Snow Job Read online

  Snow Job:

  The Great Game

  Jenni Ferchenko

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To my loving mom, whose love I could not always accept.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Lehman Brothers

  Chapter Two: The Loss

  Chapter Three: Caviar

  Chapter Four: Fidus Achates

  Chapter Five: Brick Lane

  Chapter Six: The Offer

  Chapter Seven: Back to the USSR

  Chapter Eight: St Katherine

  Chapter Nine: Papillon

  Chapter Ten: Christ the Savior

  Chapter Eleven: Unforgiven

  Chapter Twelve: The Dinner

  Chapter Thirteen: Akbar’s marriage

  Chapter Fourteen: Roulette

  Chapter Fifteen: Money likes silence

  Chapter Sixteen: The Great Bear

  Chapter Seventeen: Monkey Business

  Chapter Eighteen: The Whore of Babylon

  Chapter Nineteen: Odile

  Chapter Twenty: The Execution

  Chapter Twenty-One: Parka

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Do What Thou Wilt

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Handbrake Turn

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Blow

  Chapter Twenty-Five: 140 Decibels of Silence

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Wrecked

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Charity

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Rolling Stone

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Seversk

  Chapter Thirty: The Reason

  Chapter Thirty-One: Port

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Score

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Whiteout

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Snow Job

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank my parents, who may or may not have believed in me and yet supported me throughout this journey. I am thankful to my very talented sister Lesya Lotysh, whose art and ingenious ideas had a profound impact on my work as an artist.

  I am grateful to my amazing boyfriend for inspiring me to be the best person and the happiest woman I can be. Ik hou veel van jou.

  I am thankful to the universe for the creative energy and the lessons, which I did not appreciate at times. Nevertheless, but I know I am loved.

  I am indebted to all the men and women who influenced my writing in one way or another, in particular my editor Peter Salmon and proof reader Claire Little as well as the fabulous Fabian Bolin with his remarkable approach to tackling leukemia. #waroncancer

  ‘Lying to ourselves is more deeply ingrained than lying to others’

  – Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  PROLOGUE

  There is nothing which you might not hear. Why I should wish to tell you, and only you, this experience of mine, I really cannot say; perhaps it really is because I love you very much. This unhappy woman is persuaded that she is the most hopeless, fallen creature in the world. Oh, do not condemn her! Do not cast stones at her! She has suffered too much already in the consciousness of her own undeserved shame. And she is not guilty—oh God! Every moment she bemoans and bewails herself, and cries out that she does not admit any guilt, that she is the victim of circumstances—the victim of a wicked libertine. But whatever she may say, remember that she does not believe it herself—remember that she will believe nothing but that she is a guilty creature …

  The chilly air bites my cheeks and hands. I feebly lean on the porch and my iPhone accidentally drops out of my hands and onto a stone tile. Splat!

  They are going to kill him. He is going to kill him … and then he’ll kill me …

  My soul bleeds and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly, slowly swallows me whole.

  The tall, ethereal birch stands out in the otherwise withered, colorless vineyard. A light wind plays with the fringe of its outstretched tassels and tiny snowflakes flash and burn in the golden fire of the low, dazzling sun, heralding the start of the winter.

  They cover the cold, dirty land in a silver mantle, purifying all the sins of summer and autumn … the managed chaos we are thrown into – a great source of power for people like Akbar … those who, without a blink of an eye, would do anything, even commit the most ruthless act of violence, just to protect their business interests.

  Do you know why I left him? To prove what is not true—that he is base. Perhaps you cannot understand all this. Try to realize that in the perpetual admission of guilt he probably finds some dreadful unnatural satisfaction—as though he were revenging himself upon someone. Now and then I was able to persuade him almost to see light around him again; but he would soon fall, once more, into his old tormenting delusions.

  Now it is all a fresh canvas … the whiteout … protecting the new growth already under way, making space for a new life.

  Indulgently, I rejoice at the sun. A new day has begun. I am breathing its freshness. There is nowhere to run. Everything I need is right here … in my heart … in my bleeding heart … Even if it stops beating, no one can ever take away the feeling … of my head in your hands.

  One always wants the beauty of living … but something always gets in the way. Nothing prevents the beauty of death though … but only a few use this opportunity.

  If I should die today, I shall taste that beauty.

  Everything slows down in the drowsy quietness. I smile at the daybreak lazily starting, at the snow on the twigs, at the happiness of my soul only he could read … even before I could do it myself.

  If I cannot save him, I can at least tell the story …

  CHAPTER ONE

  LEHMAN BROTHERS

  The dark walls of the executive shower cabin loom over me like the walls of a coffin, dragging me into its blackness. The snow from last night is still singing in my veins as I feebly wipe myself of the sweat with wet paper towels and zip the pencil skirt behind me.

  Why did he say I could skip the morning meeting today? Throughout these last two years he would never let me do anything like that. ‘No matter how drunk, stoned, sick or tired you are, at six thirty you must be in the boardroom and take notes on the overnight updates.’

  But what about that kiss? It was so … caring … like he meant it … like he’d never kissed me before … maybe he’s finally realized he does love me? My managing director … the jackpot! It’s a dream come true.

  The veins above my eyes pulsate harder and harder, the sweat is coming out of my pores all over my body, and I cannot control it anymore. I vomit into the sink, trying not to get my hair or silk blouse dirty.

  I promptly run the tap to wash off the green and yellow gunk and clean and dry everything. The dizziness is killing me … but I can’t let myself succumb to it. Strong black tea with sugar would make me feel better and disguise that sour alkaline taste in my mouth … like the tea my mom used to make for me …

  Damn, it’s late. People will be returning to their desks from the morning meeting any time now. If I arrive later than them, they will treat me to the walk of shame applause.

  I have to rush.

  A new wave from my stomach suddenly comes up and I throw up again and again … white bubbles this time. I barely have enough strength to turn on the tap before crashing on the wooden bench … like the one in my mom’s yard back home … the blossoming rose and dahlia … the sweet, winey smell of the boughs and grapevines. My mom strokes my long hair, reading Crime and Punishment out loud: “… Yo
u are sometimes extraordinarily, passionately in love with suffering …”

  No. I don’t want your tea. I hate it, especially with sugar! I have a prestigious job. I am an investment banker. The scoundrel. The firm believes in me. I can’t jeopardize its integrity. I have to go to the morning meeting …

  I quickly get up and put my frizzy blonde hair into a sexy ponytail and hurriedly wash my hands, just like Alex did a few moments ago, and carefully close the big mahogany door so it does not slam.

  Only a few steps away there is a bright Victorian-style hall with a shiny elevator, which daily reflects ‘the hottest ass on the trading floor’ right back at me from all sides. It takes me down to the giant open space.

  The familiar smell of money is everywhere.

  I put on my tried-and-tested professional smile and pass by the senior management’s glass offices, where the smell is the most intense, but all the offices are empty this morning. I let my smile take on a naughty shade as the thoughts of Alex restricting my breathing … covering my mouth and nose, so I could feel his fingers with my gums … inflame a shiver. Our little secret … a soundless elation we never see here on the production line.

  Tugging my skirt down, I rapidly proceed to my desk, right in the middle of the beehive.

  ‘Katya, are you working a half day?’ an intimidating senior German colleague remarks. She theatrically taps on her Cartier, showing me it is 7.15 a.m. ‘Half day, half pay.’ She pronounces every word in sharp staccato, in the manner of a concentration camp guard, with her gelled brown hair scraped into an immaculate bun and angry makeup-free face contributing to the image.

  ‘Mm, I was here earlier. I just went out to grab a coffee,’ I lie, defending myself against the frigid grouch, who’ll never even get close to the fifth floor showers. She truly deserves her nickname – Virgin Mary.

  ‘You seem to like a lot of milk with it,’ smirks the slutty Polish blonde next to her. ‘Don’t forget to wipe the mustache off,’ she titters, drinking her cappuccino.

  ‘You have a bit of …’ I point at the cappuccino foam on her upper lip.

  Without saying a word, she rapidly wipes it off and looks very busy reading the morning paper.

  The moment I log in to my desk, dozens of clients’ requests are already flashing red lines all over my six screens:

  ‘Katya, what happened to Yuan?’

  ‘Where is gold?’

  ‘Digital option, please.’

  ‘Where is the Irish Credit Default Swap level?’

  ‘Order to buy 50mio at 78 if done sell 100 at 90 …’

  At the same time my phone vibrates with a message from Alex: ‘Trade the structure we discussed ASAP.’

  ‘Margin?’ I quickly type back, recalling his intimidating gaze when I don’t specify the matter.

  ‘Don’t care about the margin. Just trade it. Quick!’ he replies instantly.

  I immediately dial the Libyan family office.

  ‘As-salam ‘alaykum, Ahmad. This is Katya from Lehman Brothers in London. Keyfa halak?’

  ‘Katya, ‘alaykum as-salam. You learn Arabic now? Very good!’ Ahmad says, chewing something on the other end.

  ‘Well, I live in London,’ I smirk, ‘went out last night …’

  ‘You should come to Libya one day. I will introduce you to a very rich sheik. He will like you.’

  ‘What makes him so rich? Oil?’ I ask, simultaneously selling half a ship’s worth of gold to a Greek bank, making a handsome five per cent mark-up that Alex should be pleased with.

  ‘Metals. He likes to buy lithium. If you find a good price he will marry you! You never work again!’ he exclaims cheerfully.

  ‘And join his harem?’ I snigger, catching Virgin Mary’s censorious gaze.

  ‘No, no, habibi! You will be his princess!’ he says eloquently.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I say, making a mental note.

  ‘Good … so will you give me very good price for my structure today?’ he asks, rolling his Rs.

  ‘Yes, I will give you a very good price,’ I say, echoing him, updating the pricer with the live market feeds. ‘Two point three million dollars, you’ll pay … upfront,’ I quote, trying to make two hundred grand.

  ‘Katya, habibi, another bank price is two million dollars,’ he argues, obviously bluffing as this is clearly below the fair value of the structure.

  ‘Ahmad, habibi, you should appreciate it is a leveraged product with complicated documentation and fees to pay to all the vehicles involved in this transaction,’ I politely explain.

  ‘Woman, you do not know what you are talking about!’ he shouts. ‘We did these structures with Alex many time. All the vehicles are ready!’ Ahmad’s hissy fit is making me want to hang up immediately and rush to the bathroom.

  I take a deep breath and refresh the price, which has increased by fifty grand now. ‘OK, let’s meet in the middle, two million one hundred fifty thousand dollars you pay.’

  ‘Done!’ Ahmad exclaims.

  ‘OK.’ I hit the button, which straight away executes all the parts of the structure on the market. ‘You’ll pay the premium to our account in Cyprus as usual,’ I say, booking the deal.

  ‘Yes, habibi, and you pay me back to my account in Cayman Islands under the swap we book separately, as usual,’ says Ahmad, satisfied, puffing on a shisha pipe with the sound of seagulls in the background.

  ‘OK.’ I wipe my sweaty hands on my skirt and briefly put them on my neck to warm up, before starting to book the deals to various systems to avoid any ‘regulatory hassle’. Even our own internal systems cannot link these deals. The only person who knows these are connected is the one booking them. Me.

  ‘All agreed, Kat. Send me the confirmation as soon as you can, I need a good one, one with the Sharia disclaimer. The rules are getting stricter here.’

  ‘Doing it now,’ I say, copy-pasting the disclaimer straight away into the term sheet.

  ‘And don’t forget to put “Allah knows best” in bold on every page,’ he instructs.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, doing it, whilst picking up a request from the Roman Catholic church of Slovenia for a swaption in Serbian dinar … Gosh, how the hell am I supposed to quote it? Who is the trader for it? How much mark-up to price in?

  I ask Virgin Mary and she shouts back the code of the function in the system to price it.

  The new red flashing line, ‘Px +’, appears on the screen.

  ‘5.5–6 %,’ I quote, wide enough in case the market moves violently against me. And yet it boosts my adrenalin levels through the roof, as every decimal would lose or gain me ten grand.

  ‘Again plz,’ a new flashing line appears.

  ‘What shall I show him?’ I shout to Virgin Mary, torn between the other requests and Ahmad chasing his confirmation.

  ‘Careful, that church would rip off your arms and legs,’ she shouts back in her metallic voice.

  ‘I know that,’ I concede, rapidly re-pricing the swaption, but the figures erratically jump all over the place, making me stall.

  For a moment I pause at the sight of a faint reflection of a worn-out face that looks at me from behind the flashing numbers. A gloomy, frantic ghost, disguised by the irritating monitors I could just smash if I wanted to.

  Suddenly, I hear a shout from the red-faced trader a few yards away from me, whose book warehouses the first leg of Ahmad’s deal. ‘Katya, for fuck’s sake, get your head out of your ass!’

  ‘I’m sorry …’ I stammer, short of breath, blushing, hands shaking, still trying to quote the impatient Slovenian church: ‘4.7–4.9 … 4.1–4.3 …’

  ‘It messes up our entire onshore balance,’ the trader yells, coming over to me like an overheated kettle. ‘The discrete payments are booked to the slush fund. This is the A, B, C, D! Sort it out. Now!’

  ‘Sorry … I didn’t know,’ I sob. ‘5.6–5.8 …’

  ‘Now!’ he yells, making me jump.

  ‘OK.’ I rebook the deal, forgetting about the church.r />
  ‘Katya, your phone is ringing,’ the Polish kurva yaps.

  ‘I’m busy,’ I shout anxiously.

  ‘They say it’s urgent,’ she shouts back as I’m getting drawn into more red flashing chats and unfinished bookings … and this is all I have … all I know how to do … and it is not the worst place to be.

  I take a deep breath: ‘Lehman,’ I say.

  ‘Ms. Kuznetsova?’ a professional female voice asks.

  ‘Yes. How can I help?’

  ‘This is Louise calling from HR. Could you come down now to meeting room number eleven on the ground floor?’

  ‘I would, but I’m right in the middle of a trade, and a booking … I cannot leave the desk without my mentor.’

  ‘Ms. Kuznetsova, your mentor is here and it’s been agreed your colleagues will cover for you.’

  ‘Really?’ I wonder if this is finally the promotion he promised me last year. Is this why he gave me that kiss?

  ‘We are waiting for you downstairs in boardroom eleven,’ Louise continues.

  ‘OK. I’ll be right there,’ I say, transferring the requests, including the church, to Virgin Mary with a satisfied smile, before rushing excitedly to the first floor.

  The boardroom is boring, with large floor-to-ceiling windows, incomprehensible modern art on the wall, and a large wooden table.

  Two proper blondes in similar Hugo Boss suits are sitting in the middle of the long conference table. They lazily stand up as I walk in. One of them is very tall and one is very short. Alex stays seated on the other side of the table. His dark hair is now carefully coiffed over his bald patch and his dark brown eyes under rich eyebrows are glued to his BlackBerry while he tugs at the wedding ring on his finger.

  ‘Ms. Kuznetsova, thanks for coming in,’ says the tall blonde politely. ‘I am Louise, and this is Nicole Chapel, our head of HR.’ Both give me a lousy handshake.

  ‘Obviously you know Mr Rigopoulos.’ She points at Alex, who folds his collar into his jacket, which duly hides his hairy, flabby body.