MONEY TREE

by Gordon, Ferris,

  She took a deep breath. ‘Shovelling dirt. Using his government and industry connections to spread lies and exaggerations. He’s got a team round him who specialise in muck raking and generating legal claims. I’m seeing an explosion of negative press and internet articles, local court action and pundits on news shows stirring it up. It didn’t take much to swing the Indian Government from support to legal attack. They don’t like anyone else having power over their electorate, especially if it shows them up for failing to do anything for the poor.’

  ‘Can we pin this on Stanstead? If we’re to take this anywhere we need evidence. Hard evidence. Otherwise we won’t print it, or if we did, GA would sue our ass off. And I’d be checking out Florida retirement homes. Of the trailer park variety.’

  ‘Isn’t digging your job? Now you know something funny is going on? Can’t you don your fearless cub reporter gear and check things out? You’ve got contacts?’

  She was skittish, truculent, like a horse getting its first bridle. Her accent was getting stronger. There was no doubt now about her Scottish roots. Ted placed his big hands flat on the table and leaned towards her. Then he saw his chewed nails and made fists.

  ‘Erin, you haven’t given me anything to dig into. So, he had a bad day in the office. So, he shouted at a few people and called a competitor names. But you can bet half the boardrooms in the USA are bloodbaths every quarter these days. I hear Apple’s no picnic. What’s different here? Show me how he got Burton Stacks to make that call to me. Show me how he suborned the World Bank. Bring me proof of how he corrupted the Indian government.’

  ‘Look mister, I don’t need this. Let’s just forget the whole thing.’

  She sat back against the seat and waved her slim fingers at him in dismissal. Ted put on his long suffering face, the one he reserved for his lawyer when a new demand hit the table.

  ‘Erin, I’d love to take this and run with it. But you need to help me some more.’

  She was shaking her head. ‘I can’t. I just can’t. Look, forget we met. Forget we had this conversation. It was a crazy idea.’

  She stood up, grabbed her purse, walked to the bar and asked for the check.

  He thought she was going to walk out on him without even a goodnight. Ted rubbed his face. Just beautiful. He’d handled her like a complete jerk. What the hell was happening to him? This could have been a hot story, could have earned him a breathing space with his boss. He felt people at the other tables staring at him, marking him down as a loser who’d upset his date. It wouldn’t be the first time lately. He opened his top button to cool down. His sightline to the bar was suddenly blocked. She was standing by his table again, a vibrating column of energy, her bag looped over her shoulder like an ammunition pouch. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Ted, I just want to say thanks and sorry. That was rude. I wasted your time. I don’t have all the answers even if I wanted to give them to you. If you won’t or can’t play your part then I guess it goes nowhere.’

  He’d seen that look before with women. Disappointed. Mary had used it more often towards the end. Erin left him there. He looked at his watch and decided he’d earned a real drink before he headed home. In a real bar.

  Erin Wishart stood in the dark in her 10th floor apartment. She gazed blindly down on 5th Avenue and the lines of cars as they crawled along, their lights blinking in and out under the black camouflage of the trees fringing Central Park. She’d come within a few indiscretions of losing all this, of screwing up her career. She could almost hear her girlfriends’ incredulity: what the hell was she thinking about? What business was it of Erin Wishart? Why throw away all the hard won gains for someone else’s take on morality?

  And she had to ask herself just how far her public-spiritedness took her before it ran into her less scrupulous motivations like personal advancement. But there would be no advancement – no bank – if Warwick continued his downward spiral. What was his poison of choice this time? Such a waste.

  There was something else she hadn’t mentioned to Saddler. The conversation with José Cadenza two days ago. She’d bumped into him in a local bookshop while she was looking for good reads for her long plane ride back to Hong Kong. He invited her to have a sandwich with him in the coffee shop. She’d liked José on sight but they’d only ever met on the executive floor of the GA building and conversation had been strictly business. José had joined GA from American Mart when Warwick had taken them over. They talked books for a while, then José got serious. His dark eyes grew troubled.

  ‘Ever meet Bill Yeardon, Erin?’

  ‘Once or twice. While we were in the takeover negotiations.’

  ‘My old boss. A good guy.’

  ‘I thought so. I’m glad you joined us. You seemed to have settled in.’

  ‘Until this People’s Bank thing.’

  ‘We’ll get over it.’

  ‘And Yeardon’s wife? Meet her?’

  ‘Veronica? A real Southern belle. Met over cocktails. I was sorry to hear about Bill. Just before last Christmas?’

  José nodded. ‘Heart attack. I went to the funeral. He was only 52.’

  He looked as though he was going to say more, then thought better of it. Erin let the pause grow. José leaned across the table, his voice down.

  ‘Last week I had a call from Veronica. She was pretty upset. She’d finally got around to clearing out Bill’s desk at his home. She said she’d found a key to a safety deposit box at her local First County bank. Veronica didn’t know Bill used First County, far less owned a safety deposit box.’

  ‘Another woman?’

  José shook his head. ‘She’d thought the same. She could have coped with that. No, it was material about the merger. She said it was horrible. That it confirmed her opinion about Warwick. She couldn’t speak about it on the phone. Wanted me to visit, or she’d come to New York.’

  Erin swallowed. What had Warwick done?

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone round the table. You’re all GA to the core.’

  ‘And it’s easier to talk to a woman?’ she smiled.

  He grinned. ‘My wife’s always said I prefer women’s company to men.’

  ‘Good for you. As long as its platonic?’

  He laughed. ‘Absolutely! Maria would kill me. And I’ve got two kids.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘You know Warwick. What’s he capable of?’

  ‘What’s anyone capable of in our business?’

  His smile was rueful. ‘I’ll let you know how my meeting with Veronica goes.’

  José’s question kept reverberating as she made her way back to the towering offices of the bank. At least until a year ago, she’d have said she knew Warwick better than most. But she’d never known quite how far he’d go to defend his beloved empire. His behaviour – with or without stimulants – was increasingly erratic, violent.

  After this evening’s shambles she wondered if she should have raised the issue with Ted Saddler, see if that got his old investigator’s engine going. But she still hadn’t heard back from José. Her mind swirled with the possibilities and she felt the warning pangs gripping her stomach like a pincer. She searched in her bag and dug out the pack containing the latest in a long line of treatments. She washed two tablets down with a swig of water. It was the usual story; no-one seemed ready to take responsibility for anything. It was always left to her. Sod Ted Saddler! She wasn’t going to end on the dump over some late developing conscience.

  She looked out across the park. Far to the West, and down by the Hudson, stood the hotel she’d stayed in fifteen years ago when she’d transferred from the London office. She’d vowed then to live by the park. It would be the benchmark of how far she’d travelled from the despairing towers of Drumchapel on the outer fringes of Glasgow. Even when she was appointed head of Asia Pac, it still made sense to keep a base in the West. She’d held her nerve during the housing crash and pounced on an apartment in one of th
e best blocks, on one of the finest streets in Manhattan. Prices had then rocketed post-crash. A smart investment and a tangible seal on the past.

  So why does it seem such a bloody anti-climax? What now? What’s the next target? Is it the man thing again? Who needs it – him? I’m not looking. I’ve got all the freedom and space I want. If I fancy a temporary wee arrangement, my pals always know someone. Fun without strings. I’ve got it made, everything I want. Why question its worth?

  From her window she could just see the start of her jogging track when she was in town. She recalled another window in another city and a very different view. She snapped the memory shut. An early morning blast through the park would calm the stomach and clear the confusion.

  SEVEN

  The morning after the car crash with Erin Wishart, Ted sat gazing out his 23rd story office window at the drizzle sweeping in across the East River and drifting through the steel and glass obelisks. He was nursing a mild hangover and wondering if the Ted Saddler that used to inhabit a lesser mound of flesh would have let last night’s opportunity go like that. Maybe not, but then he was smarter now. He didn’t tilt windmills for a living any longer. A pity though. For a while there he was getting interested, and not just in a pair of laser blue eyes.

  He checked her entry online. Older than she looked: 44 last February. But still pretty young to hit the upper echelons of a top bank. She’d had stints in other divisions, gaining plaudits every time. A top computer science degree from Edinburgh University capped with an MBA from Wharton. This girl was smart. Fizzing with energy. A result of the fitness regime? Or was that where she dumped the surplus? He patted his stomach. Maybe he should give it a try.

  He was still sceptical about her reasons for approaching him; a banker with a conscience? Was she using him to get back at her boss? Some political manoeuvring to stage a coup? Maybe she was worried about the Fed finding out. Losing her banking licence for being associated with underhand activities? Nah, she could just claim innocence. This guy Stanstead seemed to keep a close lid on his shady dealings.

  For the rest of the day he managed to milk something out of the looming scandal in the Japanese banking sector. Normally it wouldn’t rate a mention – corruption being ‘ten a yen’ in his jaundiced eyes – but this one had sex and suicide to spice up the takeover of boardrooms by the Yakuza mob. He made calls, dug through badly translated web sites and hacked out a lively-enough column.

  Come 6pm he had his jacket in one hand and was heading to the elevator with a growing thirst when Stan Coleman, City Editor, pitched up out of nowhere with his hands in his pockets. He was trying to look casual, so Ted knew there was a problem. Stan was short, but his fuse was shorter.

  ‘Ted, got a minute?’ He looked up at Ted, expecting a yes.

  ‘Sure Stan. Is there a problem with the Japan story? I was just pushing off, you know?’

  ‘Nope. Absent any real news, that is. I’m running a book on how long before the first public denials from their Ministry of Finance. I’m betting the mail box will be full by the morning.’

  ‘No takers here.’

  Stan rocked gently on his toes, inspecting Ted from under lowered brows, as if he were peering over half moon glasses. ‘We need to talk.’

  He took Ted’s arm like a child steering a grown up, and walked him back to Ted’s cubby hole. Ted dropped back into his seat and Stan took the position of power on the edge of the desk.

  ‘So Ted, how’ve you been?’ His legs swung nonchalantly.

  ‘Stan, I’ve been fantastic. What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s this People’s Bank of yours.’

  ‘It’s not my bank Stan. I only write about the damned thing. And if you’ll recall, you pointed me at the story six months ago.’

  ‘Sure, sure. I’m getting some heat from on high. This is big. The People’s Bank philosophy has gone viral. They’re saying could be a new model for banking in the West. Like a new diet, for chrissake. Our top guys think we’ve got the right angle on it. Striking the right tone with healthy scepticism. They think there’s a lot more to come, and they want us to make the most of it. Fact is they think this could be a rocky few weeks for the outfit and they want the story in depth.’

  ‘One of those ‘top floor’ things, huh?’

  ‘It smells like a rerun of the Credit Crunch.’

  ‘Fortunes being built on the back of flaky loans to folk that can’t afford to repay them? Yeah, I see that.’

  Stan nodded. ‘The trial is going to be messy. Dirty linen washed in public. Blood on the walls. We want to be in at the kill. We’re going to do a spread. You know the kind of thing; we check out its track record, interview the boss and some of the staff. Get a view from the regulators and some of the competitors. Get some unhappy customers lined up.’ He tapped Ted’s screen. ‘It’s getting a lot of attention. Emails, twitter feeds, YouTube mash-ups, etc.’

  ‘OK Stan. So you want me to do some more digging? Call up our guys in Delhi?’

  Stan looked down at Ted for a second or two longer than the question really demanded.

  ‘Ted, you need to get really on the pulse with this one. This outfit claims it’s solving world hunger and making a profit. Mutually exclusive I think we’re agreed? Right? And they’re making waves in the West. We want you to go out there and have a look. Get beneath the skin, soak up the local aromas. Get over to India for the build-up and the conclusion of the trial. Give it some real feel you know?’

  Ted flipped his seat back so he was half reclining.

  ‘Sorry Stan, I just thought I heard you say I should go to India. You’re joking right? I mean that’s why we have local correspondents right? Our man in Delhi or Karachi or Timbuktu for chrissake. It’s why we invented Skype. You don’t really want to send me? Think of the costs. I mean we can do the studio shots, make me look like I’m there. Right?’ He was frankly incredulous.

  ‘Ted, you’re the name. Folk still recognise you.’ He said it like he was amazed. ‘We want the Ted Saddler by-line on this. Besides, it’s been a while since you were out in the field. Blow the cobwebs away. Get out of the bars and get some sun on you.’

  Ted eyed Stan carefully. It’s what he wasn’t saying that interested him. That, and not looking at him straight. The throwaway comment about his drinking habits had been too casual. Ted knew he hadn’t been getting outstanding ratings lately, but hey, everybody goes through a patch, you know? Sometimes the stories just aren’t there. You can’t invent them. Well yes you can, but that way lies madness and public execution when you’re found out.

  Maybe he had lost some of his colour; his writing felt like he was drawing blood at times. But that had nothing to do with the booze. He made it a rule never to touch a drop before 6pm – unless it was in the line of duty or weekends. He could still punch out a column on just about anything you care to name. Twenty minutes. Word count on the button. Readable. Which is more than you could say for some of the website jockeys today. They didn’t give a damn about grammar, and thought a tweet said it all.

  ‘As a matter of fact Stan, I may have found something. Something that would make the front page. And I don’t mean just the city section. This is potentially big. And it’s right here in River City.’ Stan looked like he’d never seen Guys and Dolls.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Stan’s tone said he’d heard these sort of claims from every jerk with a column to fill.

  ‘I can’t say anything right now. But I’ve got a contact at top level that might be ready to blow up the whole thing.’

  ‘In the People’s Bank?’

  ‘Better. Gimme a couple of days and I’ll have something for you.’

  Which is why Ted stayed on a little bit longer and did some fast finger work on the keyboards. The top level interest Stan mentioned wasn’t too unusual but something nagged at Ted’s memory. He called up the corporate web site of Global American and clicked on the list of non-executive board members. The usual assembly of the great and the goo
d from other industries and institutes: economists and an emeritus professor from Stanford, the former chair of Pricewaterhouse Coopers and so on. But one name stood out: Martin Lanesborough, Chairman of American News Corporation, the holding company of Ted’s own newspaper, the New York Tribune.

  Ted thought for a moment then pulled up his email and fired off a note. Erin was a late bird. She agreed to meet at 8.00 the next night, at a cosy dive he knew, up off 82nd and Columbus. It wasn’t Le Cirque or any swank restaurant that Erin Wishart might frequent. And almost certainly the wrong side of the park. But it was home turf for Ted. Gave him an edge. High intensity people like Miss Wishart had always figured prominently on his list of people never to have a drink with. He didn’t need that kind of pressure. So why did this feel like he was making a date or something?

  EIGHT

  The three women paused at the southerly entrance to the valley, on the last little rise on the road. The village was a mile away, like a pile of shoeboxes fallen from the shelf of wooded hills rising to the east. Thin ribbons of smoke rose from the boxes as though a big fire smouldered underneath, ready to erupt and destroy everything and everyone. The hard lines of the rooftops were punctuated by the foliage of trees. A little apart from the main village sat a small clutch of huts, with walls of wood and roofs of straw cones. These belonged to the Dalits, the Untouchables.

  Where the river used to run a rock-hard groove a hundred feet wide scarred the length of the valley and ran past the foot of the village. Like the cast skin of a giant python. The central planners made the river take a new course, so that higher up the valley it would cut left and join the river on the other side. They said it was to help make the dam work. And when the dam was working everyone would have electricity and fresh water, and the fields would be even better irrigated than before.

  None of it happened of course. They built the dam but ran out of money for the water pipes. Great cracks opened up in the mud and will never heal. It made house building and repair much harder. They killed the land and maybe they killed the village too. No one looked that way any more.