The Bankster (Ravi Subramanian) (12 page)

‘Why, Harshita? What happened? You sound peeved!’

Harshita was like a dam waiting to burst. The moment Raymond asked, she blurted out everything that had happened in the branch over the past few days. Harshita told him everything about the conflict and the fact that it was brought in by Chandrasekhar who was known to Vikram, which meant indirectly that the account had to be treated as a reference by Vikram.

‘Now I understand. It kind of strengthens my resolve to dig deeper into this,’ said Raymond.

‘No ya. Leave it. You’ll be hitting your head against the wall.’

They bitched for a few more minutes on how aggressive youngsters, with a penchant for making a fast buck, were ruining the impressive façade of the compliance-oriented business philosophy GB2 was known for.

‘You hate her na?’ asked Raymond.

‘No I don’t. I just hate the way in which she uses her charm to get her work done. And I hate the way the middle-aged men in the branch and outside are falling for her charm.’

‘Let it not impact your confidence, Harshita. You are the best I have seen so far into my career.’ This was the second time Harshita had heard this, in less than twenty-four hours. When she heard it from Siddhartha, she felt he was biased. Now, when Raymond said this, it was an endorsement of what Siddhartha had said the night before and it felt good.

‘Yes, Raymond. Thanks for everything. How are things at home?’

‘The same. No change.’

‘Hmm. . .I can understand,’ and then Raymond heard a noise in the background and then a ‘thank you’, which was obviously directed at someone else.

‘You’re not in office?’

‘No, Raymond. Remember, tomorrow is Malvika’s birthday? I had promised her an iPad long back. Just came out to buy it. I can’t buy it in the evening because I have to go to the branch banking gala night.’

‘Oh, okay.’

‘You’re coming for it na?’

‘I don’t know, let’s see. Will chat later, and by the way, thanks for reminding me of Malvika’s birthday,’ and Raymond hung up.

In the interim, after the conversation with Raymond, Anand called Zinaida to his cabin and briefed her about the entire conversation.

‘This is ridiculous, boss. There is nothing remotely suspicious about this transaction. Asad Ansari told us in advance about these cash withdrawals. He had some payments to make. I have visited his office and done our due diligence. What else does Raymond want us to do? He has lost it, boss.’

‘Hmm, but Zinaida, a cash withdrawal of over a crore is quite unnatural na? What kind of business would need so much of cash over just a couple of days?’

‘Boss, didn’t Chandrasekhar tell us Asia Logistics is also into the bullion business? Cash is required when you deal with the yellow metal. And sir, if we allow Raymond to put this account on the watch list, then the customer will get to know of it. It will become a big issue.’

‘How will he know? This list is never made public. It’s internal to the bank.’

‘Yes Anand, but our interrogation will go up significantly. Every time the customer deposits or withdraws money, he will be asked embarrassing questions about the source and utilization of funds. He will eventually get irritated and shift his account. He initiated the process of moving to us because he was not happy with the service levels at his previous bank.’

‘Hmm. . .I can understand.’

‘And Anand, we are topping league tables now. The average balances Asad Ansari has in his Asia Logistics account are partly responsible for that. If this account moves, we will drop down and it will be almost impossible to catch up.’

‘Okay, that’s a fair point. I will manage Raymond and see how this goes.’

‘Thanks, boss.’ As Zinaida left the room her lips turned up, morphing into a wicked smile. A small, albeit significant battle had been won. Asia Logistics had to be protected at any cost.

Anand sent a mail to Raymond that evening, stating he didn’t quite agree with the view that Asia Logistics needed to be put on the suspicious transaction-monitoring list.

When Raymond read that mail, he was quite upset. He saw it not as an affront to his authority as a compliance officer, but more as a lack of ownership, of the need to be compliant with the laws and ethical business practices at the branch level. ‘Why does business always take priority over compliance? Isn’t there a need to do clean business?’ he muttered, but there was not much he could do. Juliana, his boss, was away on a foreign trip and he had to wait for her to come and resolve this potential conflict. But could he wait that long? He was getting restless. At that very moment, his phone rang.

‘Yes?’

‘What time will you be home?’

‘Why? And how does it matter?’

‘Can’t you answer any question in a straightforward manner? I thought my question was very simple. When are you going to come home?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What kind of an answer is that?’

‘Oh, now I get it. You want to go out with that asshole. That’s why you are checking.’

‘You’re a jerk,’ came the exasperated response from his wife.

‘Tell me. Tell me. Where are you meeting him? I will not stray in the vicinity.’

‘Shut up, Raymond. I wanted to know because I am going to be late and Sharmin has to be picked up from her tuition at 8.30 p.m. If you will be back by then, it’s fine. Else I’ll make some other arrangement.’

‘I will be back in time to pick up my daughter. You have fun.’ He hung up abruptly. The relationship with his wife of ten years had deteriorated rapidly from the time he found out that she was more than close with her colleague at work. While he had no evidence of any kind of physical intimacy, a few SMSs he stumbled upon indicated to him it was more than a close friendship—a fact he could not digest. For Raymond, life at home was hurtling towards hell and that too at a furious pace. This was one of the reasons, in fact the key reason, he stayed back late at work almost every day.

After the call Raymond was even more infuriated. Almost everything around him made him lose his cool. Anand’s mail was open on his laptop screen. An urge to reply to him took over. He looked at his watch. There was still some time to pick up his daughter. Adjusting his laptop, he started typing off a mail. . .to Nikhil, explaining why he thought the account of Asia Logistics should be formally notified for monitoring under the suspicious transaction-monitoring norm.

After drafting the mail, which was particularly nasty, he sat back, read through it and pressed the send button. Before he shut shop for the day, he took one last look at his mails. There was a mail from Vikram, inviting him to the gala celebration. We invite you to ‘Play the Lead’, the invitation said. Raymond smiled when he saw the title. Vikram never realized that in his peer group, he was the butt of criticism and ridicule for coming up with crazy names, which had absolutely no relation to the event in question. Vikram loved sycophancy and often during his events, one could see the branch managers holding aloft banners and posters with Vikram’s pictures on them and screaming their guts out. He could well imagine what the scene would be like that evening. All branch managers and cluster heads, screaming ‘We play the lead!!’ ‘We play the lead!!’ and making a mockery of themselves. It would be good to attend it, especially when one wasn’t in the branch banking team, because one could then sit back and enjoy the show.

But today, he couldn’t have gone even if he wanted to. He had to head back home. He disconnected his laptop, put it into his bag, locked his desk and left for home. Back to hell. To his wife, whom he no longer loved.

Five minutes from home, his mobile beeped. It was a message from Harshita. ‘Not coming?’

‘No. Had to be back home. How is it there?’ He replied.

‘Same old tamasha.’

‘Yeah? Who’s making a fool of himself?’

‘Almost everyone except the seniors.’

‘How come?’

‘They are here with their families. Indrani, Tanuja, Vikram and the Mumbai cluster managers have all come with their spouses.’

‘All on their best behaviour then?’

‘Everyone. I’m trying to see what they’re wearing.’

‘Who is the smartest?’

‘Without a doubt, Abhishek, Tanuja’s husband. Quite stylish. He’s apparently a hot-shot consultant at McKinsey. That’s what I overheard anyway. Anika is sad. Sonia is okay-okay.’

‘Haha. Chal, I’ve reached home. Don’t drink too much.’

‘Goodnight,’ said the SMS from Harshita, signalling the end of the conversation.

The next morning there were two messages for Raymond. One was a short three-line mail from Nikhil, which he saw on his BlackBerry: ‘Raymond, have discussed this issue with Vikram and he seconds Anand’s view that the Asia Logistics account need not be put on the suspicious transaction monitoring list. He has recommended that we revisit this after six months. Trust this closes the issue.’

The second was a SMS from Harshita, sent late in the night. ‘The bitch got the Best RM Award. Fuck. And guess what, Tanuja’s husband gave away the award. I don’t know whether to be disappointed about the former or the latter. Life in branch banking sucks.’

11

Hotel Diaghilev

Tel Aviv, Israel

Sometime in the Last Quarter, 2011

It was the middle of the night in Israel. Joseph Braganza was fast asleep in his hotel room in Tel Aviv. He had just finished brokering and negotiating an arms deal for the Argentina government who were under renewed threat from the British over the Falkland Islands. A $150 million worth arms deal from Israel munitions had fetched him a cool $17 million. It was so much easier dealing with the Israelis. They were clear that they were interested in selling arms and ammunitions to anyone who wanted to buy them. Whether it was for a democratic or nondemocratic process, it didn’t matter to them. This unabashed sales focus had often embarrassed the United States of America, as Israel was seen as their ally.

When he heard the phone ring, he woke up with a start. It wasn’t the regular phone. His principals required him to carry on his person twenty-four hours a day, a special scrambled phone on which they could reach him whenever they wanted to. Operatives like him had to follow that protocol. They could be called upon to act at a moment’s notice.

He looked at the semi-naked woman lying next to him. He had picked her up at the upmarket bar in Hilton earlier. Sometime during the night—he had no clue when—she had put on some clothes. As far as he remembered, she was bereft of clothing when he was pounding her, earlier that night. Wasn’t she awesome in bed? He smiled to himself, but only for a split second. There was no way that she could be there when he answered the call. She had to go.

With his left leg, he kicked her. She woke up in shock. By then Joseph had picked up her clothes and was standing by the door.

‘Get out,’ he said.

‘What the fuck?’

‘I said. . .Get the fuck out. NOW!!!’ he screamed.

The girl snatched the clothes from him in frustration and started putting them on.

‘Not here. Out!’ he pointed towards the corridor. ‘Move. Move!’ He literally pushed her out and slammed the door shut. All this while, the phone kept ringing.

He walked inside, picked up the phone, selected a spot farthest from the door and pressed the connect button. The girl he had pushed out, naked, into the corridor would be loitering around the suite door. Joseph didn’t want her to listen in.

The call was from somewhere in the United States of America, that was something he had gathered in his experience of over a decade working with these guys. As a covert Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) operative, all his dealings were over the phone or mail. He never, ever met them.

‘Yes.’

‘Calling from base. Identify yourself.’

‘462389, Holiday in Paris.’

‘Agent Solomon,’ the caller said curtly, addressing him by his code name.

The discussion went on for fifteen minutes. Joseph’s task was cut out. He was glad he had closed out the arms deal. He was free to attend to this business now.

‘It will be done,’ he said, towards the end of the call.

‘The money has already been wired to your account with UBS Geneva.’

‘Okay, thank you.’

‘Will call you tomorrow to confirm. Good night.’ It was the same voice for the last four years. Curt instructions, specific discussions, nothing else. They didn’t even ask him if he would be able to deliver. He was expected to—there was no other choice.

He picked up his regular phone and dialled a number in Austria. Joseph Braganza hurriedly barked out instructions in German, which the man at the other end quietly listened to. A name of a bank, an amount and an account number were mentioned. ‘Do this first thing in the morning.’

‘Consider it done. You know where to send my money to,’ the guy said in broken English.

‘Done,’ and Braganza hung up.

Getting up from his bed, he walked towards the bathroom. On his way he switched on the television. A news anchor on BBC was announcing that the United States of America had publically declared that it was siding with the British in the Falkland island dispute. Braganza smiled. He found it a strange and amusing contradiction of sorts that Israel, a staunch US ally, had gone ahead and sold the ammunition to Argentina, and what made the concoction even more interesting was the fact that he, Joseph Braganza, who had brokered this arms deal, was infact a covert CIA agent—one of many such agents who made up the clandestine network that CIA used to channelize and launder money for purposes that the United States could never have publically admitted to being involved in directly.

When inside the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror. Lean body, small frame, toned figure, not an inch of fat. He smiled as he remembered the escapades of the previous night. Involuntarily his hand went up to his forehead as he touched the gash there. That was the only thing that spoilt his near-film star looks. How much he wished he had been careful the day his convoy was ambushed in Iraq!

12

GB2, Mumbai