‘Thanks Imogen.’
‘I’ll see you on Sunday.’
‘Bye.’
Imogen stood up and made her way out of the pub, slipping on her sunglasses as she stepped out into the autumn sunshine. She wasn’t looking forward to Sunday but she hoped that it would prove cathartic for George and Rob. And if nothing else, she would get to see Al.
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George and Imogen were delayed on their way from the airport to Christ’s Church Cathedral in Dublin, the venue for Fergal’s memorial service. When they arrived, the place was packed. Al and Krystina were sat near the front next to Rob who looked around as they entered – clearly having been on the look out for them – and gestured that he had saved them places. Imogen let Georgina go into the pew first so that she sat next to Rob. After a big hug from Al and an air kiss from Krystina, Imogen looked around to see who else she might know from Fergal’s past. Keith Peake and Rhys Griffiths were seated a couple of rows in front of them, along with Fergal’s ex, Denise. There was a smattering of the old Trenchart Colville guys including JJ Pietersen and some of the old team from the spot desk. When the minister welcomed them all and began the memorial service with a prayer, Imogen concentrated on what he said. She had ceased being a believer many years before. In this she was continuing a long tradition of atheism in her family. She listened to the minister, however, finding comfort in his gentle Dublin accent and words of hope. Today of all days, she would take whatever comfort she could get. Keith Peake was the first to stand up, make his way to the head of the congregation, and speak about Fergal. Despite his obvious nerves, he held it together well, recounting some choice anecdotes relating to Fergal’s extra-curricular behaviour. The congregation was relieved to be able to laugh for a few moments but the sombre mood returned when Keith’s voice broke as he said, ‘Farewell, Fergal. I love you, man.’
After some more prayers and a hymn – Soul of my Saviour – Patrick, Fergal’s younger brother, stood up to speak and as he did so, Imogen felt sure that she wasn’t the only member of the congregation who felt as though Fergal was there amongst them and the whole tragedy of his passing was just an elaborate prank. Patrick shared with his older brother the same loping gait, the same impossible-to-tame mass of ginger hair and the same sweet self-deprecating grin. His eulogy was funny and heartfelt and when he told the assembled mourners that sadly Fergal’s recipe for ‘scrambled egg and Baileys surprise’ would follow him to the grave, there was another opportunity for a moment of lightness, a moment’s reflection on the laughter that Fergal had brought them all. Patrick dedicated the poem, Death, by Fergal’s favourite poet W.B. Yeats to all the people who had died on 9/11, hijackers included.
Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone –
Man has created death.
As Patrick returned to his pew, providing a perfect visual facsimile of Fergal, Imogen could contain her emotions no longer and she began to weep. She wasn’t the only one. Those who were crying – Al included – greatly out-numbered those who weren’t.
At the end of the service, there was a palpable sense of relief and consoling hugs were the order of the day. As Fergal’s friends and family turned to one another, struggling to find the words to ease his passing, Miles Ratner quietly slipped away unnoticed from the very back of the congregation and climbed into a waiting taxi.
There was only ever going to be one way of concluding Fergal’s memorial and that was to go to a nearby pub and raise a glass to him, raise many glasses and reminisce about their dear friend and his anarchic exploits. Imogen had heard most of the stories before but there were some new ones added to the canon from his days in Hong Kong. Al even chose to mix some ridiculous drinks by way of a tribute to his old friend.
George came and found Imogen while she was talking to Rhys, and apologising for the interruption, asked if she could speak to Imogen in private. They went outside the pub and George couldn’t hide her anxiety as she said: ‘What am I going to do?’
‘About Rob?’
‘It’s tearing me apart.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I love him. I want to be with him. But I can’t get what he did out of my head.’
‘You need to forgive him. If that’s how you feel then that’s what you’ve got to do.’
‘But I can’t forget what happened.’
‘You don’t need to forget. You just need to forgive. Do it for Fergal. It’s what he would have wanted.’
It was easy for Imogen to advise her sister to forgive. She wasn’t so sure that she could have done the same. She had once broken up with a man she genuinely loved – still had feelings for – because of something much more innocent than sleeping with another woman. While she wasn’t certain that she could have forgiven Rob for what he had done, she felt sure that it was the right thing to do.
‘Are you sure?’ asked George.
‘Of course I’m sure. What he did was stupid but he was lonely and confused on the weirdest day of his life – on the weirdest day of all our lives.’
‘I’m going to do it,’ said George, buoyed up on the moment. ‘But I agree with him. He’s got to get out of the City. I know it’s what he says he wants now but he might not feel the same in a couple of weeks. So I’m going to make sure that he does it. It’s time we got out, both of us. It’s ripping us apart.’
Imogen put her arms around her sister and gave her a hug. She knew that if George had made up her mind that it was time for them to get out of the City then that’s what would happen. And Imogen felt strangely uplifted by the thought. No longer would her family be tainted by association with a place and a way of life that she found so abhorrent.
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Al and Rob walked through the graveyard, the old gravestones scattered pell-mell amidst the brown sun-scorched grass. They stood on a rocky promontory amidst a cluster of orange trees looking out over the deep aquamarine of the Aegean Sea. They were both dressed in identical morning suits and pink waistcoats that Al had bought from Hackett as team colours for the groom and best man. With Fergal gone and Miles no longer a friend – not even invited to the wedding – Al had asked Rob to do him the honour of standing by him as he exchanged his vows with Krystina.
Rob reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a hip flask which he opened and passed across to Al. Al took a sip. It was great whisky. Rob knew a thing or two about single malts.
‘I wish Fergal was here,’ said Al as the liquor warmed his gullet.
‘Don’t we all,’ said Rob, taking the hip flask and upending it into his mouth. He nodded his head thoughtfully as he savoured the whisky and took in the view. ‘Hell of a nice place to get married though.’
It had been Krystina’s idea. Nixos was a tiny island six kilometres due south of Skiathos where the nearest airport was situated. Krystina’s uncle had owned the island since the mid-sixties and had made a point of ensuring it was unspoilt by the encroachment of modern tourism. Its old fashioned charm was accentuated all the more after the gaudy bustle of Skiathos. But it wasn’t the location of Al’s wedding that worried him.
Rob glanced at his watch and nodding at the white stucco chapel, gleaming in the sun, said, ‘We’d better get you in there in a minute.’
‘How’re things with George?’
Rob looked a little wrong-footed by the question. He offered Al another swig from the hip flask but Al shook his head so he had one himself and said, ‘They’re fine. Well, they’re as fine as they poss
ibly can be. I guess they’ll never be exactly the same as they once were.’
‘I’m sure they will in time. Happy you got out of the City?’
‘My heart’s happy about it. It was the right thing to do but my head keeps telling me that I won’t have enough money to survive. But if that’s what it takes to keep George then that’s what I’m going to do. I guess the lesson for us all is to never play away from home. Not if you love your wife. You do love Krystina, don’t you?’
It was Al’s turn to be taken aback by a question. Did he love Krystina? He loved having sex with her. Did that count? He loved the way she looked; he loved her sense of fun and adventure. He loved a lot about her.
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Well here’s to you then.’ Rob took another swig. ‘I remember you on your first day at TC. There you were in your M&S suit looking all nervous and keen.’
‘It was like you were from another planet,’ said Al, smiling. ‘You were so cool and confident. I hero-worshipped you. We all did.’
‘Miles didn’t.’
‘Miles doesn’t hero worship anyone except himself.’
‘Shame about you two.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘Come on,’ said Rob. ‘It’s time.’
They made their way inside the chapel and stood waiting as the guests filed in. Al’s face ached from the smile that he had plastered on it for the benefit of his friends and family and even more so when his bride arrived at the end of the aisle. Krystina looked more beautiful than ever. As she looked into his eyes, making her way towards him arm in arm with her father, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about that day in New York last September and of Fergal and what had happened with Miles. Rob’s words came back to him from the training sessions at Trenchart Colville all those years before: ‘Bad trades are always done when you’re emotional.’
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‘Congratulations!’
This was one smile that Al didn’t need to strain for. He had been trying to engineer a moment with Imogen for the past hour but there were so many people preying on his time it was difficult.
‘Thanks Imo.’
‘Such a beautiful place to get married.’
‘It’s great, isn’t it.’
‘Maybe Brad and I can end up getting hitched somewhere like this.’
‘Brad?’
‘Pitt.’
‘Oh, of course.’
‘There’ll come a time when he realises that he can’t fight his destiny any longer.’
Al laughed. It was good to see Imogen so happy. She had changed her appearance since the last time that he’d seen her in Hong Kong the year before. Her hair was shorter and she’d put on a little weight. It suited her.
‘And until Brad comes along, is there anyone else you’ve got feelings for?’
It came out all wrong. It sounded as though he was prying. He was prying but seeing as he had just got married it felt permissible. Imogen didn’t seem to care.
‘No, no one. Francois put me off men for a while.’
‘Sorry I lamped him.’
‘I’m not. He deserved it. When we finally split it was like a great cloud had lifted. You don’t realise how destructive a man like that can be when you’re trapped in the eye of the storm. I made some bad decisions that’s all. It makes me think of what Rob said when he was training us all up at TC. Do you remember?’
Al shook his head: remember what?
‘I can’t remember the exact words but it was something to do with never making a trade when you’re feeling emotional because it’ll always be a bad one. Something like that.’
‘He was right,’ said Al.
‘So right.’
‘Al!’ He turned around to see Krystina coming towards him across the lawn, her dress billowing around her in the warm evening breeze. Krystina blew a kiss at Imogen before announcing to Al: ‘The photographer wants to take some more pictures of us up on the terrace.’
‘I’ll see you later,’ said Imogen and Al smiled at her as Krystina led him away.
The photographer didn’t really want to take more pictures of them on the terrace. Krystina’s uncle had given his house and garden over to the reception party and as with the chapel in which they had made their vows earlier on that day, it had a charm all of its own. But there was no terrace. This was just a little code that Krystina had dreamt up which meant that she was ready for her first nuptials of married life. Despite the fact that the sun hadn’t even set on their wedding party, Krystina could wait no longer.
23 Zug
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As the pilot announced their descent into Zurich, Miles once again flicked through the document on his MacBook that he had already read during the flight. He knew its contents already but rereading it was a comfort. The contents of the document related to a fund by the name of Aden Partners. Although it had not been articulated as such, it was obvious to Miles that the purpose of today’s meeting at Aden was to sound him out as to whether he might want to join them. Interestingly, the meeting had been put together by Count Boris Wenzel who Miles had been having increasing contact with over the past months. Miles had found obtaining information about Aden Partners extremely difficult. Gaining information about Swiss domiciled entities was tricky at the best of times but Aden had clearly ensured that as little information was in the public realm as possible. It was impossible to ascertain how much capital they had under management, what the exact structure of the fund was, or even who was in control. What Miles had gleaned was that the firm’s asset base was far larger than was perceived by the street and to a large extent they were flying very much under the market’s radar. Miles was very interested in meeting them. He wasn’t exactly nervous – he didn’t get nervous about many things – but he had that same feeling he got when he was managing a lot of risk. It was like a heightened sense of awareness; colours appeared brighter, his senses were primed and ready.
Miles took the train from the Hauptbahnhof on BahnoffStrasse bound for Zug. While as a general rule he abhorred public transport, Swiss trains were different. It was a journey that always reminded him of Al. They had come this way many times over the years when they were travelling around together meeting Al’s clients. Al had introduced him to a lot of contacts across Switzerland prior to September 2001. They had always stayed at the Widder Hotel and enjoyed many nights in the bar there. Miles had thought about booking into the Widder on this trip but something had stopped him. He had booked a late flight back to London City instead.
Miles made a conscious decision every day of his life to try to avoid regret or sentiment concerning the past. The past was only something to be used as a provider of lessons for how to deal with the future. People became trapped by their pasts. It would never happen to him. But even so, he couldn’t help thinking about 9/11. It was singularly the most memorable day of his life. That and the day that his father told him that he was going to prison. Both days had a similar effect. They were days that were branded on his mind.
What strange fluctuations in the markets of chance had led him to be not only in Manhattan on 9/11 but downtown, watching the planes go into the towers, and with one of his best friends in the Windows on the World? Religion wasn’t something that had taken much part in his life. At the age of ten he had realised that if God did not exist then it would be necessary for man to invent him. He didn’t believe a word of it from that day on. But he couldn’t bring himself to describe himself as an atheist either. That was too emphatic. It was just as ideologically intransigent a position as the one that the believers occupied. Agnostic was probably the closest description for what he felt about his place in the universe. But 9/11 made him look for signs in his life much more than he had done before. There was a definite sense of destiny unfolding that day. Something told him that he was meant to be there. The grief that he
felt for Fergal was almost matched by the grief that he felt for Al. His and Al’s relationship had been damaged so much that day. But he had forgiven Al; he had forgiven himself too. They had both reacted in their own way to the horror that was unfolding all around them. Al had panicked emotionally. His loss of control was perfectly understandable. What had taken place was so far beyond his own and everyone else’s frame of reference that he had nothing in his emotional armoury with which to deal with it. He had coped in the only way that he knew how. He had become angry – and nothing wrong with that. What had happened there in New York deserved anger. But Miles had become a target for Al’s anger, just as he too was busy trying to deal with what was taking place. His own reaction to the day was every bit as visceral and pure as Al’s. Instead of getting angry, he had gone to work. That’s what he had done all of his life when things had become too painful for him. On 9/11, Miles had gone to work. In behaving that way, he had protected his investors and had generated positive returns. He had survived. Going to work, playing the game, treating events like the intellectual puzzles that they were, would always allow him to survive. Al and Miles just happened, for whatever reason, to have been there at the same time, at the same moment as the world was rocked on its axis, changed forever, and just like everyone else, they had reacted to it in the only way they knew how.
As much as he kept telling himself that today was not the day to become sentimental about the past, that today was all about the future, he found it impossible not to recall his times here in Switzerland with Al. Every moment of the journey from Zurich to Zug was a reminder of him. They had sat in these same seats and looked out over this same scenery surging past the window. They were on the same mission albeit with very different objectives. They were going to talk to people about money. That’s all it was and yet it had felt exhilarating, in no small part because of the camaraderie that they had shared. They were in it together. Sort of. It was something that he had never really felt before, that closeness with another man. It was almost brotherly. And now it was over, as was the journey, the sign at the station – Zug – becoming the end title for the slide show of memories that had played out in his mind.
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