Eyes Shout Secrets

Chapter 1: Persuasion

Head office, Gresham Haines Private Bank, City of London, United Kingdom

“Am I speaking to Bram de Jong?”

Bram tried to place the voice. He expected to hear Xoese, his wife, after missing her call because of an unscheduled video conference with a fretful client based in Kuala Lumpur.

“Who’s asking?”

“Rachael Novak; I’m a partner at the headhunters Yew Search. Is this Bram? I’ve got a life-changing role for you.”

Annoyance jabbed; an overblown pitch from a commission-hungry recruiter was all he needed early on a hectic Monday.

“I know what you’re thinking. I don’t do hype and please call me Rachael.”

Touché, Bram thought. Nifty footwork, however, could also signal an adept flimflammer.

Rachael read the pause.

“Let me reassure you,” she continued, “Yew Search only acts for the global premier league, and our research is fastidious. Genuinely, this is a life-changing opportunity with a client we’ve worked with for decades. They are extraordinarily successful and extremely selective, but I am certain you match their special requirements.”

Bram scoffed good-humouredly. “Your pitch only leaves out appeals to lust, gluttony, and sloth.”

Rachael’s retort was instant. “You want ginger, pickle, and salt on your ice cream?”

Bram snorted. “Okay, you’ve bought airtime, but please be prompt. Monday mornings are murderous, and my number two and I were about to chat; I’ll see if I can delay him.”

Bram clicked the mute and rocked back in his chair, spotted his chief of staff through his open office door, and beckoned. Affable as always, Jono ambled over and craned through the doorway.

“Hey, boss, how was your and Xoese’s weekend? Better than the previous one, I hope?”

“Relaxing, no friends with emergencies. We went to the Japan Centre with the kids on Saturday morning and loaded up on Manga and Studio Ghibli postcards—Matey, can we shift our update to seven forty-five?”

Jono nodded. “I’ll do a coffee run to Carlucci’s. Your usual, Americano, with extra hot milk?”

Bram grinned. “Cheers, tasting it already. Oh, and tell the intern it’s okay to go home and sleep it off. She looks ready to bring up radioactive green slime.”

Jono beamed. “That’ll melt the carpet and the Dyson. Wish I still had Jackie’s partying capacity. I’m getting as sad as you, boss.”

Bram chuckled as Jono strolled away, snapping his fingers to an imaginary salsa rhythm. He got up and texted Xoese. He’d make time to do an online transfer to pay for their daughter’s forthcoming school geology trip to the Dorset coast and call her before 9 a.m. when her gallery opened. Bram shoved his office door shut and unmuted.

“Hello, Rachael. Can I have your office number?” It was time to exercise the dormant detective in him. Opportunities were only as good as their winged emissary’s bona fides.

“You’ll want Yew Search’s reception. Ask for Novak,” Rachael said in a knowing tone Bram recognised. They’d both played the game many times.

As she regurgitated the number, Bram located Yew Search’s website. She clicked off the call. Rachael’s number matched, and it didn’t belong to a brass-plate reception services provider. The website was reassuringly bespoke and displayed a central London address and pictures of a Bauhaus-inspired office building with Yew Search emblazoned on its ramparts. He married up pictures of the office against images on Google Street View and then read the Yew Search partner profiles. No photographs—odd—and the biographies were as satisfying as a faded reality star’s memoir. They listed Rachael as a senior partner after the managing partner.

He opened LinkedIn and Facebook and located Rachael’s profiles, along with those for the managing partner. Again, peculiarly, no pictures, but they both had high connection counts consistent with being long-established recruiters. Bram sent Rachael a LinkedIn invite. The information on LinkedIn mirrored that on the Yew Search website. Curiously, there were no details about her education or that of the managing partner.

Scrolling through the Yew Search website, Bram noted the firm’s establishment date; 1893. Extremely unusual in recruitment, where outlasting a mushroom on a spring day was worthy of a field medal. He opened another browser and accessed the Companies House website and typed in Yew Search. It was a legitimate company, and the date of its founding was verified. He downloaded the report and accounts and gave them a rapid look-over. The financial statements suggested a substantial and profitable recruitment firm, and its auditors were a respected name.

Bram paused while considering. The audit trail had oddities, but he concluded, on balance, that these were more curiosities than worrisome. Using his personal mobile to skirt the office call recording system, he phoned Yew Search.

“Yew Search. Can I be of assistance?”

“I’m Bram de Jong; one of your partners asked me to call.” He didn’t mention Rachael’s name. Let’s see if she is all grandiose title and has no authority.

“Sir, did you say Bram de Jong?”

“Yep.”

“That’ll be Rachael Novak. She’s waiting.”

Rachael picked up. “Checking complete?”

Bram didn’t bite. It wasn’t de rigueur to reveal the thoroughness of your vetting.

“I’ve accepted your LinkedIn invite,” Rachael continued.

Bram’s phone vibrated.

“Your number two; Jonathan Crindle is an amenable fellow?” Rachael said.

Bram’s eyes rolled. Rachael’s showboating her research into Gresham Haines was tiresome, but it was speedier to go with the flow and invite the finale.

“Jono is talented, but please, no tapping of shoulders just yet. He’s my shadow.”

“We’re aware of Jonathan from his days at Marlin. He’s done well, almost ready to step into your shoes, I’d imagine. Does he still insist on wearing country brogues in the office?”

That’s enough, Bram thought. “It’s okay. You’ve proven your credentials. You have an old résumé of mine, I presume? One in play when I was on the prowl for my last move. What year was the last job?”

Rachael muted her phone, and a momentary absence of sound ensued. Bram leaned back, swivelling in his seat and looked at the overcast grey-blue ruffling sky mistily cloaking the rooftops of the eclectic mix of modern and older buildings surrounding his office building. It was a rare prosaic pleasure to observe raindrops strafe the window. Bram tried to recall the last time he’d regarded the cityscape. Rachael unmuted and Bram swung back to his desk and idly grabbed his Cross mechanical pencil then leaned, elbows down, on his desktop powder-blue blotter.

“That seems right; the last job on the CV has you starting eight years ago,” she said.

The avoidance of flummery was reassuring. He was dealing with a recruiter who understood the professional world he inhabited.

“Who’s the client and what’s the role?” Bram asked.

“They’ve offices around the world and manage predominantly their own money, but my client’s name must presently remain confidential. There are preliminaries to address and then we should meet. When we do, I’ll give you all the information you’ll require. This is a legitimate approach regarding a life-changing role.”

“Your pitch is losing its impact. You’ve said life-changing three times,” Bram said.

“It’s entirely accurate.” Rachael’s voice remained steady.

“Please understand, it’ll take a sparkly incentive for me to leave Greshams. Within a year, I expect to get a full equity partnership position. Can you at least give me details on the package and the job’s key accountabilities?”

“This is not a traditional search. Our client is unusual,” she said. “They look for a special profile of personal qualities. They then work with joiners to create a mutually beneficial role and way of working that delivers outcomes rewarding for both parties. We know the technical skills you possess in the legal field, investment management, and in client-handling. You’ll use those skills in our client’s organisation in a way they’ll agree with you. No successful candidates have ever found a reason to leave.”

“Never left?” Bram blurted in surprise. “Sounds both intriguing and worrying.” He introduced a lighter tone in his voice, suggesting scepticism. “How many candidates have you placed at this phantom organisation?”

Rachael ignored his testiness. “One or two a year; and yes, none have left.”

“Are these senior roles?”

“Similar level to the one we are discussing.”

The flutter in Bram’s stomach returned. Perhaps this was an opportunity with substance. “What’s the package?”

“The base will be twice your current and after two years, there is no limit. You get equity upon engagement, and this will pay out from year two. I think it’s fair to say that those who join always find the rewards exceed their financial expectations.”

The tip of Bram’s pencil snapped. Inadvertently, he’d been pressing harder on his jotter than he realised.

“How do you know my present remuneration? The résumé you possess must be around eight years old?”

“We really are scrupulous about homework. Married nineteen years to Xoese, you have twins and live in London’s West End; great location being close to Regent’s Park, by the way. You are right, though, in that we don’t know your package exactly. I can, however, see your career has a peppering of fortuitous breaks and understand the role you are doing. I’m familiar with the range of entitlements that go with your job and from the credit report we commissioned, your career trajectory to date and your ability to afford the nicer things in life, I suspect you are on the upper end of that range.”

Bram pondered. “There’s an old saying. If it sounds too good to be true, it is. I choose what I do in this job of yours and get rewards Midas would envy?”

Rachael’s intonation slowed, emphasising seriousness. “My approach is genuine and so is the organisation I represent. They are interested in you for the long term. It is an organisation that can offer attractive opportunities for the few who match their exacting requirements because they’ve been private since inception and have a long history of successful investing. They’ve a deep reservoir of proprietary liquidity that enables them to make long-term investments, take on risk others can’t, and ride out the inevitable dips in the markets. I recommend you proceed with meeting me rather than walk away from a life-changing opportunity that’ll never return if you do.”

This is a smart call, Bram reflected. As the lead investment manager on his firm’s largest client portfolios, he was used to reading his wealthy patrons’ slightest indications of mood and thinking and ‘tacking’ to sway conversations in his favour. Rachael exercised this skill with aplomb and navigated the conversation using flattery, humour, and enticements that could be illusory. She was impressive. Perhaps, he mused, Rachael would be a candidate for his high-net-worth client recruitment team.

“I want to meet,” Bram said. “It’s rare for someone to be persuasive and intriguing whilst revealing so little.”

Rachael’s voice dropped half an octave. “You will find our meeting of exceptional value. I will need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement which must be returned before we get together. Please read the commitments carefully before signing and make sure you adhere to them. To be transparent from the start, one of the key terms in the agreement will be to keep our discussions entirely confidential. Don’t even reveal details to your friends or family.”

Bram almost ricked his back as he sat up. He’d never heard of such a requirement in a job search. “That’s over the top.”

Rachael remained silent, and Bram gathered his thoughts. Then he said, “Is this something to do with secret service type stuff or a shady sovereign wealth fund? I don’t want to get involved if it is.”

Bram winced at his worried intonation. He was unused to making schoolboy errors, causing him to relinquish the conversational steering wheel. Rachael’s voice had a trace of the efficacious.

“My call has nothing to do with any state security organisation and my client’s business is real and globally scaled,” she said. “They’ve operated with no public profile and want that position to remain. Once you return the signed confidentiality agreement, I’ll call to agree on the date and time for our meeting. It will be at a restaurant I use for such meetings. The Vine. I hope that is agreeable to you?”

“I’ve heard the Vine is a lovely old-world venue, but it’s a bit backwoods. Can I suggest a City location, say City Social or Duck & Waffle? Both have horseshoe dining bays, which will ensure we’re not overheard,” Bram said.

“You’ll find making your way to the Vine warrants the effort,” Rachael said.

Bram grimaced at the intransigence and got up, walked to his office window, and studied the raindrops flecking the pane as he reconsidered Rachael’s proposal. He put his palm against the cold plate glass. His scrubbing had not entirely removed grime and oil from under his fingernails, deposited by his Sunday tinkering with a beloved Sport Scout motorcycle.

“Bram, can we confirm?” Rachael said, filling the void.

He came back to the present and turned away from the window. Jono was waiting outside his glass door, holding takeaway coffees in a card cradle. Ah, what the hell.

“All right, send over the confidentiality agreement. My up-to-date email is—”

“I’ve got your up-to-date email. This call has gone well and when we meet, I promise you it’ll be a life event for you.”

Rachael clicked off, leaving Bram listening to a faint static hiss. He smiled at the nimble handling of the conversation. She’d better live up to her hotspur, he mused.

Chapter 2: Fruit of the Vine

As the Vine restaurant’s maître d’ guided Bram to his table in one of the eight bays that shaped the fine diner’s distinctive rippled glazed façade, they passed a Georgian wall clock, which showed he was ten minutes late. Despite this, the table was unoccupied, and Bram counted place settings for three diners.

“Who is accompanying Ms Novak?” Bram asked.

Pulling out Bram’s chair became a preoccupying matter for the maître d’. Clearly a proud man, his demeanour reflected the irritability of a Cape buffalo. His lined features suggested an acerbic wit ready to reduce an ungracious guest or uncultivated member of staff to malleable compliance. Bram took his seat, knowing calmness and patience were required. He scrutinised the maître d’ with the meekest of wry smiles until he succumbed to making eye contact. The maître d’ flashed Bram a glance and acted as though his hearing had miraculously returned by making a show of looking the table over.

“Accompanying Ms Novak, monsieur?”

Bram nodded.

“Ah, pardon. I can remove a setting if you wish?”

Bram shrugged, mystified by his skirting of such a simple question. “No matter.”

“Still or sparkling water, monsieur?” the maître d’ asked.

“Still, please.”

Bram deposited his résumé on the table as the maître d’ departed and twisted to survey the situation. The dining bay would ensure conversational privacy, and the bespoke tailoring, carefully judged jewellery, and the pouring of vintage wines showed the Vine enjoyed the patronage of both those who revel in exquisite food and engaging company and those who use ‘lunch’ calculatingly. The supple manoeuvrings of the servers caught Bram’s attention. They carried laden trays shoulder-high on a folded-back palm and, with a ballet dancer’s grace, swerved patrons who crisscrossed their paths.

While gathering his thoughts, Bram squinted out the window and into the bright, cloudless early autumnal afternoon. In the restaurant’s crescent-shaped drive, two chauffeur-driven cars idled. Rachael was now fifteen minutes late. Part of her effort to control the meeting, he supposed. He’d experienced deliberate delays when visiting many of his affluent clients. They’d keep him stewing in an antechamber of their fine home to emphasise who had the whip. However, he was the client now. Rachael’s opportunity had better justify such shenanigans.

A plush limousine entered the manicured boxwood hedge-bordered drive, which differed from the others. The blackcurrant bodywork was free of chrome accents and signature markings of the manufacturer, and its darkly tinted windows were on the edge of legality. As the car slowed, it became clear the attentive doorman had a strong rapport with its occupants. He gave a brief wave to the driver and removed his hat with a flourish. The limousine halted, and he strolled to the driver’s side passenger door and opened it. An elegantly dressed woman lifted her head, greeting the doorman with a generous smile. She pivoted to her left and passed papers to her companion passenger. Bram had to look away as sunlight flashed on a gemstone in a signet ring on the hand receiving the documents.

The ballet between the doorman and the debonair woman was mesmeric. The dress code and bearing were familiar to Bram; Escada, Chanel, and a lifetime of privilege. Some of his clients, who had gin palaces that bobbed from one Mediterranean engagement to another, dressed and moved in that easy Grace Kelly like manner. It wouldn’t be Rachael. Such a lifestyle was well beyond even the most successful partners of a headhunting firm. Where was she, though? Bram drummed his fingers, attempting to relieve his impatience. No wonder she’d asked him to allow three hours. She was going to be exceedingly late for their twelve-thirty appointment.

Bram’s mind drifted to Rachael’s confidentiality agreement. He’d considered many over the years, but this differed from the error-strewn documents he usually saw. Well-constructed and mutually restrictive; he appreciated its professionalism and need to adhere to it. He’d told Xoese as they relaxed on the sofa watching the late-night news that he was having lunch with a recruiter, but expected nothing to come of it. He was doing it for relationship management purposes. For a time when he might need access to an exit door. A hand on his right shoulder roused him from his thoughts.

“Bram, Bram de Jong. You were away with the fairies.”

Bram glimpsed long fingers with faun polished nails as they withdrew from his shoulder. He peeked up, recognising the voice. It was Rachael, and the woman from the limousine.