Chapter 37: Chapter 37

ennedy flashed his black card. ‘Put it all on my tab,’ he told the exclusive

club’s barman with a conspiratorial wink. Drinks for everyone, no holds

barred, the evening was on him. By the time they staggered out to a line of K

waiting taxis, the bill had reached five figures and included half a dozen magnums

of Dom Perignon and a kilo of caviar. Even Kennedy, not really a drinker, had

partaken in the feast, magnanimously lashing out a fabulous tip for the waitress, an

attractive Irish girl from Dublin, whose encouragement to the party goers had

certainly earned her a well-deserved bonus from the management.

Kennedy was perceived as a cool and successful banker, and his spending a just

compensation for hard work. Pat liked to tell people he looked after what could

have been described as the public relations aspect of the bank, which was in a

sense was true. However, his real talent was that of developing relations with the

bank’s rich influential friends and potential investors. He was Fitzwilliams’ friend

and eminence gris, and although he had become a rich man in his own right, he

owed the banker everything, and never forgot his place in the hierarchy of

Fitzwilliams’ world.

In spite of his local boy’s naivety, Kennedy had an extraordinary flair for

business. Mixing easily he navigated without the least complex in the world of

business and investment, both in the City and abroad, cultivating a circle of rich

and famous friends, who trusted his intuition and put their money in the bank’s

investment funds.

That Monday he was celebrating a memorable day at a Sotheby’s sale. Tarasov

had been amongst those present at for the auction of Damien Hirst’s new works.

The Russian had spent millions on the collection of modern art that decorated his

homes in the UK and at home. But aesthetics were not his only concern; modern

art performed better than stock markets. His investment in desirable works had

been propelled to unimaginable heights by a bubble that had outdone that of the

stock market. That day’s Sotheby sale had been an important test.

The rumour of scandal was making the rounds. The Art Newspaper reported that

Damien Hirst’s London gallery, White Cube, was sitting on over two hundred

unsold sculptures and paintings by the artist, worth an estimated one hundred

million pounds, excluding a diamond-encrusted platinum skull bearing the name

‘For the Love of God’ said to be worth fifty million.

It was a year since Hirst’s memorable sale on that fatal day in September 2008, a

day that would be remembered by the world of finance for generations; the day

Lehman Brothers filed for bankruptcy protection in New York, the largest failure

in banking history. That day Hirst’s Golden Calf, a gold plated bull in

formaldehyde, was sold for eighteen and a half million dollars and a shark, also

preserved in the same organic compound, called The Kingdom, was sold for over

seventeen million dollars.

Since then the prices of Hirst’s works had collapsed and the oligarch was on the

lookout for a killing. The collapse was in large part due to the recession. Russian

billionaires had become great amateurs of art, many of them with huge collections,

though some of those who had bought Hirst’s works in 2008 were now forced to

sell. Tarasov had bought several of those canvases at knockdown prices and the

auction would tell him whether his investment had been good or not.

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Hirst, already rich and famous, had become even richer and more famous. For

certain of his buyers it was another story. A year after that memorable auction, the

second-hand trade in Hirsts has slowed down to a mere trickle, with prices down to

2002 levels, but as always a seller’s disappointment was a buyer’s opportunity.

The 2008 sale made almost one hundred million pounds, which had impressed

Pat Kennedy no end at the time, though the idea of a dead cow in his living room

left him almost speechless.

‘They were stark raving mad. Can you believe it, a dead feckin cow,’ Kennedy

whispered to a Russian girl. He had seen a great number of nice enough live cows

in his native Limerick and was greatly relieved his friend was not about to buy a

dead one.

The number of rich and privileged continued to rise in a society of growing

inequalities. Their number not only counted those who had inherited businesses

and old money, but more and more those who had been successful in their

professions; career bankers, traders, business executives, along with a growing

number of innovative entrepreneurs. They were the so-called nouveaux riche who

were more susceptible to listen to the Kennedy’s of the world when it came to

investing their money. They imagined themselves as informed investors, connected

to informed sources via their ever present smart phones. However, they would have

been seriously mistakenly in thinking of Kennedy as being one of them.

Such investors moved in herds, and reminded Kennedy of cows, little better than

the dead ones, who placed a great deal of confidence in illusory insider

information. A nod and a wink from Kennedy was enough for many of them to

believe they were privy to an exclusive deal. The problem came when the going

got bad, when they panicked, pulling their money out of funds, provoking a chain

reaction that upset the finely balanced composition of certain sophisticated funds.

The same investors, as a matter of facility and confidence, did not hesitate to put

their eggs in the same doubtful basket, without asking too many questions, and

especially when they saw irreal returns.

Beyond a very narrow circle of friends and acquaintances few were familiar with

Kennedy’s background. His home was in Limerick, where he was in fact rarely

seen. Whenever unavoidable family events forced him back home, he was in and

out of Shannon in the blink of an eye ― in the bank’s jet. Pat was to all intents

separated from his troubled wife, a devout Catholic, who led her own life dedicated

to the church and charitable work. Kennedy, who was brought up in the faith, had

ambivalent feelings about his marriage vows, but fear of the Church and its laws

was deeply ingrained in his mind.

His warm and sometimes naïve nature tucked those fears far away in the back his

mind. Those who really knew him would have said he was genuinely sincere, but

difficult to plumb. One thing was certain however, Pat Kennedy was determined to

lead his own life wherever it led.

His gift for easy-going familiarity made him a generous and exceptional host,

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with a wide circle of casual friends. The gregarious side of his nature liked hosting

parties at his luxurious homes, in London and Biarritz. The other side of him

preferred being far from the crowd, free, discovering the world for himself.

Kennedy was seen in London’s best restaurants, though he was by no means a

fine gourmet, on the other hand he had developed a taste for music and opera;

something to do with composers being foreigners and operas being sung in Italian

or German. It was true he had learned to appreciate certain well-known arias, and

whenever he was heard humming airs from La Traviata, or some other popular

opera, those around him were assured of his good mood, which was mostly the

case.

In business, Kennedy was seen as one of the architects of the Irish Netherlands

Bank’s strategy throughout the difficult days of the crisis. He, unlike the chairman

of Allied Irish, who was pelted with eggs by angry shareholders at its Dublin

headquarters, was appreciated by shareholders for his constructive and

straightforward ideas.

Fitzwilliams, with Kennedy’s loyal support, had safely steered the Irish

Netherlands through the storm, unlike the management of the Allied Irish, whose

savers lost their pensions in the economic debacle. One furious Allied Irish

shareholder had even suggested the whole board of the ill-fated bank be replaced

by Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, telling the press, if it were not for Ireland’s

tolerant society, the chairman and the rest of the board would be hanging by their

necks on piano wire.

At the moment Kennedy pondered over modern art and joked about Hirst’s dead

cow with his charming friend, Hiltermann was sunning himself with Elizaveta

Bessmertnova at the Hôtel du Palais in Biarritz. Deeply infatuated with the Russian

dancer he had met at evening at the Mariinski in St Petersburg, the Dutch banker

had quit Amsterdam to embark on a new life.

That evening after a romantic dinner they returned to their suite. It was not as if

they were feeling tired, on the contrary after a separation of two weeks they had a

lot to catch up on. The following morning the couple checked-out and left for San

Sebastian in a red Ferrari, where Hiltermann was to settle an affair with a client.

He had not however counted on any problem at the Franco-Spanish border, in fact

there were no controls and had not been for many years. As Hiltermann rounded

the bend leaving Hendaye he was unpleasantly surprised when he spotted a police

van stationed in the middle of the bridge crossing the Bidassoa River. It was too

late to turn back. He had not taken into account the spot checks carried out by the

Police des Frontiers on the look-out for ETA activists, Basque terrorists, at the

border crossing.

A tough looking CRS, more curious to see who was driving a red Ferrari than

anything else, made them a sign to pull over. When the two unlikely tourists were

asked to present their papers, the controlling officer was surprised by Hiltermann’s

Surinamese passport, the first he had ever seen. That together with Elizaveta’s

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Russian passport was more than enough to justify a closer inspection.

Further suspicion was aroused by Hiltermann’s barely concealed reluctance when

the officer pointed to his crocodile skinned briefcase. Simultaneously pressing the

gold plated locks it sprung open to reveal a thick unmarked beige envelope. It

contained a wad of dollar denominated bearer bonds issued by different Central

American governments, and more than one hundred thousand euros in cash. A

quick calculation told the police officer the total value of the bonds was not far off

three million dollars.

When questioned, Hiltermann blustered, declaring he was on holiday at the Hôtel

du Palais in Biarritz. The police captain raised an eyebrow, remarking the hotel

must be very expensive in view of the quantity of money he was carrying.

Hiltermann dug himself into a deeper hole by haughtily announcing he was the

head of the Nederlandsche Nassau Bank in Amsterdam and was going to San

Sebastian on legitimate business. As far as the police were concerned his attitude

merely aroused more doubts given the number of financial scandals that had

recently received so much attention in the media.

Digging into the briefcase a little deeper the police came up with two plane

tickets to Aruba, in the Dutch Antilles, from nearby Bilbao via Madrid, and a

further twenty thousand euros in cash. Hiltermann and his girlfriend were promptly

invited to accompany the police to the Saint Jean de Luz, where after further

questioning his passport was withheld and he was released and told return to the

hotel in Biarritz pending verification when banks opened the following Monday

morning.

Hiltermann had more than one trick up his sleeve and a couple additional

passports. By Monday he and Elizaveta had disappeared. The news of encounter in

France was played down by Fitzwilliams, who embarrassed by yet another banking

scandal, this time affecting his own bank, refused to comment on rumours relating

to the Dutchman and the suspected movement of funds to Caracas.

That Hiltermann was also wanted for questioning by the Dutch authorities

surprised no one. Enquiries had been made concerning the ownership of certain

offshore accounts and loans in his name. His multi-million dollar home in the

Dutch Antilles, along with a number of other properties, had been sold no doubt in

preparation for his planned disappearance.