The Marketmaker

14

It was a slow cycle into work on Monday. The weather was still foul, and my heart wasn’t in it. By the time I made it up to the fortieth floor, still dripping, the meeting was already well under way.

As if on a signal from my arrival, Ricardo cleared his throat. ‘I’m sure you all read the article in last week’s IFR,’ he began. ‘The content of the article itself doesn’t concern me, it was obviously rubbish, and a gross insult to Martin and his family. What does concern me was that one of us spoke to a journalist, and gave him information that was highly detrimental to the firm. This person has been fired.’

There was a murmur from the gathering. Everyone looked round at everyone else to see who was missing. Quickly, the murmurs took shape into a recognizable word. Dave. Dave! Why had he done it? What had he said?

‘This person will not only not work for Dekker again, but he will also not work in the bond markets,’ Ricardo continued in a clear voice. ‘He has breached the confidentiality agreement you all signed as part of your contract when you joined Dekker Ward. As a result he has lost all of his interest in the employee trusts. He has been warned not to talk to the press any further. The market will be told that he made large trading losses, and that he covered them up. I expect all of you to back this up if asked.’

We were all silent now. Dave was a popular member of the team. The mood of the room felt finely balanced between sadness at his dismissal and shock that he had betrayed the rest of us.

‘Some of you may think this treatment is harsh. But we’re all a team here. If you’re not with us, you’re against us. There are many people out there who don’t like Dekker and what it has achieved. Together we can win. But if any one of us betrays the others, as this man has, then we’re all vulnerable. I will not allow that to happen.’

Ricardo glanced round the room. His eyes, which were usually so cool, were angry now. But even his anger drew us in. We were all angry.

The meeting broke up, and we exchanged glances. Many eyes rested on the empty desk where Dave had worked. Alberto, the sixty-year-old ‘coffee boy’, was putting his belongings into a couple of boxes. Under Ricardo’s stern gaze, we returned to our desks and picked up phones, but over the course of the morning the room buzzed with speculation.

And so did the outside world. Word had already gone round the market that Dave was one of that most dangerous of animals, a trader who not only made losses but lied about them. The rumour echoed back into the Dekker trading room, where to my surprise it was confirmed. Even Jamie told Chris Frewer it was true.

‘Why did you do that?’ I asked him, shocked. ‘Couldn’t you just say you don’t know why he left?’

Jamie sighed. ‘In these situations you have to follow the party line. Ricardo will be watching. This is a test of loyalty for all of us. And he’s right. We’ll only succeed if we stick together.’

I listened in mounting disgust to what was happening around me. The initial shock and sadness at the loss of a friend was already changing, as Dave’s character was rewritten. Just as the Dekker machine could persuade itself that a lousy bond issue was the investment opportunity of the year, so they came to believe that Dave was an incompetent fraud. They did it with determination and purpose, and without looking each other in the eye.

I watched, stunned. I had no idea whether Dave was a good or bad trader, but I knew that he was not what these people were portraying.

The man leaning against the bar lifting his second pint of bitter to his lips seemed very different from the boy I had known at Oxford. First he was a man. He had a grown-up suit and briefcase, but then so had Jamie and I, and that didn’t mean anything. But he also had a receding hairline poorly hidden with wisps of blond hair, a wife and baby, and a way of talking that made him sound closer to forty than twenty.

Stephen Troughton had studied PPE with us. He had always been precocious, capable of discussing knowledgeably mortgage rates, house prices and unit trusts, when the rest of us would have nothing to do with such bourgeois concerns. He had talked his way into the City with no difficulty, and had been one of the lucky few that Bloomfleld Weiss had plucked from British universities during the 1988 milk-round. He had taken to Bloomfield Weiss like a duck to water, and had done very well. Even though he was the same age as Jamie and me, he looked thirty-five at least, and used this to his advantage. Stephen Troughton had gone far.

Jamie saw him once or twice a year for a drink, to ‘catch up’. I had tagged along this time, even though I hadn’t seen Stephen since university. We were in an old pub in a mews in Knightsbridge, touristed by day, besuited in the evening.

I was beginning to realize that ‘catching up’ meant comparing careers. I watched them at it.

‘Did you hear about that big Brady trade we did last week?’ asked Jamie, at the first opportunity.

Stephen laughed. ‘Oh, that, yes. We were just dipping our toe in the water.’

‘Got a bit wet, didn’t you?’

‘A little, but we can take it. We’re the biggest trading house in the world. That kind of loss just gets hidden in one day’s profits.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Stephen. He lowered his voice, as though he were about to impart something of great importance. ‘You’d better watch yourselves, Jamie. Bloomfield Weiss are serious about the emerging markets. And when we get serious about a market we tend to make our mark. Don’t get me wrong, Dekker are a clever little firm, but when a market matures, then it’s only natural that the big boys will take over.’

Stephen said this in a tone full of fake reasonableness designed to irritate Jamie. It succeeded. He rose to the bait. ‘And there’s that big Mexican mandate that you lost,’ he said. ‘That must have been a bit of a blow.’

‘We do those kinds of deals every day for the likes of the World Development Fund. It won’t be long before we’re doing them for Mexico as well.’

Jamie snorted.

‘So, tell me about this trader you sacked,’ Stephen said. ‘Dave Dunne, wasn’t it? He must have lost you a packet.’

Jamie shrugged.

‘He asked for a job at Bloomfield Weiss,’ Stephen went on. ‘We didn’t give him one, of course. We can’t be seen taking Dekker cast-offs.’

‘He was a good trader,’ I said. It was my first foray into the conversation. Jamie threw me a warning glance.

Stephen ignored my comment as though it had no validity, given my short experience. Which was, of course, true. But I had drawn attention to myself.

‘Well, I never would have imagined you in the City,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I need the money.’

‘Fair enough. And I suppose Dekker wanted your Russian expertise?’

‘That’s right. Although Ricardo wants me to see how they operate in South America first.’

‘Russia’s a huge growth area for us at the moment. We picked up your Russian team, of course.’ Stephen shot a glance at Jamie when he said this. Touché. ‘Actually, that’s something I’m curious about,’ he went on. ‘A couple of them are suddenly having problems with their visas. Ricardo doesn’t have anything to do with that, does he?’

Jamie spluttered into his beer.

‘So he does?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jamie. ‘But serves ’em right, that’s what I say.’

Stephen raised his eyebrows and turned to me again. ‘Tell me, Nick, what’s this guy Ricardo Ross really like?’

This was the question I had been asking myself ever since the first time I met him. I decided to give Stephen a straight answer. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘He has quite a reputation. All this stuff about being “The Marketmaker” and everything. Is he that good?’

‘Oh, he’s good. And he does treat the market as if he owns it. That’s why he’s so pissed off about you guys muscling in. He has great judgement. He always seems to know exactly what to do when things get tough. Don’t you think?’ I turned to Jamie, who was watching me closely.

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘He’s easily the most astute person I’ve worked with in the City.’

Stephen was watching me. He had blue watery eyes, but they were intelligent. ‘So, if he’s that good, why did you say you didn’t know? What’s wrong with him?’

‘I’m not sure. He might be a bit too aggressive. Sometimes I wonder if he goes just a bit too far, but then later it turns out he’s judged it just about right.’

Stephen clapped my shoulder. ‘Quite honestly, it’s hard to go too far in this business. As long as you don’t get caught.’ He put his glass down on a nearby ledge. ‘I’ve got to go. Nice to see both of you again. Cheers.’

‘Cheers, Stephen,’ Jamie said. Stephen left, but Jamie and I stayed for another.

‘Jerk,’ said Jamie.

‘I don’t know why you bother seeing him.’

‘He’s not always as bad as that. And he’s bright. It’s good to stay in touch. You never know.’

‘But he’s such a grown-up. Balding, wife, kid.’

‘But I’ve got a wife and kid.’

‘Jamie, you are a kid. And you don’t look forty.’

‘It’s funny getting older,’ said Jamie. ‘I mean, I do feel it sometimes. I’ve got a big mortgage. I do have a wife and kid to look after. And I’ve got to take my career seriously. Things have changed.’

‘I suppose they have.’

‘Whatever happens, I don’t want to turn into my parents.’

‘Why not? They’re nice people.’

Jamie snorted. ‘They might be nice but they’re broke, aren’t they? My grandfather was a big landowner. And now my father drives a mini-cab. If I carry on the great family tradition, Oliver will have a career in McDonald’s.’

‘Anyway, you will become your father. You’re just like him. You can’t avoid it.’ I meant it as a joke, but Jamie shot me a dark look.

‘I’m serious. It’s about time somebody made some money in my family.’

I had visited Jamie’s parents a number of times over the years. I was always made to feel welcome as Jamie’s intellectual friend from Oxford. The first couple of times I’d stayed it had been at a lovely farmhouse, which presided over a livery stable. Shortly after Jamie had left Oxford this had gone, and now his parents lived in a rented lodge at the bottom of someone else’s grand drive.

Jamie’s grandfather had owned a small estate at the foot of the Quantocks, and the after-tax remnants of this were still farmed by his uncle. His father had tried to make money out of horses and failed. Jamie told me he now drove a mini-cab, but I wasn’t to mention this to anyone, especially to him.

Whatever their past glories or future worries, Jamie’s parents were unfailingly hospitable. His father was the old rogue that Jamie might one day become, with a winning smile, rugged features and a twinkle in his eye. His mother was tall and striking, even now, and had not lost any of her charm. Jamie was the apple of their eye. He could do no wrong. His every pronouncement was met with rapt interest, his minor successes with applause, his major successes with studied indifference, as if his parents never doubted that he would achieve great things.

And Jamie hadn’t let them down. Head boy of his public school, entrance to Oxford, an occasional place in the university rugby team, and a job in the blue-blooded merchant bank, Gurney Kroheim. Jamie’s move to Dekker Ward had taken his parents a little by surprise, but once Jamie had explained it they understood. Their son was one of the new generation of entrepreneurs they had read about.

I don’t mean to mock this attention. I would have loved half of it. But whenever I achieved something, my father never quite understood exactly what it was.

I drank my beer thoughtfully. ‘I still don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.’

‘Aren’t you going to stay at Dekker?’

‘I don’t know. Sometimes it gives me a great buzz. Like that Brady battle. But then I think about what they did to Dave, and the favela deal, and the drug money.’

‘Oh, forget that,’ said Jamie.

‘But I can’t forget it. It bothers me. Doesn’t it bother you?’

Jamie paused for a moment. ‘I think it might if I stopped to think about it. So I don’t stop to think about it. For Kate and Oliver’s sake, I have to make this a success. I could be really good at this stuff, you know.’

He looked at me for reassurance. I was able to give it. ‘You could.’ From my brief time at Dekker, I could tell Jamie was good. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to be ungrateful. Thank you for getting me this job.’

Jamie smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it. Ricardo likes you. I get Brownie points.’

‘Was that true about those Russian traders’ visas? Do you think Ricardo arranged that?’

‘I hadn’t heard about it, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ said Jamie. ‘And if it wasn’t Ricardo who fixed it, it was Eduardo. They don’t like people letting them down.’

‘I can see that.’

We were on to our third pint. The edginess that surrounded Stephen had left with him, and I was slowly enveloped in that special type of warm glow that you can only get from three pints of good bitter with an old friend.

Jamie and I had been through a lot together over the years. In taking the job at Dekker, I had trusted my future to him. But I could rely on Jamie.

‘Kate told me you were quite taken with Isabel,’ Jamie said.

I could feel my cheeks reddening. Which was strange, because normally I found it quite easy to talk to Jamie about women.

‘She’s a nice girl, Jamie.’

‘Oh, really? Nice girl, eh? Now that’s serious. Not just “She’s got fabulous tits,” or “She’s desperate for it.”’

‘No. Neither of those things, actually.’

‘Is there anything going on between you?’

‘No.’

‘But you’d like it if there was?’

‘I can’t deny that. But I don’t think it’s likely.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. She just doesn’t seem that keen.’

‘Well, be careful. She’s a strange woman.’ He was struck by a thought. ‘You didn’t talk to her about this money-laundering business, did you?’

I nodded. ‘I did. She agreed with you about not telling Eduardo. But she thought I should speak to Ricardo about it. I’m not going to, though.’

‘Oh, Nick! You shouldn’t even have spoken to her. I told you about her and Eduardo, didn’t I?’

‘You did. But that was only a rumour. I don’t believe it.’

‘You don’t want to believe it, you mean. You saw what happened to Dave. You’d better forget this money-laundering stuff or the same thing will happen to you.’

‘I can trust Isabel,’ I said.

‘The truth is, Nick,’ Jamie said, ‘in this business you can trust no one.’

I wanted to argue, but I didn’t. Partly because I had an uncomfortable feeling he was right.

‘Come on, it’s late, let’s go,’ Jamie said, draining his glass.

‘Yeah.’ I finished up my pint. We spilled out of the pub, Jamie to hail a cab and me to find the tube station. I’d left my bike at Canary Wharf.

The next day was grey and cold, as spring went into remission. High up in the Canary Wharf tower, the Dekker dealing room felt crammed against the ceiling of dark cloud just a few feet above it. The euphoria of victory over Bloomfield Weiss in the Brady battle died down quickly as the reality of trying to sell two billion dollars of Mexican bonds sank in. This was a time to call in favours.

I listened to Jamie perform. He was good. He started with his best customers. He was a different person with each. With some he discussed football and TV, with others modified duration and stripped yields. Sometimes he talked non-stop, sometimes he just listened. But he cajoled and begged and blustered his way to an order from each of them. The orders were large: ten or twenty million in some cases, but they weren’t large enough. It would take a miracle and a few hundred-million orders to shift two billion dollars of bonds.

Ricardo was working the phones furiously himself. The really big orders would come from calling in the really big favours, and that was something only Ricardo could do. Every now and then he would get up and pace the room, checking up on us. Despite the pressure that we all felt, he was encouraging, praising a five-million order from a difficult account or commiserating if a client failed to bite. We were all in this together, he took our commitment as given.

But Ricardo was capable of dealing with more than one problem at once. That afternoon, I felt a tap on my shoulder, as I was sitting hunched listening to Jamie at work. ‘How much do you know about Poland?’

‘Not much. I’ve been there once. To the University of Kraków.’

‘What do you think are the chances of a devaluation?’

Honesty was always the best policy with Ricardo. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Do you know anyone who might have an idea? A good idea?’

I thought a moment. ‘As a matter of fact I do. There’s an economist I know who’s at the LSE. He taught the finance minister fifteen years ago. I know they keep in touch. I could talk to him. I’d have to drink a bottle of vodka to find out, though.’

‘Excellent!’ Ricardo said. ‘Drink a gallon. And put it on expenses.’