The Money Makers (26 page)

As they stopped off for diesel and a cooked tea at a truckers’ service station, Darren asked George who that French bird had been on the first day. Apparently, she had seen the Gissings name on the van and had rushed over to Darren and Dave with some bizarre story about toilets and men with holes in their shoes. George deflected the questions. The less Val knew about Kiki the better. And there was another thing too. When they had reloaded the truck for the journey home, George had found five empty bags of cement that hadn’t been there on the way down. Perhaps Kiki was more
industrielle
than he had given her credit for.

After getting back on the road, the lads turned the music up and the conversation stilled. George closed his eyes and slept, and his dreams were full of Kiki.

10

Just as Dan Kramer had promised, new responsibilities came fast at Madison, and all too soon Matthew’s two-month noviciate came to an end. He was to trade corporate bonds - bits of paper sold by companies to investors, offering a fixed interest rate and a set date for the repayment of capital. His business flow was to come from two salespeople, Alan and Rick, whose job was to bring in the orders. The two men made up the smaller institutions fixed income group, but they looked like a comedy act. Alan was short, fat, and profusely hairy. Rick was tall, thin and bald as a coot. Oddballs or not, they were going to matter. Orders meant trades. Trades meant profits. Profits meant Matthew kept his job, got a bonus and gave him a hope of beating Zack.

Matthew had his desk, his computer screens and his phone in a room where hundreds of other traders had their desks, their screens, their phones. On busy days, the room dinned with two hundred voices roaring deals, exchanging prices, yelling insults. This tumult is the noise of the flood, the flood of money, the largest in the world.

His first day, he returned to his desk from the morning meeting to find his phone flashing. He scooped it up without checking to see who was on the line.

‘Good morning, Madison Trading.’

‘Hey, Matteo, sell me some bonds,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I’ll have a couple of trillion of Uncle Sam’s finest, and a cup of coffee to go.’

‘Hey, Luigi, nice of you to call.’

‘I was just phoning to wish you luck. I’m going to put you on the squawk-box’- Luigi meant the speaker phone, which would blare Matthew’s voice out of a speaker instead of the receiver - ‘there are a couple of other guys who want a word.’

Anders, Cristina and Jean-François all came on the line. They abused him and wished him luck in equal measure. Then there was a bit of shuffling and the unmistakable Scottish tones of Brian McAllister came down the phone.

‘You’ve done well, Matthew. I understand only a few people survived the programme, and you did. So that’s a credit to you. And Saul Rosenthal tells me you’ve been learning fast with him and he sets his standards high. So well done so far - and good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ said Matthew, flattered. He was amazed McAllister had time to think of him - and astonished to find that Rosenthal had even noticed him, let alone formed a favourable impression.

‘Remind me who you’re working with.’

‘I’m on the corporate bond desk, working with the smaller institutions sales team.’

‘Indeed. They’ll be reporting to Fiona Shepperton, who’s been asked to shake up the sales effort over there. She’s a fine professional, Matthew. You can learn a lot from her. Don’t be put off by her manner. She can be a little sharp.’

Matthew had heard Rosenthal mention Fiona Shepperton with respect as well. She was Alan and Rick’s boss, so she’d be worth getting to know. McAllister signed off and Matthew sauntered over to Alan and Rick to discuss the coming day. Alan, already perspiring and with shirtsleeves rolled up, greeted Matthew.

‘Jesus Christ, Rick, this guy’s hassling us already, and he hasn’t even brought us our apples for being nice teachers.’

Matthew dumped a couple of hot coffees on their desks.

‘If you wanted apples, you should have said.’

‘Aw, real coffee. He’s even gone to Starbucks for them. Give the man a kiss, Rick. Show him you love him.’

Rick mopped the top of his gleaming head and took his coffee. His pate reflected the ceiling strip lights in high fidelity.

‘Ah. Coffee. Great.’ Rick was the quiet one of the duo.

Having introduced himself, Matthew sat down to discuss the day ahead. What were their clients thinking? Were the orders going to be to buy or to sell? How would the long maturities fare versus the short maturities? What factors would influence the market over the coming week?

The three men quickly gained respect for each other. Alan and Rick had inherited a meagre business from the previous sales team, which had since been fired. Their job was to ramp up business on the basis of good advice and solid execution. However unlikely in appearance, they were true professionals.

For their part, Alan and Rick had dreaded the arrival of a total novice. The trouble with selling to the so­ called smaller institutions is that you inevitably end up with the least experienced traders. But Matthew already knew the market well, and he was eager to learn from those who knew more. Alan and Rick had been surprised to get a call from Brian McAllister that morning, but the Scotsman had been right. Matthew did show promise.

When they parted, Matthew knew a lot about what his future clients were thinking and had some ideas on what trades to make to get started. His next visit was to Saul Rosenthal. He found him on the phone to some poor soul on the West Coast, who should have been enjoying a good night’s sleep instead of worrying about the bond market.

‘Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. You worry too much,’ said Rosenthal hypocritically. ‘Gimme a call when you wake up, but I tell you Treasuries aren’t going anywhere until Friday at the earliest. Trust me.’

Whoever it was on the other end of the line was eventually pacified and hung up.

‘Am I a trader or am I a therapist?’ complained Rosenthal. It was his way of asking Matthew what he wanted.

‘I have some ideas I wanted your input on, please.’

‘That’s right. I’m a therapist. Lie down and tell me about your mother.’

Muttering on, Rosenthal took the pad from Matthew’s hand and glowered at Matthew’s jotted notes.

‘Jesus, those nightmares must be really getting to you if you want to go long at the short end of the curve. And what’s this? Your clients want to screw around in zero coupon bonds? Just say no, Matthew. You need to be a big bad man to do that, not the Third National Bank of Banjo Creek or whoever the hell your client is.’

He rambled on, interrupting his own monologue to complain about his bagel - ‘no cream cheese today. My fault for breaking the Sabbath’ - to take another couple of phone calls - ‘Saul Rosenthal, psychoanalyst, at your service. No wacko too crazy, no psycho too nuts’ - and to buttonhole a couple of other traders walking past his desk. By the time he’d finished, he had given Matthew a load of useful hints on how to proceed.

‘Thanks, Saul. I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t be grateful. That’s your Oedipus complex talking. Tomorrow’s rebirthing therapy. Meantime, that’ll be four hundred dollars for the session.’

‘Cheap at the price,’ said Matthew. ‘But it’s against my religion to give money to Sabbath-breakers.’

The conversation was over.

Shortly after the market opened, Matthew got his first actual order from an actual client. He quoted a price aimed at winning the business. The client hit Matthew’s bid and Matthew had sold his first bonds. The next step was to go and buy some bonds in order to meet his obligations. He hit a touch-sensitive screen containing all the phone numbers he would ever need. A string of names came up. Clients, traders, contacts. He selected a name, hit the button, got through to a trader at another bank. Matthew spoke briefly and bought in some bonds, at a price one thirty-second of a percentage point better than the price he’d just sold at.

Matthew had completed his first trade and closed out his position. He’d made a profit of seven hundred and fifty dollars, a nice way to start. The graduate of West Point had fired his first shot.

11

At eight fifteen one Saturday morning, Zack set off in thin traffic for the M4 out of London. He was excited.

It took him three hours to reach Ovenden House, which dominates the little Devonshire village of Ovenden. Zack nosed inside the huge ornamental gates and drove slowly up a long drive. The house wasn’t immediately visible. Massive oaks spread their leaves above deer grazing in the park. A lake curved round, its far end out of sight. From a jetty on the further shore, a fisherman cast his rod over the still waters. Then the house itself came into view, pale grey stone floating on the landscape. It was enormous; enormous and beautiful. Better yet, it was enormous, beautiful and immaculately maintained. No tottering statues. No leaking roofs. No parkland dissolving into scrub. The architect was famous, but to Zack, the architecture was less interesting than the wallet which lay behind it. His excitement mounted.

A butler met Zack on arrival and escorted him upstairs.

‘You’ll find the bed a little tight, sir. It’s seventeenth­century, I’m afraid, when gentlemen were shorter. I’ll open the windows for you.’

As the butler began to fiddle with the window catches, the door swung open and in strode Sarah, wearing jodhpurs, riding boots and a tweed jacket worn over an old jumper.

‘Zack. You made it! We’ve put you in here, have we? Bed’s a bit small, but if you throw that bolster on the floor and sleep cross-ways you should be alright. Seventeenth century, I think, used to belong to some princess or other. The Duke of Wellington once slept in mine, but he was allowed a decent-sized bed. Thanks, Jasper. I’ll sort Zack out.’

Jasper, the butler, shoved the windows fully open, then left. The room grew quickly cold. Sarah hurled an antique embroidered bolster from the bed and punched the pillows into position. ‘That should do.’

‘Great,’ said Zack. The bed had looked fine to begin with.

Out in the country, Sarah Havercoombe was louder, posher, horsier than she was in town. Zack winced internally, understanding how Robert Leighton and Sarah had thought they could build a life together. But he kept his self-control. There was more to Sarah than horses and punching pillows. There was her body and her cash for starters, but Zack was thinking of more than that. He wasn’t sure if he loved her, but he certainly respected her.

‘Riding or fishing?’ asked Sarah. ‘I’m going out riding. If you want, we’ll find you a really quiet horse. Or Dad’ll be going down to the lake later. Do you fish? I can’t remember.’

‘Don’t be silly. You know quite well I can’t -’

‘Oh, I’d forgotten. You’re useless, aren’t you?’

‘- but I think I’ll come to less harm with a rod than a rein. Would your dad mind teaching me?’

‘Oh, he loves it. He’s hopeless, but he loves it. I’ll take you down.’

They left the room and began to walk a maze of corridors to the back stairs.

‘That’s the trouble with these houses,’ said Sarah. ‘You have to learn them when you’re little or you never will.’

At length they emerged on to the ground floor of the main wing. Two spaniel puppies raced out from somewhere and greeted Sarah joyously. She thumped them affectionately, and put her hand in her jacket pocket looking for treats but brought it away empty.

‘Sorry, sweethearts. Just carrots for the horses. Nothing nice for you. Bonnie and Smudge, this is Zack. Zack, meet Bonnie and Smudge.’

Zack was nervous of dogs, but he put his hand out to try and pat them. They darted away, but not before Bonnie had given him a huge lick. He wanted to wash it off, but realised that that would be a crime in Sarah’s eyes. When she wasn’t looking, he wiped his hand on his trousers, but he could still feel - and smell, he’d swear it - the imprint of her tongue. Sarah led the way to her father’s study, puppies charging ahead of them, barking.

‘Dad’s working, but he’ll be happy for a break. We’ll dig him out.’

She was about to open the door, when Zack grabbed her.

‘What do I call him?’ he whispered.

‘Call him Lord Hatherleigh when you shake hands. He’ll tell you to call him Jack. Then call him Jack.’

Zack nodded, and Sarah flung open the door.

‘Hi, Dad. Meet Zack Gradley.’

Smudge and Bonnie tore into the room. Lord Hatherleigh, thin as a whippet and as fit, rose from his desk. He moved towards Zack and Sarah, lifting his reading glasses from his nose. Smudge gave a delighted bark and charged between his feet. Hatherleigh tried to avoid the puppy and stepped sideways against a stack of papers on a sidetable. The stack began to totter.

Zack, quicker than Sarah, leaped forwards to steady it, but Bonnie had glimpsed Smudge beneath the desk and was off in pursuit. She tripped Zack, who cannoned forwards. He head-butted the papers and brought the whole lot tumbling down. A heavy glass paperweight which had been sitting on top thumped down on his skull.

‘Bloody dogs. Quiet!’ shouted Sarah.

‘Are you alright?’ enquired her noble father.

‘Lord Hatherleigh. Pleased to meet you,’ said Zack.