Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

Eric and Alex were proved right; there was lots of brown-nosing. The sixty trainees, who cowered behind their desks when Waldern was teaching, suddenly leapt into action whenever one of the managing directors came to talk to them. These people were in charge of the different departments of the firm, and they gave talks between the more formal classes, explaining what their departments did. They were the ones who would be hiring the trainees out of the programme. They were the people to impress. The sight of sixty young investment bankers all trying to make an impression on one human being at the same time was sickening. Chris knew he should join in, but couldn’t quite bring himself to. Ian asked the odd question, in his laconic, casual style, which had the virtue of being memorable. Eric restricted himself to single immensely perceptive questions directed to managing directors in the key departments of the firm. Duncan blabbered occasionally. Lenka didn’t have to thrust herself forward; they asked her questions. It was pitiful to see so many different middle-aged men pick her out, supposedly at random, to emphasize a point they wanted to make.

The worst of course, was Rudy Moss. Rudy, on a bad day, could make the rest of the class retch. The worst day was when Sidney Stahl came to talk to them.

Stahl had just acceded to the post of Chairman of Bloomfield Weiss. He was a tiny man, with a gruff voice, bright red braces and a huge cigar, which he cheerfully smoked while talking to the group. Chris found him inspiring. He was clearly a doer; he had little time for bullshit. When he said that he didn’t care who you were or where you came from as long as you made money for the firm, Chris believed him. He had just finished his speech about how Bloomfield Weiss could only remain the best firm on the Street if it was the most nimble, when he asked for questions. Chris groaned inwardly as Rudy Moss put up his hand.

‘Mr Stahl, Rudy Moss.’

‘What have you got, Rudy?’

‘Yes, Mr Stahl. I was listening to what you were saying and wondering what skill set provides the core competencies that give us the edge against so many new entrants?’

Stahl just looked at him, taking a long pull on his cigar. Rudy smiled hopefully. Stahl smoked. Rudy reddened slightly. Stahl didn’t move. Sixty trainees squirmed.

Rudy cracked first. ‘I mean, the oligopoly among the major bulge-bracket firms is breaking down, barriers to entry in our business are lower, and we’re going to have to survive by relying on our core competencies. I was just wondering what you would say those are?’

Stahl’s eyes gleamed. So did the end of his cigar.

‘Son, I’ll tell you how we’ll survive. Most of you kids are gonna make me money. A lotta money. I’ll keep you. Some of you kids are gonna bullshit me. You’re outta here. Now, which are you gonna be, Rudy?’

Smiles broke out all round. ‘I’ll make you money, sir,’ squeaked Rudy.

‘Good. Now, any more questions?’

Funnily enough, there weren’t any.

The Bond Math exam was in the fourth week of the programme. It was one of the most important tests of the whole course — George Calhoun had made sure they all understood that. Chris worked until nine o’clock revising for it, but by then he felt his tired brain had had enough. He felt like calling Tamara in London, but he had woken her up once before at two in the morning and it wasn’t a good idea. He decided to ask the other two out for a quick beer at the Irish bar on First Avenue that they had taken to frequenting. He needed to unwind before bed.

He knocked on Duncan’s door. No reply. He knocked again.

‘Come in.’

Duncan was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. His desk looked like a bombsite, covered in notes and open textbooks.

‘You’re not doing any good here,’ Chris said. ‘Let’s get a beer.’

‘I... no, I mean... Oh, Jesus...’ Duncan stuttered, and to Chris’s amazement, he began to sob.

‘What’s up, Duncan?’

‘What do you bloody well think is up? It’s this fucking exam.’

‘It’s only a test.’

‘It’s not a test. It’s my whole career. It will all be over tomorrow. They’ll ship me back to London and I’ll be behind a till at Barclays.’

Chris sat on his bed. Duncan’s cheeks were red. His hands covered his eyes, but a single tear escaped and ran down his cheek.

‘No you won’t,’ Chris said gently. ‘You’ve done the work. You’ll pass the exam.’

‘Bollocks, Chris. I don’t know a bloody thing. My mind’s a total blank.’ He sobbed again and sniffed. ‘I’ve never failed an exam before.’

‘And you won’t now,’ Chris said. ‘Look, you’ve got this totally out of proportion. All they’re trying to do is check whether you know how to work out bond and option prices. It’s no big deal. The bastards are just trying to pile on the pressure to see whether you’ll crack.’

Well, I’m cracking,’ sniffed Duncan.

‘Of course you’re not,’ said Chris. ‘Now sit at this desk and we’ll go through everything you don’t understand until you get it right.’

They sat there for over two hours, as Chris tried to explain concepts that had only dawned on him the week before. He was patient, and his calmness did eventually work its way through to Duncan. By midnight Duncan could finally price a simple option. That would have to be enough.

As he left Duncan, Chris was exhausted. He was heading for bed when he heard music coming from the door to Ian’s room. He put his head in. Ian was sitting in an armchair, a half-empty bottle of whisky beside him, smoking a cigarette and listening to UB40.

‘I’ve just been with Duncan,’ Chris said. ‘He’s panicking about tomorrow.’

‘That boy worries too much,’ said Ian.

‘He has a point, though. I took him through a lot of the option theory. He’ll be lucky to pass.’

Ian shrugged. ‘Some people will fail tomorrow, and there’s really nothing you or I can do to help them.’

Chris stared at Ian. That wasn’t true. He wanted Duncan to make it, and he had done his best to help him. He hoped it would be enough.

‘Will you be all right?’ Chris asked. It would be hard for Ian to hide his innumeracy in a test devoted to bond calculations.

Ian looked up and smiled thinly. ‘Me? Oh, I’ll be fine.’ He refilled his glass with whisky and stared at the wall somewhere to the right of Chris’s head. Chris left him to it.

Duncan passed, and so did Ian, but only by the narrowest of margins. To his surprise, Chris did rather well. But the big excitement was the exposure of two trainees cheating. Abby Hollis caught Roger Masden showing his paper to Denny Engel, the ex-football player. They were both marched out of the classroom, and no one saw them that afternoon. Neither did they appear the next day. Before class, George Calhoun gave the rest of the trainees a lecture about Bloomfield Weiss’s high standards and how they would all be expected to meet them. He warned everyone to pay close attention to the ethics course that would be taught the following month. He didn’t once mention Roger and Denny by name.

But everyone else did. The fate of the two trainees was the sole topic of conversation all day, taking some of the pressure off the four poor unfortunates who had failed the exam.

‘There go the first two,’ said Duncan at lunch in the cafeteria.

‘It’s pathetic,’ said Ian. ‘Complete hypocrisy. Bloomfield Weiss should be the last people to complain about cheating. They’re notorious for it. I saw them ripping off their customers left and right when I was in London.’

‘They’re overreacting,’ said Alex. ‘It must have something to do with the Phoenix Prosperity investigation last year.’