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.’
15
Wójtek was happy to hear from me, and invited me round to supper. I had first met him when I was studying the Soviet economy, and it was through him that I had gone to Kraków. 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 favourite 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 cred, rather than its direct importance to Wójtek. In an indiscreet, drunken moment he had told me that When Harry Met Sally was his favourite film. But I had been sworn to secrecy on that subject, and there was no sign of that poster.
Although Wójtek was in his late forties, he did his best to look and act like an angry postgraduate student. He sported a full black moustache, he had bushy, tousled hair in a pony-tail, with only the slightest hint of grey, 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 per cent the government were 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 favoured 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, I’m 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. Wójtek told me about his latest girlfriend, a twenty-three-year-old American student. Wójtek 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 that idea, since the marriages had no chance of lasting more than a few years and ending them was an administrative 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 I’m 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 Wójtek, 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.’