The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  ‘Say you’ll do it,’ he ordered her.

  She moved away slightly, but still in his arms. She nodded, her submissive little girl nod.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And, Matthew, don’t ... don’t let me down.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The next day she told McAllister. The big Scotsman was surprised, but not alarmed.

  ‘I’d never have guessed it, though now you mention it, I fancy I’ve seen a new twinkle in your eye this year. You did the right thing to tell me. And you’re a good judge of character. If you trust young Gradley, then I’m a bit more inclined to do likewise. But you’d better ask him to step this way all the same.’

  Matthew went. As he went, he prayed for a miracle.

  He didn’t see how the miracle could happen, but he prayed anyway. Matthew closed the door behind him. McAllister was friendly and congratulated him on his alliance with Fiona.

  ‘I’ve always believed that there’s been a first-class woman lurking somewhere inside the first-class banker. I hope you’re happy together.’

  ‘I don’t know if she mentioned it, but we’re very keen to keep our relationship private. You’re the only one in the bank who knows.’

  McAllister nodded.

  ‘She didn’t mention it. But I wouldn’t have told any­ one anyway. That’s up to you. But you’d better tell me all about how you got mixed up with Belial. Tell me everything.’

  So Matthew told him the story, as he’d told Fiona the night before. McAllister nodded encouragingly.

  ‘OK, Matthew,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we should have any problems here. You didn’t know about Belial’s track record and there’s no reason why you should have done. You’d better transfer all your investments away from Switzerland International in double-quick time and you’d better tell me once you’ve done it.

  ‘Meanwhile we need to deal with the London Stock Exchange. They were aware of some suspicious trading in the bond markets earlier on last year, but couldn’t do much with their suspicions. As you know, most bonds are unregistered. They’re like cash, where there’s no central record of ownership. Shares, on the other hand, are registered, which makes it a whole lot easier to chase up insider dealing. When they started to see the same pattern of trades on the stockmarket, that’s when the enquiries got underway properly. They’ve been asking me to make sure that our traders are clear of suspicion. For obvious reasons, the prime suspects are you, Fiona and Ed Deane.

  ‘Personally, I doubt if we’ll have any trouble. The Exchange often follows up on suspect trades and most of the time, they either discover nothing or just find an investor who got lucky. I don’t see you, Fiona, or Deane as being likely to abuse your positions.

  ‘The first thing is to clear up your investment track record. If that’s fine, then I doubt the Stock Exchange will need to go further. What you need to do now is give me all your records of your dealings with Switzerland International, your account balance, what you’ve invested in, what stuff you’ve bought and sold. The lot. Bring me every document in your file. Assuming there’s nothing suspicious, I’ll make a report to the Stock Exchange and I’d expect that to be the end of the matter.’

  Matthew nodded and said something. He couldn’t even remember what. His stomach felt as though the floor of the world had fallen clean away. The miracle hadn’t happened.

  He could ask Belial to send him accounts, no problem. But the accounts would be damning. They’d prove he had traded on the inside, aggressively and with all his money, whenever he’d had good quality inside information at his disposal. The accounts would send him to jail quicker than you could sing ‘the Bells of Old Bailey’. In six months’ time, he wouldn’t be counting up his father’s millions. He’d be sitting in a cell counting the days until his release. Seven years is the maximum sentence, and Matthew couldn’t think of a single reason why he’d get a day less.

  He walked to the loos and vomited, not once, but again and again and again.

  11

  ‘Zack, you snotty-nosed creep, do you have a minute?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll come up, you miserable old slimeball.’

  Zack picked up a pad of paper and a pencil and walked up the couple of floors to Banderman’s office. Banderman welcomed him inside with another insult. Zack took his seat with an equally colourful greeting.

  ‘I wanted to get an update on RosEs. You must be thrilled with the way it’s taken off.’

  Banderman had become Zack’s boss. Zack was making too much money and was too important to the firm to report to anyone more junior. The two men liked and respected each other. But, despite his flippant manner, Zack knew that his chances of making it to partner depended crucially on the older man’s support, and he was very careful in what he said.

  ‘Yes, it’s been amazing. After one month, I was nervous. We’d only made a couple of million bucks and I was worried that RosES was just too sophisticated for the Asian market. But then a couple of well-known names decided to trust it, so then their competitors had to, so then everybody had to. No one wanted to be the only kid on the block not to make money out of it. Our monthly revenues are now fifteen million dollars and rising.’

  ‘It’s one hell of an achievement. How long d’you reckon you can keep it up?’

  Zack shrugged. ‘Not long. Our competitors are trying to muscle in, but we can handle them. The real problem is the tax authorities. The smart ones are already taking steps to plug the loophole. The dumb ones haven’t yet woken up, but they will do as soon as they see how much money is escaping. And once they’ve plugged the loophole, then that’s it. RosEs will be dead.’

  Banderman nodded. Zack was right. RosEs would fade as all roses must. But before they did, they’d make a serious amount of money.

  ‘We’ll make a hundred million bucks before we’re done,’ said Banderman. ‘That’s an amazing start to your career as Gillingham’s replacement. Absolutely amazing.’

  Zack’s narrow mouth broke into a wolfish smile. He could scent his partnership. He’d made forty million bucks on the South China deal. He’d make a hundred million or more out of RosEs. A hundred and forty million bucks was four times the threshold needed to make partner.

  ‘Dixon,’ he croaked. ‘I take it I’m going to be under consideration for partner this year?’

  ‘Partner?’ Banderman was taken aback. ‘You want to be put up for partner?’

  ‘You bet. I’ve made a hundred and forty million bucks for the bank. I’ve proved I can do Gillingham’s job at least as well as he ever did it. Gillingham was a partner. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be.’

  Banderman’s face grew grave. Weinstein Lukes isn’t like any normal company. Weinstein Lukes isn’t owned by a pack of anonymous shareholders, or a tycoon and his family. It has nothing to do with government, or trusts, or mutual societies. Weinstein Lukes is owned one hundred percent by its most senior employees, its partners: a workers’ cooperative - socialism in action, if not quite as Marx envisaged.

  To become a partner is a rare and tremendous privilege. It’s the financial equivalent of making it to saint. To be elevated to that rare height, to be told that you too may own a piece of this great company, you have to prove yourself beyond the tiniest tremor of a fraction of a shadow of a doubt. The fairy-tale princes forced to slay dragons, flatten mountains and swallow oceans were not more rigorously tested than are the would-be partners of Weinstein Lukes. And Zack Gradley, aged twenty-nine, an employee for just two years, was asking for admittance.

  ‘It’s unheard of,’ said Banderman softly. ‘You realise that. No one has ever made partner that quickly. No one.’

  ‘Dixon, I’ve made more money this year than any one of the existing partners. You know I can go on making money for the firm. Maybe not on this scale, but on a very large scale. You know you want to keep me.’

  Dixon raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re thinking of leaving us?’

  Zack knew the right response to this
question and he gave it.

  ‘No, Dixon, of course not. But headhunters have been calling me twice a day ever since RosEs took off. So far I’ve just said “not interested” and left it there. But I’ve been assuming that Weinstein Lukes would value my contribution the way I think it deserves to be valued.’

  Zack spoke the truth. Headhunters flock to success like paparazzi to a princess, and Zack was seriously successful. Banderman understood the threat latent in Zack’s remarks and knew better than to regard the threat as a form of betrayal. Bankers play hardball for a living. They do it for their clients, they do it for themselves. Banderman was perfectly used to employees demanding things from him: bonuses, promotions, jobs.

  ‘Your contribution is valued, Zack. And you’ll be rewarded this year, don’t you worry about that. I can promise you a fantastic bonus. I’ll see to it myself. The only question is whether you make partner right away or not.’

  ‘Dixon, the bank owes me a partnership as well as a bonus.’

  ‘I can’t promise you a partnership. It’s not in my power. The Board decides who gets partnerships.’

  ‘I’m not asking you for a promise. I’m asking you to support me. I’m asking you to do what you can.’

  Zack was calculating correctly. A partnership would guarantee Zack a million pounds, because it wouldn’t just bring him his bonus, it would bring him a share in all the firm’s profits. And though Banderman’s say wouldn’t be decisive, his voice would carry a lot of clout. Banderman looked at the arrogant young man. Gradley’s confidence knew no bounds, but his ability seemed beyond question.

  ‘I’ll support you, Zack. I really will. But no promises, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And keep telling those headhunters to jump in the lake.’

  ‘I will.’

  It wasn’t a promise, and both men knew it. Bankers worship at the altar of the market, and there’s a market for bankers just like there’s a market for everything else. And if there’s one belief common to every banker in the world, then it’s the belief that markets should be allowed to find their own level. Zack got up to go.

  ‘Thanks, Dixon, you bonehead.’

  ‘Go to hell, pipsqueak.’

  Zack was almost out of the door when Banderman called after him.

  ‘Oh, and Zack. I’ve been looking through a list of our RosEs clients. Your old friends at South China sure seemed to have an appetite for RosEs. They’ve been one of our biggest buyers.’

  ‘South China? Really? They loaded up, did they?’

  ‘You bet.’ Dixon quoted some figures. For a bank of South China’s size, they were certainly going it some.

  ‘They had a real splurge.’

  Zack blew out through pursed lips.

  ‘Well, it makes sense. They were bringing out these amazing profit numbers throughout our takeover campaign. They had to come from somewhere. Now we know where. Jesus, though, Dixon, it sounds like they were speculating till kingdom come. Thank goodness they came out on the right side, otherwise they could have blown their legs off, tax dodge or no tax dodge.’

  ‘Well, as it is, your father-in-law should be pretty pleased with you. First you buy him a nice new company, then you add to its value by selling RosEs to it hand over fist. Maybe you should ask him to increase your fee.’

  Zack laughed.

  ‘I don’t think so. He wanted to buy a bank not a casino. At one stage he even thought about pulling out. I think I’ll just stay very, very quiet.’

  12

  Matthew walked out into the stadium. Forty thousand people were already there and the first few chants already echoed across the ground. It was a freezing February evening. A heavy grey mist hung over the stadium and swirled round the banked floodlights. The referee and a couple of ground staff came out on to the pitch to check visibility. Kick-off was running late and the crowd was impatient.

  Matthew checked his ticket again and walked down the imposing North Bank to locate Belial. It was a good choice of venue, thought Matthew. He’d told Fiona he was watching the match with a friend of his from university and no one from Madison was likely to be there to spot the fib. Though Belial had responded with his usual offensive courtesy to Matthew’s urgent request for a meeting, Matthew was still deeply nervous about the favour he had to ask.

  Belial was easy to find. He was probably the only person on the whole of the North Bank to be wearing a newly pressed navy-blue suit complete with silk shirt, hand-made silver cuff links, pale pink silk tie and matching handkerchief, cashmere overcoat, cream silk scarf, and gleaming English brogues.

  ‘Good evening, good evening,’ said Belial. ‘You cut it a little fine, but you’re in time.’

  ‘I just hope they play. The mist looks heavy.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll play all right,’ said Belial as though the decision were up to him.

  He was right. A few moments later, the players trooped out, kicked around for a while and took up their positions. The referee blew his whistle for kick-off and the match began. From the very first kick, Belial focused on the game with incredible intensity. It was as though the pitch, the game, the players, the crowd, even the famous stadium itself would stop existing if his concentration flickered for even a moment.

  They watched ten minutes of the match in silence. Leeds had come looking for a draw and played a lone striker in front of a massed and physical midfield. Arsenal, seeking to play a more fluent game, was unable to find a way through, and a couple of times resorted to punting long balls upfield to their outnumbered strikers. The North Bank did its job and threw a wall of noise forward into the fog in an effort to lift the team. But the fog muffled the sound, and the noise and players remained muted.

  Neither Belial nor Matthew joined the chants, but Belial’s face quivered and frowned with every tackle, pass and kick of the game. He smiled just once, when the Arsenal captain brought a Leeds player to a halt with a juddering tackle that left both players temporarily winded. The referee booked the Arsenal player to boos from the crowd.

  During a lull, as a Leeds player received treatment for a gashed leg, Matthew broached the subject that burned inside him.

  ‘I mentioned on the phone, I’ve a favour to ask.’

  Belial’s attention was as firmly fixed on the injured player as it had been earlier on the football. Without moving his eyes, he replied, ‘Please ask. All of us at Switzerland International are at your service.’

  Matthew hesitated. Unless he could show Madison a set of investment accounts proving he was clean, he would certainly lose his job and risk conviction for insider trading. Favours didn’t come more important than this.

  ‘For reasons which I hope we needn’t go into, I’d like to have a set of statements from Switzerland International which show me holding a conventional investment port­ folio. I’d like to be able to show that I invested my bonus last year in well-known UK stocks and shares. Maybe some British government bonds. That sort of thing. Obviously, the portfolio won’t show much of a profit. Nothing compared with what I’ve actually made. But that’s fine. I just want to be able to show somebody - er - a more conventional-looking portfolio.’

  Matthew paused. It was hard to go on without so much as a glance from the other man. Belial heard Matthew out. The injured player was running back on to the pitch, to a scattering of applause. A Leeds player positioned the ball ready to restart. Belial watched, then turned to Matthew with a smile.

  ‘Of course we can do that. No problem at all. You invested sixty thousand with us in January. You bought stocks and shares in good solid companies. Your portfolio is now worth, say, seventy thousand. You’d like a set of statements putting all of that in writing. No problem at all. It’s a service we’re quite used to providing, to be quite honest.’

  Matthew was shocked and relieved. He knew Belial was happy to associate with clients of questionable ethics, to say the least, but he hadn’t guessed how matter-of-fact Belial would be about such blatant deception. Matthew’s relief was enor
mous. It washed through him like a huge cleansing flood. He felt lighter than he had done at any time since he and Fiona had bumped into Belial at Gianfranco’s. This was it. He’d be in the clear. He’d have a clean set of accounts for Madison. Brian McAllister would tell the Stock Exchange that Matthew was clean as a whistle. He’d walk away scot­free - and what’s more, he could finish off the job in hand, which was to make his million. Matthew’s delight knew no bounds.

  He began to thank Belial, but the game had restarted and Belial was intent once more. Matthew watched the rest of the first half without taking anything in. The freezing fog closed in and lay clamped down over the ground. The Leeds midfield successfully squeezed all life from the game and both sides resorted, gratefully it seemed, to a more physical style of play. A penalty appeal was turned down for the home team and a goal disallowed for offside. Four players were booked for fouls, all of them purposeless tackles in the centre of the park.

  The first half finished goalless and the shaven-headed Arsenal fan sitting to Matthew’s left predicted the game would end that way. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was paying good money to freeze outside for a couple of hours, while twenty-two millionaire athletes chose to kick each other rather than the ball. Belial wasn’t bothered either. In fact, he grinned with pleasure and his eyes shone.

  ‘What an excellent match,’ he said. ‘The English game has so much to offer.’

  Matthew began to disagree, but Belial ignored him. Instead, he unbuttoned his overcoat and withdrew a manila envelope. He handed the envelope to Matthew.

  ‘When you asked for this meeting so urgently, I guessed what you might have in mind. I prepared these for you in Geneva this morning.’

  Matthew tore open the envelope. Inside was a dream come true. There were about two dozen documents all told. He had a letter acknowledging his account had been opened and was in credit to the tune of sixty thousand pounds. He had contract notes, indicating the timing and amounts of his fictitious purchases. According to the statements he had bought shares in British Airways, Marks and Spencer’s, Unilever, Glaxo Wellcome, Lloyds TSB and a handful of other impeccable British companies. He had quarterly statements showing the progress of his portfolio. He even had a couple of phoney letters about a mislaid share certificate. Everything was dated, signed, and printed on Switzerland International’s stationery. It was perfect.