McCarthy was about to protest when his contact raised a hand.
“I know you don’t want to hear this but how many people earn $10m bonuses? Not even the president of the United States, and yes you are going to tell me you work terribly hard, but then again so does he. The banks have been irresponsible but then so have we and so have the regulators. We all know that bankers are bad boys! What the government is not doing is acknowledging the snowball effect of it all.”
“The public was equally quite happy to consume without checking whether they were doing so above their means. And the regulators content with mortgages exceeding by a ridiculous amount the value of property.”
“True enough but here again Douglas, when you earn £20,000 a year, have to feed a family and want to provide a roof over their heads, I can sympathise,” said the other man with some feeling. “Anyway, how many billions will it take?”
“By the time we have finished probably over one trillion.”
McCarthy’s Whitehall contact stared at him for a few seconds. McCarthy had created the effect he wanted to create. His contact was assessing the information. Was McCarthy bluffing? Was he implying that GL was too big to fail? Was he expecting some help with the takeover that would involve giving McCarthy support? McCarthy was not yet sure that any of these questions merited a yes but they might soon do.
“Some people are going to brandish the spectre of the Great Depression in front of us. My latest conversation with the Fed convince me of it.”
“I wouldn’t be that dramatic,” replied McCarthy. “But yes, the papers are going to have a field day.”
“Murdoch is going to make even more money, how depressing. One trillion you say?”
“Yes, as far as I can tell from our own exposure, it may be more.”
“Your bank is very long in this type of debt?”
“Enough to sink us, unless I can close the merger on time.”
“Will you?”
“Definitely,” said McCarthy putting his empty glass down. “As long as this story between Albert and Crowne does not derail the process, matters should proceed quickly.”
“I expect you have the upper hand at the moment?”
“I have, but – and there is a but – ” said McCarthy.
“You said there were some ramifications you wanted to discuss.”
“As you can imagine very few of HXBK’s top management will survive.”
McCarthy’s contact seemed unsurprised.
“I think it is cruelly ironic. But the combined structured product team would have gone eventually to Anthony Albert.”
“That is truly surprising. Do I want or rather need to know the reason?”
“Albert was involved in a lot of subprime structuring. He sourced the majority of these loans and GL is on the other side. He knows or rather knew where some of the skeletons were buried. One of them is Northern Rock and you need to keep an eye on other UK banks too.”
“I see,” said the other man putting his near empty glass to his lips.
“I will do all I can to control matters at my end however.” finished McCarthy.
“I need to do my bit – understood. Did Anthony Albert know too much?”
“It is no longer our problem, is it?” replied McCarthy.
“Northern Rock is only the beginning, good to know.”
McCarthy said nothing, he had given enough. He felt it was his turn to be on the receiving end.
“Your views on the US elections? Obama? McCain?”
“Obama.”
McCarthy did not comment. If he had his finger on the pulse of the financial market, his contact had his on the political arena.
“Timothy and Edwina will arrive in a minute,” said McCarthy’s contact. “Are you ready for a spot of dinner?”
“Most certainly, William,” replied McCarthy.
The time for confidences was over.
Chapter Eleven
Nancy had insisted that Henry come to hers before retiring to his apartment. She needed to understand more about the background, more about Henry whom she knew too little to choose the right QC. She had dashed into the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea, something the British presented as a remedy to all ills. She smiled. She was not all that British after all, but perhaps keen to feel she was, a good cup of tea was indeed needed.
Henry had nodded his approval and sunk his tall body into one of Nancy’s comfortable armchairs. For the first time since he had met her, Henry was looking around. She owned the opposite penthouse to his and had already been there for some time when he moved in. Although Henry had visited her a couple of times, he had never bothered to pay much attention to her home, his mind always racing in another direction.
One of the walls exhibited a painted mural representing a stylised bamboo forest, a camaieu of greens (Henry remembered this French word with pride) that gave the room a clear sense of space. The mural had texture and an inviting depth, enough to make him want to wander through the exotic landscape. Henry’s eyes moved slowly across the room, noticing the sofa’s fabric in intense green, embroidered in various shades of the same colour; large and luscious tropical flowers were enticing birds of paradise to suck their nectar. The other walls were white, it should have been a severe minimalist room and yet it exuded a sense of peaceful welcome, a rich tranquillity. Nancy had arranged on opposite walls two massive paintings, two single canvases in shades of a single colour – white.
Henry smiled. Could it be, he wondered, Pollock? Rothko?
The small clunk of a tea tray interrupted his wandering gaze. Nancy sat down on the same sofa and began pouring the tea.
“I know you need a rest and that you have already spoken at length about the story but I need to form my own opinion. You understand?” she said whilst handing over a cup.
Henry bent to grab his tea, took a sip. He drank his tea very hot just as his mother did.
“I understand,” his voice had regained its composure.
“Good, now before you give me the details of what has or has not happened, I need to know more about your connection with the O’Connor brothers.”
Such a bold question showed Henry unequivocally why Nancy had been a brilliant barrister. She had within minutes identified where the weakest point of his defence lay. Then again, Henry felt that he should not make it so easy for her. After all, he was out and his instinct told him that Pole had another lead. Henry had so far played his hand rather smartly. And why had Nancy agreed to help him so readily? Nothing was ever given for free in his world.
“Is this relevant?” He sipped again at his tea.
Nancy stopped him taking another sip with a kind but uncompromising gesture.
“Henry, you are out and you feel the pressure is off and maybe you are right, but if you are not, trust me, you need to work at your defence, and right away.”
She paused as if she could sense his anger rising.
“I know,” she carried on. “You are tired, you are used to being in control, and you may not be willing to speak to someone who is not bound by the conventional client-lawyer confidentiality.”
“People do not make decisions for me,” said Henry.
“It goes without saying. However, you need to decide right now whether you trust me and, if so, please, give me some credit for my knowledge of mounting a defence.”
Henry leaned back into the sofa and studied Nancy. She let him.
“I don’t trust people easily.”
“That comes with the territory. You can’t be working in the City and be a friendly, trusty sort of guy agreed, but you are way beyond your everyday negotiation, Henry. I am sorry to have to break this to you so abruptly, but life will never be the same again. Not now, not ever.”
“You have no idea where I come from and how much I am able to sustain.”
“I know it takes a lot to have risen to pre-eminence as you have but let me repeat this, you MUST focus on the here and now.”
“We are not going to have a
philosophical debate.”
“Henry, you have chosen to speak to me because you may not trust people but you trust your instinct. I know what I am talking about and you know I know.”
Henry was silent, he suspected but he had hoped. When he had left Scotland Yard a few hours ago he had tasted freedom and it was sweet. He had felt safe again, as if it had all been a big mistake, a deal gone wrong that he had just managed to fix.
“Henry?”
He did not like to be pushed. No, he would not be pushed. Everything he knew about influencing, negotiating, manipulating, flooded back to him. He was a master at it, and practice at the game had made him perfect.
“I will fix this too, Nancy, mark my words.”
“And when was the last time you spoke to your team?”
Nancy had done it again, gone straight to the point. Henry realised he had not spoken to his team for twenty-four hours. He had been completely engulfed by the events of the past day and by now GL would know about his interrogation. His team would not have seen him or heard from him for a ridiculously long amount of time by City standards. Nancy was right, his life was rapidly unravelling in front of his eyes. He put his cup down. He needed to make contact with his people urgently.
In an instant the comfort of Nancy’s home became suffocating. Henry needed to escape this flat and its art. He wanted to rewind the tape of his life and forget about the stranger in front of him. Nancy’s voice came as an irritation to him.
“You can call them if you like and in fact you should but I can assure you that, by now, you will have received a number of messages from Human Resources asking you to call them. I would be surprised if GL allows you to go back at all, Henry. At best they may allow you in for a clean transition but in the middle of a takeover–”
“A merger,” interrupted Henry forcefully.
“You know I am right but please call, do whatever you need to do and when you are ready we can talk again but I say this to you: the more you delay the worse it will get.”
She poured some more tea into his cup, an invitation to stay. Henry was torn. A part of him knew that she was right and yet the thought of losing his team, his team, was unbearable. He had reached his goal, he had earned respect, he could impose his ideas, his enemies feared him. He stood at the centre of his world, his will unchallenged, his mind in absolute focus. He had forgotten at long last what fear felt like.
Henry stood up and looked at Nancy. Despite the Asian skin, the difference in personality, she reminded him of his mother. It was the look in her eyes, the same expression of concern. Henry had not noticed he was still holding his tea. He bent forward to put the cup back in its saucer, reached for his BlackBerry in his jeans pocket. Looking finally at the screen, he saw that he had fifty-eight missed messages.
* * *
Pole had spent over two hours with Dolores going through the details of her telephone conversation with Albert’s daughter. Although sceptical to start with, he now felt as sure as Dolores that this was a serious lead. Pole was still struggling with the prospect of having to conduct an interrogation on an eight-year-old girl. He was grateful that he had had to deal with very few cases involving children, thanking a God he did not believe in.
“When will we have the OK to,” he paused, looking for the right words, “bring her in?”
“Tomorrow morning, at the latest,” replied Dolores.
“Doesn’t leave me a lot of time to prepare,” muttered Pole half to himself.
“I know but we need to act quickly.”
“I am not contesting that.”
Dolores nodded. She knew he would be as tactful as he needed to be.
“I am here, remember.”
Pole shook his head and left her office. He took a left turn and moved rapidly towards the open-plan area where his team was working.
“Nurani, any further info?”
“Yep, more in the direction you wanted us to look into.”
“What precisely?” said Pole, irritated.
She hesitated, taken aback by Pole’s uncharacteristic grumpiness.
“There is a man on the scene. I don’t even think they have been that discreet to be honest, or not until more recently that is. The neighbours talk about him, as do AA’s work colleagues, they all talk of a marriage on the rocks,” said Nurani, placing a fist on her hip in a disapproving manner. “Some of these guys talk about a marriage on the rocks as if it were a drink.”
“Compassion does not enter the vocabulary of a banker Nu, they could not spell it even if their life depended on it.”
“Anyway, all that feels more like an acknowledged lover than a secret affair until a few months ago. Matters seem to have cooled down quite a lot or, at least, become less visible.”
“And the gentleman is …?” said Pole with a small elaborate movement of the hand, indicating he was expecting more.
“Brett Allner-Smith, works with Sotheby’s. He is an antiques’ dealer specialising in classical stuff.” Nurani was a little vague, ill at ease in the arcane world of rare antiquities.
“He is not married, although divorced twice and has private wealth coming from his family, his mother more precisely. Got a picture, rather stuck up if you see what I mean.”
“Any convictions? Divorce case ruled against him?”
“No convictions apart from the odd speeding ticket. Actually, he likes speeding apparently. He lost his licence a few years ago, and yes divorce ruled against him, naughty boy it seems, was conducting a number of affairs and eventually shacked up with another bird.”
“The very technical terms the court was using too, I expect”, said Pole amused.
Nurani pulled a face.
“Not quite. I am giving you the condensed version.”
“In short you are telling me that Mrs Albert is having an affair with a philandering, speed-loving, rich-but-now-poor-because-of-his-two-divorces bloke who flogs antiques?”
“Eh, yep,” replied Nurani, putting a pen to her mouth to suppress a grin.
“Interesting, interesting,” said Pole. “How poor has he become?”
“Well, he now owns only one house in Belgravia,” hesitated Nurani.
“All is relative, Nu, I have one house in Clapham and that is more than enough for me but …”
“If you have been used to being rich.” Nurani was picking up on Pole’s idea.
“It might be a tad hard to let go of the habit.”
“Yep, very true.” Nurani opened the file again. She usually could give Pole a complete and detailed account of events without any help, having committed it all to memory.
“He had a house in Exeter, mansion, sold to his half-brother, then he lost the house in Grasse, south of France, pretty exclusive.”
“True, where perfumes are made. Lovely part of the world and unbelievably expensive too.”
“... and a flat in New York apparently he does a lot of business in the States, and,” Nurani carried on leafing through the file, “… a fleet of sports cars, one Aston Martin DB9, one Bentley – no two Bentleys, Bentayga and Mulsanne, aaaand a little Porsche.”
“This is getting more interesting by the minute,” said Pole, moving from his chair to join Nurani and look at the file over her shoulder. “Do carry on.”
“A collection of drawings by Leonardo da Vinci, a painting by Vermeer called Woman seated at a Virginal.”
Nurani kept reading from her notes.
“This is unbelievable.” Pole stopped Nurani mid flow. “In fact, jaw-dropping.”
Nurani stayed silent. The prices of the various items had been submitted as undisclosed and she was starting to understand why.
“I can see why someone losing all this might get tempted to do something really stupid to get back a fraction of what he owned.” Pole could hardly believe it. The case had started in the most extraordinary of fashions and was showing no sign of abating. “These pieces belong to a museum.”
“Well, Jon, you have your wish. Yes, they do now. Thi
s guy Brett managed to lose everything.”
Pole burst into roaring laughter.
“This is incredible,” he repeated. “OK, we need to have a look at the Will as soon as possible, including any recent changes made to it. We also need to know whether Mrs Albert was aware of its most recent content.”
“The solicitor dealing with this will never let us see it before the formal opening date in front of the beneficiaries,” said Nurani confidently.
“That is what you think, my dear girl,” replied Pole, absorbed again in the pages in front of him, “and strictly speaking you are right of course. However, I don’t need the text, I need a direction. I need the number of Albert’s solicitors. Let’s try to get a meeting today.”
“Done. I’ll call the solicitor straight away,” replied Nurani. “And Jon?”
“Yes Ms Shah, I feel a burning question coming my way.”
“How come you know so much about art?”
“Ah, yes, why would a copper like me know about these things? Well, believe it or not I was brought up in an artists’ family, destined myself to become one of them.”
“What happened? It must have been a hell of a shock when you told them.”
“A story for another time,” replied Pole tugging at his goatee.
The phone rang. Pole looked at the screen, it was Dolores’ extension. She had an answer for him he may not like.
* * *
Henry was pacing up and down his lounge, impatiently listening to his voicemails. He had left Nancy’s flat in a hurry, with a few mumbled words of thanks, preoccupied by the time he had already lost. The first message was from James Radlett. The familiar voice had pacified him. James was being his usual controlled, factual self but it was clear from his messages that matters were not looking good back at base.
He was longing to get back. If he could be there, he knew he would be able to control his team again. He would take the questions they had head on. They might give him a rough ride but he would handle it. Henry decided he would call James first. He needed to reconnect but also wanted to avoid hearing what he could not cope with, a message from HR. James mobile rang once.
“H, bloody hell. I have been trying to—”
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