The Money Makers. Harry Bingham
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$10 of profit on each bond.
‘But that’s the very best I can do,’ he yelled. ‘And I can’t hold those prices for long.’
Fareshti was oblivious to the charade. She nodded through the trades which Sophie proposed and let her write them down. The princess removed her thick gold bangles and watch and laid them down on the mounting pile of gold. She massaged her wrists.
The game went on. The flip-chart turned. The chaos rose to a crescendo and hung there.
Fareshti mostly held back from doing any more trades. But every now and then she shook herself and did another trade as though to prove she could play the game as well as anyone. Every trade she did, she did through Sophie. Every time, Matthew took $10 or $15 profit on each bond. At one point, Sophie protested.
‘We’ve done enough.’
‘Sophie, for Fareshti this is only a game. For us, it’s life or death. You won’t be feeling sorry for her if you’re kicked off this course for underperforming. Besides, Fareshti’s not the only one to be taken for a ride here.’
Matthew spoke with some certainty on this last point. Takashi-san and Atsuo-san were also contributing handsomely to the Banque Entente Cordiale’s profits.
‘OK. But remember, we’re already doing very nicely. We don’t need to gouge the last dollar.’
Finally, three hours after the game had started, a second whistle blew. Game over.
A stunned Fareshti put her hand to her head and withdrew her last remaining ornament, a heavy gold hair clip. It joined the rest of the glittering pile on her desk. Otherwise, she hardly moved.
The course tutors gathered up all the trading tickets, which would be processed by a clerical team over the next few hours. Around four o’clock, the results would be announced and prizes awarded. But Matthew and Sophie already knew their result. They had started the game with $5000. They had ended with $32,420.
And Sophie, as Fareshti’s trusted advisor, knew her result too. As an investor, Fareshti had started the game with a much larger amount of money – $100,000 to be precise. She had finished with $68,920. The Banque Entente Cordiale had by no means pocketed all of Fareshti’s missing $31,080, but it had had more than its fair share.
Takashi and Atsuo left the room congratulating themselves on their first taste of trading. On their way out, they took care to thank Matthew profusely for his help. Neither of the two Japanese was aware that they had lost considerably more money than they had started with. Nor were they aware how much of it had ended in Matthew’s pocket.
As the room cleared and the noise died away, Matthew and Sophie looked at each other properly. It seemed ages since they had done more than glance at each other or yell messages across the din.
Even after three hours of mayhem, Sophie looked flawless. Even in the thick of the game, she had kept her cool. She had dealt calmly with the questions that flew at her from all sides, while at the same time accurately updating the bank’s accounts. She had been the only person in the room, male or female, to have kept their jacket on throughout the game. But now the turmoil was over, she threw her jacket on to the ground beside her. She leaned her head back as far as it would go and ran her hands through her hair. Then she whirled forwards again and grabbed Matthew by the arms.
‘We’ve won, Matthew. I think we’ve won.’
‘I think we have.’
She stayed holding on to his arms. Matthew moved his hands gently, ever so gently, to her waist. Her lips parted, but not in reproof.
They kissed. If the whole world had folded away around them, they wouldn’t have noticed or cared. They kissed again and again.
‘Oh, Mrs Gradley. We must win more often.’
‘Indeed, Mr Gradley, I think we should.’
The Banque Entente Cordiale did win the champagne and the roses, notching up $11,250 more than its nearest rival. Scott Petersen, the tall Californian, was the winning investor, with $121,870. The worst performing investor was Fareshti Al Shahrani. Her eyes were full of tears, but she sat upright and proud, as a princess should. She continued to believe that Sophie had rescued her from a worse fate, and she thanked her again as the class disbanded.
Matthew and Sophie did not visit Little Italy that night. They returned to Matthew’s apartment, called out for pizza and celebrated their win in a way that satisfied even Matthew’s most ardent dreams.
2
Zack burst into Hanbury’s office. Hanbury, who was married, was on the phone to his mistress and was less than pleased to be interrupted. He waved Zack out of the room, but Zack, typically, took this as a signal to sit down. Hanbury finished his call abruptly, ‘Look, I’ll see you at the opera tonight. Don’t be late,’ then turned to Zack. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve got a way to rescue the Aberdeen Drilling deal. I think we can get back into it.’
‘We’ve already lost. The deal’s over. And I don’t want you bursting in –’
‘Yes, but we bid too low. I know it’s late, but if we came back with a bid, say ten million higher, even twelve –’
‘Oh, don’t be stupid. We’ve lost. The other guys won. Our fee went down the pan. It’s over. Now, will you –’
‘But you haven’t heard my idea. Listen. Tominto Oil lost a lot of money drilling unsuccessfully for oil in Nigeria. In total, it threw away sixty million bucks without tax relief. Aberdeen Drilling, on the other hand, has a profitable subsidiary out there –’
‘I don’t want to know. Shut up and get out.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t want to know? I’m bringing you the solution here.’
Hanbury had a quick temper and Zack’s mistimed intrusion guaranteed a vintage display. The senior banker stood up, incensed.
‘This is the last time I’m going to tell you. The deal is dead and I don’t need your kindergarten tax scams. Now get out of my room and stay out.’
Zack had worked hard on his tax idea. His concept was that under Nigerian tax laws, Tominto’s losses could be used to offset Aberdeen Drilling’s profits. After intensive research, he was pretty sure it could be done, and had fondly imagined that Hanbury would be only too pleased to get back into the race. Zack was suddenly angry. Angry, and out of control.
‘Jesus Christ! I come in here with a good idea – an idea to save a deal and earn a fee – and you are too pompous, too arrogant, too fucking stupid to even hear it. I don’t know why I bothered.’
Zack turned to go, but Hanbury flew to the door and flung it shut. Hanbury put his face a couple of inches away from Zack’s and hissed at him.
‘How dare you say that? How dare you? If you want to continue another day in this bank, you will put a letter of apology on my desk by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. A full and complete apology. If I am satisfied – if I am – then we will talk with personnel about getting you transferred to an area where you won’t come into contact with clients, because I’m damned if I’ll ever trust you with a client again. Is that perfectly clear?’
If Zack had been able to think clearly, he would have been best advised to apologise profusely, to beg forgiveness on his knees if he had to. Piers St George Hanbury was Coburg’s most successful dealmaker, and whatever he wanted, the bank would give him. But, as Sarah Havercoombe for one could testify, Zack wasn’t the sort to think clearly when he was angry. He leaped to Hanbury’s desk.
‘I’ll give you a letter of apology, right here and right now.’
He grabbed pen and paper, and wrote in capitals: ‘DEAR MR HANBURY, I AM VERY SORRY THAT YOU ARE SUCH A POMPOUS DICKHEAD. YOURS MOST SINCERELY, ZACK GRADLEY.’