BANKING ON TOM CHAPTER 9

 BANKING ON TOM CHAPTER 9

WEDNESDAY

 

Across twinkling Dublin Bay in the prosperous suburb of Howth, Jim O’Sullivan and his wife Maureen had been in deep conversation. After the management meeting in the Bank Jim had left the staff in the more than capable hands of Tom. Maureen made Jim a cup of strong tera and listened to Jim’s account of the evening. Maureen once had been an economist with a leading Irish newspaper. She continued to take an interest in all things financial and particularly in the progress of the good ship IBB and who sailed on her. Over the years Jim had come to value her insights and judgements. 

 

He had been surprised by the proposal advanced by Tom. It was so untypical of him. Tom who had always been so measured now seemed happy to roll the dice and risk everything on February 28^th.  Jim could see the logic. One way or another, the IBB of old was dead and gone. Jim and Sebastian had spoken to the Central Bank of Ireland who listened politely over tea and biscuits served by ancient assistants with their hair tied in a bun like their grannies. But showed little support. Like their counterparts in the UK they seemed quietly satisfied that another minor Bank was disappearing and their job of supervision was becoming easier. A life without clients seemed Nirvana. What could go possibly wrong? Everything? After their meeting Sebastian had questioned the wisdom of this vision, but he had concluded this was a problem for a future generation to solve.

 

They had both agreed they would check out their sources and come up with a Bank that might be willing to do a friendly merger or a new set of investors. Sebastian would concentrate of the captains of industry he had befriended over the decades, both high profile and the lesser luminaries. Invariably it was the quiet little discussed entrepreneurs who were the more successful and often the more reliable. Jim would examine his numerous contacts in the Banking industry. He was particularly close the Irish subsidiary of the Banco di Como. Their chief executive in Dublin shared Jim’s values and ideas. Tom’s project was just a stop gap. While clever and profitable, it was simply that. Maureen felt Jim should not search too widely. Word quickly would seep out and IBB could appear desperate. Never a good look. Jim should give the impression of a man with many options. Weakness was never valued or rewarded in business; Maureen counselled. Perhaps Jim should focus on Banco di Como alone she wondered.

 

Their house commanded spectacular views from Howth south over Dublin Bay to the Wicklow mountains, While they had been sleeping the sleep of the just, Maura  had been heading to nearby Dublin Airport just beyond the northern suburbs.  She had decided  on an expensive Chanel suit that would capture Ben Osborne’s attention. She had applied a generous amount of Christian Dior Eau de Parfum that masked the alcohol. A busy day lay ahead.

 

Long before dawn broke in Catania Fr. Salvatore moved swiftly, almost invisibly. In his black cassock covered by a black overcoat he silently left a modest house in a poor quarter observed only by the two people in the house. Maria, a woman of stunning looks and her son Matteo. Fr. Salvatore was anxious to arrive ahead of a party of wealthy Catholics from Bavaria. He had arranged to say early Mass for them in the magnificent Cathedral dedicated to Saint Agatha. Matteo clasped his mothers skirts as she bade goodbye to the man Matteo only knew as papà. Even at that early hour there were parishioners lighting candles and praying gently. Some attempted to kiss his hand with a golden ring. He waved them aside. A young altar boy appeared from nowhere and assisted in serving Mass in Latin. After Mass Fr. Salvatore invited the family over to the convent for a modest breakfast. The local nuns fussed over Fr. Salvatore and his wealthy guests who would  leave a generous donation. After breakfast Fr. Salvatore and his guest excused themselves for a half an hour. Herr Wagner had extensive investments in Italy including Banks and Insurance companies. Fr. Salvatore reassured the German the plan was safe, profitable and anonymous, just as he liked.

 

Meanwhile in Dublin Tom had been chatting with his daughters for the first time in ages. Were they pregnant? In trouble with the school? With boys? With drugs? None of these it appeared. After much thought they had decided they would spend their final school year in Spain, if Tom would finance them. Weary of an affectionate but chaotic mother and a work obsessed father they had decided a year in Nerja would be beneficial. As a family they had holidayed in Southern Andalucía in the early days. They had made friends in the expatriate community and also with some of the locals. They had returned in recent years with Janet. Nerja was pleasant and compact and quiet in winter. They would not commence until late August, but they needed to enrol in the school and make provisions for accommodation and needed to pay non-refundable deposits. Tom didn’t know how to react, to be happy or sad, proud or annoyed. He said he would give it his full attention in early March. The twins seemed content with this response. Chips off the old block it seemed. It seemed it was only five minutes later when the 6.00am alarm sounded. Another busy day beckoned. The rule in the Banking Division was clear and obeyed. Stay out as late as you wanted on Bank expenses but be at your desk for 8.00 the following morning without excuse.

 

Fr. Salvatore was working in his office when he took a phone call. His cousin who lived in the countryside  a few miles outside of Catania sounded hysterical. Her son had disappeared on the way to school. She was beside herself. Was there anything he could do? The priest said he would do what he could. A few phone calls later and the boy had been left shook but unharmed outside his house. It had been a warning. There would be a price to be paid. There always was. The priest had learned early in his career that if the little things were left unsolved the bigger ones rarely succeeded.