The Devil's Banker

Chapter 11

“You can’t unload this position now. You’ll get killed. Do you have any idea what kinda hit you’re gonna take unloading that size block? A point at least, maybe more. A hundred grand still means something. You’re down what? Thirty percent. Hang on a little longer. Let me work the market. Better yet, wait. We’ll sell into the next rally. It’s overdue. All you need is a little patience. Patience and timing. Twenty-six years I’ve been trading. I know when we’re due, and we’re due. The market’s going to turn any day now. Too much money’s sitting on the sidelines. Fund redemptions are down. Pension plans are overfunded. All the leading indicators are up: consumer confidence, the Purchasing Managers’ Index, the Conference Board. The PPI’s flat. Inflation’s in check. Interest rates aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. This is a market that’s waiting to explode. We’re sitting on a powder keg. You hear me, a powder keg? Twelve months from now we’ll be testing new highs. Forget eleven thousand. Think twelve. Twelve five, even. This is not the time to be a spectator. You hear me? This is the time to keep both feet in the water. You cannot unload this position now.”

In his office overlooking the Eiffel Tower, Marc Gabriel distanced the phone from his ear. The problem with private bankers, he was thinking, was that they confused their own welfare with that of their clients. His broker wasn’t upset that by liquidating more than four hundred thousand shares of blue chip stock, his largest client was realizing a loss of over ten million dollars. He was scared that his own career might be in the shitter should Marc Gabriel and his company jump ship.

“Peter,” he said, tapping his sterling silver letter opener on the crease of his trousers. “I do not need a lecture on the merits, or lack thereof, of selling in a difficult market. The stock’s not performing, so we’re getting out. It’s that simple.”

“Dumping those shares isn’t getting out. It’s abandoning ship. We’re due!”

“So is Father Christmas, world peace, and the second coming. Really, the decision’s been made. Save your breath.”

Gabriel, forty-five years of age, was chairman and chief executive of Richemond Holdings, S.A., an internationally active investment firm with interests in equities, precious metals, and strategic shareholdings in a number of diverse companies. He did not like to be badgered. Running a hand along the back of his neck, he urged himself to remain calm. As usual, the building’s air-conditioning was not functioning. The office was hot and stale, but despite the heat and the insistent nagging, Gabriel looked unfazed.

“Jesus, Marc, I don’t like to see you get hurt like this,” the man in New York was saying. “I mean, Christ, it’s a bloodbath. Hang in there for another month or so. The stars are getting in alignment.”

“Wire the proceeds to my account at Deutsche Internationale Bank. I’ll expect the funds by the end of business today. Frankfurt time.”

But the banker would not give up. “What is it?” he demanded, unable to hide his desperation. “You know something I don’t? You boys start cleaning house, people are going to ask questions.”

A smile on your face guards the smile in your voice, Gabriel reminded himself. The last thing he needed was attention. “The group is reconfiguring its portfolio. Nothing more. Nothing less,” he said, in a singsong way, his cheeks aching with the weight of the smile. “The equity markets haven’t been performing as we’ve liked. We’re moving into real estate and commodities in hopes of increasing our returns.”

“Commodities?”

“Yes, yes, I know they’re risky,” began Gabriel, as if asking for permission.

“I wouldn’t say risky, so much as-”

“Get me some information on pork bellies,” Gabriel interrupted him. “Take some time. I’ll be in New York next week, then we’ll talk. Lunch at Le Cirque? Make sure Sirio knows I’m coming.”

Gabriel hung up the phone, his face slack, a mask of hate. He was sick of the meaningless chitchat. If all went well, he would never have to speak to the foolish man again. Gabriel’s problem was that he was too polite. Sometimes he really should forgo his manners, especially when there was so much that needed to be done.

Cardboard moving boxes littered the spacious office and sat bunched in groups near the credenza, the filing cabinets, and the antique Indonesian bookshelf that had displayed his personal vanities. Gabriel slid from one to the next, checking that each was full, sealing it with tape, marking the proper address in two languages. He was a compact man, trim and athletic, with a graceful economy of movement. Even with his sleeves rolled up, his Hermès cravat loosened, he never appeared rushed or in the least bit stressed. Panic was not a word in his vocabulary. Discipline. Self-control. Focus. These were his touchstones.

A cap of wavy dark hair framed a shadowed, angular face. As he worked, he kept a faint smile to his lips, and the smile along with the sparkling brown eyes lent him a wily, seductive air. He looked like a man who knew a few things about life. A man not afraid of the world’s darker corners. A man who could keep a secret.

Standing, Marc Gabriel checked his watch. It was three o’clock, and he still had to call his bankers in Milano, Zurich, and Frankfurt, and order them to liquidate his portfolios. He was selling it all: Fiat, Olivetti, Fininvest, and Benetton. ABB, Julius Baer, Nestlé, and Credit Suisse. Bayer, Daimler, BASF, and Dresdner. There would be more arguments, more pleas to leave the money in the market. Again, Gabriel would explain his decision as a simple reconfiguring of his portfolios. Again, he would arrange meetings he had no intention of making. He would be sure to leave a million or two in each account, while asking that the proceeds of the share sales be wired to a web of numbered accounts in Dublin, Panama City, Vaduz, and Luxembourg.

And then he would sell again.

He would sell like he had never sold before.

Needing to stretch, Gabriel made a short par course of his office, stopping as was his custom by the window. Across the Seine, the Eiffel Tower soared into an unadulterated blue sky. It was a million-dollar view, and he knew that when he was gone he would miss it. A half mile distant, the tower appeared closer, within his very grasp. His eye locked on an elevator climbing the steel latticework and he thought the tower timeless-every bit as modern, as impressive today as when it had been built over a hundred years before to grace the opening of the 1889 International Exhibition of Paris.

This afternoon, however, he was more interested in the goings-on in the street below. Craning his head out the window, he took a long look around. Two buildings farther up, a liveried chauffeur was polishing the Qatari ambassador’s three-hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche GT Turbo, though he was not so engrossed in his work not to notice the long, gamine legs of two women strolling past. A few children chased one another, shouting and screaming, as was every child’s privilege. Monsieur Gallieni, the proprietor of the corner café, paced in front of his establishment smoking and looking to buttonhole an acquaintance to argue about the government’s latest policies. Otherwise the sidewalks were deserted, as they always were in midafternoon.

Gabriel thought of the events of the past days. He knew that when they came, he would not see them.

He returned to his desk.

Yes, Gabriel decided, he would miss the Eiffel Tower. But he would miss nothing else about Paris; not its decadent nightlife or chichi bistros, its ungodly traffic and rancid pollution, its drippy autumns and frigid winters; and certainly not its flamboyant love of self. The rot was everywhere.

Picking up the phone, he punched in a number and began his second round of calls.

“Hello, Jean-Jacques. An order to sell. We’re getting out of Citroën, Saint-Gobain, and L’Oréal. Yes, all of it. Every last share.”