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The Gang of Four Page 2
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Alan Dosogne began to think about lunch; he fancied sushi. He was confident there would be no delays today as this meeting was progressing well.
‘And you want us to divest out of all of these?’ asked Al Nasa.
‘Yes,’ replied Alan, ‘and you should follow the schedule marked out… here,’ he handed the UAE citizen, distant cousin to the Sheik, another sheet of A4, ‘…to ensure the other investors don’t get spooked and drag the prices down.’
‘Indeed,’ the Arab chortled. He would be confident that Alan’s advice was correct, just like all the other advice he had provided over the years. To Al Nasa and the other investors, Alan Dosogne of Global Finance Sponsorship was a financial genius, a savant, a divvy. Everything always panned out as predicted, allowing Al Nasa and his associates to steadily convert billions into tens of billions.
‘And what about the cash pile that will result? Have you found me a football team yet, Alan?’ Al Nasa half-joked.
Alan laughed, ‘no, not yet, but for the time being you should just sit on the cash, there will be a correction in the markets shortly, but after that we should have some very interesting morsels with which to tempt you.’ His thoughts returned to lunch…
‘What about gold?’ asked Al Nasa.
‘No,’ replied Alan, casually, ‘it will continue to drift sideways. You could consider government bonds?’
‘Nah, too cumbersome, too visible,’ replied Al Nasa, just as Alan knew he would. Alan sat back and patiently waited for Al Nasa to ask his remaining questions.
Twenty minutes later and the meeting concluded with the shaking of hands and much hugging and back slapping. Al Nasa and his people were happy, Alan was happy. No doubt his reputation as a miracle worker would be further enhanced by these transactions, assuming Al Nasa did as he was told, and why wouldn’t he?
But in truth Alan knew next to nothing about high finance, his only skills were in handling the rich and powerful, being diplomatic and always being able to read the mood of the room. The investment details were handed down to him by his boss, who probably understood more, but not that much more. It was the system that really called the shots, the system set up and controlled by the Sponsors. High finance deals were just a small part of it. Manipulating politicians was more important but Alan, at only 0.3 percent Sponsor, as measured by genome, was too human to be allowed near all that. Pity, it looked like fun.
With the morning’s business completed he grabbed his jacket and made ready to leave his office. Out in the open-plan section of the department he spied his boss addressing one of the secretaries. Bruce, at 0.8 percent Sponsor, had Sponsor characteristics to his personality, unlike Alan, who merely boasted the few alien ‘apps’ that gave him his negotiating skills. Bruce was a humourless workaholic who demanded the same from all his underlings. He would not be happy seeing Alan sloping off for an extended lunch. Too late, he’d been spotted, and Bruce was beckoning him over. Shit, the dickhead was probably telepathic. Shit, he must stop thinking these thoughts, and he must stop referring to Bruce as a dickhead.
‘Alan, quick word please.’ Bruce led Alan into his office and closed the door behind him. Whether or not he’d heard Alan’s thoughts was not clear. It never was, but it was doubtful he really cared, as long as the work got done.
‘Wassup?’ asked Alan, knowing such a jocular manner sailed right over Bruce’s head.
‘The division supervisor will be paying this department a visit this afternoon to discuss how we’ll handle the recession.’
‘What recession? Oh, you mean the one that’s planned for September 16th.’ Alan felt queasy, not about the recession – but about meeting the division head. At 1.9 percent Sponsor he was as good as alien as far as Alan was concerned. Fully telepathic, he’d pick up on all of Alan’s disloyal musings. However, it wasn’t as if any aspect of himself remained hidden from the Sponsors, they simply wouldn’t care what he thought as long as he did his job. Alan imagined the Sponsors viewed him as a farmer might a temperamental sheepdog: who cared what the dog thought as long as the sheep ended up in the pen? Still, this news had put him off his sushi.
***
‘And you want us to divest out of all of these?’ asked Al Nasa.
‘Yes,’ replied Alan, ‘and you should follow the schedule marked out… here,’ he handed the UAE citizen, distant cousin to the Sheik, another sheet of A4, ‘…to ensure the other investors don’t get spooked and drag the prices down.’
‘Indeed,’ the Arab chortled. He would be confident that Alan’s advice was correct, just like all the other advice he had provided over the years. To Al Nasa and the other investors, Alan Dosogne of Global Finance Sponsorship was a financial genius, a savant, a divvy. Everything always panned out as predicted, allowing Al Nasa and his associates to steadily convert billions into tens of billions.
‘And what about the cash pile that will result? Have you found me a football team yet, Alan?’ Al Nasa half-joked.
Alan laughed, ‘no, not yet, but for the time being you should just sit on the cash, there will be a correction in the markets shortly, but after that we should have some very interesting morsels with which to tempt you.’ His thoughts returned to lunch…
‘What about gold?’ asked Al Nasa.
‘No,’ replied Alan, casually, ‘it will continue to drift sideways. You could consider government bonds?’
‘Nah, too cumbersome, too visible,’ replied Al Nasa, just as Alan knew he would. Alan sat back and patiently waited for Al Nasa to ask his remaining questions.
Twenty minutes later and the meeting concluded with the shaking of hands and much hugging and back slapping. Al Nasa and his people were happy, Alan was happy. No doubt his reputation as a miracle worker would be further enhanced by these transactions, assuming Al Nasa did as he was told, and why wouldn’t he?
But in truth Alan knew next to nothing about high finance, his only skills were in handling the rich and powerful, being diplomatic and always being able to read the mood of the room. The investment details were handed down to him by his boss, who probably understood more, but not that much more. It was the system that really called the shots, the system set up and controlled by the Sponsors. High finance deals were just a small part of it. Manipulating politicians was more important but Alan, at only 0.3 percent Sponsor, as measured by genome, was too human to be allowed near all that. Pity, it looked like fun.
With the morning’s business completed he grabbed his jacket and made ready to leave his office. Out in the open-plan section of the department he spied his boss addressing one of the secretaries. Bruce, at 0.8 percent Sponsor, had Sponsor characteristics to his personality, unlike Alan, who merely boasted the few alien ‘apps’ that gave him his negotiating skills. Bruce was a humourless workaholic who demanded the same from all his underlings. He would not be happy seeing Alan sloping off for an extended lunch. Too late, he’d been spotted, and Bruce was beckoning him over. Shit, the dickhead was probably telepathic. Shit, he must stop thinking these thoughts, and he must stop referring to Bruce as a dickhead.
‘Alan, quick word please.’ Bruce led Alan into his office and closed the door behind him. Whether or not he’d heard Alan’s thoughts was not clear. It never was, but it was doubtful he really cared, as long as the work got done.
‘Wassup?’ asked Alan, knowing such a jocular manner sailed right over Bruce’s head.
‘The division supervisor will be paying this department a visit this afternoon to discuss how we’ll handle the recession.’
‘What recession? Oh, you mean the one that’s planned for September 16th.’ Alan felt queasy, not about the recession – but about meeting the division head. At 1.9 percent Sponsor he was as good as alien as far as Alan was concerned. Fully telepathic, he’d pick up on all of Alan’s disloyal musings. However, it wasn’t as if any aspect of himself remained hidden from the Sponsors, they simply wouldn’t care what he thought as long as he did his job. Alan imagined the Sponsors viewed him as a farmer might a temperamental sheepdog: who cared what the dog thought as long as the sheep ended up in the pen? Still, this news had put him off his sushi.
***
As Above, So Below