The Devil's Deal

chapter

1

From Zurich to disaster

Day 1, 9.30am – Zurich

Uli isn’t the smartest of my former students. But he manages

$5 billion of other people’s money and I mentor him on how to

invest.

Uli’s a polite guy. When I’ve nished our quarterly meetings

he normally hands me a present for my nephew Alex. Today,

though, Uli is uncharacteristically distracted. Excited, and a little

nervous, he tells me he won’t be able to drive me down to Zurich

station.

‘I’ve got a new client coming this afternoon,’ Uli says in his

sing-song Swiss-German accent. ‘He’s got €50 million to invest.’

‘Great!’ I’m genuinely happy for Uli. Plus I’m already calculating

how much I can put up my fees.

‘Great!’ agrees Uli, but he holds his smile too long and I know

that something’s wrong. I’ve been advising Uli for ten years, ever

since he was a graduate on a course I led at Goodman Rozel. I

can tell when he’s worried. He calls his secretary and shakes my

hand. ‘I’ve bought something for Alex but you’ll need to collect

it from the shop.’ He hands me a receipt for Christof’s Toys and

I read an address in the old town. I leave him, stumbling past

piles of annual accounts and broker reports which spill across

the oor.

Clients like Uli give me an insider’s access. I know what will

happen to certain companies weeks before the stock market

even sniffs a rumour. Part of my job is helping nancial experts

One-way ticket6

communicate to ‘normal’ people. I write their presentations,

prepare their speeches to shareholders and coach them on how

to deal with the more aggressive nancial journalists. My clients

trust me with inside information and I’ve never abused that trust.

It’s a well-rewarded job, and I was just thinking how much I still

enjoyed learning new things, when the bomb exploded.

Day 1, 11.00am – Zurich Airport

I saw ames and smoke, and the ambulances driving past the

crowds. CNN cut to protesters running away from tanks. I read

the subtitles ashing across the TV screen – state of emergency,

many civilians feared dead – and dunked a square of creamy

chocolate into my coffee. A groan went round the business

lounge at Zurich Airport as they announced all ights were

grounded. A fat man next to me muttered a multi-lingual stream

of expletives. ‘Damn terrorists. Why should we suffer because

they’ve blown up some airport?’

I mumbled something in reply but I was already thinking about

how to get a train back to London. As was everyone else in the

lounge.

I took a taxi to the old town and walked towards Bahnhofstrasse.

Underneath all these private banks lie the great vaults. Miles and

miles of gold and silver, diamonds and platinum. I walked over

cellars stuffed with loot from Latin American drug lords and

stolen development funds snatched by African warlords. Who

knew who owned it all?

Day 1, 11.30am – Paradeplatz, Zurich

I managed to book a seat on the 12.30pm train to Paris. Not

ideal, of course, but at least it would get me closer to home. I was

desperate to get back: I was delivering a course in New York in

three days’ time and needed to prepare. With an hour to spare

I headed over to pick up the model train. I was hit by a warm

gust of Havana cigar smoke. The man I presumed to be Christof