Chapter 3- Geneva - Fast Money and French Ladies: The Greek Crisis 2015

Chapter 3. Geneva

On Sunday morning, Jim stood outside the Geneva airport terminal on the curb waiting for a limo to pick him up, his head throbbing from too much scotch and too little aspirin. “Oh, no,” he mumbled to himself as he saw Dieter approach in his Kubel Kar with the Afrika Corp palm tree stenciled on the side. Jim could see emblazoned across the front of Dieter’s tee shirt the words “Asylum for Snowden,” referring to the renegade security spy and good friend of Dieter’s. Just what was Dieter softening him up for?

The thought flashed across Jim’s mind that possibly this was worse than he had imagined—although how much worse could it get than to be long a couple of billion euros in Greece? Next weekend Greece was scheduled to hold a referendum on rejecting the latest bailout proposal from the European Union. In short, would Greek voters give a mighty heave and pull down the pillars of the European monetary temple?

More immediate, just where was Bermuda Triangle? He’d updated his iPad every time the little executive jet had landed—Bermuda, the Azores, Lisbon—each update worse than the previous. When they ran out of scotch, the flight attendant said, “I didn’t know this was going to be a two bottle flight?”

“Jim, hop in,” Dieter shouted as he swerved the bathtub-shaped vehicle into the curb. “Enjoy your flight?”

“Not exactly. Ran out of scotch, then aspirin.”

“Uh, huh. Well, we have a complete briefing set up for you back in the office.”

“What happened?”

“We came in one morning and the algorithm was chirping away, expecting a reward…”

“I thought we had it cordoned off?”

“The algorithm hopped right over the firewall during the night…and by the time we got it back…”

“Yes, frisky little algorithm,” Jim said. “Can’t we unwind any of these positions?”

“We’re in, I’m afraid.”

“Recommendations?”

“The algorithm says to stay with the positions; it’s sure a bailout is coming.”

“Sounds rearview mirror to me,” said Jim glumly.

“We’re doing deep analysis,” said Dieter reassuringly. “Really drilling down. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

The Rubber Room

Arriving at Bermuda Triangle’s offices in downtown Geneva, Jim got off the elevator followed by Dieter and they walked down to the big padded door open to the computer room. The padding kept intrusive microwaves from spying on their highly proprietary trading techniques. Above the door was the hand-drawn sign saying “The Rubber Room: Home of the Alpha Dogs,” alpha being the shorthand Wall Street lingo for above average investment returns. If a hedge fund couldn’t earn alpha, it had no reason to exist.

For Bermuda Triangle, Jim wondered where the alpha had gone—and would it ever return? Jim and Dieter went inside and saw a lithesome olive-skinned young woman sitting at the triple-computer console in front of vast LCD screens lining the walls. “Hi, Anouk,” said Jim. “What do we have?” He eyed Anouk’s tee shirt emblazoned with “Remember Valérie,” undoubtedly a reference to Valérie Trierweiler, the former mistress of President Hollande of France. Trierweiler was the latest sympathy object of worldwide feminism.

“Still the same,” said Anouk. “The algorithm says go long Greek everything.”

“Anouk has been going over the code all day…looking for a hidden loop…an unknown cutout…anything...” said Dieter. “We’ve run every conceivable diagnostic on the algorithm…they all come up empty…”

“Strange,” said Jim. “An algorithm designed to minimize risk and it jumps the fence and makes a bet-the-house call on Greece…the shakiest proposition since the Iraq invasion,” and Jim made an involuntary shudder at that dark thought—the descent into an endless negative loop.

“We’re going through its risk-reward subroutines,” said Dieter. “We’ll find an answer.”

“Okay,” said Jim.

“Oh, while Dieter was picking you up at the airport,” said Anouk, “a message came from the Bistro. Said there was a napkin.” The Bistro was their favorite lunch place down the street. Three years ago during the last Greek crisis their secret source in a big French bank tipped them off by sending messages on cocktail napkins to the Bistro in Geneva.

“A napkin?” said Jim incredulously. “That’s from the top floor of Crédit Générale in Paris,” referring to one of the largest banks in France.

“I picked it up,” said Anouk.

“What does it say?” asked Dieter with incredible eagerness. A way out?

Anouk pulled the napkin out of her handbag and read, “Go long Greek banks…wait for the lows.”

“Cryptic,” said Jim. “Where and when will we see the lows?”

“I know,” said Dieter. “I’ll have the algorithm watch the trading of the Paris banks…and all their shady affiliates…we’ll be looking for a little front running by the insiders…and we have a new program monitoring the Twittersphere,” he added mentioning the ubiquitous short messages broadcast across electronic space by Twitter.

“Good idea,” said Jim. “Wonder where he’s getting his information? He’s UMP—“

“They’re Les Republicans, now,” said Anouk.

“I stand corrected,” said Jim. “But Alain’s not a Socialist. How would he know what’s going on in the Élysée Palace,” asked Jim mentioning the official residence of the French president. Alain Renier, their hidden source from whence the napkins came, worked just down the hallway from the chairman of Crédit Générale as director of policy planning. Before that, Alain held high positions in the French finance ministry during the last conservative administration under Nicholas Sarkozy.

“He probably has an usher on the payroll,” said Anouk.

Jim looked at her with open-eyed amazement and exclaimed: “How did such a smart girl wind up with him,” and Jim nodded at Dieter. Dieter beamed. Anouk had been the flight attendant on Bermuda Triangle’s executive jet back when it could afford an executive jet. Then she became a computer data analyst with Dieter. A trip together to a worldwide hacker convention put romance in their relationship. The doe-eyed French beauty with the Moroccan background had the gift, everyone admitted. It was that or let her waste her talents being a runway model in Paris.

“Here’s what I want you to do, Anouk,” said Jim, following up. “I want you to contact Édouard Soisson at Strategic Intelligence International in Paris. He was Sophie’s business partner when she was a consultant there…back before she was elected to the European Parliament. Have Soisson check it out.”

“Will do,” said Anouk.

“You better go to Paris in person,” said Jim. “We don’t want a whisper of this on a telephone line.”

“Great, I can catch up on my shopping,” said Anouk, bright-eyed with expectation.

“Okay. Other business?” asked Jim. “Where’s Jack?”

“Jack’s in Athens looking for bargain deals in the collapse,” said Dieter, referring to Jack Hawkins, their British partner.

“Well, you better call him and tell him some of those collapsing buildings belong to us.”

“Will do,” said Dieter.

“And Jürgen?” said Jim, referring to their German partner.

“He’s in Frankfurt. Mario Draghi has asked him to intercede with Bundesbank and see if they’ll soften their position on Greece,” replied Dieter. “The ECB needs some room to deal.”

“Melt the iceberg,” said Jim with a smile. Jürgen was exceptionally tough minded; he thought the top German bankers at Commerzbank and Deutsche Bank were marshmallows for having bought all those Greek bonds in the first place during the run up to the 2008 financial crisis. And he didn’t cry any crocodile tears for poor supervision by the Bundesbank; he had long suspected the central bank wanted the euro project to fail so Germany could go back to the beloved Deutsche Mark.

“Yeah, they’re pretty rigid…even for Germans,” said Dieter with a shrug, unselfconscious of his own nationality.

“Give Jürgen a heads up, too,” said Jim. “I’m going home and take a shower.” As Jim started to walk out, he turned around said, “If we can’t maneuver our way out of this, our worst nightmare might come true…”

“What’s that?” said Anouk with genuine concern.

“Wind up as a long-term investor…” said Jim, shaking his head in disbelief at such a dismal prospect. “I’m going to my flat. Call me if anything comes up.”

Sunday Night

“Okay, what’s up,” said Jim as he sat down in the big armchair in front of Dieter’s triple-screen computer console. He had received Anouk’s telephone call a half hour before rousing him from a deep sleep, a reverie of gentle blue waves breaking on the white Laguna Beach sand, small clouds gliding across the blue sky of his mind. The telephone call broke through like lightning on a gray, cloud-strewn day. He had raced over to the Bermuda Triangle offices.

Jim looked up at the big LCD screens on the fall, a news ticker with flashing messages racing across the screen. The Greek prime minister Alexis Tsipras was going to address the Greek nation on TV. “What do you think, Dieter?”

“The Twittersphere says the European Central Bank is freezing the level of emergency loans being supplied to Greek banks,” said Dieter.

“No more cash for the Greek ATMs,” added Anouk.

“That means capital controls for sure,” said Jim.

“Here it comes,” said Dieter as he pointed to one of the big LCD screens. The Greek prime minister came on the TV screen while an English-language translation started to scroll across the bottom of the screen.

They all watched as the message that Greek banks would be closed through the following weekend when the referendum would be held scrolled across the screen.

“That will make for a very long week for the average Greek,” said Jim.

Words flashed across the screen that the Athens stock exchange would also be closed.

“Understandable,” said Jim. “Avoid needless chaos.”

Then they watched as the prime minister assured Greek citizens that their bank deposits were safe.

“How do you tell when the Greek prime minister is lying,” said Dieter with a grin. “When his lips are moving.”

“I think Angela Merkel has already discovered that,” said Jim. “I can’t get Sophie to tell me, but the body language says that lack of personal truthfulness in one-on-one conversations has been a problem.”

“Here comes the bottomline—ATM withdrawals are limited to sixty euros a day per depositor,” said Dieter.

“What about tomorrow’s markets?” asked Jim.

Dieter punched his keyboard and the Monday morning future prices flashed on the big screens.

“The euro is okay,” said Jim as he scanned the screen.

“Wow, look at that,” said Anouk, “the Greek 17s are pegged to yield 38 percent.” The Greek bond with a coupon rate of 3.8 percent maturing in August 2017 was one of the principal bellwether bonds still trading in international markets.

“We’re in that?” asked Jim.

“No, it’s too small a float. The algorithm doesn’t do small change.”

“Always nice to play god with something else’s money,” said Jim. “Well, thanks for small favors.”

“We’ve got major positons in the outlying maturities.”

“Look at that,” said Anouk, “the algorithm says to buy—it’s really blinking!”

“Dieter, you have to seriously debug that subroutine…wherever it’s hiding…” said Jim with a sigh.

“Will do, boss,” said Dieter.

“I’m going back to bed. Tomorrow will be a big day. This week will be a long week,” said Jim with a shrug.

“And Sophie?” asked Anouk.

“She’s up in the B-sphere, you know, the bureauscratisphere…communicating between all those little boxes at the top of the European Union organization chart,” said Jim. “Unlikely I’ll see much of her this week.”

“The Twittersphere said a high level French emissary was in Washington speaking with the IMF,” said Dieter.

“That was her,” said Jim. “The invisible emissary.”

Chapter 2. Berlin - Fast Money and French Ladies

by Paul A. Myers    All rights reserved.

Chapter 2. Berlin.

Chapter 2. Berlin

Sophie walked into the ultra-modern, glistening all-white reception room escorted by a dark-suited security agent. A receptionist stood and said, “This way, Madame d’Auverne. She’s expecting you.”

The door was opened and Sophie walked into the glass-walled corner office the size of a volley ball court occupied by the German chancellor. Angela Merkel stood and came around the desk and held out both of her hands to Sophie and bussed her on the cheeks. “So nice of you to come on such short notice, Sophie.”

“My pleasure, Madam Chancellor,” said Sophie as she looked around. Outside the tall plate glass windows the skyline of the new Berlin rose in the distance, the economic heart of Central Europe.

The chancellor pointed to a waiting chair and said to the receptionist, “That will be all.” She walked around her long desk and sat down.

“Before you go over and talk to Wolfgang,” she said mentioning Finance Minister Wolfgang Schäuble, “I wanted to put a perspective on events as they stand this Sunday morning. Undoubtedly they’ll be different Monday morning and every day this week. We don’t want to over react. The press will be looking for inflammatory statements.”

“Yes, we must carefully modulate our public statements.”

The chancellor looked off into the distance and then continued, “So flexibility remains a key. A golden rule is that in tough negotiations hard positions are to be avoided.”

“Agreed. We should also always use time to our advantage,” said Sophie. She shared with the chancellor a sense of patience, a willingness to let events play out until a favorable opening presented itself.

The chancellor turned to the big issue. “The geopolitical concerns are momentous. We can’t afford to have failed state on Europe’s doorstep.”

“Yes, it would be an onramp for hundreds of thousands of Muslim refugees into Europe. That would put Marine Le Pen into the final round of the next French presidential election.”

Merkel sadly nodded at this portentous thought. Moving on, the chancellor said, “As you know, I fully believe that if the euro fails then Europe fails.”

“All of us feel that way,” said Sophie.

The chancellor frowned as she summarized her dilemma: “Now the question becomes is it better to pay almost any price to keep Greece in the euro or would it be letter to let them go?”

“Yes, I understand the problem,” said Sophie. “But Greece keeps changing its positions. We’re aiming at a moving target.”

“An erratic target,” said Merkel, a tinge of frustration in her voice.

“Yes,” said Sophie. “But that movement may give us the room to maneuver in clever and unexpected ways.”

The chancellor nodded in agreement with this insight. Capitalizing on this type of situation was why Sophie held the diplomatic portfolio she did. Sophie was always looking at the other party’s brief; she was never locked into her own. The chancellor continued, “Alexis Tsipras thoroughly surprised us with his announcement about a holding referendum in Greece next weekend on the bailout package. We had no advance word,” she said mentioning the Greek prime minister.

The chancellor pulled over a copy of the New York Times and read, “Mr. Tsipras tossed a grenade.” She put the paper back down on her desk and looked at Sophie glumly.

Sophie mentally winced at the word “grenade” and then said, “He doesn’t seem to see the boundaries…or the courtesies…”

Merkel nodded and added, “And that finance minister,” she said referring to Yanis Varoufakis, the Greek finance minister. She shook her head in wonder.

Yes, thought Sophie. Varoufakis looked and acted like a runaway from a garage band. She kept her thoughts to herself.

“If the Greek prime minister would have just signed, we could’ve got past this round,” said the chancellor sadly. “Debt relief and less austerity could have been handled later—out of the public eye.”

“Yes, he burned up the backroom that a deal could have been negotiated in,” said Sophie.

Changing the subject, Merkel asked, “You spoke with Christine?” She was referring to Christine Lagarde, the head of the International Monetary Fund.

“Yes, I was at their headquarters in Washington Friday. They’re all on board.”

“Thank you. Christine is a great consolation to Wolfgang. She is one of the few who speaks in a clear voice.”

“Yes, she is the solid wall in front of which we maneuver,” said Sophie with a sure eye on the coming negotiating arena.

“Yes, if we leave it to Brussels, there will be muddle…” and the chancellor made a pained expression, “and confusion. Wolfgang knows that.”

“I’m on my way to speak to Wolfgang. Any special instructions?”

“He should keep his public utterances muffled this week; we’ll let Brussels deliver the message.”

“That will be out of character,” said Sophie with a smile thinking about the plain-spoken finance minister. The chancellor made a light smirk.

“Let’s stay flexible,” said Merkel. “We have to be ready to discuss anything.” She thought for a moment and added, “Nevertheless, for now our public position is that everyone has to follow the same rules in the euro.”

She paused and then considered her words carefully. “Events…events…it is possible events in the coming days will bring a new government to power in Athens.”

Sophie nodded. That was one exit out of the crisis. But it was also something Jim would call a “lucky bounce,” and he was pretty clear that is not the way to play the game.

The chancellor stood up and walked around the desk and took Sophie’s hands in hers. “I was sorry to hear about the passing of your grandmother.”

“Grandmère lived a long and adventurous life,” replied Sophie. Sophie’s grandmother, la vicomtesse Inès d’Auverne, had died the previous winter at a great age in the family’s chateau in Normandy. Her grandmother, like her fifty or sixty predecessors stretching back centuries—les vicomtesses—had written an engaging tell-all memoir about her exploits in the halls of power in Europe and in the boudoirs of the leading men of the day. The series of memoirs—all renowned for their intimate frankness and sharp political insight—were the centerpieces in many rare book collections around the world.

“Yes, I read the memoir of her mother—fascinating insights about the years between the wars. I trust we will get to read her memoir in due time?”

“It will be out soon. I will see you get one of the first copies.”

The chancellor smiled. “Yes, I would like to read about the woman who put a smile on Der Alte’s face,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, referring to the legendary postwar German chancellor Konrad Adenauer.

“Soon,” said Sophie beaming.

The chancellor walked her over to the door.

The Air Ministry

Outside, the security agent escorted Sophie to a shiny black Mercedes limousine. The security agent said to the driver, “The Air Ministry. Finance minister’s office.” The Air Ministry was the nickname of what had once been the largest office building in Berlin, the headquarters building built in 1935-36 to house Hermann Goering’s Luftwaffe organization. It had miraculously survived the destruction of World War II and forty-five years as an office building housing the Communist ministries in East Berlin, a stolid bastion to a Marxist society symbolizing East Germany’s commitment to non-movement. It was now home to the mighty German finance ministry and associated agencies.

As the limousine pulled to a stop in front of the mammoth boxlike building with all the charm of an American penitentiary a uniformed sentry came forward and opened the door. Sophie got out and was escorted up the flight of steps. At the door, a well-presented aide met her and said, “This way. The minister is waiting for you.”

Sophie followed the aide down the hallways listening to her heels tap on the hard polished surface. Presently she was ushered into a spacious office with bookcases and comfortable seating. Schäuble was sitting behind the desk and looked up. “Good morning, Sophie. Have a seat.”

He finished with some papers and set them aside. Then he wheeled and turned and with strong arms and broad shoulders pushed his wheelchair in a graceful arc around the desk and came out and parked near a bookcase. Schäuble had had his spinal cord severed by an assassin’s bullet in the early 1990s just after the German reunification.

“It’s about Greece?” he asked to start the conversation off.

“Yes, what else?”

“Seen Angela?”

“Yes, I’ve just come from there. Her main concern is winding up with a failed state on Europe’s doorstep.”

“Yes, I understand. But can we survive with a failed state inside the euro?” said the uncompromising finance minister.

“You know I believe that is a good question,” said Sophie.

“Close integration—the key to the eurozone having a better future—depends on tough rules,” lectured Schäuble.

“Yes, but we have to place Greece somewhere in the maze of rules.”

“You know I believe in a multi-speed European Union,” said Schäuble. “I have sympathy for British prime minister Cameron’s position where there is a circle of countries outside the euro that preserve greater sovereign rights.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Sophie. “The inner core integrates rapidly while the other countries go slower.”

“Exactly. And Germany leads this inner core…” said Schäuble. “Either way we go with Greece, it will be expensive. Possibly it would be better to smooth their way to the outside…with Great Britain.”

“Yes, Great Britain would be of great use in such a situation,” said Sophie as she chewed over this idea in her head. “Interesting possibilities,” she mused.

“If that opportunity were to present itself…” said Schäuble.

“I would of course be on the lookout…” said Sophie as Schäuble smiled.

Changing subjects, Schäuble asked, “Christine? You’ve seen her?”

“I saw her Friday in Washington.”

“Yes,” he drawled with a saturnine smile. He knew the women folk were going to soften him up. “So Athens?”

“Yes, the announcement of the referendum came as a bit of a surprise.”

Schäuble rocked the wheelchair this way and that, moving the right wheel forward and left wheel back. “A bit of a surprise…I was at the Eurogroup meeting,” he said mentioning the powerful policy group of eurozone finance ministers. “Not a word was spoken.”

“Well, Vanoufakis was there, not Tsipras,” said Sophie.

At the sound of the name Vanoufakis, Schäuble pushed hard on both wheels and did a wheelie, bringing the footpads up a foot off the floor. Sophie could all but see steam coming out of the finance minister’s ears. She stood up and walked over, afraid that he might tip over.

“Relax,” he said. “I’m good at this. I get a lot of practice.”

She smiled and stepped back and sat down. Boys will be boys. She watched as he expertly balanced the wheel chair and wiggled it this way and that, finally bringing the front wheels back down onto the floor with a light thud.

“What’s Draghi doing?” he asked, mentioning Mario Draghi, the head of the European Central Bank.

“He’s slowly cutting the supply of cash. The ATMs are limited to sixty euros a day per customer.”

“That horse is out of the barn. The ECB has pumped almost ninety billion euros into Greek banks just since February. While we’ve been talking, they’ve been…”

“Yes…for now…”

“You don’t know, Sophie. I’ve got to take the phone calls from Weidmann,” he said, mentioning Jens Weidmann, head of the Bundesbank, Germany’s powerful central bank.

“I can sympathize with your commiserations…”

“He goes on and on about the monetizaton of debt, reminding me that it is against the laws…”

“Possibly he is fighting the last war…”

“It’s all about 1923 I’m afraid,” said Schäuble, mentioning the great inflation of 1923 which scared the German psyche for generations.

Moving on, Sophie said, “The chancellor says that any agreement must pass muster with the finance ministers…only they can say yes.”

“And the chancellor only wants the finance ministers to speak collectively, not individually,” he said with a knowing smile. He knew—stay quiet.

“I believe that was part of the message I was supposed to deliver.”

Schäuble laughed. Schäuble knew better than to ask who had actually decided on the overall strategy. That was Sophie’s job—to go around telling mortals like him that “they” had decided upon such and such.

“And the chancellor has been clear that she isn’t hearing any more appeals from Athens,” said Sophie.

“So Angela isn’t taking Athens’ phone calls,” said Schäuble dryly. The goddess that doesn’t answer her telephone. “So there’s no way those guys can get a ‘Yes’ out of her.”

“Not for now,” agreed Sophie.

“And she’s also the only person who can say ‘No’ and she can’t be reached,” said Schäuble with a brittle laugh.

“That’s our approach for this week—the Greeks have to go over to the finance ministers’ door if the answer is ‘yes’ and somewhere else—vague we might say—if they want to deliver a ‘no.’ They can only find one door—the one we want them to go through.”

“Who is going to be the public face this week?”

“It has been decided to let Juncker and Tusk present the public positions of the European Union,” said Sophie, referring to Jean-Claude Juncker, the head of the European Commission, and Donald Tusk, the head of the European Council.

“So much for the public,” said Schäuble. “What do the knowledgeable observers think?”

“Possibly events will bring regime change in Athens. A new government that can negotiate.”

“And who might push the regime change? Only the Americans are dumb enough to try to directly engineer regime change—and their record…Iran…Iraq…”

“There’s a lot of outside money invested in Greece. When the previous Greek government was making progress, the international players went for the upside…a lot of Greek politicians like money…”

“Yes, they can be bought…as long as it is someone else’s money…the old game…the hedge funds make billions…and the German taxpayer writes off tens of billions…some strudel that is…”

“Eventually some form of debt cancellation…disguised of course,” ventured Sophie. “Christine mentioned that.”

“Yes, more extend and pretend. It probably can’t be helped,” said the dour finance minister. He held his hands to the side of his head in mock exasperation and said, “Too much reality is bad for my delusions.”

Sophie laughed.

“In conclusion,” the finance minister said, “remember Grexit is not only about dealing with one weak member, but also about strengthening the rest of the club.”

“Yes, a better future is nonnegotiable,” said Sophie.

“Well said by Europe’s best negotiator,” said Schäuble with a laugh.

Sophie demurely said, “Thank you.”

Schäuble slowly wheeled around, a light smile of expectation on his face, and directly faced Sophie. “Enough about that. Tell me some more about your grandmother. I’ve read most of the memoirs of les vicomtesses from the past couple of centuries. Great insights. Those memoirs plus Thucydides and a good biography of Bismarck and you’ve got a grip on international politics. Is your grandmother’s memoir about to come out?”

“Soon. I’ll get you one of the first copies.”

Schäuble relaxed and mused, “Great, what you’ve already told me is fascinating. Too bad De Gaulle was such a straight arrow…that would have made interesting reading…”

“Yes, that’s what grandmère said with a bright eye and sly smile…an interesting time missed…”

Schäuble laughed for the first time that morning, and probably the last time that week.

Sophie stood up and walked over and patted Schäuble on the shoulder and said, “Wolfgang, you’re rock in a sea of indecision. Please give me regards to Ingeborg. At one of these conferences we can all have dinner again.”

“We’d love that, Sophie.”

Sophie turned and walked over to the doorway and out of the building.

Chapter 1 of Fast Money and French Ladies - the Greek Crisis 2015 - a satirical novel

I am going to publish draft chapters in "real time" from my new satirical novel "Fast Money and French Ladies" about the 2015 Greek financial crisis. This is a sequel to my 2013 novel "Greek Bonds and French Ladies" and features the same set of fictional characters as they face new challenges in the present crisis.

Below is the Title Page and Chapter 1.

Fast Money and 

French Ladies:

Greek Crisis 2015

A chapter-by-chapter work-in-progress of a satirical novel

by

Paul A. Myers

Ebook edition being published by chapters on blogs, Facebook, and Twitter and other electronic media

Published and produced by Paul A. Myers Books

Copyright © Paul A. Myers 2015

All rights reserved.



Cast of Fictional Characters


Gentlemen

Jim Schiller—the American managing partner of Bermuda Triangle Ltd., a hedge fund based in Geneva, Switzerland

Jack Hawkins—the British partner of Bermuda Triangle Ltd.

Jürgen Kretschmer—the German partner of Bermuda Triangle Ltd.

Dieter—the German computer geek for Bermuda Triangle Ltd.

Édouard Soissons—an investigator for Strategic Intelligence International, a Paris-based international consultancy

Alain Renier—a former French finance ministry official and expert on banking now employed by a big French bank



French Ladies
Sophie d’Auverne—a former high official at the French finance ministry and  consultant for Strategic Intelligence International, a Paris-based international consultancy. Now she is a member of the European Parliament and a Deputy Commissioner of Finance in the European Commission, but in reality she is a high level envoy shuttling between top European policy makers.

Inès d’Auverne—grand-mère, the elderly grandmother of Sophie who has recently died

Martine d’Auverne—mother of Sophie and widow of Inès’s only son, Jean-Pierre

Marie-Hélène d’Auverne—daughter of Sophie and about fourteen years old



This novel is a work of fiction and a product of imagination. The principal characters are fictional; actual persons are public personages and are used in a fictional way.

Chapter 1. Laguna Beach 

Jim Schiller sat on the couch nursing a weak gin-and-tonic and watched the big screen TV affixed to the wall across the room. Next to him sat his paramour Sophie d’Auverne furiously texting on her iPhone. Up on the screen, Greek citizens stood in long lines outside banks in Athens waiting to withdraw money from the ATM machines. The camera focused on euro notes ejecting out of the dispensers with a grinding whirl and being snatched up by eager hands and stuffed into empty purses and wallets. Other customers standing behind roughly pushed the recipients out of the way as soon as the machines stopping whirring. The next-in-line elbowed their way up to the machines, shouting “My turn!”

“That’s your money pouring out of those machines,” said Jim with a laugh as he looked at Sophie. “All Frankfurt, all day long.”

“You’re not in?” she asked, referring to Bermuda Triangle, the Geneva-based hedge fund of which Jim was the managing partner.

“Naw. We’re net zero exposure to Greece. Wouldn’t have left Geneva if I hadn’t drained all the risks out of our positions. No siree, Bob!”

She crinkled her nose at him. “Of course not, particularly after the money you lost this spring.”

“Now no reason to rub it in, Sophie,” he replied. She was right. They got caught on the wrong side of the Swiss franc revaluation; how was he to know that the Swiss would bow to inevitable fundamentals and let the Swiss franc float. Most politicians, when confronted with facing the fundamentals or going over the cliff, opt for the cliff.

“Well if the Swiss would have been more European…”

She gritted her teeth and said, “I’m European.”

“Point made,” he said with an air of minor triumph.

“And Denmark,” Sophie waspishly added.

Jim winced. The Danish kroner had taken off like a bird on flight, driven by strong fundamentals of what was regarded as the most competitive economy in the world. He and his partners thought it was a sure deal. How’d he know that all the little blond people would come out of their gingerbread houses and stuff it to a phalanx of international speculators. “How was I to know that the governor of the Danish central bank had a strong backbone and indomitable will?”

“Who settled Normandy?”

“The Norsemen.”

“Where’d they come from?” She sat there and twirled some strands of flaxen hair between forefinger and thumb while looking at him like a school teacher pondering a slow child. He hadn’t noticed the strands of flaxen hair in the sea of auburn waves before.

“Denmark?” said Jim in a slow, hesitant voice. She nodded affirmatively. Sophie’s family chateau was in Normandy. Had been in the family for centuries.

Putting her finger over the mouthpiece, she said, “Keep this up and you’ll be down in the Cayman Islands dodging taxes with that other wannabe.”

Jim winced again. Sophie had flown in yesterday for a quick weekend together before returning to the financial wars of Europe. She had made a confidential presentation to the International Monetary Fund in Washington the day before on the Greek currency crisis. Jim was hoping to stay in Laguna Beach the entire week, touch base with some of the west coast investors who were getting a little tetchy over lack of return on their investments. Same old story. “We could get that with Vanguard and not worry about you chocolate makers in Europe overbaking the cake,” they would say as they munched brownies laced with marijuana, adding, “It’s medicinal.” Everything was medicinal on the west coast. Jim would start to explain and they’d interrupt, “And that guy Dieter. Got him under control?” Dieter was their resident computer genius. Admittedly he needed special handling or he’d be in the running to be the next Greek finance minister if he got loose.

“Let me go outside and ponder Denmark for a while,” said Jim as he stood up and walked out onto the long deck overlooking the beach below and the blue Pacific ocean stretching into the distance. Sophie kept texting, sometimes in German, sometimes in French.

Jim leaned against the rail at the far end of the deck. Suddenly, he spotted his neighbor on the next deck. He started waving his arms. “Hey, Mister Bond King, how’s it going?”

Over on the other deck, the flailing arms of the what had once been a pretty polished New York investment banker caught the eye of the neighborhood billionaire, the world renowned Bond King. He lifted his arm up with god-like majesty, palm down, and chanted, with sage-like gravity, “I’m long on the good.”

“You’re the money market,” said Jim with adolescent enthusiasm.

“Not anymore,” solemnly intoned the Bond King.

“You don’t have all the power?”

“Today, I’m a prophet without honor.”

“Well, you sure used to intimidate those guys in Washington D.C.”

“No more. Today, they listen to false gods.”

“False gods?”

“Lesser gods that practice the false rituals of quantitative easing…portfolio indexing and other dark arts…”

“Why’s that?”

“They placed a high priestess on the throne, the sorceress with the silver bobbed hair.”

“What’s her program?”

“She promises an endless dawn…a world with no nightfall…”

“Well, hey that’s all above my pay grade. Do you have any recommendations on where I could put a couple of billion in not-so-patient capital?”

“Yes, we recommend Liechtenstein convertible subordinated mortgage-backed collateral bonds…that’s where all the New York bonus money goes.”

“How do they work?”

“Interest payable semiannually into your Dubai savings account. Guaranteed free of all tax reporting.”

“You sure on the tax angle?”

“Mitt assures me it’s true.”

“The Dweeb would know. He’s never seen a tax he couldn’t dodge...or a draft…”

“Yes, he assures me the transaction is as white as the Patriarch’s gown.”

“Well, thanks for the tip. My Dubai investors will love it.”

“May prosperity flow through your portfolios,” said the Bond King and he slipped away through the sliding glass doors behind him, bored with a golden sunset he couldn’t own.

Just then Jim’s cell phone started to vibrate in the pocket of his Levis. He pulled it out and swiped his finger across the glass surface and put it on speaker.

“Jim Schiller here.” Sophie came out and stood next to him, absently texting a message here and there.

“One moment, Geneva,” said an operator. Sophie looked at him with interest.

Jim stood still, a frown crossing his face. They knew he wasn’t to be disturbed unless it was something important.

“Yes…our investment position has changed…” he mumbled while repeating the words.

Sophie watched and then her cell phone rang with a voice call. She picked it up as she walked away from Jim, speaking into the mouthpiece, “Yes, Christine…”

Back across the deck Jim listened with consternation, repeating the words, “Dieter’s algorithm got away from him…took a bad hop…we’re long a billion in Greek bonds…and in deep on Greek bank stocks…”

Jim walked across the deck and into the living room and stared with unblinking comprehension at the TV screen, the Greek customers lined up at the ATM machines, his ATM machines...

“That’s us?” he mumbled.

Sophie followed him in and watched Jim stare at the TV with a wide smile on her face. She finished off her conversation, “Yes, I know…sooth the raging beast…Angela insists…fine, Christine, I’m ready to go…” She hung up and went into the other room.

Jim hardly paid attention to her departure; he just stared at the TV screen and the unfolding financial panic in Athens.

“Yes, I can leave right away,” he said into the iPhone. “Really? Right here, off the deck?” With the phone still glued to his ear, Jim walked over and got his laptop case, walked into the bedroom passing Sophie as she went the other way, carrying a small suitcase while her iPad poked out of her big Longchamps handbag. That handbag meant she was combat loaded, ready to go.

“Got to go,” she said chirpily.

“Me, too,” he said desultorily. He threw some clothes into a bag and walked back out, still in a daze, and over to the railing alongside the deck and stared out across the ocean towards Catalina Island. He could see a helicopter coming straight towards him.

“That helicopter?” he said into the iPhone. “They’re going to winch me right up off the deck?”

He listened some more. “Yeah, I got my laptop. And a change of underwear. Some socks. You say the helo’s taking me to the airport. The Gulfstream will be waiting. I’ll be in Geneva in the morning.”

He looked at the helicopter rapidly approaching. The telephone line went dead. He put the phone back in his jeans’ pocket. He put the big strap of his laptop over his shoulder and across his chest. Going Ranger style, he thought.

Sophie came over and stood in front of him looking at the approaching helicopter and then she turned and said, “That’s my helicopter. Yours is the little one out on the horizon,” and she pointed to another helicopter approaching about five miles out.

Jim looked up at the approaching helicopter and saw a blue plastic pennant emblazoned with the gold stars of the European Union attached to the front skid of the helicopter. “I’ll be damned.”

The helicopter hovered over the deck and lowered down a basket. Sophie opened the gate, stepped in, fastened the straps, and bolted the gate shut. She looked up and waved at the crew chief like a veteran commando and the basket rapidly ascended. She called out below to Jim, “I’ll be in Berlin, then Frankfurt.” The basket was pulled into the rear cabin area and the helicopter banked and raced away up the beach towards John Wayne airport and a waiting European Union executive jet.

Jim stood on the deck and watched the next helicopter approach. Kind of a dinky little thing, he thought. The crew chief lowered the bucket from the helicopter. The pilot, all long hair and a big Poncho Villa mustache, gave him a good natured wave with a big cigar and an encouraging smile.

Jim got into the basket, snapped the harness closed, and looked up and waved okay. The crew chief winched him up and pulled him in.

“Your lucky day,” shouted the crew chief.

“How so?”

“We were just heading for Mexico when we got the call to pick you up.”

“Mexico?”

“Yeah, you know, doing stuff.”

“Kind of loud,” said Jim, pointing up to the turbine engine rattling away as if it were pining for an overhaul.

“Yeah, war surplus.”

“Which war?”

“Take your pick. Strap in, we’re off into the wild blue yonder.” The helicopter banked and raced up the beach heading for John Wayne Airport and a waiting Gulfstream.

Executive Jet 

The helicopter crew chief held Sophie’s hand as she hopped out of the aircraft and walked briskly over to the waiting executive jet emblazoned with the European Union flag, the circle of gold stars on the bright blue background. She walked up the steps and was greeted at the top by the cabin steward. The crew chief handed her luggage up and waved goodbye. Her chief of staff—dark suit, white shirt, narrow tie—stood just inside holding a portfolio of briefing papers. “I have the most recent reports from Brussels.”

“Good,” she said as she walked forward and took her place in an oversized seat. Her aide sat directly across and opened the book. “Just give me a summary, please,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll probably be out-of-date by the time when we land.”

“Yes,” said the aide. “Monsieur Moscovici wanted you to have the latest information before arriving at Berlin.”

“Yes, Pierre is always thoughtful,” she said, mentioning her nominal superior, Pierre Moscovici, the European Commissioner for Economic and Financial Affairs on the European Commission, the EU’s executive branch. Moscovici was previously French finance minister in President François Hollande’s Socialist Government. After major electoral losses, Hollande kicked Moscovici upstairs to the EU so he could showcase a major cabinet change—lots of show, little change.

“But before you start, let me sit back and relax for a minute, collect my thoughts.”

The cabin steward brought a glass of lemonade. She sipped the drink and leaned back in the seat. Sophie was a member of the French opposition party, the center-right UMP party, now renamed the Les Republicans by its resurgent political leader Nicholas Sarkozy. She smiled while she recalled Sarkozy, a towering ego on platform shoes who at least saw himself as resurgent. Three-quarters of the French hoped he’d go away.

When Hollande arranged for Moscovici to be named European finance minister, German chancellor Angela Merkel had insisted that Sophie be appointed his deputy. Hard for Hollande to resist the appointment of another French national to an important post. But he now knew where the power would reside. Mario Draghi had heartedly concurred in her appointment, saying “At least someone I can talk to.”

Sophie had a clear understanding of the division of duties between her and Pierre. He was in charge of monitoring the Stability and Growth Pact, the set of rules on deficits and debt that all members were supposed to follow. That was a small lawn to mow in Brussels. Like most EU ministerial portfolios, it was long on title and short on authority. Supposedly when a country wandered outside the crosswalk, Pierre would blow his whistle and point to the offender.

In contrast, Sophie worked on behind-the-scenes negotiations with leading politicians and policy makers in those troublesome situations where countries were clearly outside the bright lines and heading towards crisis. These were the kind of talks the top European leaders didn’t want to read about in the morning papers over coffee.

The aide said to Sophie, “Pierre, of course, has some sympathy for the Greek position.”

Yes, thought Sophie. Socialist to socialist. “We all do,” soothed Sophie.

“Tomorrow in Berlin will be a big day,” said the aide. “Possibly the beginning of a soft compromise.”

Yes, the favorite ending for any initiative from the French president, thought Sophie. Well, that was the message the aide had been instructed to deliver. She got it. She made a nod to the aide.

“Nevertheless, the first order of business in Berlin is to sooth the raging frustrations and massage the concerns of Wolfgang,” she said with a sigh, mentioning the powerful German finance minister, Wolfgang Schäuble, the number two politician in Angela Merkel’s ruling coalition government.

Sophie also understood that the only French politician to profit from the Greek crisis would be Marine Le Pen, the leader of the far-right party Le Front Nationale. Hollande was just looking for a cheap way out of the crisis—preferably on the German dime. Angela understood that; the German chancellor was a master at throwing small bones to Paris. Let Hollande dally with his girlfriends went the thinking.

Rent-a-Jet 

The little Gulfstream sat on the edge of the runway. Jim walked over towards it, leaving the helicopter behind. He looked down the runway and up into the sky and saw in the distance Sophie’s jumbo Falcon jet make a smooth banking turn and head for Berlin. He walked over and up the steps, dipped his head to get inside and stayed hunched down as he walked forward. A pleasant attendant came forward smiling, a logo emblazoned “Air Temps, Inc” across her breast. “Welcome,” said the hostess. “Captain Smith will be our pilot today. First Officer Jones assisting. Let me say to you that all of us from Air Temps, Inc welcome you.”

“Who’s Air Temps, Inc?”

“We staff most of the rent-a-jets flying out of Southern California. This little baby is a timeshare.”

“Little dinky plane. Can it get all the way to Geneva?”

Captain Smith stepped forward and said, “Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll just hip hop across that ol’ ocean, gassing up as we go! You ever been to the Azores?”

The attendant said, “Here’s some papers we’re supposed to give you. Your most recent emails I believe.”

“Thank you,” he said as he sat down in a big comfortable seat. “Scotch and water if you got it?”

“No problem. Your man Dieter booked you for the Bargain Buffet Service with all the little extras included. I stopped by Trader Joe’s on my way over.”

“Great.” He shuffled through the papers. He had asked one question into the telephone back at Laguna. What went wrong with the algorithm?

He found the latest email. Dieter said they didn’t know what went wrong with the algorithm. An effect with no cause? Strange?

The plane roared down the runway. Jim leaned back in the seat and sipped his drink.







.







.

Genevieve Tabouis - French Journalist

Genevieve Tabouis - French Journalist in 1938

Genevieve Tabouis was the diplomatic columnist for the Parisian daily newspaper L'Oeuvre. She is a historic character in my historical fiction novels "Betrayal in Europe: Paris 1938" and "Paris 1935: Destiny's Crossroads." She was an incisive, sharp-witted journalist unafraid to speak truth to power.

Tabouis is somewhat fictionalized in Betrayal in Europe because I wanted to flesh out this fascinating woman who came from a family of leading French diplomats. Her book "They Called Me Cassandra" was published in exile in New York in 1942 and recounts her career from the 1920s up until the day in the summer of 1940 when she climbed up a boarding ladder to a British freighter off Bordeaux that took her into exile.

This photo is scanned from the cover of her 1938 political book detailing the tactics of the dictators Adolph Hitler and Benito Mussolini titled "Blackmail or War."

Latest historical novel - Betrayal in Europe - Paris 1938

My newest historical novel "Betrayal in Europe" is now live on Amazon. The print edition is $11.13 while the Kindle edition is $2.99. Cover notes:

Paris 1938.  A countess channels money and charm to the top circle of French politicians, both in the salons and in the bed chamber. A baroness engages in a torrid affair with a suave German diplomat. Unknown to both women, the diplomat is a spymaster weaving a web to make German-inspired appeasement dominant in the French cabinet table.

As German power grows, Berlin challenges Paris and London over sovereignty for German-speakers in Czechoslovakia and a “free hand” in Eastern Europe to counter Russian Bolshevism.

In Paris, the wealthy elite fear Russian Bolsheviks more than Nazi revanchists. French industrialists and a corrupt press champion appeasement-minded politicians. Peace at any price, they say, as champagne glasses clink and beautiful women arrange favored assignations.

Amidst the appeasement, an intrepid woman diplomatic correspondent reveals sinister Nazi designs and weak and fearful policy responses by governments in Paris and London. As the Versailles Peace Treaty unravels in the late 1930s, resurgent German military power thirsts for European conquest.

More at myersbooks.com

FREE ON KINDLE STARTING CHRISTMAS EVE DAY AND RUNNING FOR FIVE DAYS. The Kindle edition is FREE for five days and then will revert to its regular price of $.99, which is a steal anyway!

This is a satirical novel and it has some excellent reviews: 

“Love and money are both at risk in Myers’ politically driven novel of intrigue and betrayal…told with humor and sophistication.” –Kirkus Reviews

New Book - a Box Set of Four Historical Novels

The Storm Gathers: Europe Between the Wars

Four Political Novels

Box Set of Four Historical Novels by Paul A Myers

Four historical novels set between 1928 and 1936 featuring enchanting romances, characters at the center of exciting historical events, and personal dramas behind the larger march of events leading to the Second World War.

A Farewell in Paris. Two American veterans in 1928 Paris collaborate on the great American novel portraying the grinding end of the Great War, a doomed romance in post-war Germany between an American officer and a German nurse, and the tragedy of the 1919 Paris Peace Conference which resulted in “the peace to end all peace.” Americans in Jazz Age Paris live the expatriate life to its fullest against the bittersweet fears of an unseen but coming war.

Paris 1934: Victory in Retreat. Newspapermen and women pursue stories and each other starting with riots in Paris that almost topple the Third Republic. Sorbonne student Sandrine joins hard-partying Americans as they drink and dance their away across the summer of 1934 while in autumn dark secrets from the 1920s French occupation of the Rhineland return to cloud the present as the Nazi menace rears its deadly head.

Vienna 1934: Betrayal at the Ballplatz. The Austrian government slides towards an Italian-style fascist state when suddenly German Nazis move to overthrow the government in a summer putsch.  A British foreign correspondent and his beautiful Austrian fiancée are caught in a deadly web of intrigue in this dramatic tale of accurate historical event and dashing fictional romance.

Paris 1935: Destiny’s Crossroads. An American diplomat strikes up a romance with a beautiful foreign policy aide close to the top of the French government as the French government struggles to maintain the alliance between Italy, France, and Great Britain in the face of the 1935 Ethiopian crisis. In 1936, with the allied Ethiopian policy in tatters, Germany opportunistically re-militarizes the Rhineland as France and Great Britain wobble and German boots march. The path to the Second World War begins.