The Marketmaker

by Michael Ridpath

  Suddenly banking had become brutal. An idea that would improve the lives of thousands had been squashed because of jealousy over who would take the credit for it. I stewed, and my agitation grew. Eventually I couldn’t stand it any more. I opened my eyes, and reached into my own briefcase for a book. It was Islanders by Yevgeny Zamyatin, a Russian writer who had spent a couple of sad years in exile in Newcastle building ships just before the First World War. I was lulled by the music of the prose; in my mind Zamyatin was the closest the twentieth century had come to Pushkin’s mastery of the language, although he lacked Pushkin’s absolute precision. Islanders was a satire of the hypocrisy and moral emptiness of the capitalist industrial England he had found. He didn’t know the half of it. He should have got a job in a bank.

  Then I remembered Zamyatin had ended his life in abject poverty in Paris.

  ‘How’s your Argentine trade going?’

  ‘What?’ I lifted my head from my book, and blinked at Ricardo.

  ‘I said, how’s your Argentine trade doing?’

  I didn’t give a damn how the Argentine trade was doing. Actually I did. I hoped it was losing Dekker lots of money. But I had just the sense not to say that. I knew that not taking a trading position seriously would be tantamount to quitting, and I hadn’t decided whether I wanted to do that yet. ‘It hasn’t moved all week.’

  ‘Do you still believe in it?’

  What a ridiculous question. I could believe in God or Marx or even Thatcher. But how could I believe in bonds?

  I took a deep breath. ‘From what I knew at the time, the Argentine Discounts seemed good bonds to buy. But since I only had two days’ experience upon which to make that judgement, I have to say that I have very little confidence that it was the correct one. The only thing that makes me feel I might have got it right is that you bought the position yourself. I trust your judgement. If you haven’t sold the position, I still believe in it. Have you sold it?’

  Ricardo smiled. ‘I like the fact you’re aware of your own limitations. But it was a good choice. And you’re right, I wouldn’t have put on the position if I hadn’t agreed with you. As a matter of fact, I haven’t sold it, I’ve bought more. A lot more.’

  ‘That’s good. I hope it works out well,’ I muttered, and turned back to my book.

  We sat in silence for a while, but I was aware of Ricardo’s eyes on me. ‘It’s been a tough week for you, hasn’t it? First being attacked, and then losing the favela deal.’

  ‘It has,’ I mumbled.

  ‘It must be very frightening to be attacked like that.’ I glanced up at Ricardo. His eyes were sincere. So sincere. As though he had been knifed himself.

  ‘It was,’ I said. ‘First we were just walking along the beach. And then suddenly I had a knife sticking out of my chest.’

  Ricardo nodded. ‘Brazil’s a cruel country. It has this wonderful exterior, but underneath it can be brutal. It’s a great shame. That’s one of the reasons the favela deal was such a good idea.’

  I hadn’t wanted to be drawn on this, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘Then why did you destroy it?’

  ‘I had no choice. I couldn’t let Bloomfield Weiss win that mandate. It would have meant the end of Dekker Ward.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We would still have had the largest share of the market. And something would have been done about those favelas. Now, all those people will just be left to crawl around in their own garbage.’

  ‘I’m not responsible for the social conditions of Brazil, or any other country for that matter,’ said Ricardo, calmly. ‘Over the last hundred years Brazil has had the same access to capital, natural resources and labour as Canada and the United States. The reason it’s a poorer country is entirely to do with the Brazilians and how they have decided to use or misuse those resources, not with me.’

  I listened, making no attempt to hide the cynicism I felt.

  ‘My responsibility is the success of Dekker Ward,’ he went on. ‘I’ve built it into one of the most successful investment banks in the world, but the moment I sit back, the moment I let anyone else take the initiative, it will all be over. Oh, of course, we all make out it’s a friendly market, and that all the other guys are happy to let us run things. But they’d love to see us trip up. They’d love it even more if they could take over from us. My biggest fear is that we get complacent.’

  His blue eyes bored into mine. ‘There comes a time when you have to play tough. Bloomfield Weiss should not have stolen the deal from us like that. They were playing tough. I had to show them, and everyone else, that I could play tougher.’

  ‘And what about the children in those favelas?’

  ‘If the Favela Bairro idea is as good as we think it is, it will get financed eventually. And, remember, it was Dekker who brought international capital back to Latin America when every other bank in the world had turned their back on it. We’ve organized more than twenty billion dollars of finance for the region. You know how badly these countries need that capital. And they’re using it properly now, investing to create jobs, and improve infrastructure.’

  He saw the doubt in my eyes.

  ‘OK, I won’t pretend that’s the main reason why I’ve built up Dekker into what it is now. But it’s an important result of what I’ve done, and I’m proud of it.’

  ‘And what about all the money you make?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Nick! You told me that was the reason you wanted to join us.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I wanted money to do something. To buy myself freedom to do what I wanted with my life.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And …’ I hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘I just think that, at places like Dekker, money seems to be an end in itself.’

  Ricardo rubbed his chin. ‘I know what you mean. But it’s not quite what it seems. As I keep saying, I like people who are hungry, people who need to make money for themselves. Then they end up making it for the firm as well, and the firm grows. And that’s good. But I don’t think it’s greed, exactly.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘Money is the score. I suppose I just want to have the highest score when it’s all over.’

  ‘And when’s that?’

  Ricardo smiled. ‘Good question. I’m not sure. I suppose for me it’s a game without end.’

  We fell silent for a moment, thinking about what the other had said and both surprised at how personal the conversation had suddenly become. I remembered the T-shirt I had seen in the favela: Who dies with the most toys wins. Ricardo’s game was played all over the world, by rich and poor.

  He waved to an attendant, and asked for a Cognac. I ordered a whisky. We both sat back in the huge first-class seats, and sipped our drinks.

  ‘My father played the game and lost,’ Ricardo said.

  ‘Jamie said he’s a businessman in Venezuela?’

  ‘Was. He died about fifteen years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He was a deal-doer himself, in the oil industry. He came to Caracas from Argentina in the fifties, and built up quite a portfolio of interests. But then he overstretched himself. It was nineteen eighty, just after the second big oil-price hike. He thought oil was going to forty dollars a barrel. It went down to six. He always used to drink, but after that he drank more. He died four years later. He left us with very little in the end, so we had to make our own way. Which I’m proud of.’

  ‘Did he teach you much?’

  ‘The truthful answer is no. We didn’t really see much of him, he was always away doing deals, and I was away at school in England. But I think I inherited his nose for a deal. I just hope I know when not to go too far.’

  ‘So you think you’re competing against him?’

  Ricardo thought this over for a moment. ‘In a way, yes. I would have liked him to have seen what I’ve achieved. He never gave me much praise when he was alive, perhaps he would now.’

  ‘And your mothe
r?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think my mother knows what I do, or cares. As long as I have enough money to keep her bank balance healthy.’

  ‘What about Eduardo? Does he take after your father too?’

  Ricardo smiled ruefully. ‘Eduardo inherited a different set of characteristics from our father.’

  I desperately wanted to ask Ricardo what those were, but there was something in his tone that suggested I had already gone far enough. He was a fascinating man, and I felt privileged that he had allowed me to learn more about him. But was he just manipulating me with his frankness? If so, I could feel it working.

  Ricardo put down his glass, and turned to me. ‘Look, I know you find what you’ve seen difficult to take. I know you’re questioning the whole premise of what we’re doing. And I respect that. Honestly. I would rather have people who question first principles than those who blindly do what everyone else does. So think about it. But don’t pretend that you can work in finance, take the rewards and avoid the tough decisions.’

  His blue eyes held mine. They were sincere. I knew he believed in what he was saying. And those eyes were inviting, persuasive, almost hypnotic. Join me, they said.

  ‘I want you to work for Dekker. You’ll be right in the middle of the most exciting market in global finance today, and you’ll have a hell of a lot of fun too. I think you can do a lot for us. But you need to be committed. If you don’t buy into what we’re doing, then go back to your Russian books. You decide.’

  I swallowed. I remembered that when I had originally taken the job at Dekker I had played through this dilemma in my mind. Then I had decided that if I was to succeed in finance, I would have to accept the ethical system that came with it. And it wasn’t immoral, just amoral. As Ricardo had said, the reason that Brazil was in such a mess was that the Brazilians had made it that way. The same could be said of Russia, that other great sprawling, chaotic country. Isabel’s father had liked Tolstoy’s story of the Master and Man, and its nobility was appealing. But the Master had been foolish to insist that he and his servant drive on in the snow instead of waiting at the inn for the storm to clear. And, in the real world, masters just didn’t give up their lives for their servants.

  Then I thought of Cordelia, and the tense little boy with the big smile and the hard eyes, and I turned my back on Ricardo towards the dark mid-Atlantic sky.

  9

  I received quite a welcome when I arrived at the office late on Friday morning. Dave, Miguel, Pedro, Charlotte, people whom I hardly knew, all came up to ask how I was. Although I had been at Dekker less than two weeks, and had spent barely three days in the office itself, they treated me as one of their own. I had to admit, it was a good feeling.

  The plane had landed at lunch-time the previous day and, unlike Isabel and Ricardo who had gone straight into work, I had returned to my flat. I saw my GP first thing the next morning. She was impressed with the Brazilian doctor’s work, changed my dressing and told me to take a week off work. There wasn’t a chance of that, but in deference to her I left my bike at home and took the tube and the Docklands Light Railway into Canary Wharf. I hated it, and vowed to cycle in on Monday, however much my chest hurt.

  I was disappointed to see that the desk next to me was empty. Isabel was out somewhere.

  But Jamie was in the office and it was good to see him.

  ‘What a trip! Are you OK? Where did you get stabbed? Can I look?’

  ‘No, you can’t!’ I said. ‘I just got it strapped up this morning and I’m buggered if I’m going to take it all off for you.’

  ‘OK.’ Jamie feigned disappointment. ‘What happened?’

  He, of course, had none of the reticence of the others about asking me that question, and I didn’t mind answering him.

  ‘Jesus!’ He shook his head. ‘One inch one way or the other and that would have been that.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘So how are you feeling?’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘Or, at least, the knife-wound will be. But did you hear what Ricardo did?’

  ‘About the favela deal? He killed it, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t believe it. After everything that Isabel had done. I saw one of them, you know. A favela. Someone’s got to do something about them.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jamie. ‘It must be tough for her. This game gets rough sometimes.’

  ‘And there’s something else.’ I reached down into my bottom drawer to dig out the fax to Martin Beldecos. It wasn’t there.

  ‘That’s funny,’ I said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I left a fax just here before I went to Brazil. I’m sure I did.’

  Jamie made as if to get up and go.

  I held up my hand. ‘No, wait. It’s important.’

  Jamie watched me as I ransacked my desk. Not there. I thought about whether I might have put it somewhere else, or taken it home, or to Brazil.

  No. It had definitely been in that bottom drawer. And now it was gone.

  ‘What was it?’ asked Jamie.

  I stopped my search and sat up. ‘It was a fax from United Bank of Canada in the Bahamas to Martin Beldecos. It said that the man behind one of the accounts he had been investigating was linked to a suspected money-launderer.’

  ‘Really? Did it say which account?’

  ‘Something about International Trading and Transport (Panama). Or, at least, they were the company that had paid the money into a numbered account at Dekker Trust in the Caymans.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Jamie said. ‘It would have been very difficult to trace.’ He appeared thoughtful.

  ‘What exactly is money-laundering?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the washing of dirty money,’ replied Jamie. ‘The money might come from drugs, or smuggling, or organized crime, but it’s mostly drugs related. It’s often easier for the police to trace the cash rather than the drugs, so criminals have become very sophisticated at hiding the source of the money and then investing it anonymously. They usually use shell companies in offshore jurisdictions.’

  ‘Like the Cayman Islands?’

  ‘Like the Cayman Islands. Or Panama, or Gibraltar, sometimes even the Channel Islands or Switzerland. There are dozens of possibilities. Some of the money-trails get very complicated.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘And Martin Beldecos discovered one of these money-trails.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What should I have done with the fax? Which has now disappeared, by the way. Eduardo said if I received any more messages for Martin Beldecos I should give them to him personally. I’m just not sure about giving him this one.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Jamie’s lack of concern unsettled me. Maybe I was imagining things. ‘Well, in case he already knows about it,’ I said uncertainly.

  ‘Hmm.’ Jamie was thinking. ‘I see what you mean. And, anyway, he’ll have a fit if you then tell him you’ve lost it.’

  ‘I haven’t lost it!’

  ‘Then where is it?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘Jamie, I promise you I haven’t lost it. Someone must have taken it while I was in Brazil.’

  That shut him up. He thought for quite a while. Finally, he said, ‘If I were you I would forget all about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I fear you may be right. It wouldn’t surprise me if Eduardo has some money-laundering business going on the side. It’s common enough in our world. And the last thing he would want is for you to pop up and cause trouble for him. He would not be very happy.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t have anything to do with it?’

  ‘Then it won’t do any harm to let things lie.’ Jamie saw the doubt in my eyes. ‘Look, millions of dollars of drug money is laundered through the banking system every day. There’s some in every bank everywhere. The only time there’s a problem is when a bank gets found out. It’s not like anyone’s being hurt or anything
. It’s not even a fraud. No one’s losing money. Just let it drop. This is going to bring nothing but trouble if you talk to anyone about it.’

  ‘But I don’t want to cover anything up,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘What are you covering up?’

  ‘The fax.’

  ‘What fax? You haven’t got a fax. If there was a fax, it wasn’t to you. Look, Nick, forget it. I’m going to.’ He stood up.

  ‘Jamie?’

  He paused.

  I hesitated before putting words to the thought that was forming in my mind. ‘Martin Beldecos suspected that there was money-laundering at Dekker. He was murdered in Caracas. Then I begin to suspect it, and I nearly get killed in Rio.’

  As the words came out, I felt stupid. Paranoid. And Jamie’s scornful look made me feel worse. Then his face softened. ‘Nick. After what happened to you, it’s natural you’ll feel nervous. I’m sure they’ll understand if you don’t want to travel to South America for a bit. And who knows? Maybe there is some dirty money tucked away in a corner at Dekker somewhere. But don’t blow it out of proportion. Calm down and do your job. You’ll be OK.’

  With that he walked off, leaving me feeling uncertain, embarrassed, and a little silly.

  10

  Ricardo’s house was a rectangular Georgian manor, built of yellowish stone, with smooth lines. It stood on the brow of a small hill, with a cluster of cottages and a church bowing at its feet. I wondered what the locals thought of the new people in the big house. Jamie drove us up a long drive, which cut a swath through a wide expanse of lawn. The gardens were designed for ease of upkeep rather than beauty. There were shrubs and trees, but few flowers. Some of the finest cars that Germany could produce fought for space on the gravel apron in front of the house, and Jamie nosed his British Jaguar in among them, next to the only other interloper, Eduardo’s Ferrari.

  Ricardo was having a party for everyone at the office. These were apparently regular affairs, and this one had been planned weeks in advance. Jamie told me it was a three-line whip, but I was happy to go anyway. He and Kate had agreed to pick me up from a nearby station.