«Where’s the pensioners’ money?» another demanded, a camera rolling over his shoulder.
«What did you do for Maxwell?» a third one yelled.
I could barely think as we pushed our way free of the reporters. Several of them trailed us for a half a block before giving up. We didn’t know what to do, so we walked briskly toward Lincoln’s Inn Fields and ducked into Sir John Soane’s Museum. As soon as we were safe, George started to laugh. He thought that the whole thing was a big joke. I, on the other hand, was in shock. How could I have been so stupid not to listen to everyone’s advice about Maxwell?
When I got home that afternoon, I turned on the news and the lead story on every channel was the £460 million hole that had been discovered in MCC’s pension fund. Maxwell had looted the firm’s pension fund in an attempt to prop up the company’s sagging share price, and now thirty-two thousand pensioners had lost their life savings. On the BBC I saw the melee at the entrance of our building and even caught a glimpse of myself fighting through the crowd. Later that night, the BBC reported that Maxwell’s was the biggest fraud in British history.
The next morning I couldn’t decide: should I go to work or not? After deliberating for an hour, I decided to go. I left my peaceful cottage, got on the Tube, and once again fought my way through the scrum of reporters at the front entrance of Maxwell House. When I got to the eighth floor, I was greeted in the reception area by a new group of strangers. This time, they were the bankruptcy administrators. One stopped me before I could go into my office and said, «Go to the auditorium. There’s about to be an important announcement».
I followed his instructions and found an empty seat next to George. About half an hour later, a middle-aged man carrying a clipboard appeared. His sleeves were rolled up, he had no tie, and his hair was mussed, as if he had nervously been running his fingers through it over and over. He took the podium and started reading from a prepared statement.
«Good morning, everyone. I’m David Solent from Arthur Andersen. Last night, Maxwell Communications Corporation and all of its subsidiaries were put into administration. The court has appointed Arthur Andersen as bankruptcy administrators to wind up the company. Following standard procedures, our first course of action is to announce redundancies». He then began to read names, in alphabetical order, of all the people who were being fired. Here and there, secretaries started weeping. One man stood and shouted obscenities. This man tried to get close to the stage, but was stopped by a pair of security guards and escorted away. Then George’s name was called, along with that of Robert Maxwell’s son Kevin, and just about everybody else I knew at the company.
Amazingly, my name wasn’t called. Of all the things I had been warned about before taking the job, the one thing that was sure to happen — my being fired — didn’t happen. I soon learned that the administrators had kept me on because they had no idea what to do with the investments in Eastern Europe. They needed someone around to help them sort it out.
I grabbed onto this little victory, thinking that it would make it easier for me to find a new job when everything was over. Unfortunately, I could not have been more wrong. I was no golden boy anymore. Having Maxwell on my résumé was as toxic as it could get, and I soon discovered that nobody in London would touch me.
6. The Murmansk trawler fleet
Nobody, except for one firm: Salomon Brothers.
In 1991, just as Maxwell had generated a huge scandal in Britain, Salomon Bothers had done the same in the United States. In the previous autumn, the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) caught some top Salomon traders trying to manipulate the US Treasury bond market. It was unclear how hard the SEC would pursue its case or even whether Salomon would survive. A similar thing happened a year before at another firm, Drexel Burnham Lambert, and it went bankrupt, leaving many people unemployed. Fearing a similar fate at Salomon, many of the good employees had jumped ship and found new work elsewhere.
This left gaping holes at Salomon that needed to be filled, and I was desperate for a job. In better times, Salomon might have shunned me, but they were as desperate as I was, and after an intense round of interviews, they offered me a position as an associate on the East European investment-banking team in London. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted. My dream was to be an investor — the person deciding what shares to buy — not an investment banker, the guy organizing the sale of shares. Moreover, the title wasn’t as good as my title at Maxwell, and it came with a significant pay cut. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I gratefully took the offer. I was determined to put my head down and do whatever was necessary to get my career back on track.
Unfortunately, Salomon was probably the most unnatural place to do that. If you’ve ever read Liar’s Poker, then you know that Salomon Brothers was one of the most dog-eat-dog firms on Wall Street. To say that I was nervous on my first day would be a gross understatement.
I arrived at Salomon’s offices above Victoria Station on Buckingham Palace Road in June 1992. It was an unusually warm and sunny day, and I walked through a large set of wrought-iron gates and took the long escalator up three flights to the main reception area. I was met by a well-dressed vice president a few years older than me. He was curt and impatient and seemed annoyed at having been tasked with greeting me. We walked across the atrium and through some glass doors to the investment bank. He showed me to my desk and pointed to a box of business cards. «Listen, things are pretty simple around here. You generate five times your salary in the next twelve months and things will be fine. Otherwise, you’re sacked. Clear?»
I nodded and he left. That was it. No training program, no mentors, no orientation. Just do it or get fired.
I tried to settle into my chair in the bullpen, the open area where all junior employees sat, unsure of what to do next. As I leafed through the Salomon Brothers employee handbook, I noticed a secretary sitting nearby speaking loudly into the phone about flights to Hungary. When she put down the receiver, I walked over. «Sorry to eavesdrop, but I’m a new associate and couldn’t help hearing you talking about Hungary. Do you know what the firm’s doing over there?»
«Oh, that’s O'kay», she said reassuringly. «We all listen to each other’s conversations. I was making reservations for the Malev privatization team to go to Budapest next week».
«Who’s working on that?»
«You can see for yourself». She pointed toward a group of men sitting in one of the glass-windowed conference rooms just off the bullpen. While I’d been there for only a few hours, I knew that if I was going to succeed, I needed to take some initiative. I thanked the secretary and marched over to the conference room. As I opened the door, the six people on the Malev team stopped talking, turned toward me, and stared.
«Hi, I’m Bill Browder», I said, trying to mask my awkwardness. «I’m new on the East European team. I was hoping you guys could use some help on your deal». The uncomfortable silence was broken by two younger team members, who giggled under their breath. The team leader then politely said, «Thanks for stopping by, Bill, but I’m afraid we’re fully staffed».
That was a little embarrassing, but I didn’t let it affect me. I kept my eyes open and asked around and found another opportunity several days later. The Polish telecom privatization team was having a meeting to discuss the next phase of their project. I knew they were getting a much bigger fee than the Malev team, so I figured they might not be so resistant to having another person around.