Dave Doran Books

Novels about Power and Intrigue in the Corporate and Political Worlds

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The Brexit Conspiracies

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The Author’s first Book, The Brexit Conspiracies, is in the political arena, not his preferred area of focus, which is business. Nonetheless, it is a tour de force. The story is a satirical take on Britain, Europe and other world powers, post referendum. The story journeys interestingly towards an unexpected outcome, built around an unlikely cast of characters from around the globe, all with twisted motivations. Britain wrestles with each of them to try to secure its goals. It is fiction, with meat in it. A real treat!

The Ice Queen Chapter 1

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The Ice Queen surveys her playground

Chapter 1

They’d had to endure three hours of it, so that ten minutes past noon when the sandwich guy knocked and entered with a large packed tray of sandwiches the mood began to brighten. It took three trips for the lunch to be set up on the side table beside the already existing range of sodas, coffee dispensers and accompanying accoutrements.

Regina Glacies did not relent until the sandwich guy withdrew without tip and her assistant had refilled the coffee flasks and anything else that needed topping up. The Ice Queen ran a tight ship.  Just because a few team members did not have time to grab breakfast was not a good reason to ease off or break early.

The Ice Queen was laying out the esoteric features of some fast food chain’s operations.   The way she saw it, it was hamburgers with an interesting twist. She felt the company might welcome some new equity to accelerate their growth prospects. She had given each of the team members ten minutes to outline the prospects that each had in their pipeline. She was not yet near boiling point, but what she had heard so far had not made her a happy camper.

“So what do you think Fred?”

Fred Curtin had been eyeballing a succulent roast beef on rye. He surfaced, “I think it’s an interesting proposition but we’ve always said we would steer clear of foodservice.”

A quick recovery like that would have worked in any other forum. For five minutes prior to letting his eyes stray towards the food, he had been dwelling on one of Maslow’s other hierarchical needs in the person of June, the Ice Queen’s PA, as she set up the luncheon table. June always came dressed for attention on Mondays when the private equity team got together.

**  **  **  **  **   

The Chairman was cooling his heels in the Ice Queen’s  office across from the conference room.  The blinds on the glass wall had been pulled up. In enabled him to watch the proceedings.  The thought crossed his mind that what she was doing was very  calculated, although the voices did not carry. He knew her well enough to speculate as to what was going on. He knew by her movements.  How she set things up.  She had a pattern.  He watched carefully.

Turner knew he had always to be careful with the Ice Queen. Not that there was bad feeling between the two of them. No, that was no longer the case. Those feelings were of another time. They had each moved on. No grudges. Neither of them harbored thoughts of revenge. They were businesslike about it.  One of those things.

They’d once had a break-up.  So what?  Standard mishap between professionals who occasionally got hot and bothered. Nowadays all their interactions were smooth, professional, non-confrontational. Above all, cool.  Two senior executives each with an awareness of and respect for the other’s position.  His twenty year age advantage and amiable disposition had guided him to be Chair. However, she now ran the show on a daily basis as CEO.

He watched and studied her.  Important to gauge her mood before they sat down together.  She was pacing around, but hardly getting in a flap. The Ice Queen rarely got excited. He could see that this was certainly not the moment when she would get into a flap. She rarely let loose. Restraint was her watchword. Moderation, self-control, determination, command of herself and her surroundings. That was Regina. Always. Well, nearly always. When she lost it, she could really lose it. Spittle flying. The F word. Cussing. A whole shit storm. Yet in a way it was those periodic outbursts that made her who she was: wired yet restrained; freaked out but collected; wound tight but controlled.  The turbulence was always there beneath the composure. Restraint, you could see her making the effort all the time.  It’s what kept everyone wary, at bay.  Turner watched as she interacted with Curtin.

“Highly strung.” The then Chairman, P. J. Boyd Kingston Jr. had once said of her.

“Not really.” Turner had demurred. He was a man who  knew these things. He had long ago worked out that everything was calculated. Even the outbursts.  Particularly the outbursts. She was the very definition of control. It was he who had christened her the Ice Queen. The name had stuck.

Regina Glacies ran the Private Equity shop that was Magnum.. Certainly it was an area where a cool head was needed. Buying and selling companies, parts of companies, investments, distressed assets, capitalising on opportunities. In reality, it was a hedge fund. She ran the Magnum hedge fund. She needed a shed load of money to do it. Partners’ money. His money.  Some of her own, of course. She used the firm’s money to take positions in whatever took her fancy. She looked at every opportunity where she could turn a buck.  Most often she made a buck.  Regina Glacies was a highly successful, driven investment banker. 

**  **  **  **  ** 

He still remembered the start of it all.  Eighteen years ago now. Those days were ingrained in the collective memory of Wall Street. The explosion had been in his office. Monday, April 17, 2000,  to be exact. She had just turned thirty and had signed up with Magnum. There was an urgency about her recruitment.  Dot Coms were headed for the stratosphere.  They were short staffed.  A particular shortage of good people.   Turner had seen her on the previous Monday and wanted her on board the following Monday.  Somehow they got the paperwork done. Events however had  conspired to make her entry less than smooth. Most notably the fact that the Monday that was supposed to be her first day turned out to be the first work day after the preceding Friday.  Friday 14th, Black Friday, when the dot bomb boom exploded and Wall Street got the shit knocked out of it.

“How can I help you?” The glamorous receptionist had asked.

“I’m Regina Glacies. I’m starting today. Mr. Turner said to ask for him when I reported for work.”

“Please take a seat.”

She should have known right then. The disheveled state of the reception area was a giveaway. The reaction from behind the glass screen was a stronger signal. She hadn’t needed a  flag. The biggest marker had been Friday and the fallout.  The weekend business pages had become obituary columns under their dark headlines.  They’d had the benefit of a couple of days to assess the situation.  They milked it to the full. The world was ending. 

Thing was, she did know. At least she had sensed that Friday had been a game changer. Except she decided not to acknowledge that little fact.  It was business as usual, as far as she was concerned.  She had spent the weekend playing mind games with herself.  A long series of what ifs and  trial responses. Nice game of tennis. Backwards and forwards. She spent the weekend at it. No matter how she served, she could envisage Magnum’s killer returns.  When she moved into the net, Turner always came out ahead. In the scenarios she game-played, they never got to game, set and match. She always had some aces up her sleeve She had been determined to save that Forest Hills encounter for the Monday.

They had kept her waiting.  Forty minutes. A voice interrupted her continued reverie.  “Ms. Glacies, take the elevator to the 20th. His office is third on the left. His assistant, June, will meet you at the elevator.”

This was it. First stab at the big time. So circumstances had changed, so what? She’d signed and returned the contract. The job was hers. The fact that the world was falling apart was not her fault. In the elevator, she took a few deep breaths. She checked herself out in the stainless steel surround and pulled down the little jacket. The little white jacket had cost her a week’s salary. Would have done, if she’d had a salary.  She’d sprung for it nonetheless.  It had been her investment in the job search, interview, recruitment process that she had landed herself in three months previously. She’d been twelve weeks in Purdah.

Turner too had been preparing. Friday and the weekend had been catastrophic. His budget was shot. No way could he take on new hires. He was considering how many to let go. No matter what commitments, had been made, they had to be negated. She had a contract. No denying it. The firm would suffer. The only way out that he could see was to ensure that he was the kind of guy that she would never want to work for. She would have to decide to quit before she started.  Not a pleasant job.  One of those things.   Not a problem for Turner, who was then head of Private Equity, a relatively small part of what was an old line brokerage firm.   He would have to get her up close and personal. Let her see what she was in for.  The real world.  Wall Street.

He never looked up, “thank you June,” he said as his assistant retreated. No offer of coffee. No take a seat. He sat there immersed in a memo. Elegant, maybe even regal. Feet on the desk, cordovan  loafers with tassels, slacks with a razor edge crease. Relaxed. The perfect representation of Wall Street, except for the manners. None.

She coughed.

He didn’t look up, just pointed at one of the chairs.

Okay, she was a big girl. What, he was maybe fifteen years her senior, she thought.  Wall Street man. Nicely turned out.  But, so was she. She adjusted herself carefully, paying no attention to the guy behind the desk. She felt his eyes on her. A familiar sensation. For half her life that had been the case. Men had been watching her since high school in Raleigh. As a cheerleader in college, she may have courted the looks. Yeah, no doubt her appearance had helped at Citi. Not one in a thousand ever moved from being a teller in Hell’s Kitchen to Capital Markets in midtown. She had done it.

She was still on the midtown beat.  This was the new Wall Street. Magnum was her big chance. Sure, the Street may have experienced a few seismic tremors but so what? Why should that erode her destiny.

Turner was still busy with whatever the hell he was still busy with. She got up. Slowly and deliberately she moved to the coffee table. She lifted the Times and took the Journal from underneath it. She resumed her seat and got lost in the front page.

Nothing from Turner. She knew men. This was a big effort for him. She knew it. He was under pressure. It was a game. He’d worked out his rules. She wasn’t going to play his game.

“Your world has fallen apart,” she said, looking up.  Statement, not a question.

“Oh yeah, you figure?” He looked up. Feet still perched on the desk, he appeared to be at ease. The balance of advantage had changed. She could feel it. Tough Wall Street misogynist. Nicely turned out, but they were all the same.

“Look,” she said putting down the newspaper. “The Street’s upside down.  It affects everyone, not just the big boys. Your division, Private Equity, has taken a hit. Nothing compared to what’s going to happen.  This business is built on confidence.  That goes, so does the business.  Its inevitable.  Remember our last conversation, you admitted you were dependent on your team. Buying and selling equity stakes in young companies wasn’t really your specialty. That’s why you hired me. Well, here I am. My hope is that you are not so far in the toilet that it’s worth my while.”

 She had his attention all right.

“Of course, we are down a little. Who isn’t? Once in a generation tsunami. There was too much West Coast hysteria. The guys in the Valley began to believe their own hype. Now they’ve let a little air out of the tyres. So what? Things go up. Things go down. That’s the game we’re in.” Now he was justifying himself. Explaining things.

“How are your results? Year to date? Including Friday?” She stared at him.

Suddenly he was on the defensive, “I took over here as CEO  twenty years ago. Revenues were up every year. We’re doing okay.”

“This year?”

“This year we are up.”

“I said results not revenues.” How much did you lose last week?

This was getting out of hand.  Turner knew it. Not what he had worked out. She was running the show. He’d had a plan to can her ass before she even started. Now she was examining him, questioning his results, implying they were in trouble, which they were.

 “Our results are terrific. We are in good shape. We don’t need some smart ass big bank bitches that have little experience of the real world under their belt coming in here telling us what to do. It’s a tough world out there. There are too many dammed pussies in this business. It takes real balls to tough it out when shit happens.”

That was it he had crossed the line. She had known he would, from the moment she saw the setup. He was waiting for her. Trap baited. She had known it. And, that he would overstep.  She had known that too.

She’d fed out the line and now she had him hooked.  Now, she had to reel him in. Blatant misogynist. The language of intimidation. He’d broken every rule in the book. No way she could let him know. She had to play his game. The door to his office was open. Good.

She let fly. With everything. The kitchen sink. The top of her voice. She was merciless. A stream of invective filled the air. She included all the  sensitive words  that he had used to abuse her. Misogynist, women, sexual innuendos, feminism, equality, law firms policies,  human resources,  men, Wall Street, deviants.  On and on she went endlessly.  At the top of her voice.  A string of carefully chosen words.  An onslaught of forbidden terms and legalisms that would horrify any HR  director.  But most of all, it was the voice.  The feminine tones handing it out to someone who was used to doing the same.

On and on she went.  Top of her voice.   A rant to beat all rants.  No pauses, no stopping, spittle flying. Loud. But not screaming.  Controlled but not so anybody would notice.  No cuss words.  No personal abuse. Everything else. The whole works. An absolute nightmare. A man’s worst dream. No way to handle it. No chance of stopping it. Couldn’t be softened. Couldn’t be quietened.

Turner was caught on the back foot.  He had been planning a full frontal.  That’s what he had wanted to hand out.  That’s what he caught.  Just as she had planned. He had two options. Neither of which would have worked. Both disastrous. One worse than the other. It was not a good day. He chose the worst option.

“Get the fuck out of my office.” He roared. I don’t want any snot nosed street bitch who thinks she’s God’s answer to men telling me how to run my kingdom. Get the fuck out.”

It was the stuff of urban lore. So was the reaction. Never were so many heads immersed in so many important papers. The floor was silent. The few people who had been wandering around dived for cover. Carefully chosen cover, the better to hear. Over the years as the stories were repeated and enhanced, Magnum’s Black Monday far exceeded the mayhem, drama and excitement that had pervaded Wall Street the previous Friday when the markets were falling apart.

The Ice Queen stopped. Suddenly stopped. She stood up. Erect. All feet 5’8″ of her.  In full control.  She carefully arranged herself and  turning on her heel  walked out of the office taking the time to pull  the door behind her. She stopped at his assistant’s desk.

 “June, wasn’t it?” Turner’s PA was well used to him handing it out.  She had never seen him on the receiving end. She was in shock. Enjoying it too, but trying not to show it.

“Yes Ms. Glacier, how can I help you?”

Regina looked at her.  One of those looks.

“It’s Ms. Glacies.” 

“Yes, Ms. Glacies,” he assistant stuttered.

“Let me see now, should I go to HR first? The HR department where will I find? What’s the director’s name?”

“Mr. Turner is in overall charge of HR.  The Director reporting to him is Mr. Feelgood.”

“Hardly an appropriate name, is it?”  She paused. “No, let me see, I’d better go to Trading first.  Mr. Turner is in charge of Trading also, isn’t he?”  She smiled sweetly.

June nodded her head as she continued to stare at her.

 “Who was it I met there when I was last here last Monday with Mr. Turner? Timothy Burns wasn’t it? My memory is that Trading is on eighteen?” She smiled again to make sure June was on her side, “Wouldn’t do to report late on my first day, would it?”

“No, Ms. Glacies, I mean yes Ms. Glacies, Trading is on eighteen. The elevator is just over there.”

“Thank you, June.  Friday was very trying, Wasn’t  it?  I’ll be downstairs.”

Later that day, the huddle on twenty was led by P. J. Boyd Kingston. PJ was old firm.  His father had started Magnum as a small brokerage in Harrisburg.  Decades on, PJ had somehow stumbled on success and then at sixty-two was enjoying the fruits of it, leaving it to Turner to make the hard yards.

Even he knew that Black Friday was a threat.  He was planning for a tete a tete with Turner.  He had not been present for the thrill fest but he had heard a blow by blow account related to him before his ten o’clock arrival. The events of Friday hadn’t caused him to vary his timetable.  But Junior knew enough to know that corrective action had to be taken.  Reason they were getting together, though it would be up to Turner to sort it out. Turner decided to stay quiet.

“Victor,” Junior said in the understatement of the year, “Friday was a difficult day for us.  We watched you carefully as you seemed to be buffeted by the storm.” 

Turner looked at him, but sucked it up.

“You need to remain calm in such difficult circumstances,” Junior offered helpfully.

Turner couldn’t believe it.  A veiled warning from a nobody.  The playboy knew nothing about riding out a storm.  He swallowed hard.   “Well Friday was a difficult day,” he managed to get out. He looked hard at the dandy and felt he should give him something to think about.

“And, today hasn’t started so well,” he said tapping the Bloomberg terminal while thinking of  his earlier session with the new hire, who apparently was already deeply immersed in the operations of the trading room.

“Listen, we’ve got to get control here.  We’re in for a difficult time,” Junior was thinking of his inheritance.

Turner had had enough and had arrived at a decision, not that Junior owned all the equity.  He himself had twenty five per cent, but control lay with Junior.  Enough to swing a critical vote if push came to shove. “Well then, better let me get on with it,” he said guiding Junior towards the door.

No one was less surprised than Regina Glacies when she was summoned to twenty after Junior had left. She was asked by Turner if she could understand how Friday’s chaos had imposed an incredible strain on the organisation and on him. His way of apologizing. 

He suggested to her that they needed to get their ducks in arrow and perhaps they might head in a new direction to ease the strain on a private equity unit that was suddenly threatened.  There was a likelihood also that their mainline brokerage operation would be subjected to market pressures and much more competitive pricing.

Could she see her way to join them, Turner asked nicely and would she be willing to accept the position as head of planning for the Private Equity Division. The title of VP went with the position. The starting salary was bounced by fifty grand.”

Later, the head of HR digested it calmly along with the fifty pink slips he was preparing.  “On day one in the middle of a shit storm,” he muttered to himself.

Somehow, word got out. It became the stuff of urban lore. Not just internally. The Street was awash with it. They loved it in Citi, where she caused such discomfort that she had gotten her ass canned.

When at a later point an unusually bizarre alliance was struck between Turner and his nemesis, the Magnum wags had it that it was because all the excitement and ups and downs made the sex so much better.

The Brexit Conspiracies Chapters 1 -3

By

Prologue

The people had been ready.  The politicians were not.  The power brokers moved quickly.  The consequences were grave.

It would be one of those days that all historians would describe as nation defining but about which analysts and academics would quibble for decades over reasons and causes and whatever all else decided controversial issues on which a nation’s people expressed opinions.

The prime minister was huddled upstairs in Number Ten with a few close friends and colleagues as they reviewed the decisions that had brought them to this point.  New politics they had called the kinder, more friendly version of Conservatism.  It had brought them through three elections.  Hopefully, in this latest play, it would establish a one nation Tory Party that was unified and that could press on for a further three terms, in the second or third of which the now fifty eight year old Premier could gently fade into the sunset.

For an hour or two after the polls closed, he felt relaxed as he went over the indicators. The markets had surged. Sterling had peaked.  The bookies had shortened the odds.  The pundits brooked no other outcome. Sure, the polls were ambivalent, but they had been discredited in recent contests – the advent of mobiles, social media and a youth that appeared disinterested.

 The cursors had all faced north. He’d taken the right decisions, put in the hours, gone out on the hustings and generally fought the good fight. They were not supremely confident. Just happy enough that they had gotten it right and that they had done more than was required.

At Campaign OUT HQ, the others also conveyed the impression of confidence. There were high fives and raised glasses between the Gang of Four and their pals.  They looked like coming through their little contretemps with reputations burnished and profiles enhanced. They could return to their posts with vigour and a shot at the main chance whenever it materialized.  The experiment was over.  They had done their duty.  They had served the nation.  There was a remote chance that they may even have vanquished the brains trust whose idea it was.

The dinner party in Number Ten was for family and friends and a couple of staffers. It was a great success.  Lots of levity.  No shortage of wine.  The shepherd’s pie, well it was adequate.

Shortly after eleven when the merry group had gone their way, the Prime Minister settled down in front of the TV with a glass of port and a few pals to celebrate a great victory and sweet thoughts of revenge on the bastards who had challenged him.

Two constituencies in the northeast were the first to report.

It didn’t take long. 

By 2.00 a.m. the BBC had called it.

By 4.00 a.m. he realised that everything had changed.  Changed utterly.

By seven, he was outside making his resignation speech.

 

 

Chapter 1

Alex Snark was not cut out to be the hero of the Brexit crisis. He was not a nice man.  Still youngish, stature challenged and sparse upstairs, his long beak didn’t help. Nor did it inhibit him. The tyrant with the budding gut and egg shaped head could wax hot and cold.  He may have been  the best damned political consultant in the English speaking world but today the super aggressive, super successful, transatlantic import who ran the show was angry.  Strange. It was the morning after the night before.  He showed no recognition of what he had achieved.  He had pulled off the most successful coup in recent British electoral history.  Despite this, his mindset, tone and actions still replicated those of the past fifteen weeks.  Always on the job, always pushing, always fuming.  The qualities, which had gotten him to where he wanted to be.  He had become the undisputed political manipulator and vote harvester, a formidable influence within the circle of power.

  He was in a cubicle, which he sometimes occupied out on the floor, terrifying a staffer who had the temerity to show him a less than perfect few sentences, when he exploded.  First, he was shaking his head from side to side, before he snarled, “It’s too circumspect. How many times I told you, you gotta say what you mean?”

“Look, Snark you can’t say it that way.  People will take offence,” she said.  The pretty Cambridge grad had used all her talents to shape a few words that were discreet but could bring to life the latest message they wanted to convey.

“You gotta hit them with it.”

“Listen, that won’t wash.  You can’t get in peoples’ faces like that.”

“Why not?” he asked aggressively.  His face was mottled and strained.

“It’s a cultural thing.” She wrinkled her nose.  The lines etched on her forehead were deeper this time when she frowned.  “Let me have another go at it. I’ve been here all night.”  She held out a hand.

He flung the few pages down on the table and grunted.

Snark was a legend.  For fifteen years, he had plied his trade and had become the meanest, nastiest, most ruthless political consultant and campaign manager in the English-speaking world.  His work schedules in a business that took no prisoners were inhuman.  It had its effects on him.  Some said they were episodes of ulcerative colitis, others said they had been heart attacks and others said they were unknown tropical after-effects from when he had cut his teeth in a few remote equatorial wildernesses. Whatever.  He could still do ninety hour weeks, work through the night and keep a half dozen personal staff running and jumping and fetching and researching. Campaign staff crews started at twenty and ran to several hundred.  Snark had made sure that the seventy in the London office were fully stretched since the campaign began.

At 7.00 am over a coffee in the small galley kitchen, one of his lieutenants, flushed with their success, thought he’d get some answers, “why do you drive yourself so hard?  And them? Surely some recognition is due, given what’s been achieved?”

Snark snorted, “time to get back,” he said, disappearing out the door, past the original large kitchen which had been converted into some sort of electronics centre which was wired and lit up to a standard that they would be proud of in  MI5  down the river at Milbank House.

The question had been rhetorical.  They all knew the answer.  Snark gave recognition when it was due.  They couldn’t remember the last time. In his eyes, the targets were simple, but they were never reached.  The job was always unfinished. The plotters and conspirators were always out to get them.  The media were always playing with his head.  There were dangers everywhere.  The work was never done, so the grunts had to keep their heads down on that grindstone and worry perpetually at the myriad problems that surfaced.

Right now, he was angry. Iridescent, in fact.  He was mad because he could not remember whether this was the start of the new day or the end of the old day. Didn’t matter. He woke up angry. Tended to get more angry at lunchtime. By dinner, he was frequently throwing things around the office. Most afternoons he simmered away and by evening he was either mellow or cooking up a real shit storm. They never knew what to expect with Snark. One thing they did know. The victory was down to him. Entirely. The four politicians with their widely known faces went out and said the words. His words. His ideas. He imposed discipline. A rod of iron. He’d been barking and shouting and cussing at them for the past six months.

He was prowling around the open floor, shifting from one mobile to the other, as he growled commands and issued updates when Ms. Cambridge came back with another draft.  She was attractive.  Her blouse was simple and modest.  Clearly uptight, her buttoned up appearance conveyed anxiety.  Fresh from the Cotswolds, Daddy thought an unpaid internship might either be a useful addition to her C.V. or a helpful life experience.  He was right, she was learning fast.

Snark tried his paternalistic look.  He had not risen to the apex of the political consulting world without developing some suavity and tactfulness. 

He put a hand out.  “Let me see it.”  The mouth was just a tad lopsided.  Hardly a sneer. Nor would it pass as a smile.

He put the few pages down on the nearest desk.  The hand went out again, “pencil,” he commanded. He knew how to shape and manipulate ambitious egos. This was not the time for it.  The campaign was over.  He was tired.  Emotional. He’d had a few Oxbridge types in and out of his British campaign. Same as the Ivy League cohort he used back home. One thing he had learned. They had to get the message.

He looked closely at the half dozen sentences. He stabbed at the sheets with the pencil and made a couple of frenzied marks and scribbles. By sentence three the pencil had broken. He pushed the half dozen pages off the desk.  They scattered. He threw the pencil after them.

Penelope got the message.  She retrieved the pages and retreated to her desk, looking around nervously to see who had witnessed the assault on her dignity and capability. Nothing.  Just another day at the office.  Routine.  She reached for her handbag and pulled out the pack of paracetamol, which she had found helpful on the long days.  She sneaked another look around the office.  Had she made a mistake in choosing politics as a career, she wondered.

Lenny was in a nearby cubicle, assiduously catching up with the sports news which he’d found it hard to get his normal fix of in recent weeks. When the call came, Lenny pulled himself together, breezily picked up the handset, listened for a moment or two, then tentatively stuck his head over the partition wall and interrupted Snark’s latest stream of consciousness thoughts and ravings. 

“I’d say it was one of your Yank friends,” Lenny announced, holding up the handset.  “Line three.”

Snark snorted and grabbed the instrument.  He’d been grunting and cussing since 6.00 am.  “I’ll take it in my office,” he shouted at the handset.

He slammed the door after him.  Suddenly, the atmosphere was brighter.

Snark didn’t need another distraction.  The shouting, jostling, chanting, heckling and screaming across the river in Parliament Square and elsewhere around London was sufficiently close to penetrate his consciousness.  The drone from the TV in the conference room, radios scattered around the place and numerous computers with their speakers on indicated it was no ordinary day.  That local background noise was annoying him, even though he was totally tuned in and interested.

The campaign staff was unsettled. The phones hadn’t stopped.  The stressed out occupants seemed to be lost or at least looking for guidance in the changed circumstances.  Things were tense enough without Snark doing his number on them. Even though it was just after seven, people were on edge.  Crowds were baying outside.  Parliament, Cabinet Ministers and public officials were under siege.  The meeja, as the press and TV were collectively called in Snark speak, was camped on their doorstep.  Worst of all, Archie Madison wouldn’t leave him alone to complete his work.  Every hour or so he was shaking his tree to see if any fruit would fall. Madison liked the limelight.  Of all the MPs and ministers, he was the media darling of Campaign OUT.

 

Chapter 2

It was the end of a long day. A lousy July day. As bad a time of year and as bad a day as it is possible to get in D. C., which as a southern city, can be hot and steamy. President Sam Snead was not in good shape. He had been closeted with advisers and meetings all day. Now the AC was on the fritz and the Oval Office was humid. It was hot and downright sticky. The conditions made him think of the world outside the massive mansion where he served as a prisoner.

This time of year, this kind of day, reminded him of the career he almost had in golf. A distant relative of the famous major winner of the same name, President Snead believed that he could have been as good as his namesake in golf, if he hadn’t been distracted by  student politics in his late teens. He had also been under the misapprehension that his political career might have endured as long as that of his golfing ancestor who’s record in tour wins had never been bested, even by prodigies like Tiger. That’s where he should be, out on the course. No difficulty there having a cool one without the implied criticisms.  He had standing invitations for Congressional, Winged Foot, and Shinnecock Hills.

Instead, he was shackled to his chief of staff, as they sweated the details of the disaster that was likely to hit them in November. With the polls showing the Grand Old Party behind by some twenty per cent in around thirty states and in every single Congressional district that hadn’t been fixed by either of the parties on the basis of a truly creative gerrymander or an equally imaginative bribe to voters.

Dave Haggerty sat comfortably back in a corner of one of the sofas. The President  sat in the corner of the one opposite, when he wasn’t jumping up and down with a fly up his ass. The man was on a downer.  He had only just reached the final months of his first term.  Ridiculous. A nonsense. So what,  if the party didn’t get the requisite votes?   Why should either of them care? When their day in the sun came in another four years and they could escape from the fetters of government, a wonderful third career awaited them both. Making money. The idea was very appealing. They had partnered together for thirty years on the way up, when Snead took all the honours. In their twilight years, they would both need the  partnership to continue but Haggerty was resolved that the balance of advantage would be his, next time around. He had three years and three months of the President’s memoirs completed already. Nice couple of million for him to start with, whilst his pal explored the wonders of Congressional and Winged Foot.

“Look, we have to decide something on Martinez,” Haggerty said. “He needs you up there twice over the coming weeks. Firstly, there’s a fundraiser. Then he wants you for his closing rally.  After that the Convention.  He wants to be there to support your nomination.”

President Snead was exploring how Frederic Remington had reproduced the sense of energy exhibited in the famed Bronco Buster bronze that sat on the chest of drawers to one side of his desk. “Who?” The President said without turning away from the sculpture.

“Jorge Martinez – San Jose”

“With a name like that, I thought he’d be a Democrat?”

“He was a Democrat.”

“Was?”  President Snead was puzzled.

“He joined us three years ago. Got in on your coat tails. Fourteenth District.  California.”

“I see him on TV all the time. Always finding fault with our legislation.  Claims it handicaps his people”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“So, he’s still very much a Democrat?”  The President’s scowl was mean.

“Spiritually, he is.  Except that, technically he’s one of us.  He’s supporting an important bill coming up in the next few months.”

“Which bill?”

“Immigration.”

“How can Martinez of all people support us on immigration?”  Again, the troubled look crossed Snead’s face.

“Don’t ask.”

“But we want to stamp it out.  Eradicate immigration and all that goes with it .  It was a campaign promise.”

“He’s willing to go along.”

“But he’ll be a loser both ways. No Hispanic support and all the Silicon Valley money in his District will go to Ovington.” The President was concerned. He stopped stroking the horse’s ass and faced his pal

“So what?”  Haggerty was a bottom-line guy.

“So how will he get elected?”

“We fixed the boundaries of his district, that’s how.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. He’ a problem, or was a problem, or will be a problem.  How did we get on to discussing Martinez?  The President asked.

“We started off by discussing current problems.”

“Martinez may very well be a problem. We got plenty of problems but I don’t need that one right now.  I pay you to sweat the small stuff.”

“I get it. You want to deal with big issues only?” Haggerty asked.

“Deal with is not a phrase I’m familiar with. Get rid of – maybe?”

“China? Is that big enough for you?”

President Snead was still restless. He’d rambled distractedly back towards his desk. Running his finger along the edge, he stood admiring it, as he considered whether China should be tackled just then.  He decided to play for time.  He’d had his fill of problems.  “I thought we had them where we wanted them? Haven’t they turned capitalist?”

“That’s the problem.”

“That’s a problem?”  The President was annoyed by the persistent obstacles.  He turned away from his preoccupation in assessing  the artistic merits of the pieces in his office and faced Haggerty.

“Yeah, they’re messing up our markets one at a time. We don’t manufacture anything in this country anymore.”  Haggerty sounded regretful as he said it.

“What about iPods and icars and iplanes?”

“Planes look set for Brazil or maybe Canada. Cars? Definitely China.”

“Okay, you got my attention.”  The President moved around and sat at his desk adding emphasis to his words.

“They’re moving in on our markets. The EU could fall next.”

“Europe?” The President looked shocked. I thought Europe was sound?”

“It’s disintegrating.”

“We were talking about China. Now, you’re telling me that Europe is a lost cause.” China is a gigantic carrion crow, poised to pull at the rotting pieces of Europe.  The

 Chinese are invading; they’re displacing us over there,” Haggerty said.

“I get it; you’re talking about vulture capitalists.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Britain.” 

“You don’t mean Great Britain.”

“I do, literally.”

“How come?”

“The Brexit vote.  The results are in.”

“Oh yeah, I saw something about that on TV.”

“You did and you need to heed it.  Same issue as here, immigration.  In addition, the great unwashed.  They’re getting edgy.  Not getting their fair share of the cake, or so they believe.

“Let me think about all that.  You mentioned Britain. They were here earlier in the year. I had lunch with them. Promised to play golf with what’sis name. I talked to him. He told me they were having some kind of troubles over there. We discussed the possibilities of Britain becoming the fifty-first State.  He didn’t think it would help.  Might be a hard sell, he said.  They are already trying to get out of a relationship that has gone sour.”

“That’s the problem. You put ideas in his head.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, he liked the thought.  He’s exploring the options of hooking up with someone new.  Now they might become the thirty-fifth province – you know, like Sichuan or Hunan?  In any event, they’re making preparatory moves.  They don’t like their present partners, the EU.  They are about to serve notice on them that they want to move out.”

“Relationships are difficult, aren’t they? The President asked.

There was a light knock on the door. Mrs. Snead stuck her head in, saw that there were just two of them and walked in. “Just back from playing golf, dear. Dinner in an hour, after I shower.  How about Chinese?”

“Yes dear, I’ll be there.  Matzo Ball soup, is that Chinese?”  President Snead was hungry.

“With maybe General Tso’s to follow?” she was still holding the door.

“When did we meet him?  I thought we were at home this evening?”  He turned to Haggerty, “Do I need a briefing?  I don’t want to talk to any of our military.  I always have to have that terrible Chin woman with me when I meet them.”

“Can I mix you a Martini and have it ready?” The last time Mrs. Snead had mixed a Martini was seven years ago. Her last Martini had been seventy minutes ago. She’d already got a start on the evening’s festivities.

Nonetheless, the President liked the idea.  “That would be nice. I’ll be right up,” he said to her as she pulled the door behind her.

“Dave, solve that British problem.  They’re pissed off with us. The Secretary of State and his loose mouth was letting fly at them at some conference in some God forsaken spot.  It’s forcing them under water.  I owe them.  I don’t want them selling out to the damned Chinese, or the Russkis.  Do what you have to do.  Britain is a vital national interest.  Get  the CIA working on it.  Discreetly.”

Chapter 3

The head of the European Commission strode purposefully along the Brussels boulevard undeterred by the threatening sky with its light drizzle. Had he stopped to reflect, he might have considered it a more hospitable city than his native Paris. Paris perhaps was not homely, but Brussels fell much shorter on that axis than the French capital.  Brussels did have one advantage.  He could function there more readily in his native French, although at this point in his life, he was competent in half a dozen languages. The extraordinary traffic of individuals into and out of its bleak centre, at all times of the year, made Brussels a city in transition, somehow seeming to lack the permanence of any other major European metropolis. Jean Marie Ricard was not in reflective mood.  He was intent on taking the first step in his master plan – deal with the Brits.

He had been in the business of politics for more years than he cared to remember.  He had started as a young trainee economist somewhere in the bowels of the Bank of France.  Half a lifetime later, he had emerged to serve a couple of terms as a cabinet minister. Now, he was on the final leg of a second career as President of the EU Commission. He had his eye fixed firmly on a third. It would be a glorious swansong to cap an illustrious record of achievement.

His remuneration as President of a major European institution was lousy.  In his opinion.  The prestige was enormous, the perks more so. Unusually the perks were not part of the package.  He had been forced to develop them himself.  Nonetheless, he had been able to survive on his lousy pay.  What he would or should have paid in taxes had been securely and secretly placed to one side to underwrite the cost of landing the third career.  At sixty-three, it was expected that Jean Marie would be on wind down. The reality was that he was only getting started. He had a much larger prize in his sights.

Thankfully, he had a wife who was somewhat agreeable to his plans generally, even if she was unaware of the specifics. French women were understanding that way.  His particularly so.  That quality of silent compliance meant keeping out of the way and being tolerant of his foibles. She got what she wanted from the relationship.  She was happy with that.  He did not interfere in her world, nor she in his.

The Commission was not known for its excitement, until the EU’s world had started to fall apart.  He had learned to fashion his involvement in the political and regulatory worlds to provide stimulation for himself and for the countries whose economies he was supposed to foster and guard. However, in recent times he and his institution had experienced too much of a roller coaster type existence, akin to what Alan Greenspan, one time Chairman of the Fed, famously called The Age of Turbulence. The Commission used to be marked by disturbance every half dozen years. The financial crisis, Greece, the immigrant onslaught from North Africa had changed everything.  Three cataclysmic events over five years.  Now the damned Brits wanted out.   Recently his world had experienced a further series of economic flurries, which had threatened to destabilise it.  The Brits now wanted to turn that world  upside down and derail a spectacular career and toss him on the dross heap with the rest of mankind.  A short time to go and new objectives in mind, Ricard was determined to crush any threats to his future. His plan was simple.  He had to show leadership in the crisis.  He would start by putting down the upstarts.  Britain and a few other nations had lost the run of themselves.  The Commission meeting on Wednesday might be a good place to start.

The MBAs Chapter 1

By

 

Chapter 1

Dreyfus sat back in the large chair and stared at the guy behind the desk. He didn’t see the flashing screens, the luxurious surroundings or the spectacular view of the East River.  The man in front of him had his attention.  Even if he was a beaten man.  It wasn’t the markets that had done it.  A damned kid not yet thirty years of age had turned his colleague’s world upside down and inside out. Slumped down in the seat, it was hard to see how Trader Vic had won his nickname.  Dreyfus raised an eyebrow.

“I told you. Go ahead.”  Trader Vic may have been down; he hadn’t forgotten how to make decisions.

Dreyfus reached forward and pulled the landline across the desk towards him. Suddenly, he remembered. The listening ears.  All calls were recorded. Standard operating procedure in the securities business. He held out his hand.

Trader Vic looked puzzled.

“I forgot my cellphone.”

Trader Vic gestured at the console on the desk.

“I don’t think so. Your cell.”

“Oh!”  Suddenly, the man behind the desk got it.  He handed over his BlackBerry.

Dreyfus pressed the small keys and waited “Hannigan?”

“Yeah who’s this?”

“This is Henri Dreyfus”

“Sure Henri, what can I do for you?”

“You remember that kid we discussed?”

“The asshole from Harvard?”

“You got it.”

“What about him?”

“We just met with him. He’s not open to reason.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Didn’t think he would be. From the way you described him. Did you try money?”

“First thing we tried. Didn’t work.”

“That’s too bad. Persuasion?”

“We’re past that.”

“What can I do? Hannigan offered helpfully.

“Kill him.” Dreyfus said. He sounded sad.

**  **  **  **  **

 

The Friday evening on which the decision had been made to put a bullet in Murray Weeks’s head was like any other. Except, it was the last day of his internship.  Almost the last day of his summer.  The last day he could forget about the unrelenting daily grind of B School life. The second year of his MBA program would commence shortly.

Three months. A month spent in each of Summit’s major business groups. Even though Weeks had only completed his first year at the venerable Boston institution, he had become the MBA asshole since his arrival at Summit. Deservedly so. He had brought everything on himself. His unsmiling face, inability to relate to people, know it all certainty about everything and constant criticisms had led to the christening.

The Ivy League has a lot to commend it.  It can deal with inherited wealth and the establishment.  Super jocks have a place. Rebels and radicals can find a home there.  The poor and the deprived and the racially different have quotas to fill.  Lots of targets for the super intelligent to shoot at.  And genius, genius is at home there. Murray Weeks was a prodigy.  Intellect personified. Somewhere off the top of the Mensa scale. Passed the CPA on his first outing. He already had a JD degree from Yale on top of his Cornell undergrad. No difficulty for him landing a resting place in a third institution with halls of ivy.

But, there is no mechanism or process in the Ivy League for weeding out the super nerds and freaks like Murray Weeks.  No problem at Cornell, the boy was able to hide there. Yale had been more of a challenge, but he could get lost in the library researching Supreme Court judgments and legal precedents. Harvard Business School was a different challenge.  The case study method meant that there were no lectures, no text books, no right and wrong answers and no hiding.  Just case study after case study, day after day.  Unrelenting. He could crunch the numbers, work out the logistical challenges, solve the theoretical puzzles, all in isolation from the world in which the various scenarios existed. But there was no avoiding his peers and the profs. Murray had never functioned in the real world.  He had never worked, just piled up the academic knowledge.  He had no experience on which to hang solutions.  The study group to which he belonged looked after him, guided him, prompted him, sheltered him, used his genius and told him when to keep his mouth shut – always; and, when to open it – only to them.

Murray hadn’t had a drink with anyone in five years. Single, he showed no interest in women. Outside of his smarts, the man had no redeeming features.  There were no study groups in the real world to closet him.  There were none at Summit.  Murray thought he was coping.  Not just coping, excelling.  He was not unlike many of the extreme personalities that hit the big time on the trading floor.  Had they given him a trading role or a desk, he might have been okay.  But, as an intern let loose in an organisation to scavenge for mistakes and miscalculations and fraud and deception, he was a disaster. No one there to advise silence.  Murray hadn’t known it.  He was never going to get his piece of sheepskin from Harvard.

 *  *  *  *  *

 

There had previously been a closing meeting with each of the other two division chiefs for whom he had interned.  On the final day of both June and July. Both meetings had been fraught. Now, this time around, Trader Vic was doing the honours. Victor Shaw, Trader Vic, to everyone, but only when he wasn’t present, didn’t like wrap ups. He certainly didn’t like smart ass kids with jumped up attitudes who knew it all. HarvardHarbord MBAs were a pet dislike. At the end of each monthly stint in the first two divisions, Murray reported verbally on his findings to each divisional CEO.  They listened to his account of his time with them with astonishment and disbelief. The fact that his conclusions may have been  accurate was not helpful.  He hadn’t pulled his punches. Word had gotten around. The kid had attitude. Today, the end of his third and final month, Trader Vic had ordered him to report in person at a wrap-up session scheduled for 7.30 to discuss the report which Weeks had e-mailed to him three days previously.  Weeks had also sent a copy to Group HR, a requirement of the internship.

Weeks should  have listened to the signals. Word on the Street was that Trader Vic was gunning for him. Well, not on the Street. Around the dealing room. The whole building knew he was not going to get the usual send off. The e-mail telling him when and where to report had not been friendly. A heads up had come from another intern. Sally Ann Kincaid, the cute redhead from Stanford in the Private Equity Division in midtown, had suggested to him that he should retract or moderate the tone of his final report.  His earlier ones had not been appreciated, she had told him.

The final indication of trouble brewing came late that Friday.  At 7.00 p.m., the consigliore from HQ on Park Avenue, Henri Dreyfus, swept into 21 Wall. The town car had barely pulled up outside, before the Executioner, scowling, had stormed through the revolving doors and across the great expanse of marble.   He went straight to Trader Vic’s office, where they huddled furiously. Dreyfus, head of Support Operations for all of Summit, was the guy originally responsible for the intern idea. He had pushed it through against the advice of almost everyone.  No one had wanted transients anywhere near the place. His annoyance that they were right and he was wrong was eating at him.  Being summoned by Trader Vic to help deal with the miscreant was more than just hassle. It was duty.  Had to be done.  The other divisional chiefs and the CEO were adamant.  But, the report which the dammed MBA asshole had e-mailed to midtown, the only copy of which was clasped tightly in his hand was really riling him. It had been the subject of intense discussion with Trader Vic who had the only other copy.

Weeks should have known something was afoot. Many of the five hundred or so high octane, stressed out addicts who lived at 21 Wall for up to sixteen hours a day, were not known for their endearing qualities or their consideration of their fellow man. Trading is a high tempo, macho, winner-take-all business, where only the paranoid survive. In that milieu of know-it-all self-confident Alpha personalities, Murray Weeks had carved out a reputation for himself in his first two weeks. Everywhere he went, he saw inefficiency and ineptitude on which he was not slow to make his opinions known. In the first few hours every day, he studied some new facet of the Division’s activities.  By lunch, he had worked out a way to improve on it. He spent each afternoon advising anyone who would listen about his startling discoveries and his radical prescriptions for improving the bottom line. It might have helped had he been a cool dude, or even a little bit simple. Maybe that was the explanation – off the scale in native intelligence, lacking in everyday common sense and social graces.

It didn’t help that he didn’t look the part.  Had he been able to get three piece suits, he would have worn them. His suit was the darkest shade possible this side of black. Never without a tie.  Apart from a single occasion.  On  August 14th, when the A/C went on the fritz and the outside temperature hit ninety, he loosened his neck tie but refused to remove his jacket.  He was twenty eight going on fifty eight and shaved twice a day, the second time in the second floor men’s room at lunchtime, after his five-minute sandwich. Somewhere near the North Pole on the genius spectrum, Murray Weeks was never going to win a popularity contest.  Nor would he ever pick up on portents, markers or even fog horns.

 *  *  *  *  *

For the third time, Trader Vic picked up the hard copy of the report which he had thrown down on the desk five minutes earlier. By the time he was half way down page one again, he had finalised his earlier decision that not one page of the heresy could be allowed to surface. As he flicked the pages, he confirmed the tentative conclusion that he had arrived at during his phone discussion with Dreyfus earlier that afternoon.

Trader Vic turned to Dreyfus. “I don’t know what the other CEOs thought about their sections of this report…” He tossed the offending document back on the desk again, “but we can’t let this piece a shit outta the building.” It wasn’t clear whether he was referring to the document or its author.

Dreyfus, out of his chair, was striding up and down in front of Trader Vic’s desk.   The large corner office had no appeal for him.  “You know what the others think. Look at your own reaction. Your division’s activities are relatively straightforward. Everything is marked to market. Both Ralph and the Ice Queen are subject to sentiment, judgement and opinion.  They are both apoplectic.” Ralph Kincaid ran Summit’s Advisory and Consulting business. Mary Miles, the Ice Queen, ran Private Equity.

Dreyfus continued, “they both believe the document is beyond dangerous or slanderous. They want the guy locked up and the key thrown away.   They want the report shredded, suppressed, or erased. The same goes for Weeks. They never want to see another intern.”

“I don’t care about them. Any of this gets out.  .  . ”

“Yeah, yeah, we know all that. It’s how we approach him.” Dreyfus’s mind was in calculation mode.  Group Human Resources  was part of his responsibilities.

Trader Vic flipped through the dossier again, scowling; he could see no way that the kid was going to deal. “If the State’s Attorney, or the SEC,  gets wind of any of this, the outcome is likely to be a fine in the $1 billion plus range.”

“C’mon Vic, don’t be an idiot.  Don’t say things like that.”

“Okay, five to ten upstate.”

“Don’t joke about it.  These things have a way of becoming fact. Just expressing such sentiments might make us guilty. Jail sentences are a possibility.”

Trader Vic slowly read a couple of excerpts from the report.  His tone was morose. There was fear evident in his voice. No doubting the damage that its content would cause.

“Okay, enough already.  I read it.  Fifteen times.”

“Did it sink in? The ramifications? What we gonna do?”

“We gotta focus.” Dreyfus sipped from his coffee, which had gone cold.  He went silent and stared at his own copy of the report lying on the desk.  “I know,” he said, “money.”

“Money? Whaddya  mean money?” Trader Vic asked.

“Buy him off.” He left it to Vic to sweat the meaning.

The division head was not appeased. “You can’t just offer him money. A bribe?” He said it distastefully, overlooking his own use of the gambit up to a dozen times a day. “You can’t have him going back up there to Harvard and telling his classmates that we offered him a bribe to keep his mouth shut.”

“That’s all those kids are interested in.”  Dreyfus said without pressing the point.  He fell back on his HR train of thought. “He has to keep his mouth shut. He signed a confidentiality agreement.” His words had no sense of belief.

“You’re not going to rely on that?” Trader Vic was horrified, knowing that the old Wall Street maxim of a man’s word being his bond had disappeared maybe fifty years previously. Confidentiality agreements had ceased being honoured sometime later, in the eighties.

Dreyfus gave him a look.  It was almost a sneer.  “We’ll offer him a job. Make him the highest-paid MBA to ever come out of Harvard.” He snorted it.  “We’ll tactfully remind him that until he starts with us in a year’s time, when he completes his MBA, that he is still governed by the confidentiality agreement he signed when he took up his internship here.”

Trader Vic liked this thought. He picked up the report again. He immediately placed it back down on the desk, leaned forward and scribbled something on the cover. He sat back and stroked his cheek.  He smiled. “I like it.” He said.

 *  *  *  *  *

 

Forty minutes after the appointed time for the meeting, Weeks was fuming at his desk in the cubicle farm on the second floor. The floor was silent. Friday evening.  The grunts had checked out by 6.30. Enough was enough.  He decided to beard his idiot boss in his office. He took the stairs to the sixth floor.

Trader Vic was CEO of the whole division but still sat in splendor just away from the trading floor where he had built his reputation. Victor Shaw had come up the ranks.  Had made his mark as a trader.  Was continuing to make his mark, supervising the outsized personalities that worked their magic on the screens and phones sixteen hours a day.  Europe was closed. Asia wouldn’t open again until Sunday evening. The Bloomberg screens were flickering their orange and  green codes.  The huge flat-screen TVs with CNBC and various other services were droning on about nothing important. There were only a few ragged bodies remaining at the stations.  The highly charged voltage that electrified the place for sixteen or so hours every day had dissipated.

Weeks wasn’t interested. His dammed fool head of division had kept him waiting for an hour on his last day in the place. Tomorrow, Saturday, he would take Amtrak back to Boston ahead of the start of his second year in the MBA programme in a few days’ time. He didn’t need Victor Shaw, Trader Vic or whatever they called him playing games with him. He just needed to make his obligatory goodbyes, signoff and do whatever was necessary to get the hell out of the place. He didn’t even care what they thought about him or his report. His report was his report. He said what he said. Just reported on his findings. That was it. Nothing to discuss.

He charged up to the door of Trader Vic’s office. Unusually, it was closed. Not bothering to knock, he opened it and stuck his head in.

“Hey kid, we’ll be with you shortly,” a voice said.  Obviously, it was going to be a two on one. Weeks backtracked to one of the trading desks and five seconds later was lost in the screen in front of him.

 *  *  *  *  *

It was exactly 8:30 PM when Dreyfus was satisfied that the idiot outside would have cooled his heels sufficiently.  He stood up, buttoned his jacket and opened the door.

“Murray Weeks?” He extended a hand. His smile was  friendly, his voice cordial. They shook hands.  He gestured towards the other large chair in front of the desk. “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.” Dreyfus’s  smile widened.  Just a hint of condescension and viciousness in it, as he offered the untruth that served everyone in the business world.

“You’re not sorry.  It’s been an hour.” Weeks sat down in the  chair in front of Trader Vic’s desk.  He turned sideways and glared at Dreyfus. “My meeting was with Mr. Shaw. Who are you?” The insolence wasn’t lost on either of the corporate types.

Dreyfus decided the kid was upset.  He would ignore the remark.  He was all teeth. “I came down especially to meet you. My name is Henri Dreyfus. I’m  Corporate Vice President for Support Services.” He was still smiling, downplaying it, but there was a hardness about his eyes. He continued, “this is your last day isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s my last day. That’s why I’m upset at being kept waiting.”

Second time around, it had lost impact.  Dreyfus would have ignored the remark, except he risked upsetting him further.  His grunt of acknowledgement didn’t sound friendly. Trader Vic behind the desk watched, saying nothing.  He was no stranger to rudeness and bullying himself. However, it was Dreyfus’s show.  He could watch with freedom. He sat back comfortably in his chair as Dreyfus took control of the meeting.

Dreyfus was professional, accomplished and looked the part. The senior executive from an investment bank chasing another deal. He didn’t sound formal or businesslike, just friendly. The initial exchange had been a little testy.  So what?  His voice was fluid and mellow now. As head of Support Services, his responsibility extended from their extensive IT installations to finance, real estate, legal and of course HR. Sometimes he was described as General Counsel or Executive Vice President,  more often as Consigliore and rarely, only by the very few, as the Executioner. In his sixties, he was well used to dealing with selfish and self-centered employees.  He had learned to handle them.  Putting constraints on some of the wealthiest investment bankers in the city was part of his job. He was on a mission to recruit Murray Weeks. How difficult could it be?

“We were interested in your analysis.” Dreyfus lifted the report then placed it respectfully near the front of Trader Vic’s gigantic desk.

“I think you have some problems.” Weeks shot back.

“That’s why I’m here. We wondered if you might be interested in helping us grapple with them?” Dreyfus held out the bait.

Were these guys serious? Weeks wasn’t interested in investment banking. The tone of his report should have made that clear. He wanted a career in consulting. He was likely to make Baker Scholar at the B School. Top 5% of the class. Money wasn’t a motive, though  consulting paid well. It provided the intellectual challenge he needed. The analysis, the formulation of solutions without the drudgery of having to implement them. “You mean a job?” he asked.

Dreyfus picked up on the more reasonable tone. “We think you’ve done a good job of analysis. We see a role for you here. We’ve tossed it around a bit.” He nodded at Trader Vic, as though the two of them had spent the afternoon discussing  how to make exactly the right pitch so that Murray could join the Summit team.

“I was thinking more of a career in consulting. The diagnosis, the analysis, you know?” He said it reasonably, explaining to the two dolts that only geniuses like him could choose exactly where and to whom they might offer their great talent.

“I can see that consulting might interest you,” Dreyfus agreed reasonably, while Trader Vic nodded along. “But what about the money?” He was inferring that consultants may have had smarts but that most of them were on the poverty line.

“Well, money of course is an aspect of anyone’s decision,” Weeks agreed very evenly.

Everything was on track.  No raised voices.  No hysterics.   No more emotion.  Just business.  The subject was money.  A matter close to everyone’s heart.  A subject which investment bankers understood better than most.  “We want to make you an offer.” Dreyfus was the father figure.  In control. Friendly. The moneybags.

“Let me have it. I’m listening.”

“Two hundred  grand to start, work with us midtown. September of next year?” Staccato like, he delivered the essentials.  No time for corporate speak. He watched the kid, waiting for a reaction.

Trader Vic adjusted his posture.  Just a fraction more upright in the chair.  He was still doodling as if the low level activity of negotiating employment terms with the MBA asshole had no role in his existence.

“Bonus? Benefits?” Weeks’s  voice was still reasonable.

Dreyfus looked at Trader Vic as if they’d agreed to consult on anything over the basics.  He looked at the young man in the chair beside him.  He could detect no attitude. They’d got him.  Dreyfus was now on familiar ground. He looked Weeks straight in the eyes. “Benefits, best in the industry. Bonus, 25% of salary.” He spelled it out for him, “that’s quarter of a mil.” He smiled, the friendly father figure anxious to reward the achieving son.

Weeks was silent. Obviously considering what this fortunate lightning bolt from left field would mean for him and his future.

They studied him while he considered the offer. They knew it was enough. Dreyfus had another $100K up his sleeve.  Just in case. They waited for the smile that would indicate acceptance. Even a serious face and an attempt to come back at them for more. A frown might indicate serious consideration of an offer that was just not good enough.

“No.”

“No?” It was the wrong answer. Trader Vic couldn’t restrain himself he sat forward in his tall leather chair.

“No. You have a lot of problems. You guys are finished.  It’s only a matter of time for you. The Summit Group is finished. I’m sorry.” He sounded contrite.

It was too much for Trader Vic. He lost it. Dreyfus could suck it up.  He wasn’t going to listen to this shit. “You jumped up Ivy League prick. How dare you abuse the hospitality we’ve shown you. How dare you come down from your academic hothouse and think you know what’s what in the real world. How dare you tell us what’s wrong with one of the most successful firms on Wall Street.”

Weeks was still relaxed, sitting back in the large wingback chair while he thoughtfully considered this outburst. It wasn’t possible for a senior VP of one of the best-known firms on Wall Street to call one of his interns a jumped up Ivy League prick.  It just wasn’t possible, but.  .  . Weeks knew he had heard it. It couldn’t be the case, no way. Not that investment bankers didn’t use bad language. They did.  But the  boss of a white-shoe firm just couldn’t say such things. He couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t.  But, he had heard it. Distinctly. He was no jumped up prick. Sure, he was smart. You might even say he was direct. He called it as he saw it. If you’re in business, you can’t run away from the facts. These guys were in denial. He was sure he had heard it right. “What did you call me?” He said it slowly.

This time Trader Vic was less impetuous, more deliberate. “I called you a jumped up Ivy League prick. You’re an idiot. All attitude, no ability. No finesse. A smart prick. A prick. That’s what I called you.”

Weeks laughed as he stood. It was ridiculous. These guys were a joke. Could they not see what was coming down the line at them? He knew he was forthright but he had manners. “I would like to thank you for the privilege of having worked here. I greatly value the experience it has afforded me.”

“You, you.  .  .” Trader Vic was searching for words.

Dreyfus held up a restraining hand. “Mr. Weeks is there nothing that we can offer you that would cause you to reconsider?”

The reply was definitive. “I’m sorry.”

As he heard the words, Dreyfus’s role changed from smooth front man in executive recruiting mode to consigliore with a problem.  His tone was still friendly and informal. “Murray, you will recall the confidentiality agreement you signed when you joined us. I should remind you that it was open-ended. It obliges you to keep a lid on  anything you may have learned in your time with us. It inhibits you in any way from acting against our interests.” He lifted the offending document which Weeks had e-mailed them. As we have pointed out to you, the conclusions in this document are incorrect but, right or wrong, our agreement binds you to be silent about any faults or flaws you may have observed.” He had the upper hand, still friendly, “as Victor has said, we don’t agree with your conclusions.  In fact, we refute them. All of them. But we don’t wish to discuss them with you. And, we don’t want you to discuss them. With anyone.”

“I hear you Mr. Dreyfus. Thank you again.”

It wasn’t clear that the kid had noted the warning. He had certainly not specifically agreed to honour their agreement. “I wish you well in your second year at the B School,” Dreyfus said as he  opened the door. “Please remember my admonitions about discussing your time here.”

 *  *  *  *  *

“Do you think for one moment he’ll keep his mouth shut?” Trader Vic was slumped back in his seat scowling at his senior colleague from mid-town.

“Of course not. It’s Friday night. If  he took a drink, or if he had any friends, he’d be discussing the gory details on the Upper East Side in an hour’s time.”

“It will  be an MBA case study by this time next year.” Trader Vic announced.   “What do we do?”

“You called me down from midtown to deal with it. We gotta take care of it.”

“I agree, but how? This gets out, I’m dead meat. So is the division. So is the Group.”

“Let me be sure I understand fully before we decide on anything.  This is serious right?  Catastrophic you said on the  phone earlier. You’re not exaggerating?”

“Yeah, it’s beyond that. This is life and death. It can bring us down. I mean it.  This leaks, we go under. It’s as simple as that. ”

“So let me be clear about this, we do what’s necessary?”

“Yeah, whatever it takes. We can’t risk any disclosure. From what I saw in that damned report, neither can any of the other divisions.”

“So, whatever it takes?”

“Yeah, he’s gotta be stopped. Shut up. Shut down.”

“You sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. Do it.”

At that point,  Dreyfus made his fateful call.

Hello world!

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Welcome to Dave Doran Books!  My writing history dates back only a few years, but I have stories to tell and something to say, so I hope you will join me on what promises to be an exciting journey.

Under the books tab, I have laid out my plans and given some flavor of where I intend to go with each new novel.  Unlike the biblical tablets, these ideas are not etched in stone.  I am open to suggestion and changing my direction.  So, please join in and make your voice heard.  Let me have your ideas on what I have already published, or the titles and subject matter I have identified for future books.  As I start out I will try to give a more comprehensive roadmap by providing excerpts from my draft manuscripts.

Dig in and let me have your reaction.  Better still, if it is a reaction to something I have published why not post your opinion on any of the sites that encourage reviews and feedback to writers and readers.

 

 

Book Signing at Second Mondays Writing Group

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Hello to the Second Mondays Writing Group.

I am delighted to be with you all next Monday when I will have copies of The Brexit Conspiracies with me.  There is a lot about the book on this site.   Go to Books and click on the image.  When there, you can read about  some of my thoughts that brought me to writing the book.  You can sample Chapters 1 – 3 by clicking in the link at the bottom of that page or here.

The paperback is available on Amazon as is the eBook.  As with all self published authors, the ebook is far more profitable so if you have an eReader, either a Kindle or Kindle app,  you can download it there.

It is also available from the Book Depository  (€14.63 with free delivery for the paperback – I will have copies at €15.00 if anyone wants one) or Waterstones and the Nook and other eReader versions and paperbacks are available from Barnes & Noble.  Easons have the eBook at €5.52 in Kobo format – not Kindle format.

Looking forward to seeing you all on Monday

Dave