Cornucopia

by John Kinsella

  In 2010, the logic of creating a link with Russia, with its enormous natural resources - the development of which called for financing on a vast scale, had made good sense.

  It been a unique opportunity and the two banks, INB and InterBank, seized it, forming a partnership via a vehicle created for that sole purpose, the Luxembourg holding company, in which each bank was represented by its respective CEO. Fitzwilliams and Tarasov were each attributed twenty percent of the shares in the INI Banking Corporation (Luxembourg) LLC, and the remaining sixty percent held in equal parts by their respective banks in London and Moscow.

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  uxembourg

  They had been encouraged by the Kremlin’s movers who believed it would forward their ambitious plan to transform Moscow into a banking centre and an international finance hub.

  The existence of a Memorandum of Understanding between financial authorities in Moscow and Luxembourg, laying out the terms of a know-how sharing agreement between the two countries, had encouraged more than three thousand Russians, specialists in banking, finance and related services, to set up residence in the Grand Duchy, which was effectively one of the EU’s principal offshore banking hubs, with its tradition of banking secrecy and its cross-border financial expertise.

  About that time, the all powerful Russian giant Gazprom established a bank in Luxembourg. The Bank GPB International SA, offered corporate banking, investment banking and asset management services. It was not alone, as other vehicles owned by major Russian businesses were already established there to facilitate the movement of the oligarchy’s capital.

  In this way INI Luxembourg and its Dublin counterpart managed bond issues for Russian energy producers, including Yakutneft, earning substantial commissions in process.

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  The in vogue economist Thomas Piketty wrote: ‘Inequality as such is not necessarily a bad thing, the central question is to know if it is justified, if it has its reasons.’

  John Francis, as an economist and historian, saw the Fitzwilliams’ family wealth as justified, they had worked honestly for close to a century to build their bank. The same could not be said for Russian oligarchs, including Tarasov, who had acquired vast wealth by chance, in the opportunistic chaos that reigned in post-Soviet Russia and the collapse of its financial institutions. Once a semblance of order had returned, under the leadership of Boris Yeltsin and Vladimir Putin, the fortunes of the nascent oligarchs exploded, thanks to a system of cronyism and corruption - to the detriment of the Russian people.

  What of the Kennedys and Bartons? There was no denying they had worked and diligently pursued gain, but were the rewards disproportionate to the effort expended? They had both benefited from a winner-take-all system; where inside information and huge bonuses permitted a privileged few to rise far above the crowd - to giddying heights.

  A manager might earn a comfortable salary, perhaps a very comfortable salary, profit from the doubling or tripling of the value of his family home and retire comfortably, but men of the likes of Kennedy and Barton were in a class apart; they, for no other reason than chance, had increased their personal wealth by the hundred fold in the space of a few short years.

  There was no denying that fortune had always played a role in the destiny of those who had risen to wealth, but in the twenty-first century inequality had become flagrant. The rich were disproportionately rich and the poor incommensurately poorer. The invention of a smart phone app could propel a young man to fortune overnight, or banker like Kennedy with a leveraged loan could acquire a prime property like his home in Cheney Walk, then watch while its value doubled or tripled in just two or three years.

  Kennedy had seen the value of his shares and stock options in the bank quadruple in the euphoria that had overtaken the banking sector once the worse of the economic crisis had passed, enabling him to diversify his investments, one of which was the land and property he bought at knockdown prices in Ireland, transforming him into one of the biggest landowners in and around Limerick City.

  The difference between salaried workers and top executives or directors was that the latter, to a large degree, fixed their own remuneration and bonuses. Cast iron contracts guaranteed lavish pension pots and, in the case of premature termination, extravagant severance compensation. One such top executive even received a reward for quitting Burberry’s, the luxury brand firm, to join Apple, a staggering diamond studded hello of sixty eight million dollars.

  What more could she do for Apple given its already phenomenal planetary success? She had neither created Apple nor Burberry’s, she was nothing more than a super executive. It was a stunning example of how the reward system for top executives had become disconnected from reality.

  In the case of INI Holding, its directors, under the influence of the extravagant life style of its new oligarch shareholder, had taken full advantage of the trend. Fitzwilliams had become complaisant, lowered his guard, as growth and profits rose in leaps and bounds. It was as if the rich rewards, approved by the board, for the bank’s key directors were a justification for his own extravagant compensation package. The same went for loans and other advantages, and besides, it was in keeping with current practices in a great number of the City’s banks and businesses.

  New and old wealth enjoyed a period of rich pickings as was witnessed by the growth in the number of billionaires across the planet, their number had reached two thousand. The US and China counted four or five hundred each. Russia, with an economy the size of Spain’s, nearly one hundred, compared to the Iberian Peninsula’s nineteen. As for India, its one hundred billionaires would have certainly astonished Mahatma Gandhi; would he have felt his struggle for justice and equality had been for nothing in a land of such flagrant inequality?

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  As the days passed, Fitzwilliams’ anger rose with the conviction he had been bamboozled into relinquishing his position by scheming politicians out for their own profit. Inversely, his feeling of betrayal vis-à-vis Pat Kennedy subsided.

  He was forced to admit he shared part of the blame for the situation in which he found himself. Too busy playing the CEO, not forging the strong personal links needed to safeguard his own interests. His role as CEO had in effect become almost symbolic and at the first sign of trouble, the rats had deserted ship. Even his so called London business friends had disappeared from view, not one had called him since the grab.

  Looking at the wreck from his County Wicklow home, Fitzwilliams finally pulled himself together. He had enough of his self imposed exile. Looking in the mirror for the first time in days he was shocked by his gaunt unshaven Robinson like appearance.

  Enough was enough. Pulling himself together he shaved, then headed for his study where he purposely retrieved his phones and set about making a plan. The moment to rebuild bridges and make plans had come.

  Once informed of the Kennedys visit to London, he proposed a meeting to examine their respective positions. Kennedy held some strong cards through to his links with the Wu family and his friendship with Tarasov, a situation Fitzwilliams regretted, due in part to the aloofness he himself had adopted as symbolic head of the group.

  It was time to fight back, all was not lost, on the contrary he held more than one ace. For one his family was the largest single shareholder in INB, and in more than one of the different companies in which it held shares, starting with the INB Ireland Ltd. He decided return to Dublin at once, where from his Georgian home on Fitzwilliam Square, named after an ancestor of his, and where skirmishes took during the Irish War of Independence, he could direct the battle ahead.

  Tarasov was another question, he had disappeared from view, probably holed up in Kerry, which Fitzwilliams reasoned was understandable given the dangers that stalked those who crossed Putin. He knew the Kremlin resorted to the torture and murder of its perceived enemies. The list of its victims was long. But what he feared more was City & Colonial and their reaction if they discovered the highly questionable arrangements made on behalf of Tarasov’s dubiou
s friends by INI in London.

  Funds from Sochi contractors had been channelled through London, then via Dublin and Amsterdam, to Caribbean shell companies, set up by INI Private Bank, from where they disappeared into an opaque maze of accounts and holdings in Bermuda or the Caymans. Not that City & Colonial was all white in such dealings; in fact they were experts in the matter, and had already settled heavy fines imposed by US courts related to the laundering of billions for drug cartels, wire transfers and recycling funds from Colombia and Mexico. Its directors got off with a mere ticking off, the risk seeing of them in an orange jumpsuit had been near to zero. As for Tarasov’s friends, or ex-friends, they would certainly not be so generous if their crooked dealings were exposed for the world to see.

  City & Colonial could blackmail him, force his cooperation with the threat of ousting him once and for all from the banking profession if he was prosecuted for aiding and abetting money laundering in an English court of justice.

  THE ADRIATICO

  Dusk was falling as the taxi dropped Liam Clancy at the Ferry Xpress terminal in Colon where he was pointed to the departures hall. There he joined a bustling crowd of Central and South Americans at a bank of check-in counters for Bocas del Toro, an archipelago on the Caribbean coast of Panama near the border with Costa Rica.

  Once the formalities were completed he made his way outside to the embarkation point. He was surprised by the size of the Adriatico, it towered above him like a cruise ship, though it was in fact a recommissioned Mediterranean ferryboat, operated by an Italian line.

  The passengers were mostly younger people, Central Americans, for what was described as a weekend cruise to the islands. Once on board Liam was pleased to discover the Adriatico was completely refitted with the kind of stylish facilities expected on a modern ferryboat: brightly light shops, restaurants, bars and a stage set for onboard entertainment.

  He was directed to an upper deck and his cabin: described by the ticketing agent as an outside suite. It was cramped, not exactly a suite at the Hilton, but he was not complaining, he would be spending just one night onboard the ferry, which was scheduled to arrive in Bocas del Toro mid-morning the next day.

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  he Adriatico at Colon

  According to Kennedy, Liam Clancy’s visit to Panama was part of his banking education. Offshore banking services formed a profitable part of INI Hong Kong’s private banking services, and as a protégé of Pat Kennedy his understanding of the role of Panamanian and Caribbean banks in their business was important.

  But behind that Kennedy had other plans. Clancy spoke good Spanish and his presence would help discovered Barton’s plans and possible ulterior motives for his his sudden departure. Not that he distrusted Tom Barton, it was simply to cover all possible eventualities in a complex situation, where the stakes were enormous, after all Barton had close contacts with Tarasov who had for the moment disappeared.

  Kennedy’s project to introduce him Panama and its banking culture neatly fitted in with Liam’s own vacation plans, which had been in suspense following the dramatic events in London. What could be better that a couple of weeks in Central America, first exploring the Pacific and Caribbean coasts, a region he knew little of, but had heard much of in Spain, then time with the bank’s representative in Panama City.

  He would be in his element with his Spanish, and the idea of discovering Latino culture was enticing, an excellent opportunity to discover Central America, where apart from banking, he had heard the surfing was good and the girls hot.

  However, all that changed, when he was contacted by Tom Barton, who had seen his posts on Facebook and suggest they get together either in Cartagena or Panama. Naturally Clancy informed his boss, who was delighted with the news and announced he would join him in Panama City for his introduction to Jose Laborda and his law firm.

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  treet in Cartagena

  Liams first disappointment was with the girls, friendly enough, and certainly exotic, but they were not the Shakiras of his imagination. Their curves were much rounder; perhaps he had gotten used to the Chinese girls he had met in Shanghai and Hong Kong. The food he had eaten so far in Panama had been highly calorific, which went a long way to explaining their derrières.

  He was up early to see the coastline, but was disappointed, the coast was distant and all he could see were the mist covered mountains. Breakfast was the next option where he found the explanation for the girls over generous forms: the vast quantities of the rich food they ingurgitated.

  It was nearly eleven when the ferry dropped anchor a kilometre offshore from the Bocas pier. Disembarkation was by lighters shuttling the passengers to the pier in groups of fifteen or twenty persons. The chaos that ensued was in part due to the Italian-Panamanian crew and the disorganisation onshore. Liam conjured up images of the scenes of the panic on the Costa Concordia, but few passengers complained, at first their stoicism seemed to contradict Latin American’s reputation of fiery temperament.

  Then, just as he swallowed his impatience, relaxing and waiting for the situation to unravel itself, the public address system announced disembarkation had commenced. In a flash the stoicism was gone, in a flurry of cries and jostling of elbows the passengers pressed forward.

  Once onshore Liam was disappointed by his first impressions of Bocas del Toro. It appeared, to his non-ecologist mind, a ramshackle collection of wood built houses and small hotels with tin roofs, interspersed between bars and trip organisers.

  He had no difficulty in finding a hotel in the town centre and a room with a view. From his balcony he could see the outlying islands and the Adriatico, incongruous compared the low lying buildings on shore, making the small boats that criss-crossed the waters around it look like insects.

  He spent the afternoon exploring Bocas, a world away from what he had imagined; totally unlike Spain, perhaps a little like certain isolated and underdeveloped beach spots and islands found in South East Asia, without modern hotels or tourist infrastructure. Perhaps the diving would be better, but that was not his thing, on top of that the surfing looked tame compared to that he had experienced on the Basque coast.

  The next morning when he awoke the sky was grey heavy with clouds. A strong wind whipped squalls of rain against the window panes of his room, sending him even deeper into the dumps. Once the rain cleared the desk informed he could take a bus from a nearby square to the beaches.

  After breakfast the weather cleared and he made his way to the bus stop a couple of blocks away. There he latched onto a small bunch of guys and girls heading for Boca Dragon, a small beach a few kilometres to the east he was told. The bus was small and already more than half filled filled with local day-trippers. They piled in and it set off along a bumpy winding road past a landscape filled with lush and unruly tropical vegetation, interrupted here and there by a clearings surrounding timber framed houses on stilts.

  Half an hour later they arrived at a beach dotted with a few rather small ramshackle bars and restaurants. Several of the local passengers boarded waiting motor launches, apparently to the islands that lay opposite.

  The rest set off on foot in the direction of the beach, and Liam followed, past the bars, then along a path they told him led to another beach. The surroundings were dispiriting, a tropical slum: run-down homes, sullen dogs and forsaken palm trees. It was about twenty minutes before reached a long board-walk crossing a water filled bog, surrounded by what seemed to Liam primeval jungle. Unexpectedly it debouched onto a white sandy beach bordered by tall shady palms: a postcard image that ended about a quarter of a mile further in an impenetrable mangrove.

  Floating on the translucid sea were the launches he had seen leaving the bus stop twenty minutes earlier, their passengers already installing their parasols, setting out their picnics or wading in the shallow sea.

  Music echoed from two or three small bars that plied drinks and food for the day-trippers. The paradisical beach was bordered by prolific nature. Scattered in twos and threes along t
he white sand were not more than a couple of dozen or so people, mostly locals and other Latinos sunning themselves or cooling off with Bilbaos and piña coladas as they listened to the sounds of salsa drifting through the air.

  It was perfect, he regretted his hasty judgement. As he was to discover Bocas was a place to sleep, eat, drink and have fun once darkness fell, during the day vacationers headed to one of the island’s many small beaches, or snorkelling off the countless uninhabited islands that made up the archipelago.

  They chose a spot and soon the others disappeared, snorkelling in the clear turquoise waters leaving him alone with Gisele, a German girl, who had decided to keep him company as he was without mask or snorkel.

  Pulling off her baggy tee-shirt and slipping out of her jeans, she pointed towards the sea inviting Liam to join her. He followed her example, pleased he had managed to get the beginnings of a tan in Sanya over the New Year holiday. Then turning his attention to his companion he was startled to discover that under those not very attractive clothes, she had a stunning figure and a golden tan.

  After a refreshing swim he invited her to eat in one of the small bars. The menu proposed fresh langouste and when Liam asked if he could see them, the waiter pointed to the sea and beckoned them to follow him. The langoustes were kept in a wire cage under the clear water, alive and fresh, ready for the next client.

  Liam pointed to a three or four pound specimen and the waiter pulled it out for inspection. They nodded in approval and the waiter headed for the grille.

  Gisele told him she was touring the Caribbean, stopping here and there to explore the sights and relax on the beaches. Her golden tan, which contrasted her clear blond hair, confirmed she had been absent from Germany some weeks. She was travelling on a low budget and was just as delighted with the fresh langouste as Liam was inviting this attractive girl to lunch on a secluded tropical beach far from the usual tourist haunts.