The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3) Page 3

  And nothing beats a good invasion.

  We’re not actually going to invade the whole of France, just one of the bastions of its financial community, Société Financière de Paris, or SFP for short. SFP is a stock broking and investment banking business headquartered in a fantastic old building not far from the Louvre. It employs a couple of thousand people, and – very importantly for me – its shares are listed on the Paris Bourse. First thing Monday morning its share price goes haywire. Someone is in there buying SFP stock like it’s going out of fashion. It is what used to be called a dawn raid – we go in hard and early, taking everyone by surprise, acquire as big a position as we can manage, then announce we are there and see what happens.

  When we disclose that Grossbank has a fifteen per cent stake in SFP, the price goes even higher. The financial press are all over us, demanding to know if taking this stake is a prelude to something bigger, and we actually intend to make a takeover bid for one of France’s oldest established financial institutions, a firm whose name is synonymous with the French establishment.

  Naturally, guided by the Silver Fox, we say nothing. ‘Any comment at this time would be inappropriate. However, we look forward to fruitful discussions with the board of SFP in the coming days on matters of mutual interest.’ That sends the stock up another five per cent.

  On the Wednesday morning I fly in to Paris with Two Livers and Paul Ryan. Grossbank has its own Paris-based operation, and the team there meet us and we head off in a convoy of black limousines for the SFP headquarters.

  When we get there, even I’m impressed. The entrance hall is enormous, with marble floors, huge columns going up to a vaulted ceiling, and magnificent oils on the walls. It feels more like the Presidential palace than an investment bank. If the intention is to impress clients arriving here, it certainly works.

  We are shown up to the fifth floor, to another enormous anteroom full of antique furniture, where the loudest noise is the ticking of ancient clocks. A pretty assistant sits at a desk in absolute silence, until a full fifteen minutes have passed, and then gets up – apparently without being signalled to do so – and invites us to follow her into the boardroom.

  She opens massive double doors and we go into a large conference room with an oval table, around which fifteen elderly men are seated. The Chairman, Jean-Marie LeGrand, a portly, bald septuagenarian, remains seated, staring at us as if it’s 1940 all over again and we’ve arrived to take their surrender. I look around the room. None of the others will meet my glance. No one gets up to shake our hands or introduce themselves. There are three empty chairs at the far end of the table, and the assistant directs us to take a seat.

  LeGrand clears his throat and speaks very slowly. ‘So, Monsieur ’art… welcome to Paris.’

  Oh, the French do so love their irony. It’s about as chilly a welcome as he could give without actually throwing us out. I feel I should do something to break the ice, like telling a joke. ‘Gentlemen, do you know how many Frenchmen it takes to defend Paris? No? Neither do I. In fact no one does. Because they’ve never tried.’ On reflection, it wouldn’t be a great start. And I do want this to start well, even though it may end differently.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur LeGrand. My colleagues and I are delighted to be here. Please let me introduce, on my left, Laura MacKay, head of Corporates at Grossbank…’ Being Frenchmen, they cannot help but scrutinise Two Livers and nod their approval. ‘…and on my right, Paul Ryan, head of Markets.’

  Paul gets a cursory glance from a couple of them, but mostly they stay looking at Two Livers. I pause and look around the room, doing my ‘cheerfully optimistic, possibly just a little bit naive, but fundamentally has his heart in the right place’ impression. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us today. May I say a few words?’

  LeGrand nods and waves his hand casually, obviously comfortable sitting at the head of his own board table. ‘Of course, Monsieur – if you believe you ’ave something of interest or relevance to propose to us.’ He says this with utter contempt. How could we possibly have anything interesting to say? We’re foreigners, after all.

  I look down at the table, pause to collect my thoughts and compose myself, because I need to keep a straight face. I look up.

  ‘Gentlemen, France is a great nation.’

  You can hear a pin drop. All of them are staring at me. I have their full attention. I say the next part very slowly.

  ‘The reason that France is a great nation, is because the French are a great people.’

  Now I’ve got them. They love me. Whatever I say next really does not matter. I could spend half an hour reading from the telephone directory and all they would remember would be the two opening lines. Gotcha.

  I go on to say that because France is such a major nation, a centre of influence and power, a place of cultural sophistication punching well above its considerable weight, Grossbank needs not just a presence in the Paris market, but a leading position. We could grow our own business, but it would take years. Or we could buy into an existing firm and draw up a co-operation agreement that would work to our mutual benefit. We have chosen the latter course, and since we are only interested in the very best, we have come to SFP.

  The way to a Frenchman’s heart is via his ego. Sometimes their egos are enormous, so pander to them. In the case of a very senior Establishment Frenchman like LeGrand, getting him and his ego in the room at the same time can be quite a challenge. But I think I’ve managed it.

  LeGrand finally gets up, comes down to the far end of the table, and with a broad smile shakes my hand and embraces me. I can even smell his after-shave, which I disapprove of. I’m wearing Eau de Jade from the Armani Black Collection, and I hope he appreciates it. He then gives Paul a brief handshake, and Two Livers gets an even bigger embrace than I did. The other board members take their cue and get up to shake hands with Paul and me and line up to take turns embracing Two Livers, who makes sure she doesn’t make eye contact with me, in case we both crack up.

  * * *

  I WAS only partly bullshitting in what I said about France. I do in fact love the place. I love the mountains, the beaches, the vineyards, the wide open spaces. On an individual basis, I even like some of the people. Well, some of the women anyway. The problem is that collectively they are a pain in the arse, a bunch of absurdly strutting cockerels, who cling to past glories in a way that makes the Brits seem forward-looking, and assert their independence by being as difficult as they can about any issue you care to name.

  Do you remember the neutron bomb? It was a Cold War invention, a ‘clean’ nuclear device that did not cause much physical blast damage, but could penetrate buildings and tank armour and irradiate the people inside. It was a nuclear weapon that might actually have been used, if the Soviet armies had ever rolled forward into West Germany, because the radiation decayed in a few days, leaving the countryside pristine, but rather quiet. The codename was ‘Instant Sunshine’. I have a theory about the neutron bomb. I don’t think it was meant for the Russians at all. France is the nation for which God gave us the neutron bomb.

  Having sweet-talked the board, we now sit down at ‘working level’ and spend a couple of days thrashing out a co-operation agreement. We agree to raise Grossbank’s stake in SFP to twenty-five per cent, but on a friendly, pre-announced basis. At the same time we will merge Grossbank’s fledgling French business into SFP. I will join the SFP board, and the two firms will invest together in expanding the share trading business, under the new co-heads of French equities, Werner Grubmann from Grossbank, and Olivier Martin from SFP.

  Mutual expressions of goodwill are exchanged between our two great firms, there is respect and trust on both sides, and we look forward to a bright future together based on a clear alignment of interests. Truly everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.

  Yeah, right.

  Werner Grubmann is hand-picked by me. He knows nothing about the Paris Bourse, but he could run a mean concentration camp. He has the
look of a Hollywood villain straight from central casting. Shaven-headed, tall and muscular; even by German standards he has a limited sense of humour. He also has toxic halitosis, which is so bad he could be Germany’s secret weapon. Send him into the caves at Tora Bora and he’d clean out the Taliban in twenty minutes. And like everyone I’ve ever met who is afflicted in this way, he has no sense of personal space, but loves to crowd up close to you.

  Olivier Martin on the other hand, is short, skinny, fastidious, intellectual and fancies that he has a superb sense of ironic humour. Clearly, they are a match made in heaven.

  * * *

  BACK IN the office in London, I feel as if I’ve lit the blue touch paper. Now all I have to do is stand back and wait for the explosion. But just in case, I hire in a specialist media consultant, Ed Black of Black Associates, to work quietly alongside the Silver Fox, doing the things that he wouldn’t.

  That may have something to do with the French press somehow getting hold of the story that the SFP building has been earmarked by Grossbank’s real estate division for re-development. Somehow architectural drawings found their way into the hands of the media showing how much more valuable this prime site would be as a multi-storey car park.

  Naturally the Mayor of Paris denies that this proposal even exists, and insists that if it did, he would never grant permission for the destruction and redevelopment of a historic landmark building. But then he would say that, wouldn’t he? And a couple of days later the real story breaks. SFP is to be cleared out to make way for a new American Embassy.

  This one plays really well in the French press. The French just love the Americans. When the Mayor of Paris and the US Ambassador jointly deny that there is any such plan, everyone knows it must be true.

  And then there’s the internet. On the internet, some wag has posted shots of what is claimed to be Grossbank’s fleet of corporate jets lined up at Orly Airport. We call them smokers, and we really do have a lot of them – I sometimes joke that I don’t have a jet, I have an entire air force.

  The shots on the internet show a row of sleek, white Gulfstream jets with black crosses on their fuselages. As if Grossbank would actually paint black crosses on the sides of its planes – only a semi-hysterical, paranoid Frenchman could believe such a thing. But some of them do seem to be both paranoid and hysterical, and they are circulating by email shots of what they call the ‘Grossbank Luftwaffe’.

  Meanwhile round at SFP the anti-German feeling is being fuelled by Werner Grubmann and the Grossbank team who are working with him on Projekt Adler – Project Eagle, as we have chosen to call it for friendly historical reasons.

  On day three I get the first call from LeGrand. He’s hesitant about raising a delicate matter of personal style, but a number of his senior people have come to him to ask if he has noticed how Werner and the Grossbank team – who are all hand-picked from Frankfurt, and all of a similar build and stature to Werner – walk in step when they move around the building, and never knock before opening doors.

  I play the innocent. ‘Jean-Marie, why are you people concerned? At Grossbank we don’t believe in knocking on people’s office doors. We believe in an open culture of trust and transparency. I told Werner myself, I said don’t be hesitant, just throw their doors open and smile, and say ‘We’re from Grossbank and we’re here to help you’. That’s our style. I always say my door is open for everyone. No one has anything to hide. Do your people have something to hide?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he blusters, ‘but it is like the old films of the Gestapo in the war. The door bursts open and they all come in. Sometimes six or eight of them at a time. My ’eads of department are not used to this.’

  I assure him that these are minor teething problems, and the cultural fit will work itself out in no time. Germany and France have always been close, and are really a great natural match, aren’t they? I suggest he focuses more on fixing the press. Who is it, who is stirring up all this anti-German feeling?

  His next call is more serious.

  ‘Dave, your people ’ere are too aggressive. This cannot continue. My best people will leave. ’alf of them already believe the firm is to be closed to make way for the new American Embassy, and now this – it is too much.’

  ‘Talk to me, Jean-Marie. Tell me what happened.’

  He pauses, apparently flustered, collecting his thoughts. ‘It is Grubmann.’

  ‘You mean Werner? Isn’t he great? He’s a really good guy. I love him. And we’ve got lots like him. Thousands, in fact, and you’d be amazed how many are asking to be posted to Paris. This is so exciting.’

  There’s a long pause at the other end, and I have the feeling that LeGrand is imagining thousands of shaven headed Germans marching in step down the Champs-Elysées, square-jawed and grim-faced, repeating over and over in strong, guttural accents: ‘Ve are from Grossbank and ve are here to help you.’

  ‘Dave – Werner has proposed that we sell the corporate art collection.’

  There’s a long silence. He probably thinks I have to pick myself up from the floor after such a bombshell.

  ‘Not only that. He thinks we must sell the wine cellar too.’

  Wow. Werner doesn’t mess around. Go in hard, and go for the jugular. Never forget, these guys invaded Russia.

  ‘Great, I think those are both really good ideas. I’ve heard you’ve got some real treasures on the walls there. And more in the cellars. Worth millions. We could make a real killing. Think of the bonus pool, Jean-Marie.’

  I think I hear a gasp down the telephone, followed by an even longer silence.

  ‘Jean-Marie – are you there?’

  ‘Click. Brrrrr…’

  Gotcha.

  Now it’s only a matter of time.

  * * *

  THE PROBLEM with real life, is that things all happen at once. Just as I’m reaching the end game with my invasion of France, I’m brought down to earth with a bump. I’ve just hired a very expensive Head of Diversity for the Human Resources department in London, called Melissa Myers.

  Melissa is a gorgeous mid-thirties brunette with a legal background and a fabulous figure with a sexy, hip-swinging walk that blows me away. She was previously at Prince’s, but as soon as I saw her I knew that I had to have her, so I doubled her money and gave her a three-year guarantee. Her role at Grossbank will be to ensure that all minorities in the workplace, but in particular women employees, are treated with appropriate dignity and respect at all levels of the organisation.

  Today is her first day and I’m bending her over my desk – the blinds are closed and the little red ‘Do not disturb’ light is on over the door – and I’m trying her out from behind. Just as I’m about to explode, the door bursts open and Two Livers storms in. She’s furious.

  ‘Dave – get that thing off your penis and take a look at this.’

  Beneath me, Melissa gasps, tenses, and I have a sudden fear of her going into spasm, clamping me tightly inside her and locking us together. I have client meetings today and even I couldn’t do them like this.

  Most men would panic. I smile. ‘Have you two met? Melissa, this is Laura MacKay, Head of Corporates. Two Livers, this is Melissa…’

  Two Livers ignores her. ‘Dave, cut the crap and look at this.’

  She tosses a piece of paper on the desk next to the brunette, who is disengaging, mercifully allowing me to slide free, and pulls her skirt down, tries to straighten her hair and struggles to find something to say, but then realises that Two Livers and I are both ignoring her and takes flight from my office without saying a word. I turn away from Two Livers, remove my condom and zip myself up, then toss it in the bin under the desk. There are two others there already – it’s been a busy morning.

  The paper is a Court Order, from the local sheriff’s court in Banffshire, where Sally Mills is living.

  ‘Compliance and Legal formally took receipt of it, but when they saw what it was they brought it to me. Dave, Sally Mills and her husband are saying you’ve
been harassing her. And now the court are ordering you to have no further contact, direct or indirect. She’s a married woman and wants to stay that way.’

  Damn. I flop down into my chair and pick up the Court Order again to read it through. ‘Harassment – what do they mean, harassment? I haven’t been harassing her.’

  Two Livers takes a seat opposite me. ‘So what have you been doing?’

  I shrug nonchalantly, but knowing that I won’t get away with lying. ‘I’ve been sending flowers.’

  ‘How often?’

  I shrug again. ‘From time to time.’

  ‘How often?’

  I get up and start to pace around the office. I hate it when she interrogates me. ‘Every day.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘That’s right. Every day. I wanted to keep the memory of me fresh in her mind.’

  ‘No wonder she feels harassed. Have you been doing anything else?’

  ‘Gifts.’

  ‘Gifts? What kind of gifts?’

  I wave my hands helplessly. ‘You know the sort of thing – Tiffany, Bulgari, Chanel… the kind of things I imagined a woman wouldn’t necessarily find in Banffshire.’

  ‘What were they worth, these gifts?’

  ‘Don’t ask me – I didn’t count. I expensed them.’

  ‘But you must know roughly.’

  ‘Roughly? Oh, roughly… hundreds…’

  ‘Hundreds?’

  ‘…of thousands… More than a teacher makes, anyway.’

  ‘Jesus, Dave – you sent her flowers every day, and hundreds of thousands of pounds of gifts?’

  ‘All of which she returned.’

  ‘She returned them? What kind of whacko is she? Was there anything else?’

  ‘Not really. Well, except for the plane.’

  ‘The plane?’

  ‘I hired a plane.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To circle round her house with a sky sign.’

  ‘A sky sign? Dave, are you mad?’

  I nod. ‘Madly in love, yes.’