Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

In the meantime, however, there is work, where the mood is less buoyant. We have been holding out hope that Tordale will come back to us, but today on the news we see the former British Prime Minister being welcomed by the Caliph of Oran to his magnificent palace. ‘That’s that, then,’ Ish says.

Kevin doesn’t follow. ‘He’s there with the UN,’ he says. ‘Setting up a ceasefire with the rebels.’

‘That’s just the cover story,’ Ish says.

I explain that as soon as the Prime Minister left office, he had signed up as a consultant to one of the Big Three banks; that’s the real reason he’s in Oran.

‘What would a politician know about banking?’ Kevin asks.

‘He doesn’t need to know anything,’ Ish says. ‘His phone’s got every head of state in it from the White House to Beijing. Think about it. You’re a genocidal tyrant facing down a hundred thousand Islamic fundamentalists. Who do you want as your financial adviser? A bunch of nerds with four-colour pie charts? Or the guy with the back door to every nuclear missile silo in the Western world?’

It’s just business; these things happen all the time. Still, the news casts a pall of gloom over the whole office. Then, as if he has sensed, from across the blue expanse of the Atlantic, his acolytes losing faith –

‘Inspirational memo!’ Kevin exclaims. ‘A new one!’

‘Holy shit!’ Around the office people jump up from their cubicles, jack-in-the-box fashion, the better to contemplate the message.

‘ “All that glitters is not gold,” ’ Ish reads.

‘What does it mean?’ Kevin says. ‘Why’s he telling us all that glitters is not gold?’

‘It’s a riddle,’ Ish decides.

‘Are you talking about the Blankly email?’ Joe Peston from TTM says, coming in from the lobby.

‘Did you get it too?’

‘Everybody got it.’

‘What do you think it means?’

‘Not sure,’ Joe says, rubbing his jaw. ‘It seems to operate on a number of different levels.’

‘I imagine it means all that glitters is not gold,’ I say. ‘That is, be careful of overvalued stock.’

‘What are we, four-year-olds?’ Joe says. ‘Everyone knows all that glitters isn’t gold.’

‘This guy’s paid twenty-eight million dollars basic a year,’ Jocelyn Lockhart concurs from across the divider. ‘He’s not getting that just to send his staff proverbs. There’s a whatdoyoumacall. A subtext.’

‘Maybe he wants us to short gold,’ Kevin suggests. ‘Like, when he says all that glitters isn’t gold, he means gold is overvalued.’

‘The price of gold has risen for the last six months,’ Joe muses. ‘Could be time for a correction.’

‘If he wanted us to short gold, wouldn’t he just tell us to short gold?’ I say.

‘What kind of a riddle would that be?’

‘Yeah, Claude, don’t be stupid.’

‘The memo says all that glitters is not gold,’ I point out. ‘His issue is not with gold itself. He’s talking about other, misleadingly glittering substances.’

The others agree that this is a good point. ‘But if all that glitters isn’t gold,’ Jocelyn says slowly, raising a finger, ‘then all that doesn’t glitter isn’t necessarily not gold. Right?’

There is a silence as we struggle to establish whether this makes sense or not, and are still doing so when Jurgen clips in and tells us summarily that the Minister’s office has been in touch again about the Royal Irish report, and that they do not think they can wait till the end of the week.

Ish and I look at each other. ‘When do they want it?’

‘Tomorrow,’ Jurgen says.

‘Tomorrow?’ We boggle in unison.

‘What’s the rush?’ Kevin says.

Jurgen wiggles a finger in his ear. ‘My conjecture is that Royal Irish has run out of money again. If so the Minister will have to decide in the next few days whether to infuse yet more funds, or whether the time has at last come for a wind-down.’

‘That’s all very well, but how can we possibly get the report done by tomorrow?’ Ish says. ‘Do they have any idea how much information there is to go through?’

‘There is a series of black boxes within the accounts,’ I explain. ‘I am beginning to think an anonymous investor has used them to build up a holding in the bank. Either way, it is very hard to get a clear picture of its status.’

Jurgen considers this. ‘But you have a general idea?’

‘Oh, we’ve got a general idea, all right,’ Ish chimes in. ‘It’s fucked, that’s the general idea.’

‘My professional opinion would be that the bank is fucked,’ I concur.

‘They’re facing litigation left and right,’ Ish goes on. ‘Their collateral’s going up in flames. Their brand has become an international byword for corporate malfeasance. There’s literally no telling how much they owe. The Minister can pour in as much money as he likes, it’ll never be enough. They’ll bleed him until there’s nothing left.’

‘And there is no positive spin we can put on this?’ Jurgen says.

‘That is the positive spin,’ I say.

‘Believe me, they don’t want to see this report any sooner than they have to,’ Ish says.

‘What about the idea that the bank is of systemic importance? Too big to fail?’

‘Not true,’ I say. ‘The bank’s business is all in one small sector, commercial property. If the government decides to wind it down, the losses will be contained.’

‘And the creditors?’

‘Will face significant write-downs. But they will be expecting that.’

‘Mmm.’ Jurgen stalls momentarily in that way he has, as if encountering a glitch in his coding. Then he nods assent. ‘Very good. Get as much done as you can before tomorrow. Rachael wants to see it before you sign off. And remember,’ he says, pausing on his way back to the office, ‘keep all this information confidential until the report is published.’

He turns to go, and is almost knocked down by Gary McCrum, who comes barrelling into the room in a state of extreme agitation. ‘He solved the riddle!’ he exclaims. ‘He solved it and he’s made a bloody fortune!’

‘What?’

‘Who did?’

‘Howie! It was so simple! So simple!’ For what seems like a long time he is too excited to tell us anything more; he just bounds around, hooting, like an ape that has won some banana lottery.

‘What’s the safest bet for an investor?’ he says when we manage to calm him down. ‘Better than gold, even?’ He looks manically from one face to another. ‘T-bills, right?’

‘T-bills?’ Kevin says, curiosity overcoming embarrassment.

‘US Treasury bonds,’ I tell him. ‘Essentially IOUs issued by the American government. They are regarded as practically risk-free.’

‘Oh, right, I knew that,’ Kevin says.

‘What’s that got to do with Howie?’ Ish asks.

‘Don’t you see?’ Gary exclaims, partially reverting to ape mode. ‘That’s what Porter’s email meant! T-bills are shakier than they look!’

‘Howie bet against US Treasury bonds?’ Joe Peston says, somewhat scandalized.

‘It was him and Grisha. Some crazy fucking rocket-science deal using those weird antinomy things. But it came down to shorting T-bills. And then on the news — wait, have you heard the news?’

We turn to the TV, where the crawl tells us that a few minutes ago a Texan congressman, protesting government threats to take away the oil industry’s billion-dollar subsidies, doused himself in gasoline in the House of Representatives and set himself on fire. A brief, almost unprocessable image flicks on screen, a writhing, suited silhouette at the centre of a ball of incandescent light, while horrified figures with tans and elaborate hairstyles clamber around him powerlessly.