Shadow Banking

by C. M. Albright

  Miles had the taxi drop him a couple of hundred yards from the house and he walked the rest of the way. He remembered the first time that he had opened up the gate and walked along the drive and how he had felt a sense of pride that he should own such a beautiful house overlooking Lake Zurich. But it was his home no more. Now, it felt threatening and dangerous. Part of that he recognised as paranoia but the line between reality and paranoia had become blurred of late.

  The housekeeper had been laid off a couple of weeks before. He had told her that he was moving to the Far East and the house would be sold. He had stayed in the Holiday Inn in central Zurich since then. He didn’t want to be on his own. Being surrounded by people, albeit the faceless residents of a hotel, was reassuring. He hadn’t been back to the house since and now the place stood in darkness, silhouetted against the lights of the city in the distance. He slid his key into the lock and waited for the beep of the alarm but there was nothing, silence. The housekeeper must have forgotten to set it. That had to be it. He stood in the doorway as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness.

  Was this a good idea?

  Perhaps he should forget the bag and its contents. He could get some more cash; he could buy some more clothes. The watch was precious but he had an identical one. The passport would be useful. It had been difficult to source but again, it was not impossible to procure another. Should he just turn around and walk away? He listened. Nothing save for the distance hum of a car making its way into Zurich. He waited until it had faded away. He was being paranoid. Everything was fine. Miles stepped inside, turned around and gently pushed the door back into its frame. The bag was thirty feet away through the arch in the living room. There was enough light from the windows overlooking the lake for him to navigate his way through from the hallway. The safe box was hidden in the corner of the living room. Twelve feet away. Miles picked his way between the furniture in the centre of the room, crouched down, touched what appeared to be just one identical tile out of many with the tip of the middle finger of his right hand and the tile slid back to reveal a keypad. He keyed in the PIN number. His mother’s birthday. The 23rd of February. 0223. The door clicked open, he reached inside and his fingers closed around the holdall’s padded handle. He pulled it out and placed it on the floor while he closed the door and slid the tile back into position. Picking up the holdall and turning around, he started to make his way back towards the archway into the hall.

  When he heard the voice, he was struck by a feeling of déjà vu. This was what his paranoia had told him would happen – although it couldn’t very well be termed paranoia now that it had been proved true. He knew who it was. It could only be one person.

  ‘Where’s the money, Miles?’

  He was trying to sound calm but Miles could hear something in his voice that indicated that he was very far from calm. Miles turned around and was momentarily blinded by a red laser dot shining in his eyes.

  ‘You know what that is don’t you Miles?’

  Miles looked down at his chest and there was the red dot, positioned on his shirt, just over his heart.

  ‘Artem, the role of Bond villain doesn’t really suit you.’

  ‘Fuck you, Miles. All I want is the money. Give me that and we can forget everything else and go our separate ways.’

  ‘You know Vadim would never let you do that. He’s Russian. He’s old school. He’ll want all the loose ends tied up.’

  ‘Where’s the fucking money, Miles? Just give me the money and I’ll let you live.’

  ‘You’ve got a dilemma here, Artem, because if you kill me, you know you’ll never get it.’

  ‘You’re not leaving, Miles. If I have to shoot you in the leg or even in the balls, you’re going to tell me where the money is.’

  ‘I guess I’m not the only one who’s in trouble with Vadim, eh? You must be feeling the heat yourself. I suppose that’s why it’s you sitting here with the gun and not the guy with the messed up ear.’

  ‘Shut up, Miles. Now, I’m going to ask you again.’

  Artem had changed the angle of the laser scope and Miles looked to see that the dot was now positioned over the front of his trousers.

  ‘This is ridiculous, Artem, I’m not going to tell you where the money is. If you shoot me in the balls, I’ll bleed to death. You shoot me anywhere and you risk killing me.’

  ‘This is your last chance, Miles. Where’s the money?’

  ‘How do you know that there is any money? Haven’t you thought that perhaps I’m just another sucker along with all the rest? Maybe I’m just another Roger Ellwood.’

  ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘How do you know? I might have been burned as badly as anyone else. All bets are off now Artem. This is uncharted territory.’

  ‘You’ve got money. We know you’ve been getting the cash out and sticking it all over the place. I’m not stupid Miles.’

  ‘Well, in that case you know that cash is all held in my name. With me dead, you’ll never get to it and you’ll be a fugitive from justice, a murderer. Do you really want that?’

  ‘It’s something that I’ll have to live with. Believe me, Miles, I will kill you if I have to.’

  ‘No you won’t. It’s not your style. You have other people do that for you, or you would have if you weren’t so deep in the shit yourself. Where’s Hans?’

  ‘He was arrested.’

  Miles allowed himself a little chuckle. Nothing extravagant. Artem was emotionally fragile – he was also holding a gun. Miles couldn’t allow himself any complacency. A bullet might come at any moment.

  ‘He always was a useless dick.’ Miles felt a moment’s liberation. He had spent so long at Aden Partners playing the game, doing the right thing, that it felt good to air his true feelings. ‘Now, listen Artem. I’m going to turn around and I’m going to walk out of that door. If you shoot me, you’ll never get the money. All I have to keep me alive is what I know. I suggest that we talk about this on the phone in the coming days.’

  Now that Miles’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, he could see Artem’s silhouette on the chaise longue beneath the window at the end of the room.

  ‘Miles, you’re going to tell me where the money is or I’m going to shoot you in the balls. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘And I’ll say it again, Artem, if you shoot me, then no one gets anything. If you use your head and think logically then we both have a future. So I’m going to turn around now and walk out of the door. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘You’re not leaving.’

  ‘If you pull the trigger Artem, you might as well be shooting yourself in the head.’

  Miles turned around. His legs were trembling. He took a step. He was still alive. Would Artem speak? Miles sort of hoped that he would; it would be reassuring to hear that he was still prepared to communicate. Artem’s lack of dialogue was a bad sign. But it was too late to analyse his course of action. He walked towards the door. The little red dot would be positioned over his back and Artem might just kill him for the hell of it. It all depended on his fragile state of mind. Miles had reached the front door. He put his hand on the handle and as he started to turn it, there was a silenced gunshot. He flinched. Whatever the bullet had struck, it wasn’t him. Silence closed over the explosion once more. Nothing moved in the house. Whether Artem had shot himself or not, this was not the time to find out. There was no turning back.

  Miles closed the door after him and walked off down the drive moving faster as he left the house behind. He had just completed the biggest and riskiest trade of his life.

  SP500: 865

  EUR/USD: 1.3165

  Fed funds: 1%

  All eyes in the room turned to the Chairman of the panel, a sharp-suited man in his mid-fifties who looked as though he might have been a trader himself in the past. Peering over the top of his rimless spectacles, he began his deliberation. ‘The Financial Services and Markets Tribunal has chosen to uphold the Financial Services Authority case agai
nst Alistair John Denham after finding that he is not fit and proper to work in any part of the UK’s regulated financial services industry. It is clear to the tribunal that Mr Denham’s recent behaviour with regards to the transaction in August 2008 between Aden Partners and Moscow Clearing Corporation shows that he is not able and willing to comply with requirements placed on him by the professional rules and obligations of the Financial Services Authority. The tribunal finds that Mr Denham poses a serious risk to the reputation of the market and therefore concludes that a Prohibition Order is necessary in order to protect the industry from risk and to maintain market confidence. Mr Denham’s FSA licence and authority to trade is revoked with immediate effect. Nevertheless, the tribunal also believes that Mr Denham’s behaviour of August 2008 in relation to this transaction does not constitute a criminal matter.’

  Al emitted a long sigh. The sense of relief he felt stilled the sick tremble that had plagued his guts all morning. Melody Eales and other members of Hartmann’s senior management had taken great pleasure in letting it be known to Al that a fraud charge and prison time were very real possibilities. Al knew that Melody was watching him from the other side of the room. He considered looking over at her to enjoy her disappointment but the chairman wasn’t finished with his judgement.

  ‘Mr Denham’s behaviour merits a penalty of £100,000 but because this level of fine would cause Mr Denham serious financial hardship, this penalty has been reduced to £60,000. Furthermore, in light of the Moscow Clearing Corporation’s bankruptcy and the ongoing investigation into the dealings of Aden Partners by the Swiss Financial Market Supervisory Authority, along with the absconding of two of the partners and the arrest of the third, it is necessary to make it understood to Mr Denham that he must make himself available as a witness for further tribunals if and when required.’

  Al’s lawyer, a rosy-cheeked Scot who looked barely old enough to have completed his articles, leaned forward and nodded at the chairman of the panel who ceremoniously closed his eyelids by way of acknowledgement. ‘On the basis of that understanding, this tribunal is now at a close.’

  That was it. Al’s career in the City of London was at an end whether he wanted it to be or not. It just so happened that he did. He remained seated while chairs were pushed back and shoes clicked on the polished wood floor all around. He was a free man.

  ‘Got to run,’ said Al’s lawyer. He held out his hand and Al shook it. His bill would be in the post, no doubt, a further contribution to Al’s ‘serious hardship’ as the chairman of the tribunal had described his financial predicament.

  Al stood up slowly and turned around. Melody was at the door, just about to disappear from his life forever. As she turned around and looked back into the room, their eyes met. It would have been crass to smirk at her obvious irritation that he had managed to avoid criminal charges but he didn’t want to let the moment pass unmarked. So, he winked. She didn’t register it, just turned back and walked through the door.

  Outside, the sun was shining on Canary Wharf. Al stood and looked up into the blue sky and took a deep breath of London air. It was lunchtime and smart professionals in their suits and designer clothes moved all around him, most of them no doubt denizens of the financial services industry in this colony of the City of London. Al felt like an alien, an outsider, an outlaw. It felt good. He wanted no part of their world.

  ‘Want a lift?’

  The voice came from a car that had pulled up on the North Colonnade. It was a beautiful old sports car. A 1950s MG roadster in British racing green. It was a car that Al had seen many times before. It had belonged to Tobias Green. For years it had remained in a state of permanent restoration as though Tobias had been wary of declaring his ongoing project at an end. Seated in the driver’s seat was Imogen wearing a headscarf and sunglasses, the creams and beiges of her coat complimenting the deep red of her lipstick and the green of the car’s paintwork as though all the colours had been picked out by a photographer’s stylist. She looked up at him, smiling, as he walked across the pavement, opened the car door and climbed in. The smell of the leather upholstery mingled with the smell of Imogen’s perfume to provide an intoxicating aroma that he breathed in hungrily. Al and Imogen kissed; she smiled at him and said ‘Well?’

  ‘Free.’

  She kissed him again. Longer this time. Then she wiped away a smudge of lipstick from his mouth, put the car into gear and drove off through the London streets.

  31 The Reckoning

  Temperature: 26°C

  High Tide: 8.06am

  Wind: 7mph WNW

  From the headland above the beach, the tables down below on the sand looked like pink squares. But the tablecloths on the tables weren’t pink. They were a red and white check. They had been chosen specifically by the owner of the open air bistro because they conformed to an idealised fantasy that had been harboured over many years. Al had dreamed of this place. This had nothing to do with the City. It was simple. It meant something.

  Although not yet ten o’clock in the morning, the sun was high in the sky and the temperature was nudging the low eighties. Holiday makers from up the coast in Biarritz would arrive later in the morning. Not many, high season was still a few weeks away, but enough to turn a profit. As it was, Al had the beach to himself. A breeze from the south-east stirred the sleeves on his T-shirt as he placed the cutlery baskets and serviettes on the tablecloth and anchored everything down to the table with a weighty china vase complete with a couple of carnations in it. The flowers were Imogen’s touch.

  She appeared in the entrance to the cottage beyond the sand dunes. She held up a spiral bound notebook and he waved to her. She blew him a kiss and made her way up onto the road. Al took a candle from the box on the chair next to him and clearing some melted wax away from the neck of the wine bottle, he inserted the end of the candle and placed the bottle in the middle of the table next to the vase of carnations. In Imogen’s notebook was a list of the ingredients they would need for that day’s menu. The wholesaler’s down the coast was a half hour drive away but worth the journey because everything cost about half as much as it did if they went to the wholesalers in Biarritz. The produce was of a similar quality. Profit margin was crucial in the restaurant business. They were starting at the very bottom of the ladder and that suited Al. That expression – it’s better to be at the bottom of a ladder that you want to climb than half way up one that you don’t – had stayed with him for years. He had climbed more than half way up one ladder in his life already. If he had wanted to, he might have been able to climb even higher. He hadn’t. The ladder that he was at the bottom of was all the more appealing purely because it wasn’t the other ladder. Ever since he and Imogen had taken the lease on the bistro, he had kept expecting the honeymoon period of living from day to day to wear off. So far, that hadn’t happened. It was a simple existence. He and Imogen spent their days and evenings cooking and waiting on tables. At night, they ate some leftovers, drank some wine and went to bed. If they weren’t too tired, they made love and even if they were, they always fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Today’s menu consisted of moules à la Provencal, onion soup, chicken liver pâté and gravalax to start followed by steak frites, fillet of salmon, mushroom omelette and a new duck dish that Imogen wanted to try out for the first time. For dessert, it was chocolate mousse, crème caramel and another experiment by Imogen, rum cake. They were novices; they had no pretensions of serving fine French cuisine. But in the few months they had been preparing food, the culinary disasters were becoming less frequent, the successes were increasing and people were coming back for more.

  Friends and family that Al spoke to about what he was up to clearly thought that this was a transitionary phase. This was his way of dealing with what had happened. Once he had explored his quaint fantasy and got it out of his system, then he would set about rebuilding a career in business. Al let them think this, didn’t disabuse them of their notions about him and his life. Maybe they were ri
ght, maybe this was a transitionary phase. Maybe he would start again. But he doubted it. He was happy; why would he want to do anything to jeopardise that?