Trust Me, I'm a Banker (Dave Hart 2) Read online

  I certainly have their attention. Even Paul is wondering what I’m on.

  ‘We are going to refinance Hastings BioScience.’

  Beside me, Paul takes a sharp breath. The Germans seem nonplussed. They haven’t heard of Hastings BioScience. Why would they?

  ‘HBS is a British company that assists pharmaceutical and healthcare companies from all over the world to test pioneering medical advances for dread diseases – cancer, Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, HIV-AIDS, you name it. All of us may one day have reason to be grateful for their work. They’re world leaders in what they do, and I believe we should support them.’

  The Germans are nodding. Herman speaks first. ‘In principle I don’t see any reason not to.’

  ‘That’s the thing – it’s a high risk business. Right now, they’re on the brink of going bust. They’re struggling with huge uncertainty over the future, workforce issues, corporate clients who can take their business overseas, the kind of thing that could make some management teams throw in the towel. But these people are different. They have a vision, a mission and a great future, if only someone will stand by them. I want that firm to be Grossbank – in the finest traditions of the firm.’

  Biedermann is puzzled. ‘In principle, subject to confirmation of the numbers and the appropriate credit checks being carried out, I cannot argue with you. Do you know the company well?’

  ‘The Chief Executive is waiting for my call. With your agreement, gentlemen?’

  They look at each other, shrug their shoulders and nod. Paul rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and gives me one of those ‘What the fuck are you doing now?’ looks.

  I slap him on the shoulder and wink. ‘Come on, Paul – nobody wants to live forever.’ Except me. I want to live forever so that I can carry on shagging.

  THE OFFICES of HBS are rather like I imagine Fort Knox to be. Barbed wire fences, windows with metal shutters, and security cameras everywhere. Two Livers and I arrive in the Bentley, which is now bearing my new personalised number-plate: H1 PAY. I chuckle at what Wendy will make of it when she hears.

  A crowd of low-lifers are hanging around outside the gates. Kids in dirty combat jackets and new age beads and earrings, with beards and funny hairstyles, holding placards and chanting and maintaining an uneasy truce with a row of policemen in bright yellow jackets. The drill at the gates is obviously well rehearsed. As we swing into the entrance, whoever is monitoring the security cameras presses a button so that the gates swing open and we can glide in past the crowd. The shouting picks up as they realise we are visiting HBS, and I slow down and open the window of the Azure.

  ‘Why don’t you all go home, have a shower and see if you can get a job?’

  I put my foot down and swing inside to safety as the gates close behind us and the crowd surges forward to battle with the policemen.

  Harry Peters looks remarkably like his sister, except that he definitely isn’t shaggable. He’s late thirties – probably around my age – and has the frazzled look of a man who’s been pushed to the limit. Dark shadows around the eyes, the first grey hairs, shoulders that default into a slumped position, and lines on his face that have nothing to do with laughter.

  I wonder briefly if he spends all his nights shagging hookers and doing whisky and drugs, but he’s not an investment banker or a hedge fund manager, so how could he afford it?

  He greets us in the lobby and looks past us to the crowd outside, where a full scale battle is underway. As we watch, two more vanloads of police arrive.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into them. They aren’t usually that bad. Perhaps it was the car – they probably see you as capitalists or something.’

  ‘Something like that,’ agrees Two Livers, giving me the sort of dirty look that doesn’t turn me on.

  He shows us into his office and goes into an excruciating hero worship speech about everything Sally’s told him. How his nephew doesn’t seem to have had any after-effects from Jamaica, and even mentions how they are testing a new synthetic skin for burn victims that might be useful if I ever considered surgery for the scar on my forehead.

  Is he kidding? This scar and I are old buddies now. This scar’s my meal ticket.

  Eventually he dries up, and looks rather helplessly at us. He reaches over to a photograph of a smiling red-haired woman – probably seven out of ten, certainly shaggable. She’s holding a baby. I guess she’s his wife. ‘We’re calling in the receivers in two weeks’ time.’

  There’s a long, poignant silence. I can hear the crowd shouting outside, more police sirens, and in the office, a clock on the wall ticking. I turn to Two Livers.

  ‘Your call.’

  Two Livers has spent the whole journey down here telling me I’m wrong on this one. I need to think again, I really am going too far, we’re not paid to do stuff like this, and why the hell have I involved her?

  But now she turns to Harry and sighs.

  ‘Two weeks?’

  ‘We’ve got no choice. The board decided we have no alternative. Those people…’ He nods towards the sound of the crowd. ‘They’ve won. We’re throwing in the towel.’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, you’re not. The cavalry’s arrived.’

  THE JOURNEY BACK from HBS is mixed. We get out of the gates under a flurry of stones, bottles, eggs and rotten fruit. There’s a major riot underway, more protesters are arriving and being matched with huge numbers of police. TV crews are recording what has clearly become a major incident. A police car is lying on its side, its windows smashed. As we speed away a Molotov cocktail flies through the air and explodes in the road behind us. We pass rows of police vans unloading officers in riot gear.

  ‘Fucking parasites. Who do they think they are?’

  Two Livers is sulking, swigging from a bottle of Evian. ‘Why did you make it my call?’

  ‘Because when you start getting hate mail at home, or parcels of human excrement through the letter box, or your name gets registered on paedophile websites, I don’t want you to ask me for more money. It was your call.’

  ‘But you’re the hero. I don’t want to be a hero. Just rich.’

  We lapse into an uneasy silence, until the mobile goes and it’s Paul Ryan.

  ‘We just priced the MOSS deal. Top of the range and it’s trading at a premium. Mike Moss says you’re a hero.’

  Two Livers looks at me. ‘See what I mean?’

  It gets worse. Some selfish bastard has had an accident up ahead and the traffic comes to a standstill. We’re hemmed in by VW Golfs and white vans and everyone seems to have their windows open and the radio thumping out Thick FM. The sooner we get road pricing and the chance to clear these people off the road, the better.

  When we get back to the office I call a team meeting to prepare for the next steps with HBS. They can’t quite believe we’re doing this. Neither can I. Every- one seems to be taking comfort from the fact that I’m so certain about what we’re doing. If this is leadership, it’s damned scary.

  The whole thing needs to be perfectly stage-managed, so Bill gets in the PR team from Ball Taittinger.

  In the middle of all this, Wendy calls, angry and suspicious. She was watching the television news about the riots at Hastings BioScience and saw footage of me leaving the premises in a Bentley with the number plate H1 PAY and a blonde beside me. What’s going on? Before I have a chance to lie to her, she says she’s already spoken to her solicitor, and she wants the flat as well.

  Can you believe this? The bitch, the greedy cow wants to take away my home, my refuge, my beloved shag-pad. I tell her to fuck off and hang up, making a note to send Samantha some more presents.

  Then I get another call. It’s Sally Mills. She’s crying on the phone. Harry’s called her and told her what we’re going to do. What I’m going to do. She’s so grateful. I seize the moment.

  ‘Sally – what I said last time, it was unforgivable. I want to apologise. I have to apologise. When can I see you again so I can put things right?’ She hesit
ates at the other end. She doesn’t want to piss me off, because Grossbank haven’t actually done anything yet. On the other hand, the prospect of us getting anything straight between us – as it were – may not be exactly what she has in mind.

  ‘Dave, I’d love to, but…’

  ‘No buts, Sally. I need to talk to you. The next few days will be hard. I’m putting everything on the line to do what’s right. When are you free? Tell me, and I’ll be there.’

  How can you refuse a hero? We fix a date and she hangs up. There’s still time for her to change her mind, but after tomorrow? Nah. After tomorrow she’ll be gagging for it.

  THE SILVER FOX and his team from Ball Taittinger have done a fabulous job. The main conference room at Grossbank’s London office is standing room only. Wall to wall media – not just the dailies and the broadsheets, but TV and radio, and of course the financial press, and the women’s magazines too. They’re here for me. Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?

  I mount the podium with Harry Peters, and Two Livers and Paul Ryan sit on either side of us.

  The Silver Fox has prepped some of the media already. There’s a buzz that even I find quite intoxicating. And I know all about intoxication.

  The press conference has been scheduled for twelve noon, in time for the lunchtime news bulletins, after the morning’s news and announcements have been absorbed, and in plenty of time for tomorrow’s papers.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming here this morning. Some of you know me already, but for those of you who don’t, I’m Dave Hart, global head of investment banking at Grossbank. Seated on my left is a man who has sadly become familiar to all of you over the last two years, Harry Peters, the Chief Executive of Hastings BioScience.’ I go on to explain how Harry and the people at HBS have been threatened, physically assaulted, persecuted and slandered, and all by extremists of the worst kind, who refuse to work inside democratic processes, but ride roughshod over the rest of us in their single-minded quest to impose their will on the majority. I pay tribute to his stamina, his determination, and his courage, and I underline the vital contribution to medical research of controlled, properly managed animal testing.

  Yes, it’s a horrible practice, but dread diseases are even worse. If we have to choose, then until there’s some better alternative, it’s clear where Grossbank stands.

  There’s a round of applause as he stands to speak.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I wasn’t expecting to be standing here today.’ He pauses, and it’s not an act. The emotion is almost too much for him. He reaches down to the desk and takes a swig from Two Livers Evian bottle. His eyes light up and he’s back again.

  ‘I was expecting to be announcing the calling in of the receivers. It was almost over for HBS, and with us would have gone dozens of vital medical research programmes, hundreds of research jobs, and a good chunk of the future for the British pharmaceutical industry.

  ‘The reason? Finance. No one was prepared to stand by us. No bank, no finance house, no institutional investor would support us. Not because they disagreed with what we were doing. But because they were afraid. Well, one bank wasn’t afraid. Grossbank has agreed to refinance all of our debt, giving us a fresh chance for the future, and granting a reprieve to all of the vital medical research that would otherwise have ceased. It took guts to stand up and be counted, and it won’t surprise you that the man who did so was Dave Hart!’

  A round of applause goes up. It’s pretty unusual for journalists anywhere to applaud anything, and I get the feeling that half of them are thinking I’ve lost my marbles, but what do they know?

  I lost my marbles long ago.

  ‘Thank you, Harry. Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been given copies of the press releases from both Grossbank and HBS outlining the transaction. If there are any questions we’ll be glad to answer them.’

  A reporter in the front row sticks his hand up. ‘Eddie Strange, Daily Post. Mister Hart – you’ve got a reputation as a hard man, but aren’t you concerned for your own safety and that of your staff in taking on the Animal Freedom Front?’

  My staff? Nah – they’re expendable. ‘Naturally. But this decision comes from the highest level within Grossbank. I’m the man on the spot, and I’ll do what I have to do. As a firm we’ll take whatever steps are necessary to protect our people. We already have enhanced security in place, and this will be increased following today’s announcement.’

  ‘Mister Hart – I’d assumed you were the man behind this financing. Are you saying the decision came from higher up?’

  ‘I’m proud the bank is taking the stand it is, but the real credit should go to this man…’ I turn and point to the screen, and right on cue, an enormous photograph of Biedermann appears. ‘Doktor Biedermann personally instructed us on this transaction. He’s the man who should get the credit at Grossbank. He’s a board member of long standing. You’ll find his photograph and bio in your packs.’

  ‘Dick Harper, Wall Street News. Why is Grossbank, a German bank, taking a stand like this for a British company? Is it your fight?’ Awesome. I make a mental note to double the Silver Fox’s fees.

  ‘Thank you, Dick. This is everyone’s fight. All of us are affected by this, whether we choose to walk by on the other side of the road or not. We’ve made this our fight, and we hope that others will join us. We’re a new boy in town, but it doesn’t mean we can’t stand up and be counted.’

  ‘Ralph Clark, Evening Echo. Isn’t this just a cynical ploy by Grossbank to squeeze huge fees out of a company that’s on the ropes?’

  ‘Thank you, Ralph. I’m grateful that you asked that question.’ And even more grateful to the Silver Fox for planting it. ‘I have here a summary of Grossbank’s earnings in this transaction.’ A slide appears behind me, headed ‘HBS re-financing: summary of earnings’. It’s blank. ‘And for those from the financial press, who want more detail, here’s how that breaks down.’ Another slide appears: ‘HBS re-financing: detailed earnings analysis.’ It’s also blank. Some of the journos start tittering.

  ‘Er… Dave, those slides you just showed us were blank.’ More giggling. A few of them are looking at the Silver Fox, to see if he’s embarrassed. They love it when a dog and pony show goes wrong.

  ‘I know.’ I look around the room, savouring the moment. ‘We’re waiving our fees on this transaction, and we’re not charging any loan interest either. We’re doing this one for love.’

  LATER, WHEN it’s all over, and I’m sitting in my office, Mike Moss calls to congratulate me. ‘Dave, I always knew you were different. I’ve met a few bankers in my time, but never anyone like you.’ Luckily, I feel I know him well enough to be sure he’s not taking the piss. Everyone else is. Everyone else thinks I’m mad.

  ‘But Dave – watch your back. I worry for you. These Animal Freedom Front people are nutters, and even you need to sleep sometime.’

  If he only knew. This weekend I went for thirty-six hours without sleep with Clarisse, a black girl from the Congo, and Breathless Beth, a twenty-one year old blonde from Texas. I’m starting to think I’m superhuman, though I notice that Maria looks concerned whenever I come back refreshed from a visit to the gents’.

  The Grossbank refinancing of HBS is lead item in the day’s television and radio news, the switchboard have already received threatening phone calls from the AFF, and a few low-life’s have gathered at the entrance to the Grossbank building, where police and private security guards are watching them.

  On the other hand, we’ve had a dozen incoming calls from chairmen and chief executives of large companies wanting to meet us. Two Livers is following them up – all the principled individuals who would ‘love to do something’, but don’t. Giving business to Grossbank could just become the next corporate fad.

  Maria calls through to me. ‘I have Doktor Biedermann’s office on the phone.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  He’s apoplectic, and I’m glad we don’t have videophones, so he c
an’t see me fighting to control myself. No one had ever heard of HBS in Germany, but now there’s an angry crowd outside the Grossbank Tower, he’s had threatening phone calls, the Greens are calling for an inquiry, and already posters are being put up around town by anarchists showing a caricature of him dissecting a kitten. The bank’s security department have decided that he’s going to be chauffeured around in an armoured limousine with a couple of bodyguards, and his wife has been advised to leave town. As if this wasn’t enough, the media are all over him, and he’s got to give a press conference in half-an-hour. What the hell do I suggest he says?

  ‘Stick to your guns! Tell it to them the way you told it to me, here in London. You inspired me, so inspire them. It’s all about principles, Doktor Biedermann, that’s why we’ve done this.’ It takes me a few seconds to realise he’s hung up.

  Maria brings me a sandwich at my desk.

  ‘How’s Two Livers doing?’

  ‘Miss MacKay left a message to say ‘five out of seven so far’ – she said you’d know what it meant.’

  Damned right I do. We’re aiming to get the chairmen, chief executives, or finance directors of the largest UK-based pharmaceutical companies in here tomorrow, for an urgent meeting. It’s payback time.

  Right now, it’s time for my osteopath. I tell Maria I’ll be working from home after my treatment.

  LAST NIGHT I had my first threatening phone call. The phone rang, around three a.m., just after the girls had left. Like a fool, I picked it up, and a scratchy, hate-filled voice, said ‘We know where you live. Best look over your shoulder, Hart.’

  I’d had most of a bottle of Scotch, a couple of amazing tablets that the girls brought, and I thought it was a joke.

  ‘Dan Harriman, you wanker. Come on over, it’s only three o’clock. I’ve just sent the girls away, but I can call and get them back.’

  Silence at the other end, then the scratchy voice again: ‘Dave Hart, we know where you live.’

  ‘Stop being a wanker. How many hookers do you want? Have you got any drugs?’