Shadow Banking

by C. M. Albright

  ‘Your place or mine?’ she asked.

  ‘The location is unimportant; what is, is the company.’

  ‘I always like to be in my own place when I do it for the first time with someone new.’ She said it in such a deadpan way with just a curl of an eyebrow to heighten the lasciviousness of her comment that Al couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘How should I dress?’ asked Al.

  ‘Minimally.’ Still the eyebrow but now accompanied by a smile, that same smile she had employed in the meeting the day before. It was all a joke. He could see that now. Her suggestive behaviour was just her way of communicating. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen the same behaviour displayed by men that he had worked with over the years. What made this different was the gender reversal. He needed to lighten up. This trip needn’t be so bad. Melody was interesting if nothing else, a lot more fun than many other colleagues with whom he had travelled.

  They drank some great wine over supper. Melody kept steering the conversation back to Al and his life. Where did he grow up? Where did he go to school? What made him want to work in the banking sector? How did he end up at Hartmann Milner? What did he do to relax? Melody had made her way in the business because she was good at charming people. She was working her magic on him – he could see that – but it was an enjoyable experience. The excellent food and the wine made him open up. When he questioned Melody about her life, she answered in a self-deprecatory manner. She was just a girl who had worked hard, driven herself to ever higher achievements. Her private life had suffered.

  They talked until it was late. Al had enjoyed his dinner with Melody. He felt as though he had misjudged her and whereas he had found her little comments about him in the office to be tiresome and annoying, he could see now that this was just her way of communicating.

  ‘I’m going to head back to my seat now Melody and get some rest. Sorry to love you and leave you.’

  ‘You haven’t loved me yet.’

  Al chuckled. If this was the game that she wanted to play then he’d play too: ‘I never did join the Mile High Club.’

  ‘You should try it. You might like it.’

  There was the smile again, as she stood up and made her way to the bathroom. Al went back to his seat and sat down. He watched Melody as she reached the door to the bathroom. An elderly woman in silk pyjamas was just coming out so Melody stood aside to let her go. Al couldn’t help but allow his eyes to take in Melody’s body, enfolded as it was in a clinging knitted jumper dress. He wasn’t the only one watching her. A middle-aged American man on the other side of the cabin was doing the same.

  As Melody was about to enter the bathroom, she turned back and smiled at Al. As she closed the door after her, Al felt his adrenalin start to pump. His heart rate went up and he felt sweat glaze his forehead. She didn’t seriously want him to go in there with her, did she? No, of course not. She was playing with him, joking.

  Al settled down on his flat bed and pulled the duck feather duvet over himself. Sleep, however, would not come easily. In his thoughts, he was in the bathroom with Melody, he was peeling her out of her jumper dress as she pulled at his clothes. They were giggling in the confined space until their hushed amusement was silenced by the passion of their kisses.

  USD/BRL: 3.3175

  AUD/USD: 0.6005

  USD/CNY: 8.2768

  For Al, the meetings he had in Singapore were master classes in how to charm clients. Al had seen Melody’s abilities to make meetings work in her favour but never at such close quarters. He was impressed. They made a good team and the men they met – they were all men at both meetings – responded to Melody’s subtle flirtatiousness and skill in making them feel that Hartmann Milner was the safest pair of hands in the business. Her charismatic persona provided the perfect smoke screen for her to pump them for information and encourage them to divulge far more than they might have initially intended.

  There were times when he loved the business. And this he loved. By the time they boarded the plane on their way to Hong Kong, the trip had already exceeded Al’s expectations. Existing relationships were reinforced and deepened and two brand new clients were signed up. Melody’s gift was her ability to connect with people regardless of age, nationality or sex. With men she played the game very carefully, allowing them to think that they stood a chance; with women she became their confidante, their friend in the ladies’ room, gossiping while fixing her make up.

  As they came into land at Hong Kong International, Al felt more relaxed than he had done in a long while. While he appreciated being part of Hartmann Milner he couldn’t help but feel as though he didn’t belong. Over the past few months he had found himself succumbing increasingly to a sense of paranoia that people around him were less than impressed by his abilities. There was nothing tangible that he could point to to back up this feeling but just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you, as he was wont to quote to others. So the success of this trip with Melody had provided him with some much needed reassurance.

  The Hong Kong leg of the trip was purely social. They were due to catch up with some of the guys in their Hong Kong office. But Al was wary of the intensity of emotion that he might feel being back in Hong Kong without Fergal. Twelve of them went out for dinner at The China Club. The mood was convivial; Melody was on fine form, positioning herself, as always, as the social hub of the group. And while she held court, Al couldn’t help but find himself strangely flattered that he seemed to be the focus of so much of her attention.

  ‘It’s that dodgy old bastard from Trenchart Colville.’ The Essex accent was unmistakable. Al spun around in his seat and there was Keith Peake grinning at him from around a mouthful of Kobe beef.

  ‘Keith, you old bastard,’ said Al. ‘Still eating I see.’

  Keith chuckled. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Meetings. Seventy-two hour special.’

  ‘Al, this is Simon Yip.’ Keith gestured to the man seated opposite him, a handsome Chinese. ‘He’s one of our analysts.’ Al waved and nodded at Simon before he noticed that Melody had detached herself from the conversation on the Hartmann Milner table to turn around and look across at Keith and Simon. Al introduced her.

  ‘This is Melody Eales. We work together at Hartmann. Melody, this is Keith Peake and Simon Yip from DBHK. Keith runs their spot desk and we used to work together at Trenchart Colville back in the day.’

  Hellos and pleased-to-meet-yous ensued.

  ‘Bit of bad luck finding yourself on a trip with Denham,’ said Keith.

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Melody.

  ‘Well he does have a bit of a reputation, if you know what I’m saying.’ Keith employed all the lewd innuendo of an end-of-the-pier comedian.

  ‘Shut up Keith,’ said Al, playfully. ‘He’s talking out of his Ronson.’

  ‘Bit of a dark horse, eh?’ said Melody in the tone of voice that Al usually found so unnerving and irritating when she used it in the office back home in London.

  ‘That’s right. Wanna watch him.’

  ‘Oh I’ll do that all right,’ said Melody. She grinned at Al and he couldn’t help but reciprocate.

  After Keith had finished dinner and his colleague Simon had gone home, he joined the Hartmann table and chatted with Al and Melody. The conversation – as Al knew that it must – turned to Fergal, and Al and Keith regaled Melody with tales of Fergal’s misbehaviour. They laughed long and hard but by the end of the evening when they were the only three left in the restaurant, the mood became more reflective as Al and Keith discussed Fergal’s demise on 9/11. Al had drunk plenty – they all had – and as Al told Melody about the events of that morning, he couldn’t disguise his emotion.

  ‘It’s a cliché to say that it was like a Hollywood movie but it was. It just felt like it wasn’t real. It felt as though what we were watching was just some enormous piece of live action drama. All of which made it even harder to accept. For days and weeks afterwards, I kept expecting Fergal to walk
up to me and tell me that it was all make-believe. It was all some epic hoax. He used to talk about wanting to go to his own funeral so he could listen to what his friends and family had to say about him. When it was his memorial in Dublin, I couldn’t help it, I found myself looking towards the back of the Cathedral to see if there was a tall, badly disguised Irishman standing there, listening.’

  There were tears in his eyes. Keith’s eyes too. Melody took hold of Al’s hand and squeezed it. She proposed a toast to Fergal, steered the conversation away from 9/11 and the mood lifted. After saying goodbye to Keith outside the restaurant, Al and Melody took a taxi to the Mandarin Oriental.

  ‘Have a drink with me,’ said Melody as they made their way through the lobby.

  Al was tired from all the socialising and travel but by now he was enjoying Melody’s attentions. They sat in the corner of the Captain’s bar, right next to the table at which he and his friends had sat when they had joined Fergal for his thirtieth birthday and the Hong Kong Sevens – was it only two years ago?

  As though sharing this thought, Melody said, ‘You really miss him, don’t you?’

  ‘More than I realise sometimes. Sorry if I bang on about him. It’s just we were close and the manner of his passing – so violent and pointless – it makes it all the harder to take.’

  ‘I understand. Your grief is a tribute to him.’ Al shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of his single malt. ‘I’m a big fan of yours, Al,’ continued Melody. ‘I like the way you work. I like the way that we work together as a team. It’s fair to say there’s a connection between us.’ She held his gaze as she said, ‘I want to make sure that you get what you deserve at Hartmann. I sometimes think your talents are overlooked.’ Naturally, Al felt the same but it was good to hear it from Melody. He didn’t say anything, enjoying instead the praise and attention of this increasingly alluring woman.

  They both yawned at the same time and chuckled at the coincidence. ‘Time for bed,’ said Melody and Al nodded, draining his whisky glass. They walked to the lifts and there was one standing with its doors open. Their shoulders rubbed together as they entered and Melody appeared to lose her footing. Al put his arm around her to steady her. In the days and weeks that followed, Al thought long and hard about whether she really had stumbled or whether it was all a carefully choreographed ruse. Either way, they were alone together in a confined space as the doors closed and neither of them pressed the button for the ninth floor for at least a minute by which time, their kisses had become increasingly passionate and Melody’s fingers were rested on the natural projection on the front of Al’s trousers. By the time they were at the door to Melody’s room, she already had the buttons to his shirt undone. Once inside her room, they were naked in under a minute. This was no smouldering slow-burning passion but white hot lust. They made love like they both had something to prove. Al was accustomed to Krystina’s enthusiasm for sex. But sometimes, if he was honest, it felt a little mechanical. There were only so many times that you could have sex as though the cameras were rolling. But what Al missed was the affection. His lovemaking with Melody was energetic; they lost themselves in the moment, but it was punctuated by moments of affection. She stroked him, caressed him and as their passion reached its peak, she told him, ‘Kiss me as I come.’

  Fast-forward six hours and several more orgasms each, and Al woke up to the harsh light of a Hong Kong morning. He was face down in the pillow and he could taste a sourness from the night before. What had tasted so good six hours previously tasted bad in the brutal glow of daylight. Al turned his head around, enjoying the momentary cool of the cotton bed linen against his cheek. He was at home in his bed in Chelsea; Krystina was lying next to him. Her thigh was pressed against the small of his back. It felt soft and warm. Only it wasn’t Krystina who he was lying next to, it was Melody, and memories from the night before started to download whether he wanted them to or not. As they did so, the first person that he thought of besides Melody wasn’t Krystina but Rob Douglas. Was this how Rob had felt after the two girls at the Four Floors of Whores in Singapore? Before he could even begin to think of whether this was in any way comparable on a moral level, Melody was snuggling up to him, pulling him close. Al’s compulsion to resist was autonomic but even in her semi-conscious state, Melody could detect it and she mumbled: ‘What’s the matter, darling?’ She sounded so Australian. And darling? Was she mistaking him for someone else just as he had momentarily mistaken her for Krystina? Or was he just one of many? Did she do this sort of thing all the time? She muttered, ‘Oh Al, that was so nice,’ and her lips found his. She knew exactly who he was and what she was doing. She now had complete control over him.

  25 The Elephant Trade

  SP500: 1105

  Hang Seng: 13400

  TED Spread: 71.8

  Miles sat in his office at Aden Partners in Zug, looking out across the lake. The surface was flat, calm – like a mill pond as he had heard it described by English visitors. Sometimes, when he looked out across the lake, he imagined a hand rising out of it clutching a sword – Excalibur – as he had seen in a film once as a child. Sometimes he could go days on end without having this feeling; other times, it seemed to cling to him like mist to the surface of the lake. Since he had been at Aden Partners his life had become increasingly dreamlike. He had such capital at his disposal, such a myriad of possible opportunities into which he could put it to work; and yet there was something about his life that made him feel uncomfortable, on edge. He just couldn’t work out exactly what it was. And that troubled him yet further.

  It certainly wasn’t where he lived. He loved Switzerland, loved the mountains, and had become a good skier – something that he had dreamed of being since he was a boy. He had a house on the Dolder not far from Artem Babich’s place. It wasn’t Lyudmila either. She had grown to love him – he could see that now – but he also knew that their relationship had no long term future. So maybe it was the money. He had so much capital under management that it felt limitless. It was as though he was sitting on a spouting geyser of P and L. Some of the trades that he was involved with appealed to him on an intellectual level that was almost sexual in its intensity. The contacts that he had made through the fund were priceless and the information that he was privy to was amazing. Eastern Europe, Russian and Asia were opening up for him like never before. It wasn’t the pressure of the role either. He thrived on it. The game was what it had always been about, solving the puzzle, finding the optimum trade. He still loved that feeling when he stormed in and squeezed the market, especially when everyone else was the other way around. Miles loved nothing better than when he sensed the fear. As Genghis Khan said, ‘It is not sufficient that I succeed. Everyone else must fail.’

  He loved it when he flew alone through the mountains in the Cessna that he had bought. He enjoyed his Friday nights out in Zurich, particularly those nights when he invited a few women back to his house for an after hours party. But despite all of this, there was a feeling that he just couldn’t shake. Miles was a man who thought he could solve anything but his own fear was an enigma to him.

  As much as Aden Partners confirmed his belief in the strategy of risk reward, Miles sometimes had the feeling that the risk reward dynamic had been reversed, so that it was now the risk that drove the reward. It wouldn’t stop nagging at him. When he had joined Aden Partners the year before, he had been told that the primary source of their capital was sovereign wealth funds based in Eastern Europe, the Middle East and Russia along with some private client money on the side. A couple of calls had confirmed it; Count Boris Wenzel was an investor, as were some of Miles’s other contacts in the region. It all seemed Kosher. Once ensconced in Zug, however, and increasingly so in the past few months, Miles had come to realise that there was a hierarchy of knowledge at the fund and he had become frustrated and unsettled to find that he only had access to its lowest levels. He had been at Aden for over twelve months but still he had not seen a full list of the fund’s investors d
espite his requests to Artem Babich that he should do so. It had become something of a bugbear of his in the past few weeks and his thoughts turned to this very issue on a daily, sometimes hourly basis.

  The firm’s business structure appeared to be overly complicated too, with a huge number of counterparties that it traded with for very little reason – or so it seemed to Miles – other than to do business for the sake of doing business. Hans Huerliman and Roger Ellwood would often put on trades with one bank and then take them off another for no apparent reason. He was constantly encouraged by Babich to trade more not less, even when he felt that discretion was the better call. Yet despite his increasing misgivings, the capital kept flooding in.

  Miles watched a flock of geese fly low over the lake. They assumed a perfect V formation. He couldn’t remember exactly when but at some stage of his education, he had learned why they assumed this formation when they flew and it had stayed with him for all these years, just one of those little facts that provide reassurance in the laws of nature. They flew in a V formation to conserve energy. Each goose flew just a little higher than the bird in front, which reduced wind resistance. They took it in turns to be at the front, dropping back when they got tired and in this way, they could fly much greater distances than if they flew in a random formation, each flying for themselves. To Miles, it seemed to be the perfect embodiment of good teamwork, the sort of teamwork that was curiously absent from his colleagues at Aden Partners.

  Miles’s ringing phone jolted him out of his reverie and he snatched up the receiver. It was Babich.