Shadow Banking

by C. M. Albright

  ‘Artem.’

  ‘Miles, can you come through? There’s someone here I want you to meet.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Miles didn’t think for one moment that the arrival of the visitor – whoever it was – had been a surprise. Surprises were anathema to Babich and the employees of Aden Partners. Miles made his way to Artem’s office and found the room full of people. Artem was seated with Huerliman and Ellwood at the conference table. Sitting with them was a man whose loafers, chinos, polo shirt and cashmere pullover draped over his shoulders suggested that he had just stepped straight off his yacht. He was tanned and handsome, about forty-five years old, with a face that could have provided him with work as a film actor. Narrow inscrutable eyes aside, there was a look of George Clooney to him. Only when Miles had reached the table and Artem looked up at him, smiling, did Miles notice the two goons in charcoal grey suits – clearly bodyguards – who sat on a sofa to one side of the conference table and watched him with an expression of blank disinterest.

  ‘Miles, this is Vadim Titov.’

  The handsome guy held his hand out and Miles shook it. So this was the enigmatic Vadim Titov. He had heard his name mentioned a number of times by Babich, Huerliman and Ellwood. When Miles had questioned them about him, they had clammed up so Miles had dug deeper and discovered that he was a Russian Oligarch who appeared to have employed some heavyweight media advisors to ensure that all mention of him in the press was buried. Never had Miles come across an individual whose power and wealth were allegedly so vast and yet his activities so opaque and impregnable. All that Miles had managed to find on him was that he was involved with a number of hedge funds throughout the world, exact details unspecified. He had some sporting interests, owned a couple of European football clubs. And that was it as far as Miles could discover. He had considered employing a private investigator specialising in global finance but had balked at the thought of employing someone who might not share his meticulous sense of discretion.

  ‘Good to meet you, Miles,’ said Vadim Titov with a non-specific Eastern European accent. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Miles, allowing Titov a smile that was reciprocated. Clearly, he hadn’t heard a lot about him at all. But it was a sign to his colleagues at Aden Partners that he wasn’t as ill-informed as they suspected. Why had he not been told that Titov was coming in?

  Only when he had gone around the table and taken his place at the only available seat, which appeared to have been saved specifically for him next to Titov, did Miles realise that there was another man in the room. Seated on the sofa against the far wall, seemingly absorbed by something on the screen of his mobile phone, was a tall man with sunken cheeks and closely cropped dark hair speckled with grey. He was dressed all in black – jeans, black flannel shirt, suede leather jacket and boots. The first time that Miles looked across at him, he didn’t notice it but the second time, it was unmistakable. It appeared that his ear had been removed and the aural cavity that remained was fringed by a puffy ridge of skin, almost like a pair of lips.

  ‘Miles, Vadim is looking into increasing his levels of capital within the fund,’ said Artem. ‘We’ve been discussing various opportunities ...’ Been? The length of time that they had been discussing Titov’s new funds – not to mention the fact that they had been doing so without his presence – was something that he would worry about later. ‘We wanted to get some insight from you regarding your feelings not just about markets in general, but also investment opportunities in certain former Soviet states especially those with large amounts of natural resources.’

  Miles leaned back in his chair and considered his response. He could feel everyone around the table watching him and he felt a strange sense of relief that he was finally being accepted into the inner sanctum. As Miles expounded his long term theories on commodities which were bullish, he had the undivided attention of the entire room.

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said the relaxed Russian, leaning back in his seat and maintaining eye contact with Miles. ‘Do you personally have a good connection with Hartmann Milner?’

  The question caught Miles off guard. Why that name? They had been discussing general trends and potential openings. His expression must have betrayed his misgivings at the conversation’s sudden swerve.

  ‘I do very little with Hartmann Milner but I do have an old relationship there.’’Good,’ said Titov, nodding, eyes burning into Miles.

  Artem looked around the table before he said, ‘We all need to do more with Hartmann’s, especially in emerging markets.’ And then, looking at Miles he said, ‘Oh and FX and commodities too. Let’s do enough to ensure we are a significant counter-party.’

  Miles nodded, looked around the table at all the eyes that were focused on him and said, ‘Sure.’

  After the meeting had broken up, Miles went back to his desk and returned his gaze to the surface of the lake. The mist appeared thicker than before, more malevolent somehow. Beneath the surface of the water, there was movement. The tail of a large fish – a pike or a carp perhaps – broke the glass surface and long after it had sunk back into the depths, the rings rippled outwards providing an intense metaphor for what Miles was about to do.

  Credit: 380bps

  Fed funds: 1%

  Gold: 395

  Al used to enjoy his journeys to and from the City in the back of a black London taxi. They allowed him time to catch up on phone calls, often with friends. But since he had taken possession of his Blackberry, he found himself tapping away on its little metal keys, answering the increasing deluge of emails that headed his way, when he used to watch the world go by on the London streets. Today was no different. He was just finishing off an email to Melody Eales, employing as terse and simplistic a writing style as he always employed when writing to her – anything to avoid speaking to her – when he found himself staring at the Blackberry’s screen on which was written: ‘Incoming Call’ and beneath it: ‘Miles Ratner.’ The phone numbers from his old mobile phone had been transferred en masse when he started to use his Blackberry and still included his former friend’s number. It felt strangely incongruous that someone who had taken such a leading role in so many tortuous thoughts of his in the past could just pick up a phone and dial his number. What the fuck did he want? And why now? Time felt as though it had shifted into a lower gear. Al stared at the screen as the adrenalin flooded his system. He would let the call go to voice mail and listen to what Miles had to say for himself before considering his response. Al’s thumb hovered over the ‘ringer off’ button but it was impatience and righteous indignation as much as anything that made his thumb change its trajectory and make for the ‘call answer’ button. That and the fact that he didn’t want to let Miles off the hook, didn’t want to give him the pleasure of feeling that Al owed him a call.

  Al held the Blackberry to his ear and said, ‘What do you want, Miles?’ As soon as he said it, he regretted it. It made him sound too wounded and bitter. But too late, he’d said it.

  ‘Hi Al. Pleased to hear from me I can tell.’ Miles was never a big one for sarcasm. Being British, sarcasm was an integral part of Al’s sense of humour. Miles, on the other hand, only used his dry New York sarcasm when he was with close friends. And Al realised that taking the call had been a bad idea. He hadn’t reckoned on the weight of emotion that he would suddenly have to bear. This was his former best friend, a man who had been a close companion throughout the most formative years of his life.

  ‘Where are you, Miles?’

  ‘Zug.’

  ‘So I take it this is not a personal call.’

  ‘I wondered if you’d like to meet up for dinner one night.’

  In the two and a half years since they had last spoken on 9/11, Al had often rehearsed what he would say to Miles when their paths finally crossed. Al had explored all sorts of hypothetical conversations, all of them now forgotten.

  ‘Why the hell would I want to have dinner with you?’ It sounded ch
ildish and needlessly confrontational but now that he had embarked on this conversational tone, he didn’t want to abandon it just yet. If nothing else, it represented a defence mechanism.

  ‘I just thought it might be time to try and put the past behind us.’

  ‘That’s more easily said than done.’

  ‘I know that. But it’s something that I’d like to try and do.’

  Miles was reaching out to him. This can’t have been an easy call to make. But Al wasn’t done trying to torture him.

  ‘Miles, it’s difficult. I still feel pretty raw about what happened.’

  ‘Me too.’

  That Miles was trying to claim some sort of equivalence in terms of loss and grief made Al bristle and for a moment he thought he might launch into the pre-rehearsed tirade that had played out in his head so many times. But there was no point. It wouldn’t make him feel any better and the fact of the matter was that he knew he was going to accept Miles’s invitation. Despite all that had happened, he couldn’t help but mourn their friendship.

  ‘I’m not sure, Miles.’

  There was no way that Miles Ratner was going to plead. It would never happen but Al was wrong-footed by the tone of regret in Miles’s voice when he said, ‘I can’t make you meet me Al. If you don’t want to discuss what happened and try and move on then there’s nothing more to be said.’

  ‘Are you going to be in London any time soon?’

  ‘Next Wednesday and Thursday. I could do either night.’

  ‘You should have come to Fergal’s memorial.’

  ‘I did.’

  Al had always felt that Miles’s emotional betrayal of Fergal was complete with his no-show at the memorial. Not only had Miles been trading like a maniac to save his skin while their friend was dying in the World Trade Centre but he couldn’t even be bothered to turn up to his memorial service. What had been going on in his life that was more important than that? Making more money perhaps? Miles’s claim that he had been there at the memorial came as a shock.

  ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I was at the back. I arrived late and left early. Fergal’s brother, Patrick, reading that W.B. Yeats was very moving. I was going to come over and say hello but it didn’t feel right so I thought I’d do us both a favour.’

  ‘Very noble of you, Miles.’

  ‘Listen Al, I know you think that what I did on 9/11 was unforgivable. Naturally, I have a different point of view. Either way, I’d like to see you. If we can’t patch things up then so be it. If we can then that would make me happy.’

  ‘I’ll see you at Nobu, Berkeley Square, on Wednesday at eight.’

  ‘See you then.’

  As Al pressed the ‘end call’ button on his Blackberry, his hand was shaking.

  Dax: 3840

  USD/JPY: 123.55

  VIX: 18

  Miles had expected Al to come alone and had only booked a table for two at Nobu but as Al walked towards him, he was accompanied by two tall attractive women. One was a hostess and one was Krystina. Miles stood up as they approached.

  ‘Hi,’ said Al as Krystina leaned forward and kissed Miles on both cheeks, twice on the right cheek and once on the left, as was her custom.

  ‘Good to see you both,’ said Miles.

  ‘Don’t worry about the table situation,’ said Al as Miles was about to ask the hostess for another place to be set. ‘I’ve sorted it.’ The hostess smiled and said, ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Miles had devoted much thought to how his conversation with Al might go but

  Krystina’s presence was something that he hadn’t taken into consideration. Maybe Al had brought Krystina along deliberately to unsettle him. As they sat at the table, Krystina sitting next to him on the banquet seat against the wall and Al pulling out a chair opposite, he thought that perhaps Krystina being there might turn out to be a good thing. Al could hardly have planned on launching a tirade of abuse at him in front of his wife. Unless Krystina had some haranguing of her own that she wanted to subject Miles to. He doubted it; that wasn’t Krystina’s style.

  ‘I saw your new film the other day,’ said Miles, turning to Krystina. ‘Unfortunately it wasn’t on the big screen, it was on a plane, but I liked it. There was definitely some chemistry there between you and – what’s the guy’s name?’

  ‘Chris Weston, he’s a bit of a prick if you really want to know.’

  ‘Really?’ Miles couldn’t help but smile at Krystina’s blunt appraisal of her work colleague.

  ‘Yeah, it was an OK film, I suppose, but it was a bit of a nothing part.’

  ‘You must spend a lot of time in LA,’ said Miles, conscious that Al was sitting in silence across the table watching them.

  ‘Not too much. It’s not my sort of place. I prefer working in Europe. But you know how it is, you go where the work is and Al is away so much nowadays.’

  Miles thought he could detect a hint of regret in Krystina’s voice. It was clearly a subject that she and Al had discussed at length because when Al responded by saying, ‘It’s not something that I particularly enjoy,’ the words were loaded with sub-text. Miles thought he could now piece together the motive behind Al bringing Krystina with him. Miles’s visit to London to see Al had clearly fallen on one of those few nights when Al and Krystina were meant to be spending some time together. So, Al had suggested that she come along. It was clear that all was not well in the Denham marriage and this thought made Miles relax a little. This entire process might be easier than he had anticipated. Al appeared to be distracted, preoccupied and very far from the happy-go-lucky Al that Miles was used to. ‘I guess you’re getting about a bit Miles,’ said Al, looking at Krystina as he did so.

  ‘Yeah, a few trips here and there as always.’

  When the hostess returned with three menus and set a place for Krystina, Al said, ‘Why don’t you choose for us, Miles? You were always good with menus.’

  ‘Yeah, go for it,’ said Krystina settling back in her seat, close enough that her bare shoulder rubbed against the cotton of his shirt. Miles was thankful of the opportunity to order some of his favourite food. Without even referring to the menu, he ordered a selection of sushi including the signature yellowtail sashimi with jalapeño and yuzu dressing, and some rock shrimp tempura. For their main courses, Miles chose the black cod and Ibérico pork steak, duck breast with wasabi salsa and brown rice miso paella. Miles was glad that Al and Krystina both nodded when he suggested the saké – a far greater compliment to the food than all the champagne and wine being consumed by their fellow diners.

  Miles enjoyed discussing food, particularly in situations like this where the conversation was imbued with a good deal of tension. Experience had shown Miles that people enjoyed talking about their favourite food and their favourite restaurants. And so it was with Al and Krystina. They could hide behind the small talk while the saké did its job of making them all relax. The inevitable conversation concerning what had happened on 9/11 could wait until at least the black cod had arrived. His script was all written and stored away in his mind and he would bring it into play when the time was right.

  AUD/USD: 0.7095

  Bovespa: 18500

  Dead Spread: 1.3066

  Al watched Miles and Krystina as they chatted away on the other side of the table. He had been dreading this meeting ever since Miles’s phone call the week before. Dreading it and yet yearning for it at the same time. He had always known that when the time came to meet his erstwhile friend, he would be subject to a good deal of emotional confusion. Bringing Krystina with him was something that he had done on impulse. She had looked disappointed when he said he was going to meet up with Miles so he just said it: ‘Come with me.’ And she did. The more he got used to the idea in the cab on the way over from Chelsea, the more it appealed to him. It would wrong-foot Miles; he would look for motives. Something else confirmed that it was the right decision and that was that he had always thought secretly that Miles found Krystina attractive. When the
y had spent that weekend at Miles’s place in Hvar back in 98, he remembered catching Miles watching Krystina. While Fergal had been the one who had been obsessed with Krystina’s enthusiasm for all things sexual, he wasn’t the only one whose eyes had been drawn to the sight of Al’s future wife in her bikini. And Al couldn’t figure out exactly why but the thought that Miles might still find her attractive appealed to him. Whereas once he had found the thought of Miles’s attraction to Imogen abhorrent, when it came to Krystina, he felt no such antipathy. What did that say about him and how he had changed over the years? And what did it say about his marriage?

  Miles steered the conversation around to 9/11 soon after the main course arrived. Al had wondered how he might tackle it.

  ‘All differences of opinion aside, I realise the way that I behaved was insensitive. And I’m truly sorry for that.’ Al watched Miles as he said the words. Never had he heard Miles make such a self-excoriating statement about himself, never heard him express remorse quite so openly about something. Yet it left him cold. It wasn’t that he felt that Miles was insincere – although there was that – but more that he had hoped that perhaps Miles might not have made the apology at all. It would have been easier that way. Even if Miles had said that he didn’t feel sorry for what he had done, that would have been preferable. As it was, he was left having to sit there and say that it was OK, he understood. It was all in the past. It was over. But there was a part of Al that didn’t want it to be over. What had happened on 9/11 had been confirmation of something that he had suspected about Miles ever since he had first met him. Miles was pathologically incapable of thinking of anything that did not advance his own self-interest. While Miles’s apology marked a new beginning in their relationship, Al knew that it was merely a preamble to the real reason why Miles had asked to meet him.

  ‘Miles, what happened that day was something that has changed us and the world forever. We all reacted to it in our own way.’