Tokyo Bossa Nova (A Feisty Ferreira Mystery)

By Martin Roth

A body is discovered on the dealing room floor of upper-crust investment bankers Baund Major, in this financial thriller from best-selling author Martin Roth. Meanwhile, a shady Japanese takeover specialist is trying to acquire an obscure Australian oil company.

Enter Feisty Ferreira, a thirty-something geologist from Brazil who has taken a high-salary position at Baund Major in order to support the orphanage that she impulsively bought on a mission trip to the Philippines.

Sent to Tokyo to uncover the mystery of the takeover bid, she finds herself enveloped in a conspiracy that reaches to the highest levels of government. Along the way she is also forced to battle yakuza gangsters to rescue her own niece from the exotic Tokyo Bossa Nova nightclub, where she is being forced to work as a hostess.

Her only ally would seem to be handsome Japanese investment banker Shiggy Sanjo. Yet even he may not be telling the truth.

In this high-intensity action thriller nothing is what it seems and no one can be trusted. Plot twists will leave the reader guessing until the - literally - explosive finale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Roth
• Release date: Jan 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301127450

Martin Roth

Martin Roth is a veteran journalist and foreign correspondent who lived in Tokyo for seventeen years and whose reports from throughout Asia have appeared in leading publications around the world. He now lives with his family in Melbourne, Australia, where he enjoys walking his black Sarplaninac mountain sheepdog and drinking coffee in the city’s many wonderful cafés.

Book preview

Prologue

When you travel on holiday to the Philippines you want to bring home some memorable souvenirs, right? A batik sarong, say. Or a set of those ornate decorative cane baskets that every shop seems to sell. Or one of those carved ebony sculptures that you can plonk on your desk as a paperweight.

I’m different.

I bought an orphanage.

Now I just have to pay for it.

My name is Faustina Ferreira, though since I was a kid everyone has always called me Feisty. Which is odd, because I was born and raised in Rio de Janeiro, and feisty isn’t even a word in Brazil. But that’s what they called me, and I’m not going to drop it now that I’m a high-powered investment bank analyst here in Melbourne, Australia.

Actually, I’m a geologist by profession. I studied at the Federal University of Rio De Janeiro, followed by post-graduate work at MIT in the States. But then my love of travel, not to mention my husband walking out on me - into the arms of another man - yes, a man - inspired me to accept a post down under in Australia. Here, thanks to the seemingly insatiable Chinese demand for Aussie minerals, the mining industry was on fire and they were screaming out for qualified geologists. I got a job in Melbourne with BHP Billiton, the world’s largest mining company, and spent my time analyzing mineral samples.

So how did I come to buy an orphanage?

Pastor Ron Thomas at my church, the Box Hill Community Church, a crusty old man in a wheelchair, had organized a short-term mission trip to Cebu in the Philippines. A dozen of us went over. We had a doctor, a dentist, a couple of schoolteachers and some other specialists. We served according to our gifts, and because they had no need for a geologist I helped bring in the rice harvest and taught a ladies’ Bible study class.

We’d flown out as a group, but I was needed back in the office - busy, busy, always busy - and so had to return home after just ten days. And it was during a brief stopover in Manila that I visited an orphanage which had actually been built many years earlier by an Australian pastor

We’re on the brink of closing down, the lady in charge told me. Unless we can buy the land we’re on. But that would cost… I didn’t exactly catch what she told me. In Philippine pesos it sounded enormous. But that’s always the way with these high-inflation, poorer countries - you feel rich with ten thousand pesos or rupiah or whatever in your purse, until you realize it’s actually worth about three dollars.

But in this case the amount really was huge. Quarter of a million dollars, or something like that. That was my first mistake.

Don’t you own the property?

We did. When we started up. But then we ran out of money, and so we sold it to a generous donor who said we could stay rent-free. But he’s died and his family want to sell out.

I’ll buy it, I said with enthusiasm. Vaguely I was thinking that my church might help out. In retrospect I was probably like those naive visitors to Vegas who wake up married, or with a tattoo on their buttock.

So I took out a loan and bought the property.

Though to be honest, I’m not really sure that I own it. I received a sheaf of documents and signed whatever was placed in front of me. But I find it hard to believe that a foreigner can just come along and buy a building and land like that.

No matter. I now feel an obligation to keep the place going. That’s thousands of dollars a month. I didn’t know orphans were so expensive. I was well paid as a geologist, but not that well paid.

So when I saw the ads in the Australian Financial Review for an energy industry analyst for the new Melbourne office of Baund Major, the posh British investment bank, I knew that this was my chance to make some real money.

The result is that now I toil at the coalface of the stockbroking industry, regularly racing breathlessly from my desk in the research department into the dealing room to impart to the sales staff there the latest news, analysis and hot tips on the energy companies. It’s a dirty job, but, as my fellow analysts keep observing, someone has to make all that money.

Unfortunately, I’ve only held the position six months and already everything has gone pear-shaped, which is what we say here in Australia.

One of my reports has landed me in deep trouble.

Oh, and there’s something else.

Someone has just discovered a body on the dealing room floor.

Chapter 1

Tuxedo Oil shares were heading for a new high, the options were through the roof, the bond market was rallying and the Aussie dollar was rocketing. It was not a convenient time to find a body on the dealing room floor. Sam Suss, head of equity sales, registered his complaint.

Will whoever’s playing around under that desk over there for goodness sake come out, he yelled at the limp pair of pinstripe-trousered legs. You’re messing up my screens.

It was true. Rows of tiny green hieroglyphics were racing across the screen of the Reuters terminal like a doctor’s prescription in motion. And the stock quote monitor, instead of displaying the latest prices, flashed a bizarre pyrotechnic display of flying letters and numbers.

Sam was about to scream at the legs again, but one of his three telephones interrupted.

Suss, he answered. Then, Bob, we’re in business again. It’s all moving. The whole market. The bear’s in hibernation. We’re back in a ginormous bull market. We’re making money. You don’t want to miss out.

He pushed some more buttons on the monitor. The onscreen fireworks continued. Hey! he shouted, one hand covering the telephone mouthpiece. Who is that? Get out of there before I boot you up the backside.

The legs didn’t move.

I think it’s Nick, said one of the young work-experience kids, ever eager to help.

Sam shouted across to Tony Denniss, a young blonde salesman sitting under a giant chart of the Dow. Tony, give me a price on Commonwealth Bank. Bob on the line from Hong Kong.

Tony punched some numbers into his own monitor. Can’t do, he shouted back. Machine’s up the creek. I reckon someone must be playing around with the wiring.

Bob, listen, said Sam. Technical problems. Give me a minute. I’ll call you back.

By now a few of the younger staff members, nervous in case Sam displayed one of his famous tantrums, were huddled around the legs, trying to coax them out.

Nick, Nick, said one. Come on.

Big tough Sam’s going to boot you in the backside, said Jules Hoben, a young graduate trainee who was already interviewing for jobs at both Goldman Sachs and Macquarie. He didn’t care what he said.

Is it really Nick? asked someone.

It looked like Nick. The too-shiny shoes. The too-smooth trousers, the sharp crease evident even in death. It was Nick all right.

He’s drunk, whispered a sales assistant to Sam, who was advancing on the corpse, his face grim.

More than one hundred people worked in the dealing room, and news spread fast. Excited eyes now peered out from above computer terminals and from behind piles of reports. The prospect of another dust-up between Sam Suss and a research department analyst had energized the dealers and traders. Secretaries and assistants hovered in front of the flashing big board, ready to retreat if Sam began hurling telephones.

Sam was a squat man with a powerful body that could best be described as simian. A small, bullet-shaped head, unnaturally long legs and arms and a barrel chest. Now he crouched and grabbed the protruding ankles with his large hands. With a couple of powerful tugs he yanked out the body, then stormed back to his seat.

Nick had been lying face down, his skinny arms entangled in the streamers of wiring that flowed from the office computers and monitors. Someone rolled him over. He was even paler than normal. His eyes and mouth were open, and something that looked like white foam was on his lips.

Tim Brown, take-charge banking analyst, strode over. He bent and slapped Nick’s face. Come on Nick, you silly sausage. Sober up. It’s only one-thirty. You have to write some reports. Reports? Reports? Remember those?

A small crowd had gathered.

He doesn’t look too healthy, murmured Eric Marples, a bond trader.

What’s that stuff on his face? asked someone.

Oh no, muttered Harry Cown, a short-sighted warrants salesman. He’s been snorting coke. In his lunch break. Harry was from New York. He seemed to know a lot about illegal substances.

Now Tim was trying to locate a pulse. His face lined. I can’t find any heartbeat.

What? said Harry. He put a hand on Nick’s chest, then started to tremble. His heart’s stopped.

Two secretaries in designer clothes almost in unison began to scream. Another started to cry.

Sam was on the phone again. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and glared at the assembly. For goodness sake. Will you all shut up.

Chapter 2

My report on Tuxedo Oil was due yesterday.

But it’s hard to concentrate on work when two sweating paramedics are maneuvering a colleague’s corpse through the office on a stretcher, like a beached dolphin being carted to the tip. I watched as they jerked to and fro, like learner drivers practicing reverse gear for the first time, working to navigate the narrow spaces between all the desks.

How different my work environment was now from when I was in the mining industry. We had been under such pressure from the greenies that you couldn’t walk three paces around the office without falling over a palm tree. It was like working in the Amazon rain forest - a large, open-plan space filled with exotic flora. You kept waiting for a flock of toucans to appear. And, because we had become so beholden to all the greenie warnings of how the natural environment was sacred, the office atmosphere was like church. No one dared raise their voice, for fear of being smitten to the ground, or turned into salt or something.

So I actually welcomed the radical change I encountered when I switched jobs and entered the frenzied Baund Major office.

It reminded me of Brazil.

I watched as the paramedics struggled out the exit. I had never been close to Nick. In fact, I hadn’t even liked him much. He came across as a real suck-up, an ambitious young Aussie trying to be more British than the Brits in order to curry favor with the bosses. But never had I wished him dead. A body in the office was unnerving.

I looked at the photo on my desk of Luisa, one of the orphan kids who had so enchanted me back in Manila. She was dressed in a simple cotton, floral dress, and her chubby and dimpled face displayed a beaming Filipina smile with just enough cheekiness in her twinkling eyes to bring out all my latent maternal instincts.

This photo was a kind of talisman. Somehow it gave me comfort and strength, like Catholics and their rosary beads. Or perhaps it just reminded me of why I desperately needed this job.

I returned to my Tuxedo Oil report. Because, let’s face it, right now I had more pressing matters than death on my mind. After just six lucrative months as energy analyst in the Melbourne office of Baund Major I was under threat of dismissal.

Think of the orphans, I wanted to cry.

Tony Denniss strode past my desk, dressed in an Italian-tailored suit. He had joined us from Credit Suisse, bringing with him a client list of gold. At twenty-five he earned three times more than his father, an esteemed English literature professor at Melbourne University. His was a hard life. Out drinking with his clients every night. Golf every weekend. Fearful of missing an order he took virtually no holidays.

Like all the analysts, I had learned to remain friendly with the star sales staff. They brought in the money, and it didn’t help if they started complaining about us. Now as he walked past my desk I gripped his wrist, looked up at him and winked. Don’t often get stiffs in the dealing room. At least, not lying on the floor.

I expected a polite grin. Instead he shook his arm free and walked grimly away. He didn’t want to know me.

Investment bankers sniff out decay fast. It’s part of the job. And since my disastrous report on the uranium sector, which won and then lost us major amounts of business, I was as attractive as week-old sushi.

I directed my thoughts back to Tuxedo Oil. The report was flickering at me with hostility from my computer. I glowered back, but it wasn’t intimidated. It was nearly done. I just needed a conclusion. That was often the hardest part.

Then my concentration was interrupted again by the arrival of Leslie Crater, head of research. His lips were quivering, no doubt pining for the Benson and Hedges duty-free cigarette that seemed permanently to hang there when he was outside the office. Tiny drops of perspiration dribbled down his brow. The landlord had turned off the air conditioning system, despite the unseasonably muggy conditions.

Sad, sad. Leslie the office bore spoke to everyone.

Right, right, I agreed. And I’m busy, busy.

I had on my desk a bag of San Lorenzo Italian mints that I had ordered from the Candy Warehouse. I took one, unwrapped it with deliberation and placed it in my mouth. I did not try to offer any to Leslie. But he would not take the hint. He just stood by my desk, gazing vacantly at my computer screen, and occasionally scaring me by twitching his face towards the ceiling, as if he were smoking and needed to exhale.

Baund Major was one of the leading British investment banks, with large offices around the world. In Melbourne alone it boasted a dozen superstar analysts, all hired recently at vast sums as the company worked to make hay from the booming market. Here, in the research department, assistants and secretaries trebled that number. On the other side of the glass-paneled wall was the dealing room, with another hundred or so toilers.

And right now it seemed that all except me craved the warmth of close human companionship.

Over by one window the financials team stood whispering to each other. Tim Brown, his pudgy face pale, his poodle-like eyes narrowed, was demonstrating how he worked to find Nick’s heartbeat. A trio of warrants sales staff were huddled together by the branch manager’s office. I could see Suzie Beem, our pharmaceuticals analyst, pointing through the glass wall dividers between research and the dealing room.

A dozen policemen were still scurrying around in there, drawing little chalk marks on the floor, taking photographs and interviewing staff. The market had closed for the day. Sam Suss and his sales team sat at their desks looking drained.

Unfortunately, dapper, stiff-upper-lip Leslie Crater, with his guards officer necktie and his military bearing, would not leave me alone. He was was a good man. Nick. A a good man.

Leslie didn’t stutter. He repeated whole words. Some said it was because he was innately shy. I said it was because he was an upper-class twit. As far as I could make out, when Baund Major arrived in Australia it had introduced a very British caste system of aristocrats, bourgeoisie and coolies, though fortunately, as a Brazilian-American import, I was outside all these class divisions.

Unhappily, I could not escape the ultimate divide at every stockbroker’s - the line between those bringing in business and those losing the company money.

My heart was heavy as I struggled to complete my report on Tuxedo Oil. Was my illustrious six-month career at Baund Major about to come to a screeching halt?

Chapter 3

As a high school student in the plush Rio de Janeiro suburb of Jardim Botânico - suvaco do Cristo we called the place, armpit of Christ, because it lay beneath the right arm of the famous Christ the Redeemer statue - I had, in the self-indulgent way of students, joined demonstrations against the oligarchs and the land-owners who dominated Brazilian society.

Now here I was, once again at the barricades, fighting the bosses in order to keep my job and be allowed to continue to amass huge amounts of money.

Eddie du Vann, a tubby retails analyst, stopped by my desk. He was so new he hadn’t yet fathomed the politics of the office. Like Leslie Crater, he talked with everyone. Bankers aren’t meant to die by poison. He had a whiny voice.

I looked up. "Don’t talk rubbish. How do you

Reviews for Tokyo Bossa Nova (A Feisty Ferreira Mystery)

[tracykrauss · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Tokyo Bossa Nova, by Martin Roth, introduces Feisty Ferreira, a unique and interesting character that is sure to show up in a sequel or two. Geologist turned financial analyst, she is a divorced Christian in her thirties; originally from Brazil, educated in the States, and now living in Australia. If that isn’t enough, she’s a philanthropist of sorts and owns an orphanage in the Philippines. She’s also a bit of a sleuth, fearlessly sniffing out trouble despite herself. I really like this character and I look forward to reading more books with her as the star. In Tokyo Bossa Nova, strange things are taking place at Feisty’s place of employment. Feisty is sent to Tokyo to investigate the take over of a small Australian oil company. It appears that the Tokyo mafia might be involved. Previous to her trip, one of her colleagues was murdered in the office for no apparent reason. While in Japan, she discovers that a distant relative is being blackmailed. Mishaps, misinformation, a kidnapping, an explosive hijacking, and even a hint of romance are all part of a ‘day in the life’ of Fiesty Ferreira. This is a great book in the style of corporate espionage. It is engaging and well written with plenty of details about the corporate side of things without overwhelming those of us that don’t understand it all. There are a lot of characters, which was sometimes confusing, but the fact that the book is written in first person from Feisty’s point of view keeps it moving along at a brisk enough pace as to not become tedious.