Nobody in the office knew anything about what had happened, so George and I stayed glued to Reuters (this was before the Internet, and Reuters was all we had for breaking news). Six hours after the first headline appeared, we learned that Maxwell’s enormous body had been lifted out of the Atlantic Ocean off the Canary Islands by a Spanish naval search-and-rescue helicopter. He was sixty-eight years old. To this day, nobody knows whether it was an accident, suicide, or murder.
The day after Maxwell died, the share price of MCC plummeted. This was to be expected, but it was made worse because Maxwell had used shares of his companies as collateral to borrow money to support the share price of MCC. These loans were now being called in by the banks, and nobody knew what could be repaid and what couldn’t. The most visible effect of this uncertainty was the endless procession of well-dressed, nervous bankers who lined up to meet with Eugene, desperate to get their loans repaid.
While we were all shocked by Maxwell’s death, we couldn’t help worrying about our own futures. Would our jobs be safe? Would we get our year-end bonuses? Would the company even survive?
A little more than a week after Maxwell’s death, my boss called me into his office and said, «Bill, we’re going to pay bonuses a little early this year. You’ve done a fine job and we’re going to give you fifty thousand pounds».
I was stunned. This was more money than I had seen in my entire life, and twice what I was expecting. «Wow. Thank you».
He then handed me a check — not a machine-typed check issued by the payroll department, but a handwritten one. «It’s very important that you go down to the bank and ask for express clearing of this to your account straightaway. As soon as you’re done, I’d like you to come back here and let me know how it went».
I left the office, walked quickly to Barclays on High Holborn, and nervously presented the check to the teller, requesting that it be cleared to my account immediately.
«Please take a seat, sir», the teller said before disappearing. I turned and sat on an old brown sofa. I tapped my feet nervously, reading a savings-account brochure. Five minutes passed. I picked up another leaflet on mutual funds, but couldn’t focus. I started thinking about the Thai vacation I was going to book for the Christmas holidays when this was all over. Thirty minutes passed. Something wasn’t right. Why was it taking so long? Finally, after an hour, the teller returned with a bald, middle-aged man in a brown suit.
«Mr. Browder, I’m the manager». He shuffled slightly and looked at his toes before eyeing me warily. «I’m sorry, but there aren’t sufficient funds in the account to clear this check».
I couldn’t believe it. How could MCC — a multibillion-pound company — not have enough money to cover a £50,000 check? I grabbed the uncashed check and quickly made my way back to the office to tell my boss the news. His bonus was going to be orders of magnitude larger than mine, and to say that he was unhappy is putting it mildly.
I went home that evening crestfallen. In spite of the dramatic developments at work, it was my turn to host a weekly expat poker game. My nerves were so frayed that I could easily have done without it, but by the time the day was over, six of my friends were already on their way to my cottage. In the age before cell phones, it would have been impossible to track each of them down to cancel.
I went home and one by one my friends showed up — mostly bankers and consultants, plus a new guy, a reporter from the Wall Street Journal. When they were all there, we opened some beers and started to play dealer’s choice. After a few rounds, my friend Dan, an Australian at Merrill Lynch, was already down £500, which was a big loss in our game. Several of us thought he would give up and go home, but he put on a brave face. «No worries, mates», he said cockily. «I’m going to make a comeback. Besides, bonus time is coming up, so who cares about losing five hundred quid».
The combination of a few beers, the boastful talk, and Dan’s impending payday made it impossible for me to keep my mouth shut. I looked around and said, «Guys — you wouldn’t believe what happened to me today».
I started to tell the story, but before continuing, I said, «You guys have got to promise to keep this to yourselves». Heads nodded around the table, and I went through the day’s drama. My banking friends were transfixed. Bonuses are the only thing that investment bankers care about, and the idea of getting a check and then not being able to cash it is an investment banker’s worst nightmare.
The game finished shortly after midnight — Dan never did make his money back — and everyone went home. Even though I had finished the game £250 down, I was satisfied, knowing that I had told the best story of the night.
I continued to go to work that week as if everything were fine, but things were seriously unraveling at Maxwell. Then, two days after poker night as I walked to the Hampstead Tube stop, I picked up the Wall Street Journal. Just above the fold was the headline «The Bouncing Czech». The byline: Tony Horwitz, the reporter I’d played poker with.
I bought the paper and opened it up. There, in black and white, was the exact story I’d told around my kitchen table.
That son of a bitch.
I got on the Tube and reread the piece, mortified by what I had done. I thought this reporter was going to keep this to himself, but he had completely screwed me. No matter what kind of crisis the company was going through, there was no way I could talk my way out of this monumental fuckup.
When I got to work I stared straight ahead, avoiding the eyes of my co-workers. I was desperate to come up with a plausible explanation for my actions, but I couldn’t. George arrived a few minutes later, completely oblivious to my indiscretion. Before I had a chance to explain to him that I would probably be getting fired that day, I glanced through our office’s glass partition and noticed a strange group of men assembling in the reception area. They were so out of place that I pointed them out to George. He rolled his chair over to my desk and we watched them together — and for a moment I forgot about the Wall Street Journal article.
Unlike the parade of dark-suited bankers from before, these men wore ill-fitting blazers and raincoats and looked completely uncomfortable. They huddled briefly before fanning out across our floor. A young man, not more than twenty-five years old, walked into our room. « ’Morning, gents», he said in a thick cockney accent. «You probably don’t know why we’re here. My name is PC[4] Jones. And this» — he waved his arm in a grand gesture — «is now a crime scene».
For a brief moment I was relieved that this wasn’t about my Wall Street Journal stupidity. But that feeling was short-lived as I started to appreciate the gravity of the situation.
PC Jones took our details and, as George and I watched, started placing white evidence tape over our desks, computer screens, and briefcases. He then asked us to leave.
«When can we come back?» I asked nervously.
«I’m afraid I don’t know that, sir. All I know is you have to go. Now».
«Can I take my briefcase?»
«No. That’s part of the investigation».
George and I looked at each other, grabbed our coats, and quickly left the building. As soon as we got outside, we were met by a swarm of reporters at the building’s entrance.
«Were you part of the fraud?» one shouted, thrusting his microphone into my face.