On the Gornergrat, beneath the shadow of the Matterhorn, a bleat on the mobile.
"This is Franz in Vienna." He's in a lather about someone in Switzerland. "It might have been a Swede, his German was so bad," says Franz. I hear him crack his knuckles as he paces his vast office and rants through the squawk-box. "Will these amateurs never learn? An Anschluss is a two-sided affair."
It seems this person, claiming to be prime minister, was suggesting a merger. "One experience with that Bavarian clown was enough!" rages Franz.
I try to calm him. Actually the proposal's not such a bad idea, I say. There are many synergies and economies of scale in cowbell manufacture, Alpenstocks and Lederhosen; the combined retail power of Sachertorte and Toblerone, Viennese waltzes accompanied on the Alpenhorn. Liechtenstein could be the regional HQ.
"You don't understand, Komarovsky. This guy is after my job. I can smell it."
"You think you'll have one after 1999? Look Franz, this man has seen the writing on the wall. When the euro arrives, the Swiss franc is finished. Since his people have more chance of developing a sense of humour than voting to join the EU he thinks maybe he cross-fertilizes with you, and he'll take them through the back door. You should be flattered."
"I didn't get that impression. He said my outfit is fat and lazy and doesn't deserve its triple A rating. He said we can't even get rid of our second-biggest bank, Credit Untstuck, which I agreed was fair comment but, not a justification to give up our sovereignty. Look what happened to SG Warberks."
"But he's right. What you need is an Austro-Helvetian axis. You want Helmut, Jacques, John (or maybe Tony) and this new guy Romano calling all the shots?"
"I'm thinking about it," Franz growls. "Look Jean-Claude ...". Here we go. Whenever Vranitzky uses my first name he's asking a favour. "... go and see this guy. Tell me what he's up to."
I settle down to read the folkloric menu at the Baur au Lac:
Monsieur Gut vous propose:
Vermögens-Fondue zürcher Art
mit Gut-gefühl und Schafskäse Nikolaus
Tages-Anzeigersuppe - Leek mit Sennf
Caviar Lavetta
Steakholder Ebnertal mit Rösi
Schiltknechteintopf
Rentenbrust Winterthur mit Spälti
**********
Apfel-Studer
Banque surprise mâitre d'Ospel
But before I can even wrist-fax the office for a translation I get an urgent incoming call. It seems the firm is embarked on what our head of global focus, JJ Ingersoll, calls operation Sea-Lion or was it Barbarossa, and I'm needed to help lead a charm offensive against the republic of Vodka's new and mysterious head of borrowing.
We land in Smirnovia, on the Baltic, at which point JJ falls back on first principles, and like the trained professional he is, tells the customs officer of the firm's capabilities and its ability to distribute product. But the guy just says "Do you have any papers", to which JJ looks him in the eye and replies "No, our last issue basically flew out the window. But I've got some bonds under my desk that I was keeping for my kid's college fund. You'll have to bid above par to get them."
"You must be selling snake oil," says a man in a long black leather coat with a patch over his right eye, appearing from nowhere. "I checkmate using the Najdorf variation," replies JJ, puzzling the hell out of me. We step into a car. Five minutes later we're slipping round the coast in a Latvian fishing trawler. We arrive at a port where a small black helicopter transports us 100 miles inland to a secret destination, with a sign "No MTNs allowed" above the door.
It's not the usual civil service building. In fact it's an artificial volcano, and inside there are sirens blaring, and a couple of secret agents being shot while trying to escape. It reminds me a little of Finland during the banking crisis. I hear the words COUNTDOWN TO LAUNCH NOW COMMENCING and wonder which firm has the global presence to pull off a bond issue that requires a false volcano as part of its infrastucture, and why we haven't got one.
JJ, normally-speaking a fat hot-dog of a man, is more alert than usual and appears to have found a savvy that exceeds that of simply explaining the heavy participation of Asian central banks.
We walk into the control room and see the back of a chair, its occupant is watching the World Series. "I'm glad you could come, gentleman," utters a voice in perfect American. "As you will appreciate, I brought you 2,000 miles via the straits of Bohinia and through the Voshpomous in my private helicopter to my secret lair because I have always appreciated your firm's integrity and respect for the individual. What I am about to tell you cannot leave this room..." The chair wheels around.
I vaguely recognise him, but it is JJ who exclaims first "Mike, Mike Milkall - what are you doing here?" Our host allows a thin smile to pass over his lips. "I am Mike no longer. To you I'm Viktor the Bear, alias Goldenjunk. Beverly Hills is a distant memory, as is Drexel Burnem and Screwem. This is my land now."
So this is where a jail sentence and $100 million fine gets you, I think, poor Mike. Then I remember that JJ and Milkall first swung their dicks together on the firm's training course. JJ decided that bringing the US thrift system to the brink of doom at a cost of $150 billion to the taxpayer was not for him.
"What can we do for you," says JJ.
"We've got some junk we need to sell."
"What's the junk?"
"Global nuclear melt-down bonds," hisses Milkall, a strange gleam in his eye. "That's right. These guys have a structured refinancing deal as solid as a sarcophagus. The hedge funds will bite our hands off for a piece of the action. Forget TVA and its global power bonds. That's for wimps. This could be a multi-trillion dollar market."
"Hold it Milkall," snaps JJ, "what sane fund manager is going to pour money into a nuclear clean-up black hole? Where's the return, where's the coupon stream, where's the goddamn capital protection, you flaky asshole?"
Twhe normally integrated JJ smiles dangerously. But Milkall turns on the charm.
"Guys, you gotta understand something. No way is this some toxic high-risk investment. This is more your classic structured pass-through deal. Okay, what we're funding here are massive high-density lead and concrete shelters with a projected half-life of 500 years. But there's a ton of soft credits and multilateral grants behind this stuff. The west can't leave nuclear time-bombs ticking all around its next big export market. The multinationals can't afford to take 150 million consumers out of the market."
Milkall warms to his theme. "With the meltdown exposure contained, imagine, these towns and factories can keep producing all kinds of junk goods real cheap because of low energy costs. And the cashflow's yours. Here you have a huge yield pick up on what is basically Uncle Sam risk."
I glance across at JJ who's already punching figures into a spreadsheet on his pocket computer and muttering: "Those sappy environmental funds in California...those money market funds in Boston ain't sniffed any yield all year...the government of Singapore for half a billion... Jorge Sore-ass will want a whole bundle." Suddenly JJ remembers his deep respect for the customer whose interest always comes first.
"Milkall, baby, these meltdown bonds are going to be hot!" shouts JJ. But suddenly he looks all anxious. "You think you have enough inventory?"
"JJ, this is just the beginning."
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