A Week in December by Sebastian Faulks Page A

tough it out again, and he believed that in his own world his reputation for skill and ruthlessness would be enhanced. If he took care to ensure that the majority of the trading was conducted in non-regulated instruments, outside the jurisdiction of the Financial Services Authority, there wasn't much they could do to stop him. In any case, FSA fines were tiny.
    First, though, before any of this could begin, Veals needed to know for certain that the debt covenant existed. He was preparing to put on the largest position of his life and wasn't going to do it on the anecdotal evidence of a wimp like Simon Wetherby. He needed to see the document itself, and for this purpose he had in the first week of June telephoned Vic Small at Greenview Alternative Investment Services.
    They met at the Moti Mahal in Waterloo, and, over roghan josh and fizzy lager, Veals gave Vic Small an envelope full of cash. Two weeks later, a woman called Vera Tillman began to work as a cleaner at Allied Royal in Canary Wharf. She came with respectable references and a willing attitude; she was also receiving fat envelopes of cash from Vic Small to find and copy the relevant document.
    She had been there almost six months. 'Can't she work a photocopier?' Veals asked Small. 'She must have worn out the fucking carpet with all that vacuuming.'
    'It's complicated,' Small replied. 'It's a very proper company. It has ID cards and iris recognition. All the bells and bloody whistles.'
    Then, on Friday December 14, Veals had had an early Christmas present. Reception told him there was a gentleman outside who wouldn't leave until he'd personally handed over an envelope to him. A business card was sent through; it bore the Greenview crest. Warily, Veals went out to reception and took the envelope. The 'gentleman' was not the usual motorcyclist whose offerings went through the post room, but an African in a blue suit with a knitted tie. There was no return address on the envelope and no signature was required for it. Back in his private office, Veals slid out the papers. There were only three sheets of A4, but they contained a well-drafted debt covenant, signed, executed and witnessed, relating to the Allied Royal takeover of the Spanish bank. He checked and rechecked to make sure it was fully executed, not just a draft. It was all right. Simon Wetherby's recollection appeared to be correct in every respect.
    Veals checked his watch. Seven o'clock: home time. Contrarian in almost, though not quite, everything, he took the Underground from St James's Park. Most hedge-fund managers were driven home from their Mayfair offices in German saloons. Some thought this added to their mystique, to be anonymous, disdaining City ostentation and overpriced champagne; one or two cultivated an academic look - tweed jackets, trainers - stressing the intellectual aspect of their mathematical day. There was also a practical reason for such men, each personally possessing hundreds of millions of pounds, to have a secure car and driver, and that was to avoid the possibility of kidnap.
    John Veals did the opposite. For a start, he worked in Victoria. The herd was always wrong, he thought (except when it was right, and then he had an early position in the forefront of stampeding hooves). St James's Park was a clean station and the travellers were kept well informed about the service as they waited on the hosed and swept platforms. It was the headquarters of Transport for London and no broken light bulb remained unchanged for more than six minutes.
    On the train, Veals sat with a briefcase on his lap and watched the Sunday tourists with their wheeled luggage and their rucksacks. They chattered as they pored over guidebooks, glanced up at the Tube map overhead, trying to reconcile the two. What false picture of a city did these people have? Veals wondered. Their London was a virtual one, unknown to residents - Tower and Dungeon, veteran West End musicals and group photographs beneath the slowly