Майкл Ридпат - The Marketmaker

I felt better now, cycling down Westferry Road, the debris of the East End behind me. On either side was water, the Thames on one side in full flood, and the West India Dock on the other. In front was the gleaming Canary Wharf complex, with its giant tower protected by a thick wall of smaller, but still substantial, office buildings. Suddenly everything was in pristine condition, from the close-cut lawns and flower-beds of Westferry Circus to the newly painted blue cranes, which stood like heavy artillery pieces guarding the approaches to the wharf. To the left a driverless train whispered along the raised rail of the Docklands Light Railway into a station elevated fifty feet above the water.

I rode past the security check, and down into the underground car park, a corner of which was leased by Dekker Ward. I asked the attendant where I could put my bike, and he pointed to a cluster of motorcycles: a Harley-Davidson and three BMWs. The car park was weird. It was shared with a big investment bank, and it was already half full of investment bankers’ cars. They were nearly all German — Mercedes, Porsche and BMW. When pushed together like this, they displayed a stunning lack of imagination, alleviated only by a black, low-slung Corvette, and a bright red Ferrari Testarossa. I left my bike unlocked; somehow I thought it would be safe from theft, a shard of broken glass among these opulent jewels.

I climbed the stairs into the square at the foot of the tower. It, too, was pristine: lines of small trees fresh out of the nursery, a fountain playing tidily in the centre, neat low walls, benches of expensive wood. The tower stretched eight hundred feet up into the air in front of me, its roof still obscured by the mist and by steam billowing out of pipes near the top. Even at this hour there were quite a few people about. They trickled out of the railway-station entrance, out of underground car parks, and out of a procession of taxis, and headed to the squat bulky buildings at the corners of the square or, like me, into the central complex of Canary Wharf itself.

Nervously, I made my way through the ultra-modern atrium with its 1980s shops — Blazer, the City Organiser, Birleys, a sushi bar — and into the brown marble lobby of One Canada Square. I entered a lift alone and shot upwards forty storeys until I reached Dekker’s floor.

I waited in the reception area for Jamie, perching on the edge of a deep black leather sofa, under the occasional stare of a well-groomed blonde receptionist. He was out in a minute, striding over, hand outstretched, grinning broadly. White rabbits cavorted on his tie. ‘You made it. I didn’t think you would. Did you pedal all the way?’

‘I certainly did.’

He looked me up and down. ‘Nice suit. I hope you’ve got rid of the old one. Mind you, you’d have to be careful how you dispose of it. Toxic waste and so on.’

‘I’m keeping it. Sentimental value. Besides, it’s probably the only genuine emerging-market suit here.’

Jamie laughed. His clothes weren’t showy, but I knew he spent large amounts on them in Jermyn Street and its immediate neighbourhood. I couldn’t tell this by looking at them, but Jamie had assured me that the kind of people he dealt with could. According to him, it was a necessary expenditure.

‘Well, if you do insist on cycling in, I’ll show you the health club later on. You’ll be able to take a shower there.’

‘No, I’ll be OK.’

‘Nick. Trust me. You’re a hotshot banker now. Take a shower. Now, come through. Let me show you your desk.’

He led me through some double doors. After the dimly lit quiet of the reception area, the trading room hit me in a burst of sound, light and movement.

‘I’m afraid your desk is on the outside,’ said Jamie, as my eyes tried to make sense of the activity in front of me.

‘The outside?’

‘Yes. Sorry, I’ll explain. You see those desks there?’ He pointed to a group of about twenty dealing desks in the middle of the room arranged in a square, each facing outwards. I saw Ricardo standing by one of them, talking on the phone, and most of the others were manned. ‘That’s the inside. It’s where all the salesmen and traders sit. It’s a good set-up. We can all communicate with each other across the space in the centre. These desks here,’ he pointed to three lines of desks facing each edge of the square, ‘these are the outside. People sit here who don’t need to be in the thick of things, Capital Markets people, Research, Admin, you.’

I looked suitably dismayed.

‘Don’t worry. You can sit with me this week. You’ll find out what’s going on soon enough.’

Just then there was the sound of hands clapping twice. It was Ricardo. ‘OK, compañeros, gather round. It’s seven fifteen.’

Ricardo leaned against the back of his chair, and faced into the square of desks. Everyone moved into the central space. I glanced at them. They were all looking at him expectantly, outwardly relaxed, but I could feel the tension as they prepared for the week’s action. As Ricardo had promised, they came in all shapes and sizes, although the majority had a well-groomed Latin look to them. Many of them were smoking. I recognized most of the people who had interviewed me, including Pedro who was sitting, perhaps symbolically, immediately to the right of Ricardo. Like a number of other men in the room, he was wearing a cardigan. Apart from me, they were all jacketless. I tried to take my own off with as little movement as possible.

‘Morning, everyone,’ Ricardo began. He stood up straight in his crisply ironed blue-striped shirt. I could just make out the initials RMR embroidered in red on his chest. ‘I trust you all had a good weekend. I’d like to start by welcoming a new member to our team. Nick Elliot.’

Everyone turned towards me. Fortunately, I had just wriggled out of my jacket. I smiled nervously. ‘Hallo,’ I said.

There were smiles back, and murmurs of ‘Good to have you on board.’ It was friendly. I appreciated it.

‘Nick speaks Russian and understands economics, and I know he’s going to be a valuable member of our group,’ Ricardo continued. ‘He’s never worked for a financial firm before, so he hasn’t had a chance to pick up any bad habits. I want you all to show him how Dekker do things. Now, what’s happening out there? Pedro?’

Pedro Hattori spoke some gobbledygook about Bradys, euros, squeezes, Argy discos and Flirbs. I tried to follow, but floundered. Then an American called Harvey talked about the US Federal Reserve policy on interest rates. This was more familiar territory, but then I lost it again when he started on WIs and five years on special. Charlotte Baxter, head of Research, was next. She was a tall American woman with long mousy-brown hair in her late thirties. I had been impressed by her when I had first met her at my interview. She talked about the likelihood of discussions between the Venezuelan government and the International Monetary Fund breaking down again, and the implications this would have. Though I knew little about the subject, I could see it was good stuff. Jamie took careful notes.

Then Ricardo went round each individual in the group. They were exchanging gossip, information, impressions, hunches. Everyone was clear and concise. And well informed. People didn’t seem to me to be making political points or grabbing glory, presumably because Ricardo discouraged it. But they all watched closely for his reaction, and his occasional words of encouragement were lapped up.

He came to the last of the group. ‘Isabel? How’s the favela deal coming on?’

Isabel was a slight, dark-haired woman of about thirty. She was half sitting on a desk, sipping a cup of coffee. ‘Jesus, I don’t know. My guy in the housing authority really wants to do it. And I think his boss wants to do it too. But his boss’s boss?’ Her voice was low and husky, and she spoke with a slow, relaxed drawl. Her English was good, with a slightly nasal accent, which I would recognize later as Brazilian.