The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3) Page 4

  ‘What did the sign say?’

  ‘Oh, nothing very original. Sally I love you, Sally our love will never die, stuff like that. I heard it got into the local papers.’

  ‘You really are insane. No wonder she’s feeling harassed.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Draw a line, Dave. The past is the past. The moment’s gone.’ She gets up and stands close to me. I can smell her scent, and feel a stirring from the unfinished business she interrupted. I glance at my watch. My next meeting is in twenty minutes, but I don’t care if I’m late. ‘Oh, all right…’

  * * *

  I LOVE the Square Mile. It’s seven a.m. and I’m walking down Threadneedle Street, bodyguards on either side of me to part the crowds of pin stripes hurrying to their workstations. Take a deep breath and what can you smell? Money. It’s hanging in the air so thickly you can almost taste it. At times like this the City of London has to be the best place on earth.

  I spent last night with Anya from Helsinki, a twenty-two year old student hoping one day to become an architect – yeah, right – and Anne from Sussex, an actress who’s between jobs – yeah, yeah. What they had in common, apart from working for the same escort agency and being great in bed, is a passably similar name. I’m finding it harder to remember their names these days, so my new approach is to call up girls with names that sound similar, or at least start with the same letter.

  Do you think I’m wrong to pay for sex? Don’t kid yourself. We all pay for sex. One way or another. It’s just that I do it on my own terms, and I try to stay in control.

  I’m running fifteen minutes later than planned. Tom got stuck in traffic, so I got out and walked. According to the radio some American banker called Hurst tried to end it all by jumping off Blackfriars Bridge. Loser couldn’t even get that right, and the river police had to fish him out, causing hold-ups all the way along the Embankment. His name rings a bell, but I can’t quite place it. They said on the radio he’d sent an email to his boss, who had recently given him notice to quit, claiming his life was in ruins, he’d lost all his friends, everyone had it in for him, and he just couldn’t take it anymore. Damned inconsiderate to hold up the early morning traffic.

  I’m about to enter the bank, when my mobile phone goes off. It’s Jean-Marie LeGrand. He’s finally had it with the Germans. It didn’t take as long as I thought. The French never did have much stomach for a fight. I call Maria to change my plans and get a private jet organised to take me to Paris. It’s show time.

  * * *

  I’M MARCHING down the corridor towards LeGrand’s office. Werner and his team are flanking me, and yes, they do all march in step. Is this a natural German instinct? It’s kind of scary, and makes me walk faster, which in turn makes them speed up, until we are all hurtling down the corridor, throw open the doors, storm past the secretaries in the outer office and burst in on LeGrand, who leaps up from his desk, speechless with fear and surprise. I smile.

  ‘Jean-Marie – how good to see you.’ I hold out my hand, but he makes no move to shake it.

  ‘Dave – please ask your colleagues to leave my office immediately.’

  I turn to Werner and the team and nod to them to leave. Werner doesn’t quite click his heels, but we can all tell that that’s what he wants to do. He does what I suppose he imagines is an impression of someone smiling and nods towards LeGrand, who steps back from the desk to avoid a wave of deadly, toxic halitosis. It was Jean-Paul Sartre who wrote that hell is other people. In Paris, it’s more specific than that. Hell is Werner Grubmann – Christ, he’s done a great job.

  When the team have left, I sit down. ‘What is it, Jean-Marie?’

  He looks beaten. ‘Dave, this strategic co-operation between SFP and Grossbank has been a catastrophe.’

  ‘Really? I thought it was going rather well. We have people queuing up to come over here.’

  He shakes his head and stares at the blotter on his desk. ‘You ’ave to understand, Dave. We are a proud people with a great past.’ Yeah, right. I do the jokes around here. ‘Dave, it ’as not worked at all. And we cannot continue. I ’ave ’ad representations from the Finance Ministry, and from the regulatory authorities.’

  ‘What sort of representations, Jean-Marie?’

  ‘There are certain people… people who are very senior in the administration… people who prefer not to see SFP fall under the influence of a foreign bank.’

  ‘Really? Why on earth is that?’

  He gives me a short, sharp look, checking to see if I’m taking the piss. ‘These people ’ave great influence. And they ’ave decided that there should be a merger between SFP and the Banque du Nord. It will be announced shortly. Both boards will sign today. Grossbank’s shares in SFP will be acquired by Banque du Nord for a substantial premium, but our co-operation must end.’

  I sit back, amazed. ‘No – are you saying that someone high up in the government, in the French Establishment, has leant on Banque du Nord to buy out SFP just to keep the Germans away? And they’re paying for the privilege? You must be kidding. I thought the French wanted nothing more than to be in bed with the Germans.’

  He squirms and I try not to grin. It’s the French way. Yes, they are open to foreigners coming into their markets, but only on their terms. Sure, they’d love to be in bed with the Germans, but guess who’d be biting the pillow and who’d be wearing the condom. It’s their patch and they call the shots, and who can blame them for that? Certainly not Grossbank’s shareholders. A quick back of the envelope calculation in the car on the way to the airport shows us looking at half a billion euros profit. I might even give Werner a bonus.

  * * *

  I’M BACK in London. The fact is that while it was fun to have a go at the French, and we made an enormous profit, I’m genuinely minded to take over another firm.

  This is not to say that when banks buy one another, it’s necessarily good news for shareholders or the firms themselves. In fact when investment banks buy one another, it’s usually the most wasteful, shareholder value-destroying exercise seen in the corporate world.

  The investment bankers themselves do well out of it, getting fat payouts, lock-ins, guarantees and early vestings of share-incentive schemes – getting rich, in other words – but within a couple of years it usually becomes apparent that there were no synergies, that the best people have left anyway, and the acquirer wasted its money. Fortunately by then the people who took the decisions will have moved on to other firms or retired to their yachts and their places in the sun.

  In my particular case, I have a different reason to contemplate taking over another firm. The firm I have in mind is Bartons. We all have our demons to slay, and many of mine come from the years I spent working for Rory, my fair-haired, blue-eyed boy wonder of a boss at Bartons, and Sir Oliver Barton, the Chairman and controlling family shareholder. Without the fear and insecurity ingrained into me at Bartons, I could be a well-balanced human being. Well, almost.

  So today I’m meeting Sir Oliver for lunch at the City of London Club. Sir Oliver doesn’t actually give a shit about me. He probably doesn’t even remember me from when I was at Bartons, though he has certainly heard about me since. He greets me in the bar of the Club like a long-lost friend, all smiles and bonhomie and two-handed handshakes.

  The reason Sir Oliver is meeting me has nothing to do with Dave Hart, and everything to do with the Grossbank Panzer Division parked outside, engines idling, crews wondering where we’re going next. Are we off to invade Poland, or France, or Bartons?

  I love my Panzer Division. In an ideal world, everyone would have one. Luckily we don’t have an ideal world. In the real world, I have a Panzer Division and Sir Oliver doesn’t.

  The deal is done remarkably easily. A hundred and fifty years of British banking history are carved up before dessert. Sir Oliver wants out. So do the rest of the family. In the investment banking world, Bartons is neither fish nor fowl: too big to be a niche player, nimbly moving from one opportunity
to another, and too small to compete with the big boys, like the Americans whose operations are underpinned by their hugely profitable domestic businesses, or the Europeans with their massive balance sheets.

  And there’s another reason: Bartons own the freehold of their building near Liverpool Street Station. It’s a ten storey building built in the early eighties, and is exactly the kind of prime real estate that the Corporation of London would love to see re-developed into, say, a modern, landscape defining, thirty storey tower.

  Forget struggling, low quality earnings from corporate finance and stock broking, with high overhead employees demanding ever greater bonuses. Think instead demolition and re-development. No Parisian scare stories here. This is the real deal. When Sir Oliver and I shake hands over coffee, I agree that he and the family keep a share of the profits from the re-development of the site. He agrees that I get to press the plunger.

  The way these deals work is that the Big Guys – in this case Sir Oliver and myself – agree the headline terms, and then ‘our people’ – the little people, the lawyers and the accountants – get to make it happen. Making it happen in this case will take several months, but I’m nothing if not impatient, and I have one task that can’t wait several days, let alone several months. After lunch, I return with Sir Oliver to his office and he summons Rory.

  It takes Rory all of five minutes to come bounding up to the tenth floor, tail wagging with puppy-like eagerness to please. I stand facing out over the City, as the door opens and Rory enters.

  ‘Sir Oliver – I understand you wanted to see me.’

  Sir Oliver is seated at his enormous power desk, staring idly at some screens off to one side. He nods distractedly. ‘There’s someone I wanted you to meet. Your prospective new boss.’

  On cue, I turn to Rory and smile. It’s a moment to treasure. He’s frozen, standing in the centre of the room, immaculate in his Savile Row suit and Hermes tie. As he sees me, the smile fades from his face.

  ‘D – Dave…’

  ‘Rory.’ My smile broadens, and I advance towards him, hand outstretched. We shake hands in the middle of Sir Oliver’s office, and I’m delighted to note that his handshake is weak and clammy. I lean forward so my face is close to his. ‘It’s been a while. How are you?’

  He swallows and looks to Sir Oliver for some explanation. ‘I’m well, thank you. Sir Oliver, did you say my new boss?’ His voice seems to have risen a couple of octaves.

  Sir Oliver is still looking at numbers on one of the screens by his desk, or at least pretending to. ‘Yes. But owner might be a better term. Grossbank are buying Bartons. Dave will be in charge.’

  Rory stares at me, a mixture of disbelief, fear and hatred playing across his features. I smile. The vampire has returned.

  * * *

  THE SILVER Fox is chatting amiably to some City reporters in the large conference room at Bartons. I spent many unhappy hours here, squirming nervously while Rory or Sir Oliver or other members of senior management lectured us on the latest round of imminent job cuts, the new expenses policy for members of the firm not senior enough to sit on the Management Committee, or the decision to merge different parts of the business to achieve greater synergy, for which read cost – i.e. people – savings.

  Today is different. Today the Bartons conference room is covered in the Grossbank livery. Our logos are everywhere, and Bartons’ have been airbrushed out.

  The room is filling up nicely, as the big business story of the day is about to unfold. The last independent British investment bank is being bought by the Germans. Eight weeks have passed since Sir Oliver and I had lunch and the little people from Team Xerox have been working hard. This morning the official announcements went out, a collective gasp of horror came from the trading floor at Bartons, while high fives were exchanged on the floor at Grossbank, followed by an influx of phone calls to their opposite numbers at Bartons from our traders, explaining how many sugars they take in their coffee, and would they please say after me, ‘Grossbank rocks’.

  I enjoy the theatrical aspects of occasions like this. When the room is full I wait a further five minutes, then Sir Oliver and I sweep into the conference room from the rear, flanked by Two Livers and Paul Ryan, and followed by Rory, who is carrying a pile of hard copies of the PowerPoint presentation we are about to deliver, and which somehow got left behind by the presentation team. In my mind, I can hear someone announcing ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States’, and indeed, such is the power of theatre that the press do actually stand up as we come in.

  We go up onto the podium, and Sir Oliver and I sit in centre stage, with Two Livers and Paul on either side of us. Rory steps up onto the stage last, carrying the presentations, only to find that there is not a chair for him, which we ignore while he finds a free space on the podium to leave the presentations, then awkwardly steps down and stands beside the stage, pretending not to hear the tittering from the hacks.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Grossbank.’ It’s crass, but I can’t resist it. ‘This morning Sir Oliver Barton and I jointly announced a major event in the development of London as the leading financial centre in the world. Grossbank, itself one of the world’s largest financial institutions, is merging its investment banking business with Bartons, taking over Bartons in its entirety, and at the same time planning significant moves to accelerate the growth and development of the two firms’ joint business.’ I pause and look out at a sea of scribbling hacks. I glance at Rory, who looks away nervously as I continue. ‘It will come as no surprise to you that the combined investment banking business of Grossbank and Bartons, the Grossbank-Bartons business, will be known in future as… Grossbank.’ The press pack stop writing and look up. They glance at me, then at Sir Oliver, who stares implacably ahead. As if he could give a shit. He’s done his deal. Some of them can’t resist smirking. ‘You will be aware that in many instances when two investment banking businesses are merged, the firms involved appoint co-heads of divisions, one from each firm, drawing on the experience and expertise of both sides to ensure a smooth and orderly transition.’ Heads are nodding sagely in the audience. Behind me on the big screen, two organograms appear side by side. One is the Bartons management structure, with the names of its heads of Equities, Corporate Finance, Fixed Income, Structured Finance and so on. Beside it is the equivalent for Grossbank. As I push a button, the two merge into one, but in each case only one name is left on the screen: the name of the Grossbank head of department. ‘We aren’t doing that. We believe it’s wasteful, lacking in clarity, and simply postpones the inevitable. We don’t shy away from tough decisions.’ Like the decision to fire the other firm’s people and keep the devils I know. I can hear tittering in the audience. ‘I’m going to hand over now to Sir Oliver, who will say a few words from Bartons’ side.’

  Sir Oliver clears his throat and looks around the audience. ‘Thank you, Dave. Ladies and gentlemen, today is a great day. It represents the culmination of many years’ hard work, and the crystallisation of a vision that I have long cherished. No one could be more delighted than me today. For me this is the pinnacle of my career, and I shall be retiring shortly from banking a very happy man, knowing that my legacy is in safe hands. I’d like to pay particular tribute to two people who have worked harder than any others to make this happen.’ He points to Rory, still standing by the stage looking awkward. ‘Most of you know Rory, who has been my right hand here for many years. Rory is to become Deputy Chairman of Grossbank London, working directly for Dave Hart, much as he has been today. This underlines Grossbank’s commitment to maintaining the culture and traditions of Bartons.’ Rory knew nothing of this, but I’d swear I can see the colour draining from his face. Yes, pal, grease up, bend over, grasp your ankles and say stick it in and make it hurt. Every day from now until you finally give up and quit. Revenge, as they say in Spain, is a dish best eaten cold. ‘And of course I have to thank Dave Hart.’ He turns to me and we shake hands for the cameras with grea
t beaming smiles on our faces. ‘Thank you, Dave, from the bottom of my heart.’ He leans away from the microphone and growls into my ear, ‘And from my wallet…’

  * * *

  THE MONDAY morning directors’ meeting at Bartons used to terrify me. We called it morning prayers, mainly because we needed to pray for those whom Rory would prey upon. We used to sit at an oval conference table and try to justify our presence on the team, bragging about all the deals we were planning, the chairmen and chief executives we were pitching to, and the revenues that would surely come our way. It was almost entirely bullshit, and it bred a climate of dishonesty, lies and fear, which I guess is what Rory wanted.

  So this Monday I thought I’d join him round at Bartons for the first morning prayer meeting since the announcement – to encourage the troops. I’m bringing with me two colleagues from Grossbank: Werner Grubmann, who still hasn’t learnt to brush his teeth, and Dieter Kuntz, who is a new addition to my personal hit squad of stormtroopers.

  Dieter Kuntz not only has a great name, but is physically huge, close to seven feet tall, broad shouldered and heavily overweight, with almost unnaturally huge hands, and large, coarse, pale features. His fingers are so fat that he can’t use a normal keyboard, and when he clutches a pen it looks like a toothpick in his hand. I call him the Mountain Troll. I don’t actually know what his skill-set is, but as soon as I spotted him, I had him seconded to London with a big pay rise. He barely speaks English, which is fine, because he has a deep, guttural, booming voice that seems to get him what he wants without actually mastering the relevant language. He’s a natural for my team, and his first assignment is Bartons. They’ll love him.

  We arrive early, and sit at the head of the table with Rory. It doesn’t normally work like this. Usually the troops assemble, chat among themselves, exchange a little banter, and then Rory arrives when he’s ready. Today their faces tell the story as they arrive, smiles disappear and they glance anxiously at their watches. No, they aren’t late. Rory and the new owners are early.