Cornucopia

by John Kinsella

  Nothing had changed since 2007, as for France, a country he had got to know and in spite of its faults appreciate; it was ruled by gauchist ‘bobos’ equally as obsessed by the politically correct and governed by Hollande, a lame duck scribbler.

  Democracy in Great Britain and France had in the relatively recent history been paper thin. Two World Wars and the dismantlement of their respective colonial empires had brought a greater distribution of political power. Equality was however an illusion. For those who liked to pretended otherwise, a trip to the poorer immigrant districts of London, or Paris, should have been, if visitors cared to open their eyes and minds, an enlightening experience.

  Colombia could, to a certain degree be excused for its inequalities, which were everywhere, even after five centuries of metissage the country was still dominated by its hidalgos and their kind. The same went for numerous other countries in the New World, including the US. In South Africa, the abolition of apartheid had changed little in the distribution of land and wealth, whilst the Indian Subcontinent was a world of poverty, caste and division. Equality could not be decreed. Hadn’t Tocqueville written the Revolution was a thing of the bourgeoisie?

  *

  “It’s better to avoid the days when the cruise ships come,” Alfonso remarked as they manoeuvred their way around a straggling group of silver haired tourists.

  “They provide our daily bread,” he told Barton with wry smile, “the more the better.”

  They arrived at Calle de la Factoría, close to Plaza Santo Domingo, lined with colourful two and three level houses.

  “These are very interesting because of their spacious courtyards,” Alfonso explained.

  They stopped before a ruined façade, its stucco cracked and falling, the wooden framework of once colourful doors and balconies bleached almost white by the sun.

  “This is the place, the owner should be here,” the Colombian said peering through the shutters.

  Some minutes later a powerfully built man wearing blue jeans and a white guayabara arrived.

  “Señors, desculpeme, I am late.” Then looking at Barton he added with an apologetic smile, “This is Colombia.”

  “No problem.”

  “So Alfonso, this is Señor Barton, Inglés I believe?”

  “Si,” Barton replied.

  “This property belonged to an old cartagenera family, they now live in Barranquilla,” he explained wrestling with a padlock and chain on the double entrance doors. “It would nice for a boutique hotel, un calle muy tranquilo.”

  It was a ruin inside, nothing much was left except for the walls and timber beams.

  “Cuidado, lo siento,” he said shrugging and pointing to the rubble strewn floor. “It needs work.”

  It was an understatement, but Barton, who was hoping to make a better deal, was not deterred.

  “What’s the asking price?”

  “This colonial house is very beautiful with large spaces, arcades and inner patios perfect for a boutique hotel.”

  He paused weighing up the two visitors.

  “The total area is nine hundred square metres.”

  They waited.

  “The owner is asking three and a half million dollars.”

  Barton not able to hide his surprise gasped, remembering the price he had paid for the luxurious Emerald Pool villa on the Island of Dominica. That was in 2008, when the crisis hit. Seven years on, the Americas were booming, the gringos were back, the embers of the war with the Farc were all that remained and Cartagena was a new tourist Eldorado.

  DUBLIN

  It was a wet and windy Sunday morning when Francis drove down from Dublin to meet Fitzwilliams at the banker’s aristocratic home.

  The previous day the news that Russia’s vociferous opposition leader had been shot dead in a Moscow street had come as a shock, sending Fitzwilliams, who feared for his own safety, into a spin.

  As to Francis, his worst fears were realized when Sir John Sawers, former head of MI6, commenting on BBC television, warned that Russia had become a danger to Britain and the country should be prepared to take steps to defend itself and its allies.

  “I don’t think you’re in any physical danger Michael, if that’s what you’re worried about, this has nothing to do with the bank’s problems.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Fitzwilliams retorted sarcastically. “What I’m worried about is how they settle their problems!”

  “Seriously. Look at it this way Michael, I know it may seem strange to you, but perhaps it was a good thing that City & Colonial took the hot potato. After all it leaves you holding the most valuable assets and Hainsworth holding the problems.”

  Fitzwilliams nodded slowly.

  “Why not get the team together to talk about it?”

  There was a moment of silence as the banker reflected.

  “You know, Pat, Tom Barton ...”

  “A council of war …” Fitzwilliams said speaking to himself and slowly warming to the idea.

  “Yes.”

  “A good idea John - what about Sergei?”

  “Better wait.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Good.”

  “What can we do about Moscow?”

  “Look, Putin’s particularly dangerous and unpredictable in the present situation, so let’s forget about what’s going on in Moscow. Putin certainly feels encircled, endangered and the Ukrainian confrontation was certainly a reaction, his way of telling the West to back-off.”

  “Is it our fault, I mean the West?”

  “Yes, indirectly, in a certain manner of speaking if you like, because we encourage democracy, an open society and our system of capitalism. All of which is in conflict with Russia’s history and political tradition.”

  “But don’t you think the Ukraine is a symptom. I mean it’s not the real problem.”

  “Precisely. The real problem is how to live with the Kremlin, which feels very vulnerable. To my mind Putin’s actions are those of a leader who believes his own situation is at stake.”

  According to the man from MI6, Russia posed a state to state problem and he counselled the government to take firm action in the form of increased defence spending and dialogue. The latter seemed more like wishful thinking to Fitzwilliams who had experienced Russian intransigence, a stone wall, in his dealings with it’s financial authorities and certain of his bank’s clients.

  The banker remembered the warning of Kalevi Kyyrönen, a good friend of John Francis. The Finn had told him in the bluntest of terms that the Russian leader was dangerous. Putin was an ex-KGB man and that in itself said everything.

  Fitzwilliams was belatedly discovering the West, its leaders, both political and business, simply had no idea of the mindset of such men. First they were Russians, hard and uncompromising. Secondly was their training: they were selected from adolescence for the KGB school, where the words democracy and free thinking were non-existent. They entered a system that transformed them into the most insensitive of operatives, formed within the concepts of single minded totalitarianism, ready to use all conceivable means in pursuit of the objectives set out by their superiors.

  PART SEVEN

  LONDON

  In spite of Pat’s impatience, Lili insisted on arriving late. It was Michael Fitzwilliams’ invitation so there was little point in them getting to the restaurant before him.

  Fitzwilliams, the now former head of the City banking group, had not only suffered the humiliation of being evinced as CEO, he had also lost his fabulous pay package of around eight million pounds, including allowances to circumvent EU caps, pension fund contributions, the use of the company jets, cars and other perks. It was more than that of Sir Alec Hainsworth, the head of City & Colonial.

  The difference was that he, Michael Fitzwilliams, was not some kind of a stupendously overblown salaryman, his family had founded the bank and he was still a significant shareholder, further more, it was he who had built the bank into the international banking group it had become
since he took over the reins in 2000.

  Over the course of fifteen years he had changed it from a middling Irish savings bank to one respected in banking and business circles from London to Hong Kong, and it was for that reason he believed Westminster and his enemies had schemed together to swindle him out of what was rightly his.

  His lawyer, James Herring, was still investigating the legality of City & Colonial’s takeover. Herring challenged the right of the Bank of England’s authority over an international private bank in view of the fact it was part of a Luxembourg holding. He argued the process in which INI had been declared imperilled by the change of ownership of its partner, InterBank, was spurious. InterBank’s sequestration under Russian law did not affect the functioning of INI in London, since the Moscow bank continued to operate under the tutelage of the Russian Ministry of Finance, administered by the state controlled Sberbank, one of the world’s largest financial institutions.

  In launching his counter attack Fitzwilliams needed to rally his friends and associates, starting with Pat Kennedy, in whose interest it was to recover control of INI Banking Corporation plc and its holdings.

  *

  Their car pulled up in a small rather seedy, if not cut-throat, street off Tottenham Court Road. Pat looking outside, alarmed. He was about to ask his driver if he had the right address when a uniformed doorman appeared, saluted and smartly opened the passenger door. Seeing their hesitation he announced with a thin knowing smile they were at the Hakkasan, then ushered them inside.

  A stairway descended into a strangely exotic setting; the subdued blue lighting more evocative of a nightclub than a restaurant. Its walls were lined with grey slate; lacquered Chinese latticework screens divided the dining room into discrete sections where the strangely hued lighting created the ambiance of a Hollywoodian science fiction movie.

  Fitzwilliams’ choice was out of character. He had his reasons: first he wanted to avoid the places where he was known, such as the Carlton, which was not only dull, but his presence would have immediately set tongues wagging: secondly there it was symbolic of the importance of Hong Kong and China for his guests, especially Lili, who he felt would feel more at home in a Chinese restaurant, especially one that boasted a Michelin star.

  The clientele of the Hakkasan were successful and rich; at least those who picked up the tab. In any case they looked much the same, the men well coiffed, their faces glowing with moisturiser, dressed in tight black jackets, de rigueur white shirts - definitely sans cravate, costly black designer jeans and well buffed Garavani shoes. The women in black - Victoria Beckham lookalikes. Everybody was was somebody: a showbiz star, a media personality, a fashionable lawyer, something in the City, or a successful entrepreneur, in brief, well-oiled cogs in the rich-take-all gated community.

  The maître d’, a beautiful young woman of undetermined Asian origin wearing a silk-chiffon gown, showed the couple to a private alcove where Michael Fitzwilliams was waiting. He rose to greet the glamorously attired couple offering a graceful baisemain for Lili and a friendly manhug for Pat, dispelling his fears of lingering bitterness.

  “I hope you like this Lili, it’s said to be authentic Chinese haute cuisine, Cantonese I believe.”

  Lili smiled approvingly, not mentioning she had already eaten at Hakkasan on the Bund in Shanghai, but she thought his consideration sweet, though authentic Chinese it was not.

  “It’s also liked by the stars,” he said with a deprecatory smiling. “They don’t have many bankers, except from the trading rooms.”

  Pat laughed. “It’s good to see you Fitz.”

  That sat down and Fitzwilliams proposed Champagne. They nodded in agreement and were presented with the menus.

  “So how is Lily Rose?”

  “Very well, her ayi is looking after her.”

  “She’s here in London?”

  “Yes, we didn’t want to leave her behind.”

  “And your parents?”

  “They’re very well.”

  “Excellent, I’m pleased to hear that. Give them my regards.”

  *

  The Champagne, a Krug Grande Cuvée was served, then with the help of Lili and the recommendations of the charming maître d’ they ordered their diner and settled down exchanging small talk, leaving the more thorny subjects to later.

  The food was excellent: a dim sum platter, crispy duck with caviare, scallop sautéed in XO, black pepper Angus striploin, steamed Jasmin rice, accompanied by an excellent Chablis Vaudesir, and followed by a lemon pot desert.

  Feeling mellow after the excellent meal they drifted into the subject of INI, in general terms to commence, feeling out each others feelings and their respective plans for the future.

  They were on the same wave length concerning City & Colonial. Regarding Fitzwilliams’ situation, Pat was one hundred percent behind his mentor. He was where he was thanks to Michael Fitzwilliams and his loyalty had never wavered.

  As to Fitzwilliams he was touched by Kennedy’s candour and regretted he had misjudged him. The very different backgrounds of the two men had determined their respective relationships, Fitzwilliams an aristocratic banker who had inherited his wealth and position; Kennedy a lad who had made his way up from a working class family in Limerick City.

  Kennedy had come a very long way, over the years he had been transformed into a sleek banker, now married into a powerful Chinese family, rich in his own right, thanks largely to his friendship with the patrician banker, who had now experienced a hard and bitter fall from power, whose pride had been hurt, though his wealth was still intact.

  They were complimentary and together they would be stronger and better able to fight City & Colonial.

  As the evening mellowed Fitzwilliams informed them that Sergei Tarasov was last seen at his property in Ireland, where he was said be safe, discretely watched over by George Pyke’s men, at least temporarily. However, on the advice of his lawyers, Fitzwilliams had not been in contact with his Russian partner, given their respective situations, which to say the least were delicate pending complex legal decisions. It was now evident the oligarch had fallen victim to Russian politics, who had in turn had dragged Fitzwilliams into the torment.

  Kennedy agreed to try contact Tarasov discretely. It was time they set out their plans so to protect their respective interests and prepare for the battle that lay ahead.

  “What’s the news from Tom Barton?” asked Fitzwilliams frowning quizzically.

  “I’m hoping to catch up with him shortly in Panama.”

  “Panama?” said Fitzwilliams looking to Lili.

  She lifted her eyes in amused despair at the thought.

  AN OLD ETONIAN

  Overnight Michael Fitzwilliams was shut out from the gilded Chipping Norton circle, snubbed, dumped, a none person, not that he had ever ingratiated himself to any of Cameron’s clique; he had his own.

  The affluent West Oxfordshire gentry and their style had always been nearer Alice’s thing: his wife had grown up in a world of horses, fox hunting, landed gentry, weekend with her likes, not forgetting country clubs, golf and Range Rovers. With her title and estates, she was however closer in style to the generation of Cameron’s late father and the world of thoroughbreds and horse racing, far removed from the home counties nouveaux-riches back scratching rockstars and TV personalities.

  David Cameron was born into the world of privilege, his great-great-grandfather, Alexander Geddes made his fortune in the grain trade in Chicago in the 1880s. David was the younger son of Ian Donald Cameron, a City stockbroker and later chairman of Close International Asset management, an investment fund based in Jersey that managed funds valued at around ten million pounds. Ian Donald Cameron was also director of Blairmore Holdings Inc, registered in Panama City and a shareholder in Blairmore Asset Management, based in Geneva. Blairmore Holdings, set up to ‘optimise’ taxation and named after the Cameron’s family property, Blairmore, was built by Cameron’s great-great-grandfather.

  In 1979, Marg
aret Thatcher after her first month in power, put an end to capital controls, which effectively made it legal to take money out of the country without it being taxed or controlled by the government. David Cameron’s father, Ian Cameron, who died in 2010, was reported to have taken advantage of the changes by using a network of offshore investment funds to avoid taxation, and although there was nothing illegal in doing so, it was an embarrassment for the Tory leader who had loudly proclaimed his desire to clamp down on such methods.

  Having a racehorse owning Old Etonian toff, the embodiment of wealth and privilege, as a father was not a good thing for ‘call me Dave’s’ image. A detail his spin doctors had taken great pains to keep his wealthy family background out of the news.

  It was surprising that birth, privilege, prep schools, Eton and Oxford continued to play an important political role in the United Kingdom at the start of the third millennium, when its prime minister moved in a rarefied milieu of almost exceptional privilege, surrounded by a coterie of old school pals in a society where wealth with class counted more than ever, separated from the masses by deep social divide and economic inequalities.

  E

  ton College

  Its patrician prime minister had little in common with Barack Obama, George Bush or Bill Clinton and even less with Donald Trump.

  According to Lord Ashcroft’s biography ‘Call me Dave’, the parents of Cameron’s classmates included eight Honourables, four Sirs, two Majors, two Princesses, two Marchionesses, one Viscount, one Brigadier, one Commodore, one Earl, one Lord, and even the Queen.

  It was a far cry from the newly chosen and much derided Labour Party leader, Jeremy Corbyn, a man of the people, a modern Bolshevik, who abandoned his studies for a degree in Trade Union Studies at North London Polytechnic, and who evidently resented his country being led by a man who went to boarding school at the age of seven, Eton and Oxford where he had been a member of the Bullingdon Club.