The Winner's Curse

CHAPTER 1 Mark Shearer knew something wasn't kosher the moment he arrived at his office that Monday morning, a day after returning from a short break in Majorca. There was tension in the air. And the usual nods from his colleagues were missing. It was as if they knew something he didn't. Shrugging, he walked on to his private office. He saw that Kirsten, his assistant, wasn't in yet or had stepped out to get their morning coffee. Slipping off his jacket, he made himself comfortable in his executive-size swivel chair at his desk. Only one sheet of paper lay on the desktop. His calendar for the day. Kirsten had most probably typed it up before she left on Friday. He had only one appointment. At eleven. When he saw who it was with he felt a knot in his belly. His mind still busy searching for a reason for a meeting with senior management, he went about booting his workstation and was soon surfing across familiar territory, reading his emails and sending off replies. Then he browsed through the mass of electronic stuff a company with the size and complexity of GI put out in only one week. Mark worked for Global Investments Inc. Or GI as it was referred to in the world of finance. An international hedge fund operating on five continents. They would be the first to set up a couple of skyscrapers on the sixth if one should arise. GI prided themselves on being the first at whatever they did. He turned to the investment section to catch up on the time he'd been away. An error message appeared: Call Network Administrator. "Bloody computers," he sighed and rang the IT department. "Yeah?" a man's voice said and sounded bored, "User Services." Mark explained the problem. There was a pause, then he came back on. "That section of the application has been upgraded security-wise ... What's your ID again?" Mark told him and heard the clicks as the man used his keyboard. "Sorry, you're not allowed access." "What are you talking about?" "Hey, don’t you understand English?" "Look, do you know who I am? This is Mark Shearer, head of the European investment activities of this bloody company. That application is my only way of keeping score. Without those numbers, I'm blind." "Sorry, mate, but you're talking to the wrong guy. I don't do the access grading around here." "Who the hell does?" He jotted down the extension and hung up. He recognised the number immediately. It belonged to Harry Greenspan, the head of operations and controller of GI. And deputy general manager. He dialled but learnt from the man's secretary that he was in a meeting. He left a message to say he would call back. Christ, this week was getting off to a bloody marvellous start. And stress from Upstairs he didn’t need. A knock on the door frame brought him out of his reverie. "Hi Boss, have a nice holiday?" Kirsten's chirpy voice said as she brought in his breakfast – coffee and a buttered pretzel. He nodded. "Yeah, OK, thanks." She placed the try on his desk. "Hey, then why the black looks?" He shot her a wry smile. "That appointment at eleven. They didn't say what it was about?" She shrugged, leaning her slim figure against a filing cabinet. "No. Just an executive secretary requesting the attendance of Mr Mark Shearer at a confidential meeting with Mr Greenspan," she replied, mimicking the clipped accents the girls on the top floor affected. "And you've no inkling?" She hesitated for a second. "Nothing definite. But there was some flap last Thursday. Bill should know, though. I remember he was called upstairs a couple of times." Bill Young was Mark's deputy and bad news. The pompous sod hated his guts for having got his present job over his head. At that moment, he strode into Mark’s office without knocking as if it were his own. He sat on the corner of the desk, adjusting the sharp creases in his trousers. "Did I hear my name mentioned?" he said, ignoring Kirsten. In fact, he had his back turned to her. The way he treated her always galled Mark. Kirsten rolled her eyes skywards and marched out of the room. "Do you have any idea what Greenspan wants to speak to me about?" Mark asked. Young shook his head and took a visitor's chair. "Kirsten mentioned a flap last week. What's up?" "This firm thrives on flaps, old chap. Just one more of the same. Nothing to get bothered about." "Still you were upstairs on Thursday." "Was I? I don't remember. Other things on my mind, I expect." "More important than meetings with the top brass?" A shrug that spoke volumes. "Are you sure you don't know?" Mark prodded, irritated. "Look, Shearer," he replied peevishly, standing up. He then leaned across the desk, his shoulders propped on his arms. "If you're bloody well implying I had-" "Forget it," Mark said, his voice icy-cold, and turned to his computer, ignoring him further. Young strode out of the room with angry strides. Mark would have got rid of the bastard long ago if he weren't so skilled in office political warfare. He had back-stabbing cronies in all the right strategic nooks and crannies. And was well connected in the City. Kirsten watched Bill Young storm out of Mark's office and gave him a finely calculated sneer. "Loose-mouthed b***h," he growled as he passed. "Bully for Mark," she grinned to herself and went back to her work on the previous week's investment returns. On her subset, she saw the light on Mark's direct line go on. The call was over in seconds. "My eleven o'clock meeting's been brought forward," he said to her as he pulled on his jacket. She smiled encouragingly, her eyes following him out. He now had a worried frown on his clean-shaven, craggy face, his dark-brown curly hair dishevelled, as usual. She pottered around for a while, listlessly. Finally, she left for the cafeteria to catch up on her breakfast. Her head was full of bemused thoughts as she took the lift down to the restaurant. She took her coffee and sandwich to an empty table and watched the heavy grey rain sweeping across the City's roofs as she stirred in the sweetener. She had heard some rumours last week. About him. Nothing definite, but it sounded like trouble looming. For him. And by extension for her? Mark used his personal key card to access the inner sanctum on the top floor. He now stood in front of a porter's desk with the tense patience of an army recruit waiting for his leave pass. The board and operations directors were luxuriously accommodated on the two uppermost floors. Compared with the other eight floors of organised madness below, the top-management suites were beautifully peaceful. Mozart was being piped in from a concealed sound system. After a ten minute wait, Greenspan's elegantly dressed secretary ushered him into her boss's private office. The room was spacious, spartan but expensively furnished. Just the basics. Desk, a conference table, two filing cabinets, but a massive intercom and a laptop, showing GI's logo. Behind him and taking up the whole of one wall was a panoramic window with a view of the City skyline. A cluster of skyscrapers bearing witness to London being the centre of the European finance world. Greenspan portrayed the controller incarnate. An oval face impassive behind rimless glasses, hair plastered down, an immaculate three-piece suit over a starched white shirt. Charles Burkman, the general manager, had brought him in when he took on the top job some two years ago. To one side and close to the window stood a man he knew but couldn't place. And who was not introduced. Greenspan rose from his chair. "You are looking well," he said, waving for Mark to take a seat at the conference table. "Enjoyed your holiday?” He sat on the edge of his desk. The other man remained standing. "Er, yes ..." Mark started to say, poised to join in the small-talk, but Greenspan went straight on. "Well, Mark, you must be wondering what this is all about. Now, to save you holding your breath, I can tell you that you've got a promotion coming." Mark couldn't believe his ears. He sensed the knot in his stomach tighten. "You've been appointed to head up Investor Services at our German office. You'll be the vice president of operations. Well, what do you say?" "That's very kind," Mark said. "But I like the work here. And I've worked in London all my professional life ...'' ''I understand you were in Germany before we took over here?'' Greenspan glanced at the other man as if for confirmation. Suddenly, Mark was able to place him – the head creep from Human Relations. “A Mondays to Fridays job,” Mark said. “International commuting,” he added with a smile. “Ah, yes. Well, anyway, you know Germany.” “You can hardly say that.” “But you speak German, I understand.” “Yes, I suppose so.” "There we are then. You'll do an outstanding job in Germany, I'm sure. And the operational experience will come in handy later, believe you me." Bugger, he wasn't going to any bloody Frankfurt office. Compared to London, that was the sticks. And about as exciting as Bristol on a Sunday afternoon. “I ...” Mark began to object … "Oh yes, and the transfer's effective immediately." "Immediately?" Mark felt the knot in his stomach growing like lung cancer being fed on pure nicotine. "Duty calls, eh?" Greenspan replied, now on his feet and buttoning the jacket of his suit. The man from Human Relations was standing to attention in best GI fashion. Greenspan stood tall. "Well, the best of luck to you, Mark ... And er, talk to Summers here from HR about the details." "I'm not sure I understand. Am I being given a choice?" Greenspan's voice took on a sharp note. "It's not a question of personal considerations, Mark. You are urgently needed in Frankfurt." Summers nodded dutifully, a cynical smile at a corner of his lips. "We want you as a vice president in Frankfurt, Mark,” Greenspan went on. “We need good men to fill important jobs in troubled times." "I don't understand. GI’s never been doing so well. Why only last month …" Mark stopped in mid-sentence, about to explain that profits were at record highs. Greenspan's menacing look discouraged further argument. "In Frankfurt, Mark," he growled. "We're talking about Germany, for heaven's sake. Central Europe." Mark wavered. He couldn't refuse a promotion out of hand. Nobody in his right mind did such things at GI. He changed tack. With a brave effort at humour, he said, "Don't condemned men deserve a day or two's grace?" Greenspan's brow darkened in anger. Mark thought for a second he'd pushed him too far. Summers coughed. "Er … may I suggest we give him a day to get used to the idea?" The interruption diffused the awkward situation Mark had suddenly got himself into. Greenspan's face relaxed. "Yes, of course. Take tomorrow off, Mark. And then report to Summers, all right?" "And my replacement here?" Mark asked. "We'll attend to that," Greenspan said. "Any handing over on your part won't be necessary." Mark nodded, thoughts falling into place like well-oiled cogs. Now, he could guess what the meetings on Thursday had been about. Bill Young was to replace him. Gradually, whatever fight was left drained out of him. Greenspan offered his hand, his grasp fleeting and formal. Summers stood back, looking on sadly as if contemplating somebody's funeral. Mark didn't need to guess whose. The main office was deserted when Mark returned. All were out for the mid-morning break. Thank God. He couldn't face up to any of them. He slumped into his desk chair, a bad taste in his mouth. He'd never prized his job highly before but now, about to lose it, it had suddenly become the centre of his life. Pulling himself to his feet, he began to sort out his private things and papers he might need later, packing the stuff into a briefcase and a board case on wheels. Kirsten appeared in the doorway. "How did it go?" she asked tentatively. Her face became taut as she took in the open cases. Mark gave her a wry smile. "I'm being promoted." "Don't joke." "It's the honest truth. I'm the new vice president of operations in Frankfurt. Effective immediately." "Isn't that good news?" "For whom?" "Obviously it isn't," she said and walked away. Mark grabbed his stuff and followed her out, feeling lousy about his black mood. None of this was her fault. "Tell Greenspan I'll be back to see Summers on Wednesday, will you, love?" She gave him a quick smile. "All right ... Anything else?" He took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks for everything, Kirsty." He picked up his bags self-consciously. She stood as if frozen to the spot, silently watching him. He hated goodbyes and above all having to leave her behind – to her fate. She'd always been loyal and supportive. Perhaps he could find a job for her in Frankfurt. He knew she spoke some German. As he parted unceremoniously, he had a sense of foreboding. As if this were the beginning and not the end of something very unpleasant. Mark spent the rest of the afternoon in the sauna, meaning to sweat out the smell of GI. But he wasn't in the mood to be alone. Afterwards, he felt peckish and went for a bite to eat close by. His mind full of that talk with Greenspan that morning, trying to figure out why he was being transferred. And to Germany of all places. It was a mystery to him. He was good at his job, always earned a tidy bonus at year end. Wasn't unpopular. But he wasn't a yes-man. Unlike Bill Young. He spoke up, said what he thought. Had he trodden on somebody's toes? Sick of the meaningless soul-searching, he needed a drink. And a chat. He took a cab to the Sixties Bar off the Bayswater Road, his favourite watering hole. Cosy, not too loud, the sort of spot he could relax in, talk to the regulars like himself and listen to music from the sixties. He'd met his wife, Helen, there. Well, ex-wife. Thinking of his family, he decided to ring and find out how his little daughter, Bette, was getting on. He called Helen's office number. "How's my ex-family?" he asked. "Making out," she said, a pleasant note in her voice. "And Bette?" "She misses you, she says." "And my ex-wife?" "She misses you too – sometimes," she added with a little laugh. "I could come over later," he ventured, hoping she hadn't got anything better to do. "To say hello to the two of you." "I won't be back till late." "I don't go to bed early … And, anyway, we're grown up people, aren't we?" "You'll never grow up," she exploded playfully. Well, he didn't know about that, but he told her he was grown up enough. Mark took the Tube home to change. Afterwards, he got his car and drove out to their old house in Hampstead which Helen had received in the settlement, playing Sinatra's I did it my way on the car's CD deck. A lovely sentiment, only it never turned out for him that way. He stopped off at a flower shop and bought all the fresh roses he could find. Also, he picked up a vintage Michael Jackson album for Bette at the neighbouring music store. When they married, Helen was an aspiring defence lawyer and worked out of an office with three other women barristers. Mark was trying to survive and get on in the investment banking business where every day became a battle for mere existence and ethics were treated like a fatal disease. They both worked all hours and had piles of cash but no time for each other. They should have stayed lovers. It was only when they weren't in bed that things didn't jibe with them. Now, they were divorced and he and Helen were back to being the best of mates – and occasional lovers. Which was a tragedy of sorts! It was dark when Mark turned the car into her garage driveway. The downstairs lights were on. Good to know she hadn't suddenly changed her mind. She was like that. Helen let him in, her doe-like eyes smiling, her long blonde hair hanging in matted strands from the shower. She wore a thin cotton bathrobe which emphasised her curvaceous figure. He gave her a soft kiss, and she hung on for a little more with which he obliged. "It's been a long time," she said, taking the flowers and smelling them. "A couple of weeks," he said and dangled the CD in front of her nose. "Where's our daughter?" "Asleep," she said with a mischievous grin. "Asleep?" She laughed. "She had a busy day. So I sent her off to bed early. I just wanted to see you. Alone. Was that wrong?" No, there was nothing wrong with that at all. Bette could wait for Michael Jackson till breakfast.