The Root of Money

3

3Perriman Girardi sat in his spacious office, sipping the last of the morning’s decaf while browsing the bold print headlines of the Financial Times. As Chief Operating Officer of International Asia Bank, Girardi occupied a coveted corner location on the executive floor the bank maintained in a fifty story tower a few minutes walking distance from Central Park. He stood six feet four inches tall but projected an even more imposing stature. His suits were handmade by a well-known haberdasher in London and his custom-made linen shirts came from a tailor in Shanghai. The breast pocket of his shirt was monogrammed with his initials and although he had been obtaining his suits and shirts in this manner for over twelve years he never had the need to alter his measurements. The center left hand drawer of his desk stored a variety of eye-catching cuff links that he rotated with purpose. At the age of fifty one, Girardi had been in his current position in the bank for eight years. As he looked up from the newspaper the bank’s Chief Technology Officer was sitting down at an oval conference table in his office.

“Good morning, Grace. I wasn’t expecting to see you this early.”

Grace Woo reorganized stacks of papers that covered the table, not hiding her curiosity of their contents.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Girardi asked matter-of-factly. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

“I just want to be sure you and I are on the same page before we have our meeting later.” Woo did not look up as she continued to help herself to his papers.

“What page would that be? I think this is fairly straight forward and nothing that we have not heard or discussed before.” Girardi’s tone was even, not revealing annoyance or impatience.

The Chief Technology Officer’s attire was as impressive as her colleague’s. Ten years Girardi’s senior, Woo bought her clothes at the top retailers in Manhattan and had them expertly tailored to flatter her petite frame. Woo placed the papers she was holding on the table and offered Girardi one of her practiced glares.

“You know, our Compliance Director is going to be inclined to bend toward Carrier’s proposal,” Woo said. “You and I know doing so would not only result in unnecessary and unjustifiable expense, but could leave us open to problems with our regulators.”

Girardi rose from his black leather chair. “We’re just hearing this out today,” he reasoned. “At the core, I am in agreement with you. Let’s not invite worry needlessly,” he said as he gathered his suit jacket from a hanger behind his office door.

“Of course, you’re right as usual.” Woo took several steps in his direction. “As you are well aware, we have many critical initiatives going on and a very full pipeline. It would be imprudent to divert any resources that would result in delays. We’ve made commitments to the CEO and the Board and I, for one, do not plan on disappointing them.”

Girardi excused himself as he made a right turn out of his office, expecting Woo would continue to help herself to his files.

A new Michael Godard print hung in Eric Kilpatrick’s office. Kilpatrick enjoyed the artist’s works featuring anthropomorphized olives in whimsical twists of everyday themes and language. He had come across the original artwork entitled Money Laundering in a shop in Las Vegas’ Venetian Hotel during a convention of compliance professionals, however, due to the prohibitive cost of the piece, he settled for the print that had been hanging in his office only a few hours before Girardi rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Welcome back,” Girardi said as he stepped up to the print.

Kilpatrick was pale and slender, with blonde hair that had thinned to near transparency. When he stood he was a head shorter than Girardi.

“This is fantastic, Eric. I never heard of this artist before. “

“He’s a bit more current than the dark Renaissance painters you go for. I’ve seen his work at several galleries.”

“How was the conference?” Girardi asked as he closed the door.

“Pretty much what you’d expect.” Kilpatrick busied himself looking through unopened mail that collected on his desk while he was away. “A bunch of boring bankers discussing the latest government regulations. If this continues I’ll need to double my staff to keep pace.”

“I think we can count on things getting worse before they get better.” Girardi scowled.

Kilpatrick did not look up as he scrolled through his incoming email, deleting those he determined did not warrant his attention. He reviewed his calendar and asked, “Why are we meeting with Grace and Carrier today?”

“They want to discuss your new artwork.” Girardi half smiled.

Kilpatrick turned his head to look at the Godard, prompting Girardi to clarify.

“Carrier asked to revisit the idea of expanding the money laundering monitoring we do. I agreed to hear him out, but I don’t think he will tell us anything new. I’m not expecting to make any changes.”

Kilpatrick bent his head in the direction of his new print.

“Perry, I didn’t buy this because I think of money laundering as comical. It’s a very real and serious threat. We should give Carrier a fair hearing.”

“We will.” He bent the corner of his jacket lapel toward Kilpatrick and tapped his lapel pins. “Both of these are important to me. I have the American flag flying above our bank logo for a reason, but I think we can work in the best interest of both.”