This has to be a wind-up. ‘Well, you must be very pleased.’
‘No! I am not pleased. My nephew is planning to leave the bank.’
Well you would, wouldn’t you? ‘I see. But Jan will become very rich. And floating a high tech entertainment company like that is great business for the bank.’
‘Money is not everything, Mister Hart.’ He looks at me. ‘Too much money too soon can be bad for you. Especially for such a young man. And the bank will not be floating the company.’
‘Really? Who’s he using?’
‘Hardman Stoney. They have been waiting to break into the German market for years.’ He turns and stares out of the window, his head bowed in shame. If only I had a revolver with one bullet in it, I’d pass it to him now.
‘Is it something I did? When he was working for me?’
Biedermann sighs. ‘No. He always wanted to rebel. Now he can. His mother – my sister – is heartbroken. He has grown very pale, he does not shave or cut his hair, he only plays computer games night after night. And it is making him very rich.’
Isn’t life a bitch? I don’t know where the conversation can go after this, unless I offer to send round some hookers to bring him back to reality. Knowing Biedermann just a little, I decide instead to move on to the business report. But his heart isn’t in it any more.
When I tell him we’ve been appointed to float the Old Orinoco Trading and Investment Company, beating off competition from the likes of Schleppenheim to do it, he simply nods and says ‘Congratulations’. When I say that their partner bank, Orinoco Banking and Finance, have started doing huge volumes of share trading through us, he doesn’t react. Even Herman looks sad. If this is victory, it sucks.
MORE WEEKS PASS, weeks that turn into months, more success, greater profits, not dozens but hundreds of new faces, and amazingly, in such a short time, Grossbank is turning into a winner. Our people walk into pitch meetings expecting to win the business. The competition actually take us seriously now. It’s amazing what happens if you hire hundreds of talented people and turn them loose to do their thing. Or at least, if you’re lucky enough to hire the people who hire hundreds of talented other people. I’m surrounded by so much talent now that I no longer have anything to do. Except be in charge, which is of course important – I keep telling myself I’m still the most important man in the firm. Early next year, the new building will be ready and we’ll all move down to Canary Wharf. It’s an extraordinary success story.
And inevitably, I’m bored. These days I take it for granted that people know who I am, that I have to live in a secure bubble, insulated both from specific hatred directed towards me, and from the more mundane realities of everyday life. I have monthly meetings with Scotland Yard to review security, both at the bank and at home – not just the AFF, apparently the Yardies might still be a concern too. I no longer have problems with restaurant bookings, or the need to use public transport, or getting my expense claims signed off. I’ve arrived.
And I can’t tell you how dull life is. The only person who might have livened it up, Sally perfectly-whitepanties Mills, is in Scotland, refusing all contact with me, living with the appalling Trevor the non-achiever. I could offer her millions, and instead all she wants is a fucking schoolteacher.
Paul Ryan is sitting in my office, going through risk positions after the market close. Orinoco Banking and Finance have turned out to be a huge client of the Equities and Fixed Income businesses, taking massive positions, placing hugely aggressive bets that markets will go in one direction or another. More recently, they’ve introduced us to a clutch of Middle Eastern banking institutions that they work with, most of whom we’d never heard of before, and who have turned out to be almost as big. Paul calls them the Dodgy Dozen, and he worries that if they were to lose serious money they might default, but in the meantime, the profit we’re making from them is huge. Right now, they are all lining up to short the market, betting that the current bull run is going to come to an abrupt halt and the market will fall. They’re bucking the trend, betting against everyone else in huge size. I call Tripod Turner and ask what he thinks.
‘Anyone shorting this market needs his head examined. We’re in a bull cycle and there’s a good ten per cent still to run, maybe more. The only thing that could stop it is a bomb going off.’
That’s when the bomb goes off.
It’s quite a large bomb, enough to bring down half the newly refurbished Department of Trade and Industry building in Whitehall. Luckily – or maybe not – it’s after six o’clock, and the building is empty.
The effect on world markets is instantaneous. New York goes briefly into freefall, as terrorist alerts go off all around the world. The Prime Minister is taken to a secure bunker, although sadly he’s released the next day, armed police are everywhere on the streets of London and other major capitals, and markets are in a tail-spin.
The Dodgy Dozen are about the only people around with smiles on their faces.
When I get together with Paul the following morning, they have booked paper profits of over a billion euros. He’s not a happy man.
‘This sucks. Everyone else has taken a bath. Including our own traders.’
The giant news screens on the trading floor are showing a video tape released to a Middle Eastern news agency of a guy with a beard in Arab dress sitting in a cave somewhere saying they did it, and there’s more to come. What is it with these people? Why spoil things? Why can’t they just be happy with drugs and booze and hookers like the rest of us?
‘What do we really know about the Orinoco Banking and Finance Corporation?’
Paul shrugs. ‘They’re very big in Columbia, have a lot of Middle East connections, look after money for a bunch of wealthy Columbians, and trade very aggressively. They file all the right reports with the regulators.’
‘Yeah, right.’ They say that those who can do, and those who can’t, teach. In the City, those who can do, and those who can’t, regulate. ‘And these other guys – the Dodgy Dozen?’
‘Much the same. Middle Eastern money, whatever that means these days.’
‘When did they put on these short positions?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘This sucks. Let’s get the police in.’
Now Paul looks troubled. ‘Are you sure? What if they did know this was coming? Do you really want to get on the wrong side of people like this? Weren’t the Jamaicans and the AFF enough? We could just let them take their profits, carry on quietly trading with them, and if you really feel uncomfortable, write a big cheque to some charity or other.’
Even as he says this, he knows it won’t work. I’m Dave Hart, womaniser, drug addict, alcoholic and super-hero. And I’m bored.
THE PLODS are as uninspiring as you might expect people to be who never make six figures, let alone getting a shot at real money. The Detective Chief Inspector is possibly the only person I’ve ever shown into my office who thinks the ‘Me Wall’ is real: ‘My goodness, Mister Hart, you do get around.’
But when it comes to markets, this guy’s an expert. While his sergeant sits taking notes, he explains to Paul and me that a lot of rumours went around the market after the DTI bombing, about possible terrorist activity behind the scenes, about how the big supporters of Middle Eastern terror might be cashing in and shorting the market ahead of the latest outrage, but it really is a conspiracy theory too far, and besides, they have ‘intelligence’ – really? – that shows we don’t have to concern ourselves too much. He doesn’t quite tell us not to worry our pretty little heads about all this, because the big boys are in charge, but he comes close.
Afterwards, when Maria has shown them out, Paul looks relieved. ‘There, we’ve done our bit. No one can ever say we didn’t try. We told the police. They’re the professionals, it’s down to them now.’ Arse well and truly covered, let’s carry on trading. He gets up to leave.
‘I’m not honouring those trades.’
Paul’s half way out the door, but s
tops in his tracks and turns.
‘You what?’
‘Those trades. The billion plus euros of profit the Dodgy Dozen booked. I’m tearing up the tickets. They’re not getting the money.’
‘You can’t do that. They’d sue. We’d be closed down. Our word is our bond. You can’t renege on a trade after you’ve dealt.’
‘I just did.’
‘Dave, this is insane. What about the billion? Are you keeping that, too?’
‘I’m going to bring in a group of wise men – the Bank of England, the regulators, PC Plod if he wants to be part of it – because I’m not satisfied about the bona fides of the Dodgy Dozen. I don’t want you to do any more trades for these guys without my say-so. We’ll sit on the money until the wise men give us a green light. And if they don’t, we won’t keep a penny. The whole lot goes to charity. I don’t care if we get the biggest lawsuit in the world. We’re Grossbank, and we’re taking these guys on.’
Some bosses would delegate the task of breaking the happy news to the Dodgy Dozen, but I’m Dave Hart, and I love this stuff. We do a whole series of conference calls, tape recorded, to explain that we are investigating discrepancies in trading patterns around the time of the DTI bombing, that the British authorities are involved, and in the meantime they can whistle for their money.
Their reactions range from puzzlement and disbelief, to rage and fury. The President of one of them, sitting in Beirut, tells me I’m a Zionist motherfucker and I’d better watch my back. Another assures me that I have no idea what I’m getting into, and if I’m really going to do this, then I must be crazy. I lean close to the speaker-phone, and in a hushed voice, whisper to him, ‘Say, Mister al-Fawaz, do you hear the voices, too?’
Herman is concerned. ‘Are you sure about this, Dave? Are you sure about what you’re getting us into?’
Of course not, Herman. I don’t have a fucking clue, but I’m flying again. The Silver Fox organises another press conference. The room is packed, not just with the financial press, but with TV and radio and mainstream news as well.
Paul and Two Livers sit on either side of me, but they both look as if they’d rather be somewhere else.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. I’m Dave Hart, global head of investment banking at Grossbank, and the man ultimately responsible for our activities in the world’s markets. As you know, a number of financial institutions have voiced concerns about certain unusual trading activities in the stock market ahead of the DTI bombing. Grossbank is one of those institutions, and I am announcing today that as a result of our internal enquiries, we are freezing certain trades carried out by a number of client banks and other financial institutions based in the Middle East and Latin America. We are not naming those institutions in the interim, but are inviting the Bank of England, the City of London police and the regulatory authorities to convene a working party to examine their trading activities. Until such time as we are convinced that there is no link here to global terror, we are freezing over a billion euros in trading profits.
‘Given the legal uncertainties surrounding our decision, you’ll understand that there is very little I can add to what I’ve just told you, but I’m willing to take a few questions.’
Pandemonium. I love this job.
‘Dick Harper, Wall Street News. Is your action legal? Isn’t Grossbank effectively reneging on trades?’
‘Thank you, Dick. You’re right. Our legal position is… delicate. That’s why we can’t name the clients involved, and why we’re bringing in outside help. But if it’s a choice between doing the right thing, and sitting quietly on our hands, I think you know where Grossbank stands.’
‘Eddie Strange, Daily Post. You said the clients concerned are from the Middle East and Latin America. Is there a connection? Could it be that the drug cartels are working with the terrorists? Is there an Afghan connection here?’
‘It’s too soon to speculate. When we can say something concrete, we will.’ I look around. ‘One more question?’
‘Angela Hargraves, Her Magazine. Aren’t you worried for your personal safety in taking these people on? What if the drug cartels are involved, as well as the terrorists? Aren’t you being incredibly brave?’
Well, yes, actually, I am – and doesn’t it set your pulse racing? ‘Thank you, Angela. The man behind this decision at Grossbank is…’ I flick a switch on the podium in front of me and turn to the giant screen behind. Damn.
Instead of a huge picture of Herman, there’s one of me, with my name in very large letters. I cast a vicious glance at the girl who runs the presentation team, but she simply shrugs helplessly and mouths ‘Herman’s orders.’ I look at the Silver Fox, and he shrugs too. Damn, these Germans learn fast. ‘…it’s me.’ I nod modestly. ‘Obviously, not just me alone, the board are right behind me on this.’ A long way behind, actually. ‘And so are my colleagues on the management committee in London.’ I hold my hands out towards Paul and Two Livers, but they’ve both moved their chairs to the far ends of the stage, so they’re out of camera shot.
AFTER THE PRESS conference, the chaos. The Bank of England had no idea I was going to involve them as ‘wise men’. The regulators are equally baffled – no one’s ever accused them of being wise before. And PC Plod has had his head chewed off by the Commissioner for not telling him Grossbank was calling on their expertise as well. Who’s going to organise this working group? How will they work? What will be their powers? Don’t ask me, I just made the announcement. There are phone calls, more interviews, photo shoots. Everywhere I go, colleagues are looking nervously at me for encouragement. I grin and call out across the trading floor to our traders, ‘Grossbank rocks.’ They yell back and give me the thumbs up. On the giant screen TV’s on the walls, there is footage of me at the press conference in our offices. We are the news. We are Grossbank.
Naturally, with a thousand and one things to do – and fortunately with lots of highly trained, competent people to do them – I tell Maria I’m taking an hour out of my day to see my acupuncturist.
Three hours later, when I get back, I’m drained. I haven’t been sleeping lately, and all the excitement has caught up with me. It’s turned into a 3G afternoon. I arrive back to find that I have visitors. Not from the ‘wise men’, as I thought, but the President of the Orinoco Banking and Finance Corporation, with a couple of his sidekicks. Paul Ryan has had them shown into a meeting room, and everyone’s been waiting for me to get back.
I stifle a yawn, which some of the young guys seem to think is incredibly cool and brave. ‘All right, let’s see what they have to say.’
Paul has had a couple of security guards stationed outside the meeting room door.
When I go in, with Paul and Two Livers beside me, I find myself facing three villains straight from Central Casting. The President, early sixties with silver hair and a suntan, has a scar running down one side of his face that is even more impressive than mine. His two hoodlums – I mean colleagues – look like Mike Moss’s cousins. One has a pock-marked face. All are wearing suits and ties and dark glasses, as if they’ve come straight from the set of Reservoir Dogs.
‘Gentlemen – what an unexpected pleasure.’
The President, who is holding a pencil, snaps it in two. Silence.
We sit facing each other, three on three, and no one says a word. If these turkeys think they can come into my office and intimidate me, in front of my own employees, they’re damned right. They’re scary as hell and I’m shitting myself. Where’s Mike Moss when you need him?
Finally the President clears his throat.
‘You have something of ours, Mister Hart.’
Really? Oh, you must mean the billion. I’ll just go and get it right now. Do you have a wheelbarrow, or would you like to borrow one of ours? Instead of answering, I raise a quizzical eyebrow. It’s not that I don’t want to say anything, just that all the excitement has so drained me physically, mentally and emotionally that I’m buckling under a wave of fatigue.<
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‘We’ve come for our money, Mister Hart.’
Silence. Paul Ryan glances to his left, to see if I intend to say anything at all.
‘Mister Hart! You would do well to take us seriously. Do you recall your friend Oscar Rodriguez, who first chose Grossbank to float his company? Our mutual friend, Mister Rodriguez, who was responsible for bringing us together?’
I stare at him through half-closed eyes.
‘He died, Mister Hart. Someone put a bomb under his car.’ He crosses himself theatrically. ‘Oscar Rodriguez, his wife and driver all died.’ He glances at his watch. ‘In Bogota. About ten minutes ago.’
How could he possibly know that? Unless… Beside me, Two Livers gasps. She turns to me, but my eyes are closed completely now, and my head slowly sinks forward onto the table. I take a couple of breaths, followed by a loud, rasping snore.
THE LEGEND has reached almost mythical proportions.
They’re calling me the Ice Man now – Dave ‘ice in his veins’ Hart. Scotland Yard are fretting that I’ve made myself into too much of a target – really, just by falling asleep in a meeting? I’m always doing that these days. I was shagged out, for fuck’s sake. Wendy’s fretting about whether I’ve made a will – for Samantha, of course, not for herself. Herman the German insists that I keep a low profile for my own safety, and Mike Moss agrees with him. Even Tripod Turner says he’d think twice about having dinner with me, in case we were machine-gunned to death by drug dealers, or given a kick-start into the next world by a waiter with explosives strapped to his body. I see his point.
Everywhere I go, I travel with Tom in the armoured limo, and two carloads of heavies who stay in contact by radio. Two bodyguards stay with me in the house, and I have a panic button beside the bed. All of this is so seriously curtailing my usual activities, that I wonder whether it’s time to cave – so that I can get back to drugs and hookers.
But as ever, it’s the least expected line of attack that proves to be the one the enemy choose. They opt for blackmail. They want to ruin my reputation. Yes, honestly.
Trust Me, I'm a Banker (Dave Hart 2) Page 15
