The Fear Index

grandfather, Robert Fazy, had owned a private bank, which had been sold in the 1980s following a scandal involving Jewish assets seized by the Nazis and deposited with Fazy et Cie during the Second World War. They brought with them their family attorney, Dr Max-Albert Gallant, whose firm conveniently also handled the legal affairs of Hoffmann Investment Technologies. It was through Gallant that Quarry had managed to obtain an introduction to the Mussards. ‘They treat me like a son,’ said Quarry. ‘They’re unbelievably rude and do nothing but complain.’
    This drab couple was followed closely by perhaps the most exotic of Hoffmann’s clients, Elmira Gulzhan, the thirty-eight-year-old daughter of the President of Azakhstan. Resident in Paris and a graduate of INSEAD in Fontainebleau, Elmira was responsible for administering the Gulzhan family holdings overseas, estimated by the CIA in 2009 to be worth approximately $19 billion. Quarry had contrived to meet her on a skiing party in Val d’Isere. The Gulzhans presently had $120 million invested in the hedge fund – a stake Quarry hoped to persuade her at least to double. He had also made friends on the slopes with her long-term lover, François de Gombart-Tonnelle, a Parisian lawyer, who was at her side today. She emerged from her bulletproof Mercedes wearing an emerald silk frock coat with matching head scarf draped lightly over her helmet of glossy black hair. Quarry was waiting in the lobby to greet her. ‘Be not fooled,’ he had warned Hoffmann. ‘She may look like she’s off to the races but she could hold down a job at Goldman any day of the week. And she can arrange for her daddy to have your fingernails torn out.’
    Next to roll up, sharing a limousine from the Hotel Président Wilson on the other side of the lake, were a couple of Americans who had flown over from New York especially for the presentation. Ezra Klein was chief analyst for the Winter Bay Trust, a $14 billion fund-of-funds which, in the words of its prospectus, ‘aims to flatten out risk while achieving high returns by investing in a diverse array of managed portfolios rather than individual bonds or equities’. Klein had a reputation for being super-bright, enhanced by his habit of talking at a rate of six words per second (he had once been timed surreptitiously by his bewildered subordinates), roughly twice as fast as normal human speech, and by the fact that every third word seemed to be an acronym or piece of financial jargon. ‘Ezra’s on the spectrum,’ said Quarry. ‘No wife, no kids, no sexual organs of any kind, as far as I can tell. Winter Bay could be good for another hundred million. We’ll have to see.’
    Beside him, not even pretending to listen to Klein’s unintelligible jabber, was a bulky figure in his fifties in full Wall Street dress uniform of black three-piece suit and red-and-white striped tie. This was Bill Easterbrook of the US banking conglomerate AmCor. ‘You’ve met Bill before,’ Quarry had warned Hoffmann. ‘Remember him? He’s the dinosaur who looks as if he’s just stepped out of an Oliver Stone movie. Since you last saw him, he’s been spun off into a separate entity called AmCor Alternative Investments, which is basically just an accounting trick to keep the regulators happy.’ Quarry had himself worked for AmCor in London for a decade, and he and Easterbrook went way back – ‘way, way back’, as he dreamily put it: too far to recall, he implied, through the haze of the years – all the way back to the coke-and-call-girl glory days of the 1990s. When Quarry had left AmCor to set up with Hoffmann, Easterbrook had passed them their first clients in return for commission. Now AmCor Alternative was Hoffmann’s biggest investor, with close to $1 billion under management. He was another attendee whom Quarry took the trouble to meet personally in the lobby.
    And so they all came: twenty-seven-year-old Amschel Herxheimer of the Herxheimer banking and trading dynasty, whose sister had been at Oxford with Quarry, and who was being groomed to take over the family’s two-hundred-year-old private bank; dull Iain Mould of what had once been an even duller Fife building society, until it had taken itself public at the beginning of the century and, in the space of three years, run up debts equivalent to half the gross domestic product of Scotland, necessitating a takeover by the British government; the billionaire Mieczyslaw Łukasiński, a