Money for Nothing

By C. M. Albright

What do you do once you have it all?

The four friends from Trenchart Colville are set to become Masters of the Universe – but for how long?

Miles is easing into the rarefied world of fund management, while Fergal enjoys every form of debauchery Hong Kong has to offer. Meanwhile, Al is consorting with European aristocracy, and Imogen is coming to terms with her desire for a life outside banking.

But the events of September 11 throws their comfortable lives into turmoil – and the friends must decide where their true loyalties lie. As the world economy plunges into crisis, the sharks are circling… Who will thrive in the meltdown that follows?

The second instalment in the Shadow Banking trilogy, for fans of The Wolf of Wall Street and Billions, Money for Nothing is an insider’s tale of what it’s really like to have it all – and what you do when it all comes crashing down.

C. M. Albright is a pseudonym for a senior figure working in the City. He has been a trader in the financial markets for twenty-five years, living and working all around the world. He has had a ringside seat during a period of unparalleled economic and political turmoil and is perfectly placed to give an insider’s perspective on this glamorous, dangerous and yet enduringly mysterious world. He divides his time between homes in London and the Cotswolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Canelo
• Release date: Sep 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911420569

C. M. Albright

C. M. Albright is a pseudonym for a senior figure working in the City. He has been a trader in the financial markets for twenty-five years, living and working all around the world. He has had a ringside seat during a period of unparalleled economic and political turmoil and is perfectly placed to give an insider’s perspective on this glamorous, dangerous and yet enduringly mysterious world. He divides his time between homes in London and the Cotswolds.

Book preview

Copyright

Money for Nothing

C.M. Albright

Canelo

Part One

Chapter One

The Player

USD/THB: 35.65

Gold: 322

Dow Jones: 7778

Fergal looked out of the window of the Boeing 767 as it flew low across Victoria Harbour towards the high rise apartment blocks that looked perilously close to the single woefully thin runway of Kai Tak airport. The people in the windows of the buildings were close enough that Fergal felt as though he might be able to wave to them and they would see him and wave back.

Fergal was drunk, not roaringly so, but having embarked at Heathrow, he had decided to dull his occasional fear of flying by setting out to try and beat the Australian cricketer David Boon’s 1989 record of fifty-two beers drunk on a Hong Kong flight – a record that he had had his sights set on for some time. But sadly for Fergal, he had lost count of the exact number of beers he had consumed when he was somewhere in the mid-twenties. Nonetheless, he had drunk enough to feel sentimental and teary-eyed as he looked out of the window at Hong Kong’s expansive horizon punctured by the winking skyscrapers of the central district. Here was the theatre of operations, the arena, for his new life. Fergal had never thought of himself as a potential ex-pat. He had felt enough of an ex-pat in London after his childhood in Dublin. But ever since Keith Peake had first mooted his possible relocation to the Far East, Fergal had known that moving to Hong Kong was the right thing to do.

After the plane had landed and taxied over to the terminal building, Fergal pulled himself gingerly to his feet and looked around at his fellow passengers as they pulled bags from overhead lockers. Many of them were in their mid to late twenties like him and wore that slightly vacant stare that only a twelve hour night flight can engender. But he felt little camaraderie with them, feeling as much as ever like the outsider. Even back home in Dublin, he never felt as though he completely fitted in. Maybe part of it was to do with his size and appearance – that was enough to set anyone apart – but it was also something psychological too. He had always felt as though he was wired differently from other people. Then again, as he walked down the aisle towards the cluster of smiling air hostesses by the door, he thought that he really only had himself to blame regarding his sense of being different from others. No one else on the flight had managed to drink over twenty-five beers during the journey, something that made him feel wobbly on his feet as he steadied himself against the headrests of the seats that he walked past.

Sally, the attractive Chinese air hostess who he had wedged himself next to in the galley and chatted to during part of the flight, smiled at him as he reached the door.

‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘And good luck.’ She knew all about his relocation to Hong Kong; he had given her a potted Fergal Quinn autobiography while she had supplied his beers and she had told him that she had lived in Hong Kong all her life. She mentioned some restaurants and bars that he should try – all of them now long forgotten. And for a moment, as she smiled at him, he thought that he might try to find out her phone number and maybe give her a call. She could show him the city. Maybe a relationship could develop. Maybe Sally was the one? Stupid, she smiled like that at everyone.

‘Great to have met you, thanks for putting up with me.’

‘That’s all right,’ she giggled.

Fergal held out his hand and she shook it. ‘Maybe I’ll see you in Hong Kong some time?’

‘Maybe,’ she said and that was it, there were people behind him who wanted to move, no time for further pleasantries. But the need to bid her goodbye in more than vocal terms overcame him and he bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. Sally’s face maintained a rictus grin as Fergal manoeuvred himself through the door. In a world of inappropriate behaviour, Fergal was the master.

Sally. Yet another woman that he could have quite happily lost his mind over who might think of him as a good friend, a soul mate even, but never a lover. It was ever thus. Then again, maybe his luck would change in Hong Kong?

Fergal could spot him straight away in the arrivals hall. It wasn’t that he was taller than the locals, he was just twice as wide.

‘The Little Fella!’ Fergal shouted it at the top of his voice and abandoning his luggage trolley, he lunged forward through the crowds and scooped Rhys up in his arms.

‘Hello Fergal. Nice flight?’

‘Yeah it was great, had a few beers.’

‘You smell as though you’re wearing most of them.’

‘I actually had less than I had intended but probably more than I should have done. Jesus, it’s great to see you. I haven’t seen you since Rob and George’s wedding.’

Rhys blushed and made a grab for Fergal’s luggage trolley: ‘Here, let me get this.’

Fergal could see his discomfort. ‘Oh shit, sorry mate, I’d forgotten about that. Ha! You played a blinder that night. That’s the sort of thing that I usually do. Don’t worry about it. It’s only embarrassing if you let it be.’

‘Yeah, Basher.’

‘Exactly.’

By now, Fergal was talking to The Little Fella’s back as he navigated a course through the crowds of people.

As they emerged from the airport building and made their way towards the taxi rank, the humidity wrapped itself around Fergal like Clingfilm. His excessive beer consumption on the journey had already made him dehydrated but the sweat that was evacuating his body and soaking into his jeans and highly inappropriate Aran jumper left him with a dull headache. They got into a taxi and set off through the streets.

And what streets they were. Fergal knew that it was a risk taking a job in a place that he had never visited – Keith Peake in particular who was now his boss just as he had been at Trenchart Colville thought he was a lunatic – but it all fuelled the exotic new-life feeling in which this entire venture seemed to be bathed. The cavalcade of humanity that was hurling itself towards the car from all sides looked like nothing he had ever seen before. Taxis, so many of them, vied for road space with rickshaws and bicycles. And the sound collage, the city’s musical score, sounded so alien to his ears, he might have been on another planet.

‘How are you settling in then, Little?’

‘I’ve only been here two days.’

‘Had some fun with Keith?’

‘Keith’s currently on a major health kick. Ever since he got here last week, he’s been visiting gyms to work out which one he’ll join. Says that if he doesn’t do something about his health, the climate here, not to mention all the misbehaviour, will see him dead by the time he’s forty.’

‘Whichever health club he joins,’ said Fergal dabbing at the glaze of sweat in which he was basted, ‘you can bet it’ll have a nice bar.’

They arrived at an apartment building in the mid-levels. The air conditioning had cooled Fergal down enough that the blast of humidity caught him unawares when they climbed out of the taxi. He felt wrung out as they made their way through the lobby carrying all his worldly possessions.

As they waited for the elevator, Rhys and Fergal looked at each other in the mirror between the double set of elevator doors. Considering he had only been in the place for a couple of days, Rhys was already looking as though he had reached some sort of understanding with the heat, some sort of compromise. Fergal looked as though he had wilted a little, his limbs and joints were thrown out of kilter so that he stood as though struggling with the forces of nature which were urging him to collapse.

‘They’ve got some great tailoring out here, Fergal. Good value. Even you can look smart here.’

‘I find that very hard to believe. I mean, would you look at me? I look as though I should be in a crime scene photograph.’

‘The Aran jumper was not one of your better ideas.’

‘Believe me, Little, I can see that now.’

The apartment was small but immaculate in a slightly sterile, hotel chain way. Fergal was mesmerised by the view from the 31st floor of Victoria harbour across which the Star Ferry was making one of its regular journeys between Hong Kong Island and Kowloon. This was his new home. This was the crucible for his forthcoming extravagances and excesses. It certainly looked exciting enough. And more important than that, it was new, different, like nothing he had ever experienced before.

‘I’ll see you in the morning, Fergal.’

Fergal turned away from the floor to ceiling window to see Rhys make his way towards the door. Fergal couldn’t help himself, the alcohol level in his system coupled with the feelings prompted by his new arrival made him feel emotional. He strode across to Rhys and put his arms around him for the second time that morning.

‘I love you, man.’

‘Yeah, it’s great to see you Fergal.’ Rhys’s face was pressed against Fergal’s moist chest. ‘See you in the morning.’

‘Yeah, see you in the morning. It’s so great to be here. We’re going to have fun here, my little Welsh friend. Just you see if we don’t.’

‘Yes, OK.’ Rhys was attempting to disengage but Fergal held him tight.

‘Thanks for coming to get