Harry Bingham - The Money Makers

On the training programme, the students were less enthusiastic. Rumour had it they would all be dismissed that very day. The American students left their desks to lobby the people they hoped to work for after the course. The foreign students hung on the phones, trying to find out the mood in Tokyo and Buenos Aires, Paris and London.

Matthew and Sophie, happily and publicly in love, dived downstairs for coffee after coffee. They talked about the news, the rumours, the gossip from home. Matthew had called Luigi Cuneberti, who sounded despondent. Matthew tried to laugh it off as Italian overreaction, but Luigi corrected him.

‘Hey, Matteo. I’m Italian-Swiss you know, and when we Swiss get depressed we really mean it. This is bad news and especially tough for you new guys. But don’t do anything dumb. If you don’t make it this time, you’ll always get another chance next year.’

Matthew didn’t have a year to spare, but he could hardly tell Luigi, let alone use it to plead with McAllister. Sophie was anxious too. The Paris office had been in the midst of a major expansion, and it looked as though all that would be put on hold. New recruits would be distinctly unwelcome.

Matthew and Sophie held hands across the table, kissed, and worried. At least they had each other.

The bagpiper finished playing. A champagne cork popped and there was a round of applause. Hank Daggert, Chief Executive of Tominto Oil, and now Chairman of Aberdeen Drilling too, raised his glass.

‘Here’s to our newest subsidiary and to a long and profitable future as part of Tominto Oil.’

Douglas Mackenzie, Chief Executive of Aberdeen Drilling, beamed, resplendent in his kilt. In place of the dirk traditionally worn on the leg, he wore a miniature drill bit complete with diamond tip. Daggert loved the idea, and Mackenzie had ordered him one from the same silversmith as a present.

‘And here’s to young Gradley,’ added Daggert after everyone had drunk, ‘without whom, none of this would have been possible.’

Everyone lifted their glasses again and drank. There was a sprinkling of applause, which he acknowledged with his usual thin smile.

The evening following his row with Hanbury had been an eventful one. Once Zack had decided not to apologise, he had to move fast. From his mobile phone, he called a few numbers. The first person he reached was the head of the energy group at Weinstein Lukes.

Weinstein Lukes is a big league investment bank, one of a handful of global big-hitters. This group of banks – Goldman Sachs, Madison, Morgan Stanley, Merrill Lynch, maybe a couple of others – dominates the financial world. Whenever and wherever a major corporate upheaval takes place, whenever companies are born, married or die, you may be sure that one of this select band will be hovering at the bedside or altar, sickly smile and can-do attitude firmly in place.

Zack told his contact, a businesslike American called Amy-Lou Mazowiecki, what he wanted and what he had to offer. Mazowiecki listened to Zack and answered briefly.

‘OK. Get over here now.’

Zack leaped into a cab, arriving at eight in the evening. A secretary whisked him up to the tenth floor, which was given over to meeting rooms. She left him in one with a view of the river and a tray of tea and coffee. Mazowiecki came in soon after.

‘OK. Shoot,’ she said.

Zack said his piece. He was currently an employee of Coburg’s. Coburg’s had been advising an oil company on an acquisition. The project leader had failed to identify a major liability and Zack had done so instead. He had also thought of a tax scheme to make good the liability and had been laughed out of the room by his boss at Coburg’s. In his view, however, the client was as keen as ever to complete the deal at the right price. He furthermore believed the client would be happy to work with a bank other than Coburg’s.

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