The Winner's Curse: A Political Financial Thriller with Wit and Romance

By David S. Fisher

This exciting and finely paced political and mystery thriller excels in dry wit. It is a modern love story set in the mountains and lakes of Switzerland and the medieval town of Zurich. The central character, Mark, an anti-hero type and moraliser, loses his job in London as an investment manager under mysterious circumstances. While he and his IT guru friend, Fred, are bent on clearing his name of any wrongdoings, he discovers a scam in progress. By chance, he meets the inscrutable Nathalie who is tied up in an unhappy marriage. He and Nathalie begin an affair seemingly based on mutual convenience, but it soon turns to love. However, their relationship is full of complications as it soon turns out that the mastermind behind the fraud and a political conspiracy is her husband. Mark must face the fact that he, in his exuberance, has bitten off more than he can chew..

Praise for this book:

"An amusing, compelling mystery thriller."

"Fast-paced, suspenseful and well- written."

"A modern romance thriller for our times."   

"The characters are fully developed, the story well-researched, and the ending will leave you smiling and stunned." 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Irresistible Reads Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2018

Book preview

THE WINNER'S

CURSE

A political financial thriller with wit and romance set in the medieval town of Zurich and against the age-old mountains and lakes of Switzerland. But with a very modern storyline.

by

DAVID S. FISHER

It's not the good and noble but the ruthless who change the world.

- Helen Browning Shearer

Copyright © 2018 David S. Fisher

IRRESISTIBLE READS PRESS

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CHAPTER 1

Mark Shearer knew something wasn't kosher the moment he arrived at his office that Monday morning, a day after returning from a short break in Majorca. There was tension in the air. And the usual nods from his colleagues were missing. It was as if they knew something he didn't.

Shrugging, he walked on to his private office.

He saw that Kirsten, his assistant, wasn't in yet or had stepped out to get their morning coffee.

Slipping off his jacket, he made himself comfortable in his executive-size swivel chair at his desk. Only one sheet of paper lay on the desktop. His calendar for the day. Kirsten had most probably typed it up before she left on Friday. He had only one appointment. At eleven. When he saw who it was with he felt a knot in his belly.

His mind still busy searching for a reason for a meeting with senior management, he went about booting his workstation and was soon surfing across familiar territory, reading his emails and sending off replies. Then he browsed through the mass of electronic stuff a company with the size and complexity of GI put out in only one week.

Mark worked for Global Investments Inc. Or GI as it was referred to in the world of finance. An international hedge fund operating on five continents. They would be the first to set up a couple of skyscrapers on the sixth if one should arise. GI prided themselves on being the first at whatever they did.

He turned to the investment section to catch up on the time he'd been away. An error message appeared: Call Network Administrator.

Bloody computers, he sighed and rang the IT department.

Yeah? a man's voice said and sounded bored, User Services.

Mark explained the problem.

There was a pause, then he came back on. That section of the application has been upgraded security-wise ... What's your ID again?

Mark told him and heard the clicks as the man used his keyboard.

Sorry, you're not allowed access.

What are you talking about?

Hey, don’t you understand English?

Look, do you know who I am? This is Mark Shearer, head of the European investment activities of this bloody company. That application is my only way of keeping score. Without those numbers, I'm blind.

Sorry, mate, but you're talking to the wrong guy. I don't do the access grading around here.

Who the hell does?

He jotted down the extension and hung up. He recognised the number immediately. It belonged to Harry Greenspan, the head of operations and controller of GI. And deputy general manager.

He dialled but learnt from the man's secretary that he was in a meeting. He left a message to say he would call back. Christ, this week was getting off to a bloody marvellous start. And stress from Upstairs he didn’t need.

A knock on the door frame brought him out of his reverie.

Hi Boss, have a nice holiday? Kirsten's chirpy voice said as she brought in his breakfast – coffee and a buttered pretzel.

He nodded. Yeah, OK, thanks.

She placed the try on his desk. Hey, then why the black looks?

He shot her a wry smile. That appointment at eleven. They didn't say what it was about?

She shrugged, leaning her slim figure against a filing cabinet. No. Just an executive secretary requesting the attendance of Mr Mark Shearer at a confidential meeting with Mr Greenspan, she replied, mimicking the clipped accents the girls on the top floor affected.

And you've no inkling?

She hesitated for a second. Nothing definite. But there was some flap last Thursday. Bill should know, though. I remember he was called upstairs a couple of times.

Bill Young was Mark's deputy and bad news. The pompous sod hated his guts for having got his present job over his head.

At that moment, he strode into Mark’s office without knocking as if it were his own. He sat on the corner of the desk, adjusting the sharp creases in his trousers. Did I hear my name mentioned? he said, ignoring Kirsten. In fact, he had his back turned to her. The way he treated her always galled Mark.

Kirsten rolled her eyes skywards and marched out of the room.

Do you have any idea what Greenspan wants to speak to me about? Mark asked.

Young shook his head and took a visitor's chair.

Kirsten mentioned a flap last week. What's up?

This firm thrives on flaps, old chap. Just one more of the same. Nothing to get bothered about.

Still you were upstairs on Thursday.

Was I? I don't remember. Other things on my mind, I expect.

More important than meetings with the top brass?

A shrug that spoke volumes.

Are you sure you don't know? Mark prodded, irritated.

Look, Shearer, he replied peevishly, standing up. He then leaned across the desk, his shoulders propped on his arms. If you're bloody well implying I had-

Forget it, Mark said, his voice icy-cold, and turned to his computer, ignoring him further.

Young strode out of the room with angry strides.

Mark would have got rid of the bastard long ago if he weren't so skilled in office political warfare. He had back-stabbing cronies in all the right strategic nooks and crannies. And was well connected in the City.

Kirsten watched Bill Young storm out of Mark's office and gave him a finely calculated sneer.

Loose-mouthed bitch, he growled as he passed.

Bully for Mark, she grinned to herself and went back to her work on the previous week's investment returns. On her subset, she saw the light on Mark's direct line go on. The call was over in seconds.

My eleven o'clock meeting's been brought forward, he said to her as he pulled on his jacket.

She smiled encouragingly, her eyes following him out. He now had a worried frown on his clean-shaven, craggy face, his dark-brown curly hair dishevelled, as usual. She pottered around for a while, listlessly. Finally, she left for the cafeteria to catch up on her breakfast.

Her head was full of bemused thoughts as she took the lift down to the restaurant.

She took her coffee and sandwich to an empty table and watched the heavy grey rain sweeping across the City's roofs as she stirred in the sweetener. She had heard some rumours last week. About him. Nothing definite, but it sounded like trouble looming. For him. And by extension for her?

Mark used his personal key card to access the inner sanctum on the top floor. He now stood in front of a porter's desk with the tense patience of an army recruit waiting for his leave pass.

The board and operations directors were luxuriously accommodated on the two uppermost floors. Compared with the other eight floors of organised madness below, the top-management suites were beautifully peaceful. Mozart was being piped in from a concealed sound system.

After a ten minute wait, Greenspan's elegantly dressed secretary ushered him into her boss's private office. The room was spacious, spartan but expensively furnished. Just the basics. Desk, a conference table, two filing cabinets, but a massive intercom and a laptop, showing GI's logo. Behind him and taking up the whole of one wall was a panoramic window with a view of the City skyline. A cluster of skyscrapers bearing witness to London being the centre of the European finance world.

Greenspan portrayed the controller incarnate. An oval face impassive behind rimless glasses, hair plastered down, an immaculate three-piece suit over a starched white shirt. Charles Burkman, the general manager, had brought him in when he took on the top job some two years ago.

To one side and close to the window stood a man he knew but couldn't place. And who was not introduced.

Greenspan rose from his chair. You are looking well, he said, waving for Mark to take a seat at the conference table. Enjoyed your holiday?

He sat on the edge of his desk. The other man remained standing.

Er, yes ... Mark started to say, poised to join in the small-talk, but Greenspan went straight on.

Well, Mark, you must be wondering what this is all about. Now, to save you holding your breath, I can tell you that you've got a promotion coming.

Mark couldn't believe his ears. He sensed the knot in his stomach tighten.

You've been appointed to head up Investor Services at our German office. You'll be the vice president of operations. Well, what do you say?

That's very kind, Mark said. "But I like the work here. And I've worked in London all my professional life ...''

''I understand you were in Germany before we took over here?'' Greenspan glanced at the other man as if for confirmation.

Suddenly, Mark was able to place him – the head creep from Human Relations.

A Mondays to Fridays job, Mark said. International commuting, he added with a smile.

Ah, yes. Well, anyway, you know Germany.

You can hardly say that.

But you speak German, I understand.

Yes, I suppose so.

There we are then. You'll do an outstanding job in Germany, I'm sure. And the operational experience will come in handy later, believe you me.

Bugger, he wasn't going to any bloody Frankfurt office. Compared to London, that was the sticks. And about as exciting as Bristol on a Sunday afternoon. I ... Mark began to object …

Oh yes, and the transfer's effective immediately.

Immediately? Mark felt the knot in his stomach growing like lung cancer being fed on pure nicotine.

Duty calls, eh? Greenspan replied, now on his feet and buttoning the jacket of his suit.

The man from Human Relations was standing to attention in best GI fashion.

Greenspan stood tall. Well, the best of luck to you, Mark ... And er, talk to Summers here from HR about the details.

I'm not sure I understand. Am I being given a choice?

Greenspan's voice took on a sharp note. It's not a question of personal considerations, Mark. You are urgently needed in Frankfurt.

Summers nodded dutifully, a cynical smile at a corner of his lips.

We want you as a vice president in Frankfurt, Mark, Greenspan went on. We need good men to fill important jobs in troubled times.

I don't understand. GI’s never been doing so well. Why only last month … Mark stopped in mid-sentence, about to explain that profits were at record highs.

Greenspan's menacing look discouraged further argument. In Frankfurt, Mark, he growled. We're talking about Germany, for heaven's sake. Central Europe.

Mark wavered. He couldn't refuse a promotion out of hand. Nobody in his right mind did such things at GI. He changed tack. With a brave effort at humour, he said, Don't condemned men deserve a day or two's grace?

Greenspan's brow darkened in anger. Mark thought for a second he'd pushed him too far.

Summers coughed. Er … may I suggest we give him a day to get used to the idea?

The interruption diffused the awkward situation Mark had suddenly got himself into. Greenspan's face relaxed.

Yes, of course. Take tomorrow off, Mark. And then report to Summers, all right?

And my replacement here? Mark asked.

We'll attend to that, Greenspan said. Any handing over on your part won't be necessary.

Mark nodded, thoughts falling into place like well-oiled cogs. Now, he could guess what the meetings on Thursday had been about. Bill Young was to replace him. Gradually, whatever fight was left drained out of him.

Greenspan offered his hand, his grasp fleeting and formal. Summers stood back, looking on sadly as if contemplating somebody's funeral.

Mark didn't need to guess whose.

The main office was deserted when Mark returned. All were out for the mid-morning break. Thank God. He couldn't face up to any of them. He slumped into his desk chair, a bad taste in his mouth. He'd never prized his job highly before but now, about to lose it, it had suddenly become the centre of his life.

Pulling himself to his feet, he began to sort out his private things and papers he might need later, packing the stuff into a briefcase and a board case on wheels. Kirsten appeared in the doorway.

How did it go? she asked tentatively. Her face became taut as she took in the open cases.

Mark gave her a wry smile. I'm being promoted.

Don't joke.

It's the honest truth. I'm the new vice president of operations in Frankfurt. Effective immediately.

Isn't that good news?

For whom?

Obviously it isn't, she said and walked away.

Mark grabbed his stuff and followed her out, feeling lousy about his black mood. None of this was her fault. Tell Greenspan I'll be back to see Summers on Wednesday, will you, love?

She gave him a quick smile. All right ... Anything else?

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. Thanks for everything, Kirsty.

He picked up his bags self-consciously.

She stood as if frozen to the spot, silently watching him.

He hated goodbyes and above all having to leave her behind – to her fate. She'd always been loyal and supportive. Perhaps he could find a job for her in Frankfurt. He knew she spoke some German.

As he parted unceremoniously, he had a sense of foreboding. As if this were the beginning and not the end of something very unpleasant.

Mark spent the rest of the afternoon in the sauna, meaning to sweat out the smell of GI. But he wasn't in the mood to be alone. Afterwards, he felt peckish and went for a bite to eat close by. His mind full of that talk with Greenspan that morning, trying to figure out why he was being transferred. And to Germany of all places. It was a mystery to him. He was good at his job, always earned a tidy bonus at year end. Wasn't unpopular. But he wasn't a yes-man. Unlike Bill Young. He spoke up, said what he thought. Had he trodden on somebody's toes?

Sick of the meaningless soul-searching, he needed a drink. And a chat.

He took a cab to the Sixties Bar off the Bayswater Road, his favourite watering hole. Cosy, not too loud, the sort of spot he could relax in, talk to the regulars like himself and listen to music from the sixties. He'd met his wife, Helen, there. Well, ex-wife.

Thinking of his family, he decided to ring and find out how his little daughter, Bette, was getting on.

He called Helen's office number.

How's my ex-family? he asked.

Making out, she said, a pleasant note in her voice.

And Bette?

She misses you, she says.

And my ex-wife?

She misses you too – sometimes, she added with a little laugh.

I could come over later, he ventured, hoping she hadn't got anything better to do. To say hello to the two of you.

I won't be back till late.

I don't go to bed early … And, anyway, we're grown up people, aren't we?

You'll never grow up, she exploded playfully.

Well, he didn't know about that, but he told her he was grown up enough.

Mark took the Tube home to change. Afterwards, he got his car and drove out to their old house in Hampstead which Helen had received in the settlement, playing Sinatra's I did it my way on the car's CD deck. A lovely sentiment, only it never turned out for him that way.

He stopped off at a flower shop and bought all the fresh roses he could find. Also, he picked up a vintage Michael Jackson album for Bette at the neighbouring music store.

When they married, Helen was an aspiring defence lawyer and worked out of an office with three other women barristers. Mark was trying to survive and get on in the investment banking business where every day became a battle for mere existence and ethics were treated like a fatal disease.

They both worked all hours and had piles of cash but no time for each other. They should have stayed lovers. It was only when they weren't in bed that things didn't jibe with them. Now, they were divorced and he and Helen were back to being the best of mates – and occasional lovers. Which was a tragedy of sorts!

It was dark when Mark turned the car into her garage driveway. The downstairs lights were on. Good to know she hadn't suddenly changed her mind. She was like that.

Helen let him in, her doe-like eyes smiling, her long blonde hair hanging in matted strands from the shower. She wore a thin cotton bathrobe which emphasised her curvaceous figure. He gave her a soft kiss, and she hung on for a little more with which he obliged.

It's been a long time, she said, taking the flowers and smelling them.

A couple of weeks, he said and dangled the CD in front of her nose. Where's our daughter?

Asleep, she said with a mischievous grin.

Asleep?

She laughed. She had a busy day. So I sent her off to bed early. I just wanted to see you. Alone. Was that wrong?

No, there was nothing wrong with that at all. Bette could wait for Michael Jackson till breakfast.

CHAPTER 2

Mark flew to Frankfurt later the same week.

He'd spent the next day with Helen and Bette and part of Wednesday with Summers. She had convinced him to be realistic and to screw the lot of them for the most advantageous deal he could get. Definitely sound legal advice. He'd left the Personnel department with the conviction that he'd come out on top. Financially, at least.

The responsibilities in Frankfurt, though, were still only vaguely defined.

Sitting comfortably in the business class, relaxed in body but not mind, he somehow felt glad to be back in the GI fold. Well, maybe things would turn out for the best. Not everyone at GI was an arrogant and self-seeking bastard like Greenspan. As in a well-stocked zoo, not all animals were predators.

As the plane touched down at Rhine-Main airport, Mark found himself looking forward to his new job. All considered, Germany hadn't been all bad, he supposed.

During the taxi ride into town, he took in familiar sights and places as they flashed by. He was full of cheerful expectations when the driver set him down at GI's head office in the city's financial district. A modern six-storey building like the others thereabouts, it had GLOBAL INVESTMENTS INCORPORATED stretched across the façade in two-metre high letters. Impressive, he said to himself.

GI kept up its image with a prodigious show of wealth, solidity and prosperity. Unspoken company policy encouraged the art of making influential political friends and helping them to get rich.

Full of enthusiasm to get stuck in, Mark took the lift to the top floor – his new home. He was now a vice president, not something to be sniffed at. So relax and enjoy.

A matronly secretary showed him into the general manager's office punctually at eleven. She treated him as though he were just another nobody from London on a jaunt.

Well, he was used to it. International travel was second nature to GI executives.

GEROLD SUTTER, PRESIDENT, as the oversized nameplate on his door pointed out, was in his late forties and had the nervous eyes of someone used to the GI brand of paranoia. His handshake was firm but the palm slightly clammy.

I can't say I'm pleased to see you, Sutter began, speaking German.

Mark half smiled as he looked for the joke.

I've already complained about it to that lot in London, he went on. Why retire a man like Ingo Mundt, your predecessor here. From one day to the next, mind you. We weren't even consulted. Were you?

Er no.

Ah, I see. I've been with GI for more than ten years. I've experienced some queer things in my time, but this tops it all.

Oh, really?

Well, we minions from the fringes of the GI empire can't change anything anyway, I suppose.

No.

Head Office cracks the whip, and we jump.

Er yes..

He stood up. I'm supposed to show you around, so let's get it over with, shall we?

The staff reception was as cool as Mark now expected. Sutter introduced him to people whose names he tried to remember but instantly forgot. Most reacted politely dismissive, some curious. A number of the old hands had stayed away.

By noon, introductions to the key people had been taken care of. Mark was glad to be sitting alone in his new office. He decided straight off to review the financial reports and get down to righting the ship. A press on the buzzer summoned his secretary. She had longevity written all over her.

She didn't waste time. Herr Shearer, you should know that as soon as I got the news this morning about Herr Mundt I went straight to our Personnel officer. I'm applying for a move to another department.

Others appeared and expressed their wish to apply for a transfer. Mark nodded and wished them well. He’d been involved in palace revolutions before. He knew the routine.

In between the comings and goings, he had spent some time examining the regional accounts and monthly reports. They confirmed what he, by now, expected. Even the profits forecast prepared by Mundt for the year was all good news. Marvellous, bloody marvellous!

His good mood of earlier had disappeared and he shuddered to think how much loyalty really counted and how close those bastards at the London office had come to re-buying his. Thank you, Herr Mundt, for the timely insight. I owe you one.

At his hotel that evening, Mark called Fred Mayer. He and Fred were old friends and had both worked for the old NatWest. Now, he earned his living programming computer systems, or something like that, for firms in the world of finance and banking. He had a place out in Clapham.

His girlfriend, Ruth, answered and he flirted for a minute or two with her. She was a nice kid, about ten years younger than Fred. She put him through to Fred who was still in the workshop below their flat.

Hello. His voice sounded weary.

Hi, Fred.

Oh, it's you, you bastard, he said with a forced laugh.

Who did you expect: the chairman of Barclays?

"Ruth said – Nah, it doesn't matter ...''

She pulling your leg again, eh?

A grunt.

''Business is good?''

''Working all hours ...''

Don't neglect Ruth ... You won't get another like her so fast.

Yeah, yeah, and you never fail to take your own advice.

Eh?

You and Helen.

That was different, old buddy.

With you, it always is ... Now, what are you ringing for?

I need some advice, Freddie.

He heard a lighter click and Fred draw in deeply. What's it this time?

Too involved for the phone. It's urgent though.

What isn't? For a week now, I've been up to my bollocks solving the insoluble. I've got a lousy virus epidemic to sort out, and the bastard thing's driving me bloody barmy.

How about Saturday? Mark edged in through the artillery fire.

Yeah, why not? Twelve o'clock, OK? A bite to eat and then the Chelsea match afterwards?

Mark laughed, pleased. Yes, and yes. And don't get too worked up in your workshop, all right?

Bugger off.

At noon on Saturday, Fred let Mark in through the workshop’s street door. He was a bit shorter than Mark’s six foot two, his long hair showing signs of greying. With blue