‘Hullo, Jemal,’ he said carefully. ‘How’s the family?’
Grosvenor Cavendish Hotel, Knightsbridge, London SW1. February 24th, 2016. 10 p.m.
Edward Gott had decided that even if the vote were lost he’d throw a big party that night in the best public rooms in the smartest hotel in London. The dissident Conservative MPs, the press, the TV cameras and anyone else he could lay hands on would all be there. When he made the booking ten days earlier he did it with his party against him and his job on the line. It was pure bravado – the desire, if he was going to go down, to go down with a bang. But the vote had not been lost. The three huge interconnecting rooms of the hotel were crammed, the band was playing and the champagne was flowing. In addition, even before the vote had been taken, Gott’s career had been salvaged by an age-old enemy.
A few weeks before the vote, the day after the dinner at the French Embassy and his late night at the bank, Gott had arrived early to discover what the first repercussions of his buys and sells on behalf of his clients would be. It was no surprise that what he had done had much the same impact as the bomb on Upper Thames Street the night before. The latter had taken off the side of the Baltic League Bank right up to the third floor, though, by a miracle, only the suicide bombers inside the truck driven into the building had died. No one had admitted responsibility; the assumption was that, being a suicide bomb it was probably the work of Muslim fundamentalist terrorists. But the business of the City of London – money – went on.
At Clough Whitney Credit and Commerce the majority view was that Gott had conducted his own act of terrorism. Gott had needed to summon up his nerve to walk in that morning and, as soon as he did, the problems began. He was called to an immediate meeting with the Clough Whitney CEO, Sir Basil Whitehouse, to explain his dawn raid on his clients’ accounts. His boss sat stonily silent as he explained his reasons. The meeting concluded with nothing but, ‘You’ll be hearing more from me later in the day.’ Which Gott assumed meant that Sir Basil was waiting for the CEO of the bank’s American side to call. He did not need to ask if he was still being considered as his boss’s successor. Sir Basil was due to retire in a year.
That morning, Gott lost one third of his clients. Charlotte Harker, one of the bank’s other directors and herself in line for Sir Basil’s job, urged the calling of an extraordinary meeting of the bank’s directors to discuss Gott’s activities. This was rapidly arranged and would take place in three days. Charlotte Harker would now be lobbying for votes against him.
Meanwhile, the bank was besieged by other clients, not Gott’s, who had got wind of his extraordinary decisions and were anxious that the same policy, liquidation of lucrative stocks and reliable currency, and investment in less well-yielding stocks, should not be applied to their own accounts. By lunchtime the bank’s traders, probably working on hints from Charlotte Harker, were beginning to say that Gott’s preoccupation with politics had unhinged him, that he was no longer reliable. They asked for a same-day meeting. Gott, who was due to take a train north for a rally in York with Joshua and other MPs, agreed, and cancelled the trip.
That meeting, with the deputation of Clough Whitney traders, was less difficult than Gott had anticipated. Two of the seven traders had decided not to turn up and, of the remaining five, two – the best of the bunch – were prepared to take seriously what he told them. They might not follow him in his risky decisions, but they could see his logic and would keep an eye on events so that if there were signs he was right, they could move fast. The other three were Charlotte Harker’s allies. If there had been a vote, Gott would have lost 3-2, with two abstentions. Not a terrible result. But the meeting with the traders was a minor one – the real challenge would come at the directors’ meeting. Meanwhile, he was blocking calls from the Financial Times and from the financial editors of the other serious newspapers.
That afternoon, Gott found out, the American CEO rang Sir Basil. His next call was to Gott himself. For the third time that day Gott explained an investment strategy based on guarding his clients’ money against EU sanctions and a possible split from the EU by Britain. The US CEO was incredulous. ‘That’s not an investment policy, Gott – it’s a movie scenario,’ he said. The call ended with the American, an irate and busy man, saying with barely concealed anger that he would fly to London to attend the emergency directors’ meeting.
Even Lady Margot rang from Scotland saying that ‘the boys’ – the oldest was thirty-two – were concerned about the rumours involving their father’s movement of money, including his own – money which would eventually, be theirs. She said they were pestering her, which Gott knew probably meant four or five phone calls. One would have been from Jamie, whose analyst wife might be suggesting that her father-in-law had become unbalanced due to the stress of his recent political involvements. Gott’s wife ended her call by telling him, ‘I told them, don’t you be so sure. Your father’s an old fox who has survived many a hunt.’ Gott had been touched by this unexpected support from his wife, especially considering his recent admission to her.
Gott’s day did not improve. Before he left the office the calls from the financial editors were still continuing unanswered. Jasmine Dottrell put her head round his door. One glance at her face told Gott he was in trouble. ‘It’s the Sun,’ she said.
Gott spoke to the editor of the Sun. The Downing Street Press Office had released the story of Gott’s illegitimate child, exclusively, to the paper. The story would be published next day and the editor asked for Gott’s comments. Gott told him, ‘It’s old news. My family knows about it. And you know this is Alan Petherbridge’s revenge.’
‘Revenge for the vote against his bill in Parliament, but also to show he means business if you start trying to kick the Yanks off those bases. Any comment on that one, by the way?’
‘Just stick to scandal,’ Gott advised. ‘And, Darren, this isn’t earth-shattering. Are you doing it as a favour?’
Obviously Downing Street was giving every help. Gott’s daughter, Chloe, her husband and their boy were being stalked in Brighton by reporters. Photographs had been taken outside the primary school where Chloe worked. The headmistress was very angry. Gott’s daughter said she loved her father. Chloe’s mother, a London solicitor, said she had a friendly relationship with him. Lady Margot told journalists she had known of the matter for many years. Gott knew she would have made this statement anyway, out of loyalty to him – and he would probably never find out if it were true.
Gott called Jeremy in to deal with the fallout. He had other work to do and would not be able to leave Clough Whitney until very late that night. Jeremy took over a small connecting office next to Gott’s. This contained a sofa, a coffee table and little else and was normally used in an emergency when it was important to keep two visitors to the office apart.
‘Tory Party Treasurer in Thirty-year-old Love Tangle,’ Jeremy said when he walked in.
Jasmine said, ‘He ran away, that’s what the story says.’
Gott defended himself. ‘I came back.’
‘Not soon enough,’ Jasmine said.
‘Just get on with your work,’ her employer told her.
It wasn’t news by tabloid standards. Gott understood that. But even if those involved in his unsensational little tale were all helping to kill it for lack of oxygen, the story could not have come at a worse time. With his professional judgement heavily questioned and his job on the line, the real story was whether a man who had been proved unreliable in his private life would be the same in his public life. As no doubt the Prime Minister had known when he lit the fuse.
The Clough Whitney directors’ meeting was as bad as Gott had expected, if not worse. He was given a month to put his clients’ affairs on a suitable basis. Then there would be a review. He knew he would be expected to resign before the results of the review were announced. For the next two weeks Gott did almost nothing. He was still backing his own judgement over his clients’ money, but after the first rush to get out,
the seepage of clients continued. He lived in a limbo of declining influence, not handing in his resignation only because he was too obstinate.
Two weeks into this nightmare of meetings to which he was not invited and conversations which ended abruptly as he approached, Jeremy Saunders called him at his office, where he was tying up loose ends in anticipation of the day when he would pass through Clough Whitney’s door for the last time, broken and unemployable. Jeremy told Gott that Lord Haver’s private secretary had rung and asked, could Lord Gott spare the time to have lunch with Lord Haver that day? ‘He’s got something big to tell you, I’m sure of it,’ Jeremy told Gott.
After the Haver House treachery Gott had no reason to like or trust Haver, or want ever to meet him again if he could help it. But he trusted Jeremy’s instincts enough to agree to the meeting.
Haver was wheeled into the old-fashioned fish restaurant he favoured. The muscly attendant disappeared after settling him at the table. Gott looked across at the lined face and steely blue eyes of his host and wondered if Haver had anything useful to say. Possibly, because Haver was a profoundly vindictive man, he had arranged the meeting only to crow over him or to ram the knife deeper into his already-bleeding back. Well, Gott thought, he could always leave. With this in mind, although he seldom drank at lunchtime on a working day, he agreed when Haver suggested wine. Haver ordered and, unusually for him, took a glass himself. The meal seemed to be almost cordial, Gott thought, and reminded himself to watch his step.
Haver said, ‘I don’t know about you, but 1 always discuss business over food.’
‘So do I,’ replied Gott. ‘Though I’ve known it to give me indigestion.’ He looked at Haver, challenging him to try.
A platter of oysters arrived. The two men started to swallow them.
‘Always put heart in you,’ observed Haver, taking another. ‘I gather you’ve been making a lot of changes in your investment policies recently.’
Gott took an oyster. He suddenly knew Haver would not let him have six of the dozen on the table, that Haver must and would have seven, and that if he took his share Haver was prepared to order and pay for another dozen, just to make sure of the lion’s share.
‘I have made changes,’ Gott agreed. Unprepared to embark on an eating competition with Haver, he took the fifth oyster, swallowed it, ate some bread and butter, sipped a little of his wine and leaned back. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Delicious. I hope you can manage the rest. Yes, well – I can’t tell you everyone’s pleased with my decisions.’ He wasn’t telling Haver anything – news of the director’s meeting, and his own imminent departure, was all round the City.
Haver then surprised him greatly. ‘If you’ll have me, I’d like to come in behind you. There’s a Greatorex meeting this afternoon. I’m Chairman, as you know. I’m going to try to persuade the Board to switch twenty-five per cent of our investments to Clough Whitney. Under your personal supervision, of course.’
Greatorex was the second largest pension fund in the UK. The value of a quarter of its funds to Gott’s bank was enormous.
Gott said, evenly, ‘That’s very good news, Lord Haver.’
‘I can’t guarantee I’ll swing it. What I’ll be telling them is that I’m moving some of my personal money to you. Which is the other thing – I want you to take charge of some of my holdings.’ Haver’s personal fortune was estimated at four billion.
Gott was even more amazed, victory bells ringing distantly in his mind. He asked, ‘You want me to invest for you on the same basis I’m using for my other clients?’
‘Those who are left,’ Haver said. ‘Have you followed the policy with regard to your own money?’ As is well known, the last taboo is one man asking another about his private funds. Moreover, Gott was still very wary of Haver. He looked straight into his hard, narrow eyes and remembered that this man was capable of almost anything. He answered, ‘I never recommend my clients or my bank to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.’
‘That’s probably as close to integrity as a banker can get,’ Haver said.
Gott almost smiled, hearing the word integrity coming from Haver’s mouth. ‘I’m surprised. What makes you think I’m right in doing what I’m doing? Not everybody feels the same.’
He thought Haver might know something he did not. But if he did, he wouldn’t tell.
Haver said, looking at the menu, ‘Scallops look good – are they fresh?’
‘Of course, sir,’ the waiter replied.
‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’ Haver said to Gott. ‘Well, all right then, I’ll have them anyway. What about you, Gott?’
‘Salmon,’ Gott said.
Haver gave the order and asked, ‘Where were we – yes—why? Why indeed. Well, I was in Moscow last week talking to the Finance Minister there and he told me they were quietly dumping their dollars. They’re brooding about fixing the rouble to the euro. Fat chance, but – straws in the wind, Gott. Straws in the wind. The last great takeovers, eh? The dollar absorbs the pound, the yuan absorbs the yen, the euro hooks up with the rouble. Yesterday, I was told by a very serious individual that another government, more important than Russia, was going to dump its dollar holdings. Meanwhile, there’s you – I’m guessing you’ve looked into the UK’s future and seen a picture, not a pretty one. Am I right?’
Gott did not answer but responded, ‘I’m pleased you’re planning a move to Clough Whitney, of course. That goes without saying. But we’re a small bank and I’m curious about why you aren’t going to your own bankers.’
‘I’ve had a word,’ said Lord Haver. ‘But they don’t understand. They’ll follow instructions, but they’ll drag their feet, they’ll show no enthusiasm and they won’t understand the principles. Part of it’s that their own percentages will drop. Anyway, I’ve no desire to talk to my bank and know they think they’re dealing with a madman. It’s the sanctions, isn’t it, Gott? You think the Europeans will go ahead and cut off our oil supplies?’
‘I think they might. And even the possibility is enough for me to want to restructure investments.’ He paused. ‘But an American I spoke to told me Petherbridge thinks the European Finance Ministers are bluffing.’
‘Maybe he’s bluffing,’ said Haver. ‘A politician’ll say anything because he’s nothing to lose. You and I are talking money. That’s serious. This bill – are you going to win?’
Gott shook his head. ‘I don’t know. There’s a good chance, no better.’
‘Out on a limb, aren’t you?’ asked Haver, enjoying it. ‘Several, in fact.’
‘A bit of risk never hurts,’ Gott said. ‘Life’s a risk.’
‘Very true,’ said Haver. ‘I only ask about the bill because it’ll have a bearing on everything else. Trouble is, Gott, as a banker you’re judging the situation – as a politician, you’re influencing it. We don’t really want a war with the US, do we? Terrible for business.’
‘It’s not a challenge, just a return to the status quo,’ Gott said defensively.
‘That’s what you think and that’s what I think, but what will they think? Proud and touchy folk, the Americans. Still, there are situations and reactions you can’t predict.’
Gott put down his knife and fork. ‘Indigestion?’ Haver questioned with a tight smile. He finished his own food and looked round immediately for the waiter.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’d like to insist on one thing. Nothing about these transactions – if I can get the board to agree to them. It’ll get known soon enough but I’d be pretty unhappy to see this in tomorrow’s papers.’ Gott, who had been contacted by the press, refused to give interviews and had been subsequently criticized if not mocked by them, would have preferred to leak the news of Lord Haver’s support immediately. But the important thing was that his own board should know.
Haver, menu in hand, looked up at the waiter by his side and said, ‘Bread and butter – sticky toffee – cheesecake, what the hell is that?—don’t they ever change the menu here?’
The
waiter made a suggestion.
‘Don’t be foolish, man,’ Haver said. ‘Ice cream? In February? I’m not a child.’ ‘Never mind,’ he said to Gott. ‘Let’s try the cheese. Might as well,’ he urged. ‘If the Frogs put on these sanctions we’ll be reduced to smuggling in Camembert.’
He put more wine in Gott’s glass. ‘No more for me, with Greatorex to face,’ he told Gott. ‘I’ll call you after the meeting. They’re never long. Should be around four.’ He paused. ‘You know what,’ he said, ‘I think we’re heading for the hell of a mess. No knowing how bad it’s going to get.’
Haver’s attendant came through the restaurant and he looked up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I must go – I’ll have to leave you to enjoy your cheese in peace.’
Gott was pleased to be relieved of Haver’s difficult presence. He was now half-convinced that Haver’s offers were sincere. But only half. Nevertheless, at 3:45 p.m. Jasmine Dottrell put Lord Haver through. The Greatorex board had agreed to put a quarter of its funds in Gott’s hands. Haver’s personal bankers would be in touch tomorrow. Gott’s career was saved.
And now he, or his group, had won the vote.
Standing by the laden buffet, he said to Joshua, ‘Funny about how things can turn around in one day.’ Joshua agreed, though he imagined Gott was only referring to the vote. Gott made way for Amelia Strange, who said, ‘Congratulations, Lord Gott. Radio car outside your house tomorrow, eight a.m.’
‘Tell the driver I’ll be the man on the pavement in pyjamas,’ Gott said jovially. To Joshua he said, ‘Another splash of champagne?’
‘Not really,’ Joshua said. ‘I’ve just had a text from the PM—“See me, 9.00 p.m. tomorrow.”’
‘It’ll be nasty,’ said Gott. ‘But you won, he lost, them’s the facts.’
‘He won’t go,’ Joshua said. It was not a question.
‘No. He won’t go. He’ll stay and make your life a misery, as much as he can. But I’ll tell you what I think. He won’t back the US in the Iraq War because he can’t now. But he’s going to have to explain this to the President and I’m guessing that won’t be the end of it. There’ll be a plan. I just don’t know what it is. But one thing’s certain, we can’t retreat now. We have to get those bases back under exclusively British control.’
Fifty-First State Page 26
