The market maker (18 page)

"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?"

"1

"You did. But that was only a rumor. I don't be-Ueve 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 1 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 gray 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 a billion dollars of Mexican bonds sank in. This was a time to call in favors.

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 soccer and TV, with others modified duration, and stripped yields. Sometimes he talked nonstop, 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 a billion dollars of bonds. And U.S. Commerce Bank were getting nowhere with their half of the deal.

Ricardo was working the phones furiously himself. The really big orders would come from calling in the really big favors, 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.

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 listening to Jamie at work. "How much do you know about Poland?"

"Not much. I've been there once. To the University of Krakow."

"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."

15

Wojtek was happy to hear from me, and invited me to supper. I had first met him when I was studying the Soviet economy, and it was through him that I had gone to Krakow. He had long been a critic of the command economies of Eastern Europe, and he had built up quite a following in his home country I had told him I was now working in the City, and needed to find out something about Polish economic policy.

I arrived at his flat in Ealing with a bottle of Bison Grass, his favorite vodka.

''Wonderful!'' he said. "Come In! Come in!"

The flat was exactly as I remembered it. Those portions of wall that were not covered by books displayed posters announcing obscure Polish, Russian, and French exhibitions. I was sure that each one was carefully selected for its street credibility, rather than its direct importance to Wojtek. In an indiscreet, drunken moment he had told me that When Harry Met Sally was his favorite film. But I had been sworn to secrecy on that subject, and there was no sign of that poster.

Although Wojtek was in his late forties, he did his best to look and act like an angry postgraduate student.

He sported a full black mustache; he had bushy, tou-seled hair in a ponytail, with only the slightest hint of gray, and a white-filtered cigarette dangled from his lips. Despite his appearance, businessmen, politicians, and the International Monetary Fund all loved him. He preached an economics that was fiscally and monetarily prudent, and yet didn't insist that unless unemployment was running at twenty percent the government was a bunch of wimps. He was one of those teachers who took a strong personal interest in some of his students. I had been so favored once, as before me had the current finance ministers of Poland and the Slovak Republic.

I liked him. Although he was older than me, and I didn't see him often, I counted him as one of my friends.

"So how is the lovely Joanna?" he asked.

"In America with the obnoxious Wes."

"Good, I never liked her, and whoever he is, Tm sure he deserves her. I've cooked a ratatouille, I hope that will do?"

"Of course," I said.

"Now, let's get that bottle open."

We hit the vodka. Wojtek told me about his latest girlfriend, a twenty-three-year-old American student. Wojtek liked girls until they reached the age of about twenty-five, whereupon he lost interest. He had married a couple of them but soon stopped, since the marriages had no chance of lasting more than a few years, and ending them was an adnfiinistrative nightmare.

He served supper in his large kitchen. The ratatouille was excellent, the vodka strong, and within less than an hour we were quite drunk.

As expected, he berated me for going into the City, and then asked me what I wanted.

I cleared my throat, tried to clear my head, and answered him. "I was recruited by Dekker because of my knowledge of the Russian language and economics. Now all of a sudden Fm supposed to know about Poland too, but I haven't followed it for years. I was hoping you could give me a clue, so I don't sound like an idiot."

"Ah, Nick, there is very little chance of you sounding like an idiot about anything. But I will tell you."

Then he proceeded to explain to me clearly and succinctly the story of Poland's economy since the days of Solidarity. I understood it, it sounded clever, and I hoped I would remember it in the morning.

"And what about a devaluation? Isn't the currency too high at the moment?"

"You're right!" said Wojtek, almost in a shout. He stood up. "I keep telling them! Devalue now before the economy is completely ruined. It is better to stay in control and be seen to be choosing when to devalue than wait until an international crisis forces it upon you."

"So, do you think they will?"

"Wojtek stopped pacing, glanced at me, smiled, and said, "I don't know," with such a dollop of mock innocence that I didn't believe him for a moment. He knew what the Poles were going to do, and what they were planning to do made him happy.

We got drunker and drunker, until I thought it was safe to escape.

"But it's only ten o'clock!" protested Wojtek.

"I know. But I have to be in to work by seven tomorrow. And with what I've drunk, I'll feel bad enough as

It IS.

"Well, great to see you, Nick." He embraced me, and I left him alone with the dregs of the vodka bottle.

It was a tough cycle ride in the next day. My head hurt, and my mouth felt dry and furry. I stopped at a comer shop to buy a pint of milk, which I absorbed rather than drank. Thank God it was downhill some of the way

Ricardo laughed when he saw me. "I see you did your duty last night."

"Oh, God, does it show? "

"It does. Was it useful?"

"I think the Poles are going to devalue." I explained my conversation with Wojtek, and his barely hidden excitement that the Polish government was following his ideas.

"Are you sure this guy has the influence he thinks he has?" asked Ricardo.

"Pmsure."

"Then well done!" He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. "Time to adjust our Polish position." He went back to his desk and picked up the phone.

"Not bad," said Jamie. "Tm impressed. Don't tell me, you play rugby with Boris Yeltsin's doctor."

"'Fraid not," I said. "Wojtek is about the full extent of my influential contacts."

"Well, you are an important person. But by the way?"

"Yes?"

"You look like shit."

"Thanks."

I was pleased with myself. It was good to be useful to Dekker. Maybe Ricardo would make some money. If he did, he would be bound to remember my part in the profits. That was the good thing about Ricardo. He gave credit where it was due.

Just then, the phone rang.

"Nick? It's Wojtek."

His voice sounded thick and horrible. It was a fair bet

that he had drunk much more than I had by the time he had passed out.

''How are you?''

"Fine," he said. I smiled: liar. "Yesterday, Nick. When we talked about Poland. And the devaluation. You remember?"

"Yes, I do. Thanks, Wojtek. It was very useful."

"Yes, well. I like to help you, Nick. But when you asked about whether the Polish government would devalue, I didn't answer you, did I?"

Oh, God. "No," I said, trying to sound bright. "No, you didn't say anything at all."

"Good. Because if the financial markets found out about the devaluation through me, that would be a real breach of trust on my part."

"Of course, I understand." My ears were singing. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.

"So will you give me your word you won't tell anyone at your work about what we ... didn't discuss last night."

Shit! Shit! Shit!

"Nick?"

What to do? Lie, of course.

"No. Don't worry, Wojtek, I won't guess anything. You just gave me useful background, that's all."

I think my voice sounded steady. I was just glad he couldn't see my face.

"Good." He sounded relieved. "It was great to see you again. Keep in touch, OK,"

"OK, Wojtek. See you soon."

I slammed the phone down, and took a deep breath. I looked up and saw Ricardo coming toward me.

"Well done, Nick," he said. "We're all set up now. I just hope you're right."

I'm right," I said. But I felt very wrong indeed.

H'\>.

"Oh, we're taking some clients out tonight. Very important clients. Would you like to come along?"

Oh, God. More drinking. The last thing I felt like was being nice to people I didn't know. I wanted to go to bed early. Very early.

But it was clear that I should feel flattered to be asked. So I summoned up a smile and said, "Great."

I grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine, and reached for the paper. I laid it out on my own desk away from the square. I had earned myself some peace and quiet. The coffee didn't really seem to help. My head still hurt, and my stomach was queasy. I felt hot. I was sweating gently. Vodka was an occupational hazard of studying Russian. I could see that it would become a problem in this job too, once I became seriously involved with Eastern Europe.

I glanced at Isabel. She was reading through a pile of papers, her hair hanging down and hiding most of her face. God, she was attractive. Since our drink the previous Friday, we had exchanged a few friendly words but nothing more.

"Nick, what is it?"

"What?"

"You're staring."

My eyes came back into focus. Isabel was looking at me with an amused smile on her face.

I could feel myself reddening. "Oh, I'm sorry. My eyes and brain aren't well connected this morning. I was out drinking for Dekker last night."

"Such loyalty is touching," said Isabel.

Embarrassed, I cast my eyes down to the paper in front of me. I leafed through to the arts pages. I had to admit that the film reviews in the Financial Times were pretty good. There was a new Polish film out by

THE MARKET MAKER 169 :

Krzysztof Kieslowski. It sounded interesting. Td try •

and see it if I got the time. i

Oh, damn! I hated having to lie to Wojtek. I had be |

trayed his trust. Of course it was partly his fault. Mostly i

his fault. I had gone there telling him who I was and i

what I wanted. He had been stupidly indiscreet. He :

knew it, that's why he had just rimg me in a panic. It j

was his fault. His fault that I had betrayed his trust. \

No. It didn't work. Wojtek would be seriously upset j

with me if he ever foimd out what I had done. I would \

just have to hope that he never did. ;

Stephen's words echoed to me, in that pompous ac \