Authors: Luca Pesaro
‘Sure. We’ll check out the supermarket, and apparently there’s a good local restaurant for dinner, according to Miss Sanna.’
Layla looked at him askance. ‘A restaurant? Can we do something like that?’
Walker drew the curtains completely open, pointing to the shrub-infested valley below. ‘We’ll be fine. You have no idea how isolated this place is. There’s fewer than ten thousand people living in an area over five thousand square miles. Most of them tend sheep, and mind their own business. It’s safe, believe me.’
‘All right, if you say so.’ Layla smiled uncertainly. ‘I want to try one of those dresses that Luigi
lent me, anyway.’
‘Don’t overdo it, or we’ll stop what little traffic there is.’
Layla’s smile widened. ‘You can be charming, when you want.’
‘Obviously not charming enough.’
‘Keep trying, you never know.’ She winked at him and closed the bedroom door behind her.
Walker sighed and poured himself the last of the vodka, then went back to the window and stared at the sunset for a while.
A Sardinian Bar
The Su Stori restaurant was small, a few tables tucked away in what looked like somebody’s living room just behind the bar. It was a bar in the Italian sense of the word, a multi-function place where you could get a cappuccino in the morning, an espresso or digestive in the afternoon and a few drinks in the evening. Layla hadn’t quite stopped traffic in the small town square –because there was hardly anyone about – but she made an impression on the old men who sat around sipping on white wine. She looked stunning in a tight blue dress that stopped well short of her knees, her lustrous hair hanging loosely to her shoulders. Conversations had tapered off as they walked in and shared a drink before the owner/waiter, a thin middle-aged guy, rescued them and pointed to a corner table in the back.
‘Tonight we have Culurgioni or Malloreddus for pasta, and Porceddu as main. Starters are the traditional cured meats and cheeses,’ he said in Italian.
Layla glanced at Walker, mystified, but he just nodded to the waiter and replied, ‘That’s fine, we’ll try both the pastas. And a bottle of Capichera wine, as well.’
‘Certainly.’
The guy left and Layla stared at him, whispering, ‘What the hell was that?’
‘Our food.’
‘Yeah, I got that much. But I’ve never heard of any of it.’
Walker smiled and went to the table, pulling her chair back. He sat down, nodding at the waiter who had already returned with their wine and some water. ‘The Malloreddus are pasta shells, with a sausage sauce. I’m not sure about Culurgioni but the meat dish is a suckling pig cooked for hours in a hole underground. It’s delicious.’
‘Mmmh. We do something similar in the Chiapas and it’s wonderful.’ Layla sipped her wine and continued, ‘I hope they’re not too slow, I’m starving.’
‘I could see that – you must have bought half the supermarket earlier.’
‘I can’t live on pastries like this morning.’
‘You certainly gave it a go.’
Layla stuck out her tongue at him. ‘I’m in convalescence, and the doctor said I need my strength.’
‘That’s okay, I don’t mind plump women.’
‘Dream on.’
Minutes later the waiter brought them several plates of starters, piled high with salami, ham cuts, pickled vegetables and cheeses. The warm homemade bread and cool white Capichera vanished before Layla sat back, taking a break. She lifted the glass to her lips and looked at Walker, eyes sparkling. ‘God, this feels good. When was the last time we had a proper meal?’
‘At Luigi’s?’
‘Pasta with tinned tuna? I can tell you grew up in England, not Italy. Actually, why do you sound American sometimes?’
‘My father was from Boston, and I studied at an international school in the US for a couple of years. As for the food taste, don’t blame the Brits – I guess I’ve just eaten too many sandwiches while staring at computers in the last ten years…’
Walker smelt burning tobacco and glanced at the waiter. The man nodded and wordlessly brought him a small ashtray – Italy’s anti-smoking regulations seemed to have fallen by the wayside in Sardinia, like much else. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Layla, who shook her head.
‘I only smoke when I’m stressed, or drunk.’
Walker eyed the empty bottle of Capichera, and signalled for another one. ‘Won’t be long, then.’
Layla ignored the jibe, set her plate aside and leaned forward, face resting on her palms. ‘So, apart from poor eating habits, what else does a derivatives trader do?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m just curious. Most of your dossier was gibberish to me.’
Walker finished his last slice of ham and took a sip of water, thinking. What had he been doing for the past few years, really? It was a great question.
‘It depends. Some traders make prices for clients and other banks that want to cover risks – like a weird type of financial insurance. Others dream up complex products for retail or pension funds to invest in, and hedge them. In my role, I used the bank’s money to – essentially – bet on the stock market’s behaviour.’
‘Why?’
‘To generate profits. If I get it right.’
‘So you have to make money from money.’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you good at it? It all seems so… random. How do you decide what to do?’
Walker lit another cigarette and waited for the thin owner to clear their starters before answering. ‘You breathe financial information all the time, news, reports, anything. And you watch the market all day. It’s inevitable to build your own opinions, or best-guesses. Then you must trust your instincts, believe in yourself.’
‘What happens if you’re wrong?’
‘That’s when skill and experience count. Discipline is the most important asset for a trader – anyone can be right at one time, but you have to be quick to cut your losses, or to know when to let your profits run. If you can do that, forget your emotions and treat it like a sophisticated game of chess, or poker…’
‘And can you?’
‘Yeah, I’m quite good at it.’
Layla raised her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. ‘Of course. How do you know?’
‘I did make money. A lot more than I lost.’
‘Which is how everything is measured, I guess?’ Her voice carried an edge of sarcasm.
‘In an investment bank, yes.’ Walker shrugged. ‘It’s ruthless, but at least there’s a baseline. Every day you know how well you’ve done, irrespective of people’s opinions of you. Money is the proof.’
‘Is that why you went into the job? Money?’
Walker finished his cigarette, and poured more wine for both of them. ‘This is starting to resemble an interrogation.’
Layla sipped at her drink and smiled, her full lips glistening. She brushed a loose strand of hair away from her cheek and pouted invitingly. ‘I just want to know what makes you tick. You don’t seem like a typical banker.’
‘That sounds like a compliment. Maybe.’
‘It is. You guys cost me a lot of money in the crisis.’
‘We cost the world a lot of money. But then again, the world sort of deserved it.’
Layla looked at him strangely. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Greedy bankers got most of the blame – still get it, really. But everyone was greedy – people bought houses that they couldn’t afford, spent more than they could possibly repay. The world runs
on credit – and it got too much of it. Everyone wanted to get rich fast, and an empire of debt was built. That was the real problem. Governments ignored it, either because they didn’t understand or because they only cared about the next election. Like a bunch of lemmings, we all jumped off the same cliff.’
The main dishes arrived, and the Culurgioni turned out to be delicious pasta dumplings filled with potato and cheese. Layla dived into them, then stopped chewing for a second. ‘What about the banks’ role? Or are they just a bunch of poor innocent scapegoats?’
‘Banks did go mad, and lent too much. It was a type of Ponzi scheme, where you just danced when the music was on.’
‘Couldn’t they see it coming? All the smart people and their computers?’
Walker laughed, then almost choked on some bread. ‘A bank’s time horizon is so short it couldn’t see its own navel. Look, the single most important cause of the crisis was stupidity. Everyone got greedy, but the real problem was that a lot of the stuff that exploded was very complex, and nobody had any understanding of the big picture. Most senior bankers were as shocked as everyone else – their firms had become so big and the deals so specialised it was impossible to keep them under control.’
‘Seriously?’ Layla sounded unconvinced.
‘Yes. We are all focused on our little turf, and every area is so monumentally complicated that no one could hope to understand the entire business. Bankers made mistakes out of ignorance and simply assumed things would continue as they always had. But the world changed, and they blew up. Because of their own stupidity they let it get out of control, and nobody reined them in. Besides, it’s easy to look away when you rake in millions.’
Walker put his glass down and took a few bites of the closest pasta, then leaned forward and picked up a Culurgione from the plate nearer Layla.
She glared at him. ‘Those are mine. You can have the madare… whatever they’re called.’
‘Malloreddus.’ He smiled at her. ‘So that’s a brief history of the crisis. Easy crime, everyone is guilty.’
‘Some more than others, I still think.’
‘Probably.’ Which was why the world needed DeepShare more than it knew.
Layla finished the last dumpling and sat back with a satisfied sigh. ‘So you’re innocent, and I’m stuffed.’
‘We still have the suckling pig.’
‘What? Are you joking?’
‘Italians never joke about food.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Don’t make me look bad.’ Walker stood up, grabbing his cigarettes. ‘Let’s go out for some fresh air. You just need a little break.’
‘I need another stomach.’
They headed outside and stood in silence for a while, sipping on their wine and smoking. The tiny central square of Sadali was empty, with only a middle-aged man crossing the cobbled pavement towards a bar on the other side, near some pine trees. A few cars were parked in front of stone houses that looked as if they were hundreds of years old, and a single street-lamp tried to pierce the evening gloom.
The temperature was dropping and Walker took off his leather jacket, putting it around Layla’s shoulders. She nodded gratefully and flicked away her cigarette, snuggling closer to Walker as they both leaned against the building’s sidewall.
‘Sardinia is colder than I expected.’
‘Yes, especially here in the mountains. They even get decent snow in winter.’
‘I hate the cold.’
‘You are Mexican.’ Walker paused and glanced at her. ‘I think. Are you really?’
Layla looked hurt. ‘Yes. I wasn’t lying. All I told you about my life was true.’
‘Well, it wasn’t that much. What did you do after you left the secret police, and why did you?’
‘I was being used, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran to the States, crossing the border near El Paso.’ Layla sighed, her eyes lost in thought. ‘I didn’t speak much English, but I made it to LA. It took me a while to get the pieces back together.’
Her voice went cold, distant. ‘The smugglers raped me in the truck.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I found one, years later. He won’t be doing it again.’
Walker shivered and lit another cigarette. ‘What did you do in California?’
‘A few odd jobs with the other illegals, there’s a large community there. Then a friend got me into a rich man’s place as housekeeper and cook. The rich man was in the middle of a divorce, and he – he liked me.’
‘Did you… like him back?’
‘Not really, he was a selfish bastard. And he was trying to screw his ex-wife. But he was stupid, started leaving all sorts of documents around the house. Maybe he wanted to impress me with his wealth.’ Layla looked at Walker with a wolfish grin. ‘I went to the wife’s lawyer and organised my first sting. They gave me ten grand for the bank’s papers.’
‘How did that feel?’
‘Good. And dirty.’
The restaurant door opened and the owner poked his head out, looking for them. ‘
Il Porceddu e’ pronto
,’ he grumbled, before popping back inside.
Layla shrugged out of Walker’s jacket and returned it. ‘I was sick of myself for a while, but it gave me a chance to start again. The lawyer was impressed, and she found me a couple more jobs like that. During one of those I met my current fixer – he’s a real pro, and stuff became more complicated.’
‘Like me?’
Layla stepped towards the entrance, then she looked at Walker and grinned. ‘No, never
that
complicated.’
Olive Tree
‘
They were hiding in Lugano
. ’
‘
How do you know?
’
The Australian’s palms tingled with anticipation. He was still mad at Walker’s escape in Reims, and he couldn’t wait to get even
.
‘
Banker’s connections. He has a lot of money to play with, though
.’
‘
It doesn’t matter. Where were they holed up?
’
‘
A friend of his, we think. When can you get there?
’
The Englishman sounded worried for the first time, and in a hurry
.
‘
Tomorrow morning. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the trail doesn’t go cold, now
.’
They finished dinner in a rush, neither having the appetite to make a dent in the suckling pig, and drove back to the Agriturismo. Walker whizzed through the empty mountain roads in silence, with Layla apparently lost in her thoughts. When they reached the hotel parking lot he prepared to carry their shopping up to the room but Layla stopped him.
‘Are you going back to work now?’ she asked.
‘Yep. There’s a few things I want to try out.’
She looked at the clear sky, then around the converted barn. ‘Let’s go for a walk. I’m not ready to get closed up in that dump, yet.’
‘Okay, sure.’
Layla found a little track that wound down the steeper part of the hill and they followed it for a few minutes through some dense shrub, emerging into a meadow in the shadow of a giant olive tree. Walker stopped to admire it in the quarter-moon while Layla bent under the low-hanging branches, wiping the ground and leaning back against its trunk.