The Predator

by Michael Ridpath

  He leaned over the parapet of the old stone bridge and stared down at the angry river. He remembered the first time they had met, ten years before in New York. And, with a shudder, he remembered that other death.

  PART TWO

  1

  The crowded train pulled into Wall Street subway station, and a twenty-two-year-old Chris Szczypiorski fought his way on to the platform, followed by two other young British bankers. Fresh faced, they looked out of place in their suits; they gazed about them with the curious bewilderment of tourists, rather than the determined blank stares of the other commuters on their way to work.

  'I never thought we'd get here in one piece,' said Chris. 'I can't believe what you did back there, Duncan.'

  'I swear, I saw them do it on TV,' the tall red-haired young man behind him protested in a mild Scottish accent. 'It's a tough place, New York.'

  'You know, Duncan,' drawled Ian, the last member of the trio on to the platform, 'I wonder if that was Tokyo you saw?'

  'It wasn't,' said Duncan. 'You didn't see it. How do you know?'

  'I bet it was,' Ian repeated with confidence, grinning.

  Duncan frowned. 'Oh,' he said, doubts flooding in.

  When they had changed subway trains at Grand Central, Duncan had decided to push the jammed commuters further into the crowded carriage so that there would be room for the three of them. Chris and Ian had had to pull him back, and if the doors hadn't shut at that moment, Duncan would have been lynched.

  'Anyway, let's not try that again, shall we?' Chris said, as he pushed his way through the exit turnstile. 'I agree with Ian. I'm pretty sure the locals don't like it.'

  They climbed out of the subway station into Wall Street, descending like a narrow ravine down the hill from the blackened façade of Trinity Church at its head. They threaded their way through the hot-dog and pretzel stands, past the classical columns of Federal Hall and the solid entrance to the New York Stock Exchange, until they came to an alley, darkened by the great buildings looming on either side. There, a little way up the street, was a sleek, black block, with the name Bloomfield Weiss written in neat gold letters above the entrance lobby. A line of office workers filed into the building, like ants returning to their nest.

  They introduced themselves to the squad of security guards at the front desk and headed up to the twenty-third floor. That was where Bloomfield Weiss housed its world-renowned training programme.

  Chris had joined Bloomfield Weiss's London office six months before, in September of the previous year. He had arrived straight from university, as had most of the nine other graduate trainees. Seven of them had left immediately to go to New York, and they were just coming to the end of their stint on the programme. Chris, Ian Darwent, and Duncan Gemmel had been shipped out in April to join the second programme of the year. Young bankers from Bloomfield Weiss's offices all over the world would be gathered there to spend five months of their lives on the toughest training programme on the Street.

  Although they were very different, the three Brits had developed a kinship during their six months rooting around at the bottom of the London Office food chain. It was in Duncan's nature to be friendly, but Ian's attitude surprised Chris. Chris had known of him at university, they were at the same college, but their paths had scarcely crossed there. Ian was an Old Etonian, the son of a junior cabinet minister, who belonged to a string of dining clubs with obscure classical names. He was frequently seen around the college with a different blonde double-barrelled girl on his arm. Chris came from Halifax. Although Ian had spent three years barely acknowledging the very existence of the likes of Chris, he seemed to realize that now they were on the Bloomfield Weiss payroll, all that was in the past. Chris wasn't about to bear a grudge: they needed each other.

  As they disembarked from the elevator on the twenty-third floor they were met by a small blonde-haired woman wearing a severe suit, her hair scraped back in a bun. She didn't look much older than them, but then she didn't look like one of them, either.

  She held out a hand. 'Hi. My name's Abby Hollis. I'm the programme coordinator. And you are?'

  They gave her their names.

  'Very good. You're almost late. Your desks are through there. Drop your stuff, and go through to the classroom. We're about ready to get started.'

  'Yes, Miss,' said Chris with a wry glance at Ian and Duncan. Abby Hollis frowned, and turned to the next group emerging from the lift.

  The classroom was a large, circular auditorium, with desks rising in five rows from a central space in front of an array of teaching aids: a computer, a large projection screen, a flip chart, and even a twenty-foot rolling blackboard. There were no windows, just the gentle whir of air-conditioning bringing in oxygen from the outside world. Above and below them toiled hundreds of investment bankers turning money into more money. Here, at the core of the building, almost exactly half way up it, were the trainees, protected for now from the dangers and temptations of the billions of dollars swirling around the street outside.

  The room was already full of men and women of all shapes and colours. Chris scanned the nameplates. For once, his own name blended in with its exotic neighbours. Szczypiorski was no odder than Ramanathan or Ng or Nemeckova. He took his seat between a tall, fair-haired, obviously American man named Eric Astle and a black woman named Latasha James. Duncan was seated directly behind him, Ian on the other side of the classroom.

  'All right, everybody, listen up!' announced a gruff voice. They fell silent. A large middle-aged man with black hair gelled back over his balding scalp was occupying the empty space at the front of the class. 'My name is George Calhoun, and I'm responsible for the training programme here at Bloomfield Weiss. It's something I'm very proud of.'

  He paused. He had their attention.

  'Now as you know, Bloomfield Weiss is the most feared and respected investment bank on Wall Street. How have we achieved this? Why do we lead more equity and bond issues year in and year out than any of our competitors? What makes us the best? Well, one of the answers is right here. This programme.

  'This is the toughest programme on the Street.' He pronounced it 'Schtreet', in what Chris already knew as the true Bloomfield Weiss tough-guy fashion. We're not just going to teach you all the tools you'll need – the bond math, the corporate finance, all that good stuff. We're going to teach you that the guy who tries hardest, who works hardest, who refuses to come second, he's the winner.' Calhoun's voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes glinting. 'Wall Street is a jungle and you're all predators. Out there,' and at this he waved his arm vaguely towards the outside world somewhere beyond the windowless walls, 'Out there are the prey.'

  He paused, took a deep breath and tucked his stomach into his trousers. 'Now, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is, you're not all going to make it. We're introducing a new policy from this programme on. The weakest among you, the bottom quartile, will fall by the wayside. I know you've all worked your asses off to get here, fought your way through the best schools, beaten a hundred other candidates for your jobs, but you're going to be working harder in the next five months than you've ever worked in your lives before. And the meanest, the toughest among you, will go on to build Bloomfield Weiss for the future.'

  He stopped and looked round the room, checking for his effect on the audience. They were all stunned.

  'Any questions?'

  Silence. Chris looked round at his fellow trainees. They seemed as nonplussed as he felt.

  Then a lone hand was raised. It belonged to a tall, striking woman with short white hair. Her name card said Lenka Nemeckova.

  Calhoun turned with a frown towards the hand, a frown that softened almost into a leer when he saw to whom it belonged.

  'Yes, er, Lenka?'

  'I understand the bad news,' said the woman in a hoarse East European accent, tinged with American. 'Now can you give us the good news?'

  Calhoun was momentarily confused. The class could see him trying to remember, with all of them, ju
st what the good news was. Chris heard a laugh behind him he recognized as Duncan's. It rippled round the auditorium, dispersing the tension that had been so carefully nurtured by Calhoun's speech.

  Calhoun was not happy 'The good news, ma'am, is that you'll be eating, sleeping and dreaming nothing but Bloomfield Weiss for the next five months.' He stuck his jaw out towards her, defying her to answer back.

  Lenka smiled sweetly. 'Oh, yes, that will be nice.'

  The day was spent describing how much work they would have to do and then giving it to them. The sixty trainees emerged, reeling, at five o'clock, clasping the assignments that would have to be completed over the following week. Abby Hollis met each of them with three hefty books on bond mathematics, economics and capital markets. She also provided canvas bags, with Bloomfield Weiss written on them in discreet lettering. There was too much material for the slim designer briefcases most of the trainees had bought during their first few months in the job.

  'Whew!' said Duncan, looking shaken. 'I need a beer.'

  That seemed a perfectly good idea to Chris and Ian. Duncan, ever friendly, turned to a pudgy man with a long, pointed nose who was neatly stacking the assignments into his bag. His name was Rudy Moss. 'Want to come?'

  Rudy glanced down at his bulging canvas bag and shook his head pityingly. 'I don't think so,' he said, and drifted off.

  'Mind if we join you?' asked a voice behind Duncan. It was Eric Astle, the American who had sat next to Chris, and with whom he had exchanged a few incredulous glances during the afternoon. With him was a small, dark man, with a thin shadow of bristle over his jaw. Eric introduced him as Alex Lubron.

  'Of course,' said Duncan. 'Do you know anywhere to go round here?'

  'There's Jerry's,' said Alex. 'Come on. We'll show you,' and he led the small troop towards the elevator.

  They passed Lenka, standing tall and alone, the hubbub of chattering trainees breaking round her, as though nervous of engaging her in conversation.

  Duncan hesitated. 'Fancy a wee one?' he asked, overdoing his Scottish act.

  'Excuse me?'

  'Would you like to come for a drink with us?' he said, with a friendly smile. Lenka returned it. 'Why not?' she said, gathering up her stuff. 'Let's go.'

  'Jesus, can you believe that stuff about the bottom quartile?' Duncan asked the group crammed round a small table, as a waiter distributed cold beers. Jerry's was a basement bar round the corner from Bloomfield Weiss. It was heaving with beefy traders reliving their exploits of the day. They can't be serious. Can they?'

  They can,' Chris said.

  'But we've worked so hard to get this far, it seems completely stupid to throw anyone out now,' said Duncan.

  'It is. They won't. Don't worry,' said Ian, lighting up a cigarette. 'That lower-quartile stuff is just a way of getting rid of people they don't like. We'll be OK.'

  'You might be. I'm not so sure about me.'

  Ian shrugged, as though Duncan might have a point but it didn't bother him too much. Ian was polished and self-confident, the cream of the annual milk round. He had dark, fine, dangerously good-looking features. He wore the best suits of the three of them, shirts with cufflinks, and ties that didn't seem to get stains on them. Unlike Duncan, his shirt tails never hung out. He was the nearest any of them had managed to come to looking and sounding like a real investment banker. The only detail that spoiled the image was his bitten-down fingernails.

  'Can I have one of those?' Lenka asked Ian, pointing to his cigarette packet.

  'Oh, I'm sorry. Of course.' Ian offered her one and she lit it with obvious pleasure. 'Anyone else?'

  Alex, too, lit up.

  'Your country is barbaric, the way you don't let people smoke,' Lenka said. 'I don't know how I'm going to get through the day.'

  There was a no-smoking policy in the training programme offices. Smoking had not quite been totally stamped out in Bloomfield Weiss. Some traders held out, still managing to smoke fat cigars on the trading floor, but its days were numbered.

  'That's right,' said Ian. 'Don't the people have a right to bear cigarettes? Or is it machine guns? I never can remember.'

  'We used to,' said Alex. 'But Big Government is taking it away from us. What we need is a smoker for President, don't you think, Eric? Eric's our political activist. He was single-handedly responsible for getting Bush elected.'

  'Thanks, Alex,' said Eric. 'I did work for the Bush campaign when I was in College,' he explained to the others, 'stuffing envelopes for the cause.'

  'Oh, it was much more than that,' said Alex. 'George has been calling him on a regular basis asking him what he should say to Gorbachev.'

  Eric rolled his eyes.

  They made an unlikely double act. Eric was tall, upright, with a square jaw, a neat haircut, and a smile that showed the gleam of perfect teeth. Alex was six inches shorter, wiry, with curly hair, and stubble that suggested he hadn't shaved that morning. His tie was lopsided and the top button of his shirt was undone. His brown eyes twinkled with humour and intelligence under thick dark eyebrows. Chris found himself warming to both of them.

  'I didn't like the look of that Professor Waldern,' said Duncan, bringing the conversation back to what was worrying him.

  'Nor me,' said Chris. A lithe, intense man with a greying beard and bright beady eyes, Waldern had seemed to take real pleasure in outlining how much work they would have to do, and how hard he would be on those of them who failed to do it. He was supposed to be on the faculty of a fancy business school, but it seemed to Chris that he must be spending most of his time teaching bond mathematics and capital markets to Bloomfield Weiss trainees. The pay was probably excellent.

  'He's supposed to be tough,' said Eric. 'They say he can make a grown man cry.'

  'I can believe it,' said Duncan. He turned to Eric and Alex. 'You must have a better idea how the programme works. Is it really going to be that bad?'

  'Probably,' said Eric. 'Calhoun took over the training programme about six months ago. The scuttle is he wants to change things. Make it more Darwinian. The idea is to weed out the losers before they even start real work. Apparently, the Management Committee discussed it and decided to go with him. I guess we're the guinea pigs.'

  'I wouldn't worry too much,' said Alex. 'Like everything, it all depends who you know. If there's a managing director who wants you in his department, no one will can you. Stay cool.'

  'And is there?' asked Duncan.

  'I was working in mortgage trading for my first six months,' said Alex. 'The guys there like me. I'll be OK.'

  This made Duncan even more worried. 'And you?' he asked Eric.

  'Oh, I'm not sure where I'll end up,' he replied. 'We'll just have to see what happens.'

  'You'll go wherever you want to go,' said Alex. 'They love you.'

  Eric shrugged. 'There's the next five months to get through first.'

  None of this was pleasing Duncan. 'I don't think there's anyone in London who gives a toss what happens to me.'

  Chris knew the feeling. The three of them had been passed round the office like unwanted lost children, while the other London trainees were doing their stuff in New York. They were the lowest of the low.

  'Oh come on, chaps,' said Ian, in his best public school accent. 'Let's not panic here. That's what the bastards want us to do. We're in New York for five months on investment bankers' salaries. Let's have some fun.'

  'I'll drink to that,' said Lenka. She lifted her glass, which was already nearly empty. 'Cheers!'

  They all raised their glasses to her.

  'Duncan,' said Lenka. 'If ever things get really tough, you know what you do?'

  'What?'

  'You come down here and drink beer with us. It's the Czech way. It works.'

  Duncan smiled and drained his glass. 'You've convinced me. Let's get some more in.' He physically grabbed a passing waiter, who scowled at him, but took his order for refills.

  'So you're from Czechoslovakia?' Chris asked. 'I didn't know Bloo
mfield Weiss had an office in Prague.'

  'Yes, I'm Czech. But I'm a New York hire. Now the Iron Curtain has lifted, the investment banks want Eastern Europeans. And so they asked me if I could tell them all about Eastern Europe. They said they would pay me a lot of money. Actually, I know all about Keats and Shelley, but I didn't tell them that.' Her English was fluent and confident, but she had quite a strong accent.

  'You're an English major?' Alex asked.

  'I studied English and Russian at the Charles University in Prague. Then I went to graduate school at Yale. But all this structuralist bullshit became too much for me. America's all about money, and so I thought I'd better find out something about it. I only joined Bloomfield Weiss two weeks ago.'

  'Don't you have any econ at all?' asked Alex.

  'I don't think the kind of economics they teach in my country would impress Bloomfield Weiss very much. But I've read a couple of American books on the subject. I'll be OK.' She turned to Chris. 'What about you, Mr Szczypiorski? Are you Polish?'

  Chris smiled as she pronounced the unpronounceable so deftly. 'No,' he answered. 'My parents are from there, obviously. But I come from Halifax in the North of England. I've only been to Poland once. And I speak Polish with a Yorkshire accent.'

  'Ee by gumski,' said Duncan.

  Chris smiled thinly. Jokes about his accent, or his Polish name, had ceased to amuse him years ago.

  'That is quite a name you've got there,' said Alex. 'What is it . . . Zizipisky? That's a mouthful even by American standards.'

  Chris didn't bother to correct the pronunciation. 'I know. I've thought about changing it to Smith or something, but it's all too complicated.'

  'That's what we had Ellis Island for,' said Alex. 'Throw in a couple of vowels, lose the zees, and you've got a name as American as apple pie.'