Berne, Karachi, Frankfurt, Budapest, Prague, Tel Aviv and Nicosia. None, however, in Antigua. And no brass-plate bank. Or none mentioned.
‘ Arena Multi Global prides itself on confidentiality and entreprenurial [with an ‘e’ missing] flare [misspelled] at all levels. It offers top-class oportunities [with one ‘p’] and private banking facilities ’ [spelled correctly]. Note: this web page is currently under reconstruction. Further information available on application to Moscow office .’
Ted was an American bachelor who sold futures for Morgan Stanley. From her desk in Chambers she rang Ted:
‘Gail, sweetheart.’
‘An outfit calling itself the Arena Multi Global Trading Conglomerate. Can you dig up the dirt on them for me?’
Dirt? Ted could dig dirt like nobody else. Ten minutes later he was back.
‘Those Russki friends of yours.’
‘Russki?’
‘They’re like me. Hot as hell and rich as figgy pudding.’
‘How rich is rich?’
‘Anybody’s guess, but looks mega. Fifty-something subsidiaries, all with great trading records. You into money-laundering, Gail?’
‘How did you know?’
‘These Russki mothers pass the money around between them so fast nobody knows who owns it for how long. That’s all I got for you but I paid blood. Will you love me for ever?’
‘I’ll think about it, Ted.’
Her next step was Ernie, the Chambers’ resourceful, sixty-something clerk. She waited till lunchtime when the coast was clearest.
‘Ernie. A favour. Rumour has it that there’s a disgraceful chat site you visit when you want to check out the companies of our highly reputable clients. I’m deeply shocked and I need you to consult it for me.’
Thirty minutes on, and Ernie had presented her with an edited printout of disgraceful exchanges on the subject of the Arena Multi Global Trading Conglomerate.
Any asshole got an idea who runs this junk shop? The guys change MDs like socks. P. BROSNAN
Read, mark, learn and inwardly digest the wise words of Maynard Keynes: Markets can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent. Asshole yourself. R. CROW
What the f***’s happened to MG’s website. It’s curdled. B. PITT
MG’s website is down but not out. B-s rises to the surface. Assholes all beware. M. MUNROE
But I’m really really curious. These guys come on at me like they have the hots, then they leave me panting and unfulfilled. P.B.
Hey guys, listen to this! I just heard MGTC opened an office in Toronto. R.C.
Office? You’re shitting me! It’s a f***ing Russian nightclub, man. Pole dancers, Stolly and bortsch. M.M.
Hey, asshole, me again. Is the office they opened in Toronto the same one they closed in Equatorial Guinea? If so, run for cover man. Run now. R.C.
Arena Multi f***ing Global has absolutely zero hits on Google. I repeat zero. The whole outfit is so über-amateurish I get palpitations. P.B.
Do you by any chance believe in the afterlife? If not, start believing now. You are treading on the Biggest Bananaskinski in the laundering arena. Official. M.M.
They were just so enthusiastic about me. Now this. P.B.
Stay away. Stay far, far away. R.C.
*
She is in Antigua, wafted there by another tumbler of Rioja from the kitchen.
She’s listening to the pianist in the mauve bow tie crooning Simon and Garfunkel to an elderly American couple in ducks pirouetting all alone on the dance deck.
She’s fending off the glances of beautiful waiters who have nothing to do but undress her with their eyes. She is overhearing the seventy-year-old Texan widow-woman of a thousand facelifts telling Ambrose to bring her red wine as long as it isn’t French.
She’s standing on the tennis court, demurely shaking hands for the first time with a bald fighting bull who calls himself Dima. She’s remembering his reproachful brown eyes and rock jaw and the rigid, Erich von Stroheim backward lean of his upper body.
She’s in the Bloomsbury basement, one moment Perry’s life companion, the next his
‘ Arena Multi Global prides itself on confidentiality and entreprenurial [with an ‘e’ missing] flare [misspelled] at all levels. It offers top-class oportunities [with one ‘p’] and private banking facilities ’ [spelled correctly]. Note: this web page is currently under reconstruction. Further information available on application to Moscow office .’
Ted was an American bachelor who sold futures for Morgan Stanley. From her desk in Chambers she rang Ted:
‘Gail, sweetheart.’
‘An outfit calling itself the Arena Multi Global Trading Conglomerate. Can you dig up the dirt on them for me?’
Dirt? Ted could dig dirt like nobody else. Ten minutes later he was back.
‘Those Russki friends of yours.’
‘Russki?’
‘They’re like me. Hot as hell and rich as figgy pudding.’
‘How rich is rich?’
‘Anybody’s guess, but looks mega. Fifty-something subsidiaries, all with great trading records. You into money-laundering, Gail?’
‘How did you know?’
‘These Russki mothers pass the money around between them so fast nobody knows who owns it for how long. That’s all I got for you but I paid blood. Will you love me for ever?’
‘I’ll think about it, Ted.’
Her next step was Ernie, the Chambers’ resourceful, sixty-something clerk. She waited till lunchtime when the coast was clearest.
‘Ernie. A favour. Rumour has it that there’s a disgraceful chat site you visit when you want to check out the companies of our highly reputable clients. I’m deeply shocked and I need you to consult it for me.’
Thirty minutes on, and Ernie had presented her with an edited printout of disgraceful exchanges on the subject of the Arena Multi Global Trading Conglomerate.
Any asshole got an idea who runs this junk shop? The guys change MDs like socks. P. BROSNAN
Read, mark, learn and inwardly digest the wise words of Maynard Keynes: Markets can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent. Asshole yourself. R. CROW
What the f***’s happened to MG’s website. It’s curdled. B. PITT
MG’s website is down but not out. B-s rises to the surface. Assholes all beware. M. MUNROE
But I’m really really curious. These guys come on at me like they have the hots, then they leave me panting and unfulfilled. P.B.
Hey guys, listen to this! I just heard MGTC opened an office in Toronto. R.C.
Office? You’re shitting me! It’s a f***ing Russian nightclub, man. Pole dancers, Stolly and bortsch. M.M.
Hey, asshole, me again. Is the office they opened in Toronto the same one they closed in Equatorial Guinea? If so, run for cover man. Run now. R.C.
Arena Multi f***ing Global has absolutely zero hits on Google. I repeat zero. The whole outfit is so über-amateurish I get palpitations. P.B.
Do you by any chance believe in the afterlife? If not, start believing now. You are treading on the Biggest Bananaskinski in the laundering arena. Official. M.M.
They were just so enthusiastic about me. Now this. P.B.
Stay away. Stay far, far away. R.C.
*
She is in Antigua, wafted there by another tumbler of Rioja from the kitchen.
She’s listening to the pianist in the mauve bow tie crooning Simon and Garfunkel to an elderly American couple in ducks pirouetting all alone on the dance deck.
She’s fending off the glances of beautiful waiters who have nothing to do but undress her with their eyes. She is overhearing the seventy-year-old Texan widow-woman of a thousand facelifts telling Ambrose to bring her red wine as long as it isn’t French.
She’s standing on the tennis court, demurely shaking hands for the first time with a bald fighting bull who calls himself Dima. She’s remembering his reproachful brown eyes and rock jaw and the rigid, Erich von Stroheim backward lean of his upper body.
She’s in the Bloomsbury basement, one moment Perry’s life companion, the next his
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