The Devil's Banker by Christopher Reich Page B

his largest client was realizing a loss of over ten million dollars. He was scared that his own career might be in the shitter should Marc Gabriel and his company jump ship.
    “Peter,” he said, tapping his sterling silver letter opener on the crease of his trousers. “I do not need a lecture on the merits, or lack thereof, of selling in a difficult market. The stock’s not performing, so we’re getting out. It’s that simple.”
    “Dumping those shares isn’t getting out. It’s abandoning ship. We’re due!”
    “So is Father Christmas, world peace, and the second coming. Really, the decision’s been made. Save your breath.”
    Gabriel, forty-five years of age, was chairman and chief executive of Richemond Holdings, S.A., an internationally active investment firm with interests in equities, precious metals, and strategic shareholdings in a number of diverse companies. He did not like to be badgered. Running a hand along the back of his neck, he urged himself to remain calm. As usual, the building’s air-conditioning was not functioning. The office was hot and stale, but despite the heat and the insistent nagging, Gabriel looked unfazed.
    “Jesus, Marc, I don’t like to see you get hurt like this,” the man in New York was saying. “I mean, Christ, it’s a bloodbath. Hang in there for another month or so. The stars are getting in alignment.”
    “Wire the proceeds to my account at Deutsche Internationale Bank. I’ll expect the funds by the end of business today. Frankfurt time.”
    But the banker would not give up. “What is it?” he demanded, unable to hide his desperation. “You know something I don’t? You boys start cleaning house, people are going to ask questions.”
    A smile on your face guards the smile in your voice, Gabriel reminded himself. The last thing he needed was attention. “The group is reconfiguring its portfolio. Nothing more. Nothing less,” he said, in a singsong way, his cheeks aching with the weight of the smile. “The equity markets haven’t been performing as we’ve liked. We’re moving into real estate and commodities in hopes of increasing our returns.”
    “Commodities?”
    “Yes, yes, I know they’re risky,” began Gabriel, as if asking for permission.
    “I wouldn’t say risky, so much as—”
    “Get me some information on pork bellies,” Gabriel interrupted him. “Take some time. I’ll be in New York next week, then we’ll talk. Lunch at Le Cirque? Make sure Sirio knows I’m coming.”
    Gabriel hung up the phone, his face slack, a mask of hate. He was sick of the meaningless chitchat. If all went well, he would never have to speak to the foolish man again. Gabriel’s problem was that he was too polite. Sometimes he really should forgo his manners, especially when there was so much that needed to be done.
    Cardboard moving boxes littered the spacious office and sat bunched in groups near the credenza, the filing cabinets, and the antique Indonesian bookshelf that had displayed his personal vanities. Gabriel slid from one to the next, checking that each was full, sealing it with tape, marking the proper address in two languages. He was a compact man, trim and athletic, with a graceful economy of movement. Even with his sleeves rolled up, his Hermès cravat loosened, he never appeared rushed or in the least bit stressed. Panic was not a word in his vocabulary. Discipline. Self-control. Focus. These were his touchstones.
    A cap of wavy dark hair framed a shadowed, angular face. As he worked, he kept a faint smile to his lips, and the smile along with the sparkling brown eyes lent him a wily, seductive air. He looked like a man who knew a few things about life. A man not afraid of the world’s darker corners. A man who could keep a secret.
    Standing, Marc Gabriel checked his watch. It was three o’clock, and he still had to call his bankers in Milano, Zurich, and Frankfurt, and order them to liquidate his portfolios. He was selling it all: Fiat, Olivetti,