s consideration. The old man smiled. He could certainly get his people to produce. He started reading, satisfied with the speed and quality of response of his management team.
* * *
Pole was sitting opposite Henry. Nurani to his right had also taken a seat.
“I am waiting Henry.”
Pole was tightening his grip over the man opposite him and he would not let go until he had the truth.
“We went to school together in Belfast,” said Henry, his eyes shifting quickly away from Pole.
“Henry, you should stop playing this smug game of yours right now. You may be excellent at negotiations, you may be the king of the big deal, but that game is over, understood? I want to know everything and make no mistakes, I will.”
Pole paused to face Henry full on.
“So, now, I want everything on you and Liam O’Connor and if I can’t have it the easy way, I will have it the hard way. Are we clear?”
Henry nodded, his expression unperturbed. He knew that it was time to call his lawyer. Henry duly made his request. He would stay put until his lawyer arrived. He was disappointed at Pole’s calm reaction when he announced that Harold Wooster QC would represent him. It had not been the bombshell he had expected and Pole was becoming a serious opponent. Henry felt the fever of the hunt. He had thought through everything, all the better if the opponent was of a serious calibre.
* * *
McCarthy’s plane had landed at Biggin Hill. His delay had cost him a meeting with the Global Head of Legal, and his counterpart at HXBK wanted an immediate face to face as soon as he arrived. This meeting, if unprepared, could undermine hi
s current position, strategising was essential. The outcome of the integration committee, including past deliberations, were critical too and should be reworked to indicate a choice of candidate that left no place for argument. McCarthy was creating as much distance as necessary between the bank and Henry.
Ted was waiting for him at the small airport gate. From a distance McCarthy could see the small silhouette of Ted, a young man of Henry’s age but a tenth of his intellect, a fortunate state of affairs in the current circumstances. He would have no problem in getting from Ted what he wanted.
“Integration committee still on standby?” McCarthy had no time for small talk.
“Hi. Yes, yes as you said.”
McCarthy entered the limo and closed the partition inside the car, isolating the driver.
“Any record, deliberations or any other documents relating to the choices to be made for the new head of the combined structured product business?”
“I will need to check, I am not sure.”
Ted was trying hard to recall the events of tens of meetings.
“This is a yes or no answer,” exploded McCarthy. “Are you on that committee or not? Unless you have been missing meetings?”
“No, yes, I mean I have not missed any meetings,” said Ted retreating in his seat.
“So, do I need to repeat my question?”
McCarthy’s eyes were on Ted, drilling into the young man’s mind.
“I am sure that there is nothing in writing.”
Ted was unsure but had decided to give his boss the answer he wanted to hear.
“Check again and report to me, no phone calls or emails directly. I want a definite answer in the next hour.”
McCarthy’s limousine pulled up in front of GL’s headquarters. Ted disappeared in an instant, eager to fulfil his task. The car carried on into the MDs car park and parked in the CEO’s allocated space. The driver got out, opened the door. McCarthy did not move. He was still weighing up the odds that Ted would deliver. At the time that the committee was formed Ted had been the right choice, bright enough but more importantly scared of losing his job, and of McCarthy – an ideal element to manipulate. Ted knew his limits, he knew he had exceeded the level at which he could comfortably operate a long time ago. His only chance of survival was to squarely stay in McCarthy’s camp.
The parking space was directly opposite a private lift. McCarthy exited his car and started the ascent to the penultimate floor of the building, exclusively reserved for top management.
Cindy was waiting for him as he walked through the doors, the driver always rang her as her boss entered the elevator. Everyone would be waiting for the ‘Big Man’ as he walked in. She took his coat and went straight to business.
“David James-Cooper has called again himself, he wants to see you ASAP.”
“I know, I need you to give me time, find some credible excuse.”
“I will. The head of communications wants confirmation that the text concerning Mr Crowne can now be released.”
McCarthy noticed that Cindy had switched from H to the formal Mr Crowne, self-preservation in the corporate world was already at work.
“Confirmed.”
“Some reports on the various integration committees have arrived.”
McCarthy stopped as he reached the door to his office, his steely gaze on Cindy.
“Anything on structured products?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Cindy.”
McCarthy opened the door and sat at his desk, he had hardly slept in the past thirty hours. He dialled Ted’s number, Ted answered before the end of the first ring.
“I am ready to come up.”
McCarthy put the phone down and waited. He knew with certainty that Ted would do what he had to.
A few minutes passed before Ted appeared. He sat silently, his small frame looking lost in the large armchair facing the CEO’s desk. McCarthy interlaced his fingers, and rested his hands on his desk, observing Ted as he spoke.
“You are positive this is the only thing in writing that we have, nothing on email?”
“Yes,” nodded Ted.
“Good – good.” McCarthy leaned back in his chair.
“Are you able to antedate a document?”
Ted gave a small gasp of panic as the impact of what was asked of him registered.
“Yes, it can be done but—” faltered Ted.
“This is not the time to show lack of guts, I reward guts as you know. Ted, shall I ask someone else to help?”
“Well, I suppose the conclusions of the report were not final and we still were discussing I mean, although, of course Henry was the clear favourite and—”
“Ted!” interrupted McCarthy. “Do you think I give a shit about who thought what? I want the right conclusions to have been reached at the right time. Can you deal with it, yes or no?”
“The committee will remember …”
“Are you running this committee Ted?”
Ted nodded.
“Good. Then IT will remember what is good for IT and what you tell IT to remember, right? What do you think the proposed appointment of a murderer will do to our share price?”
“Henry has not yet been—” Ted had no time to finish his sentence. McCarthy was already reaching for the phone.
“I’ll speak to Archie, he can take over.”
“I could alter the document in that way,” said Ted hastily throwing one hand towards McCarthy as if to stop him short.
There was no reply from McCarthy, his hand was still in mid-air.
“I will alter the document in that way.”
Ted had spoken slowly.
“Let me know when it’s done.”
Ted was looking at his hands and McCarthy knew his hesitation. Ted was thinking about Henry who had been a good friend, thinking about the task ahead, thinking that any other course of action would mean the end of his career.
A slap on the desk brought Ted back in an instant and McCarthy met Ted’s scared look with the cold gaze of his faded grey eyes.
Ted stood up and left the room without a word.
* * *
As Ted was walking out of McCarthy’s office, Henry was contemplating his next move. He was allowed to call his lawyer and had been left on his own to do so. He took out of his jeans’ pocket a scrap of paper on which was written Harold Wooster’s number. Henry reached for the phone and dialled slowly, making sure he composed the number correctly.
A male voice answered promptly.
“Harold Wooster’s chambers, may I help you?”
To his surprised, Henry felt embarrassed.
Control was key, always key.
“Hello,” said the voice with impatience.
“Yes, may I speak to Wooster QC please? My name is Henry Crowne. He is expecting my call.”
There was a short silence.
“I very much doubt that is the case, sir.”
“Well, Wooster QC may be very busy but I have a personal introduction from Pamela Anderson of Chase and Case,” replied Henry, irritated.
“Are you certain?” insisted the voice.
“Absolutely,” Henry was about to lash out when a terrible thought entered his mind. He broke into a sweat. The words that came next hardly surprised him.
“I am indeed surprised that Ms Anderson” (the voice trailed slightly on the name) “would have managed to reach him. Wooster QC is currently on a sabbatical. He will not be back until next year.”
“Who are you?” were the only words that managed to escape Henry’s blank mind.
“Harry Lewis-Cooper, his clerk.”
Numbness overcame Henry as he dropped the phone down on the table, a small tremor coursed through his body – unbearable panic, then an explosion, a wave of raw anger carried him across the room. He slapped his hand so hard against the wall that his entire body shook. How stupid had he been, the great Henry Crowne, the number one negotiator, fucked – fucked like a beginner.
A distant vo
ice was calling, “Hello? Hello?”
He walked back to the table and slammed down the receiver with hatred.
Ms Anderson had been too busy to make the call or was it that she had not wanted to make the call? Henry’s rage had to abate before he could think straight. There was little time left. Pole would soon walk through the door, asking for confirmation of who the lawyer was. Henry felt pain cutting through him, he would look moronic, ridiculous, a joke.
Henry closed his eyes. He forced himself to breathe, to regain some stillness in which he could think outside the predictable pattern; friends and estimated colleagues would have vanished by now.
Henry opened his eyes. Picking up the phone once more, he started dialling.
Chapter Eight
Henry was waiting for Nancy to answer the phone. It had rung five times and he suddenly wondered why he had dialled his neighbour’s number. He was about to hang up when Nancy answered in her warm yet firm voice, happily surprised to hear from him.
Henry wondered, she was rumoured to have been a first-class QC, but their last encounter had put a dampener on this image.
“Nancy, I am not around. I was wondering whether you could check on the flat for me?” said Henry.
“Of course. Tell me what you need me to do. By the way, I am horribly nosy. It’s my old profession, you see. I hope you won’t mind me asking where your travels have taken you.”
“Ah.” Henry marked a pause.
If he had had a coin he would have probably tossed it: heads a lie, tails the truth.
“Scotland Yard, small dingy interrogation room.”
It would have been tails.
“How uncomfortable,” replied Nancy unfazed. “Tell me what needs doing but first let me grab pen and paper.”
Henry did not have time to reply before the phone went quiet. He remembered that Nancy had purchased an old fashioned 1930s telephone which she was using in her lounge.
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